#a prequel to my other oneshot but isn't necessary to read both

[dangerous-advantage]

donatello makes noodle soup

[Word Count: 1 358]

There were some days when Donnie just. Didn't work.

He could have energy and motivation aplenty, could be bursting at the seams with inspiration.

He'd sit down to work, and everything he put to paper would be reduced to eraser smudges within the hour. Half-finished projects piling up in the corners of his lab, to be repurposed for scrap metal later.

It wasn't an inventive block or burn-out. It was his mind grasping for answers and coming up empty.

To his immense frustration, tonight was one of those nights.

Donnie found himself balanced precariously on a stool at the kitchen counter, knees pulled to his plastron. His forehead was laid upon them, eyes scrunched shut, arms limp at his sides.

Oh, ibuprofen, why do you forsake me?

The rain had started up again. While lovely in concept, the smell and the sound and the city lights reflecting off of city pavement, it kind of hurt.

Ow.

Donnie's three-day "pressure" headache had reached its final form, the mother of all migraines. He could thank his lucky stars he didn't get them as bad as Mikey used to, but the point felt moot.

He'd been useless this week, dragging himself around his lab, stealing scattered snatches of sleep here and there.

It didn't help that he wasn't used to their lair yet. Months after the Shredder and the Kraang attack, he didn't feel at home here.

It felt... different. The silence wasn't loud enough.

He didn't like the restlessness. The past few months had been a continual blur of momentum. Rebuilding the lair. Fixing and upgrading his tech. Taking care of Leo. The list was endless.

Yet, he couldn't make his brain work.

Donnie gave a little grumble and let his legs dangle, bending to press his forehead to the cool stone surface of the tile. He turned his face to the side, squinting out at the lit side of the train car.

He should turn off both overhead lights, but he didn't want to injure his shell in a fall. Which was probably just him being paranoid, but–

His eyes caught on the spine of a cookbook peeking out from a stack on the back corner of the stove-side counter. He frowned (or scowled, since he was already frowning). Where had he–?

Noodle soup.

Donnie sat up, blinking. That was... that was the cookbook. With the recipe for noodle soup. His noodle soup.

He hadn't made that in forever.

Donnie stood, influenced by the gravitational pull of memories. He stumbled over to the counter, freeing the book from its dusty prison. He brushed his hand over the cover. This had come to the new lair?

In their first move, when everything was new and raw, it hadn't occurred to him to go looking. Not with everything else on his mind.

He thumbed through the well-loved pages, instinctually flipping open to the recipe. He stared at it, that same diagram embedded in his brain. When had he forgotten?

I'm making this right now, aren't I?

Resigned to the whims of his heart, he set the cookbook down and went to fetch a stockpot.

He didn't need a recipe to make it. The motions were imprinted in memory. But having the cookbook open was part of the process. It would be wrong to make noodle soup without it's "supervision."

He gathered the ingredients first.

It was strange doing so in a new kitchen set up. He turned to the right, looking for a cabinet that wasn't there, and came face to face with the fridge.

He could have grabbed the ingredients he needed (sesame oil, soy sauce, sriracha, and the rest) but it wasn't right. Non-refrigerated items went first.

He turned and rifled through the cabinets. Ground ginger and garlic were easy to find, and the rice vinegar took only a minute of reorienting to find where Mikey stored it.

The rice noodles were more elusive. Mikey kept the noodles in a lower cabinet, but after a few minutes of searching, rice noodles were nowhere to be found.

Donnie considered giving up (no, he would not use another noodle variety, thank you very much) before he remembered glimpsing some in the top of the pantry a few weeks prior.

Searching through it, he was rewarded with a single package of flat rice noodles.

Donnie filled a medium-sized bowl with semi-warm water from the sink and folded the noodles in to soak. He placed a strainer next to them ahead of time, a habit he'd formed after one too many close calls. He'd check back in eight-ish minutes, then two.

in the meantime, he switched the heat to medium-high and set out to gather the rest of his ingredients.

Chicken broth, eggs, cilantro. He skipped the green onions, as he couldn't stand the way they'd stick in his mouth. Everything else was laid out methodically on the stove-side counter for easy reach.

"Instruments of measuring?" he mumbled beneath this breath. "Check."

He measured the oil directly into the stockpot, followed by ground ginger and garlic. He eyeballed the latter, but was exacting with the former. He let the mixture heat for a half-a-minute, withdrawing a cutting board and knife and placing them on the counter.

When he returned, he added the rest of the base: sriracha, broth, soy sauce, and rice vinegar. Unlike Raph and Mikey, he valued his taste buds, so he added less sriracha than the recipe demanded.

He turned the heat up, coaxing the broth to a boil. The recipe recommended he add the noodles at this stage, but after many years of perfecting it to his tastes, he'd learned the texture was better if he waited.

As it cooked, he chopped cilantro, breathing in the scent of home.

It reminded him of late nights in the kitchen, when he couldn't sleep or couldn't think or couldn't bear to be alone. The unhurried certainty, moving through motions instinctive to the point of monotony.

For some, the repetition would have dissuaded, driven them away. For Donnie, it was grounding, a long bath in a dark room with a good book. He could get lost, allow his mind to wander, the weight of responsibility slipping from his shoulders.

His head was feeling a little better. Maybe the ibuprofen was kicking in.

When the broth had retreated back to a comfortable simmer, Donnie strained the rice noodles and added them to the pan. He watched, a hint of a smile on his face.

For the next few minutes, he'd put ingredients away. When he returned, it'd be time to finish the dish.

Cooking was an act of care, Donnie reflected. It took time and resources. The art of making something for someone in any craft was an act of care. Making something for your enjoyment alone – it sounded selfish, phrased like that.

Donnie was used to giving himself away. His time, his energy, his motivation – he would give it all, for his family. But when was the last time he had taken back?

It felt like life had been going and going, and then it stopped, leaving him reeling. His wheels were spinning on a nonexistent road.

When was the last time he had stopped? Did he remember how to?

Did any of them?

Donnie had never felt like a child. He'd always been "so mature for his age." Now he wished that he hadn't.

His eyes blurred at the edges. He sniffed, blinking hard.

"Urgh, stupid steam," he announced, to a kitchen of nobody. And then he laughed a little, because who did he have to convince? The cookware?

I'm almost done, anyway.

Donnie retrieved the eggs. With exact precision, he cracked them into a measuring cup and poured them into the soup, one after the other. They floated on top, just starting to white.

He'd let them cook for another four minutes, then add cilantro.

He wondered if the soup would taste just how he remembered. Somehow, he didn't think it would.

He wasn't sure how he felt about that. It wasn't good or bad. It just was.

Donnie shut the cookbook and put it back where he'd found it.