Whumpril Day 11: Grounding
The reality of this life was that they could die any day of the week. Don had always struggled to come to terms with it, even more so after…that future, but he tried. Nine days out of ten, he could at least pretend to ignore it.
The possibility had just brushed a little closer than he was ready for today. Anxiety insisted he could still sense the speed of the bullet as it so narrowly zipped past him—a faint, high-pitched ringing like tinnitus. It was just his imagination, of course. The shot had come from a ways off, nowhere near enough to cause any auditory damage.
He could still feel the slice of the air current across his cheek, an icy echo of sensation against the beads of sweat still clinging. When he moved a hand to swipe them away, he found his fingers clumsy, the tips buzzing as if disconnected. Clipped, cut off, like his life so easily could have been—
“Donatello.” Splinter’s voice was soft, almost drowned out by the ringing, but his touch was warm as he took Don’s shaking hand in his own. “I have brought tea. Do you feel well enough yet to drink?”
He wasn’t sure but he didn’t have it in him to resist as his fingers were deftly guided around the cup, another soothing heat source. As he tried to muster the will to lift it, Splinter waited patiently, grazing his nails in graceful, seamless patterns up and down along his son’s knuckles, dorsum and wrist. A new heat welled behind Don’s eyes at the gesture. “Scritches”, as Mikey called them, were always more effective than expected.
“Breathe, Donatello. Breathe deeply and savor it. You are still here. We are together and we are safe.”
Warmth. Love. Chamomile, lemongrass and mint.
