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(no subject)

Characters: Michaelangelo (

i_speak_softly)
Date: Not long after Don's arrival
Location: WA-3B
Situation: Breakfast
Warnings/Rating: Rated B for bacon

It's become a sort of ritual for Mike.
Roll off the couch at first light and make for the kitchen.
Set up the slow-cooker so ishmeal will be just about palatable when the rest of the house wakes up in a few hours time. Meanwhile he'll make himself some warmed milk with hopes to catch a nap before the day officially begins.

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In a past life it's possible Mike was a waiter, because the very next time Don's mouth is full of food is the exact moment Mike decides to start in on the conversation.

"I was thinking that maybe we need a cat."

Chewing proceeds at a normal rate, then gradually slows to a stop. Swallowing ensues after a brief delay.

"Why."

Mike half shrugs.

"Don't you think getting a cat would be nice?"

"You already have a turtle twice your size," Don points out, very reasonably. "What do you need a cat for?"

"Because i have a turtle twice my size. I'm more of a pet to Raphael, than he is to me."

"Do I really need to say anything else at this point?"

Pets do not keep pets, Michaelangelo.

"You could help me name this potential cat," he offers, willfully oblivious to Don's logic.

"No."

"...please?"

What? It worked so well before.

Okay, Donatello is closed for business. He rolls his eyes and goes back to just eating the omelet.

Mike can only smile as Don does his best to try and ignore him.

"You're a lot like my Don. Not exactly, but close enough for government work. Though I'm pretty sure he finds me a whole lot more charming than you do." His smile goes broad for a moment, but then returns to a more level befitting his sincere amusement.

"Back home it's usually me and him against..." Mike turns to look towards the kitchen doorway, and in the general direction of the two other turtles still sleeping somewhere in the quiet of the house.

"Anyway, if I was back home, and my brother was pulling the hours you've been pulling, I'd tell him that he'd need to take a break. Just for a little while. And I'd get him to do it by asking him to do it for me. But...I don't think that's going to work on you.

So instead I'm going to ask you to do it for your brothers. They need you. All of you. And if you burn yourself out...well, don't. Don't burn yourself out."

Well, now Don is paying attention. He looks down at the remains of his breakfast while Mike delivers this quiet lecture.

"They need me to fix the consoles," he replies, equally softly. Then he adds: "If your Don were here, what would he tell me to do?"

He means it in the "what am I stupidly missing" sense, but that's probably not the answer he's going to get.

"Before or after he picked his jaw up off the floor at the sight of those things?" he says with a laugh.

"This is like, alien levels of tech, I think even my Donnie would be in over his head. I mean, don't get me wrong, he's way smarter than the rest of us combined and I'm not exaggerating when I say I think he's a genius, but...we're from 1986. Apparently a lot changes between then and when you're from. "

The understatement of the year award goes too...

"He had to break out the pigeon puppet for us to break into TCRI."
This...is clearly a HUGE thing.

Don may have heard this "1986" thing before, but apparently it hadn't gotten through his head yet. He just stares at Mike, forgoing replying to all that other interesting information, to say faintly:

"You guys are on ARPANET?"

"....yeeess?"

He has no idea what you're talking about.
None. What so ever.

"I am so sorry," Donatello says, and it's hard to imagine a more sincere tone of voice.

"It's okay, we get by. But believe me when I say that the promise of someday having video games where the game play actually looks like the box art? Makes me more hopeful about the future than just about anything else."

"After I fix the consoles," Don promises, "I will get you some of those video games."

"And then a jetpack?"

A guy can dream!

"Absolutely not."

A guy can dream, but lines must be drawn.

"All right," he huffs. "But I'm totally holding you to that video game thing. And by that I mean: No burn out. A promise is a promise."

"It's on my list," Don says, by which he means the ten-thousand-item-long list in his head, but Donatello does not ditch on his promises.

He pushes his scraped-clean plate towards the middle of the table. "Thanks for breakfast."

"Third behind fixing the consoles and napping occasionally, right?" Mike offers a smiling, expectant look.

He slides Don's plate under the one he's still using.

"Anytime, my good man. Anytime."

"Allow six to eight weeks for delivery," Don replies, in a tone suggesting the actual date of delivery will be somewhere between tomorrow and any time after that. "Can I get back to work now?"

Mike snaps his jaw closed and then proceeds to bite the inside of his lips. All in an effort, a very concerted effort, to not ask the smart-ass question:

I don't know, can you?

Instead he simply nods.

Don offers a small but sincere smile, snags the coffee mug, and heads out of the kitchen. It might be another twenty-four hours before he surfaces from his work, but his body and soul are recharged and ready to withstand the effort.

You did good, Mike.

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