Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dying is not fun. 

I do not know if you knew that until last night. Maybe you figured that since it was romanticized so much that it would not suck as much as it so clearly and obviously did. Maybe you dreamed of dying relatively peacefully, surrounded by your loved ones. Alas, those dreams were dashed last night when you, oh so wise Y/N, decided that you were going to try baking and forgot the most essential step; taking the thing out of the oven. You remember that night so clearly, the screams of your family begging for their lives still bouncing around in your ears like a torturous golf ball that made a habit of forcing itself into your throat, the feeling of your hair catching alight as your skin bubbled and charred, and rational thought became a foreign concept. You do not remember if you had died from a heart attack or hyperthermia or smoke inhalation, but you had a general idea that, yes, that night had been your last on Earth.

So, where the fuck are you?

You pull yourself into a sitting position, your back pressed against something hard as your eyes struggle to adjust to the darkness. The air smells like rotten food and exhaust engines as you pull yourself off the concrete, looking around the alleyway that you had found yourself in. It's small, narrow, unremarkable in every way, with graffiti-covered dumpsters near the entrance. Dazed, confused, and generally out of sorts, you make your way to the entrance, patting yourself down for injuries you did not seem to have.

You rub the side of your face with your hand. 'My head is killing me.' You slip your hand into your jacket pocket, feeling a key and a piece of paper. 'God damn it's cold in this alley.' You zip up your jacket, walking out into the open as you pull the note out, beginning to read.

"Dear Y/N," you mumble as you read, "we are pleased to inform you of your acceptance into our transference program, yadda yadda yadda, whoop-de-doo..." You skim ahead of some introductory jargon before getting near to the point of the note. "From this point forward, enjoy your permanent residence at ten West.. fifteenth street... apartment number six two two... New York, New York?" You blink. 'I... that's not my address.' You pull out the key. 'Wait, hold on.' Your eyebrows furrowed. 'New York? Wait, I was dead, wasn't I?' Your eyes become unfocused. 'I don't live anywhere near NYC. Where am I?' You look around for some sort of landmark, street name, anything to give you some idea of where you are.

You hear a car squeal to a stop on the street corner in front of you, snapping you out of your stupor. As identical men start climbing out of the back of the vehicle, all marching deliberately towards you, a fifteen-year-old girl, your immediate reaction is to run like hell. Unfortunately for you, apparently your speed was not comparable to that of the men who quickly apprehend you, scooping you up and dragging you kicking and screaming into a van. You hear vaguely familiar voices outside, but your focus is less on the mayhem and more on the more pressing matter of getting yourself out of the van. You pound at the door, feel for any sort of locks on the inside, something, anything to get you out of the van, still screaming your head off as you hope whoever was outside had the common sense to call nine one one. You feel your eyelids droop as your breathing slows, your voice dying as your pounding becomes less intense. You slide to your knees, eyes closing even as you mentally scream at yourself to get up, keep at it.

You pass out.

--

You wake up laid on the floor this time, the pulsing of electricity above your head almost soothing as you open your eyes. You stagger to your feet, looking around your well-lit enclosure, pink fluorescent lights lining the ceiling and walls like arteries. After taking note of your new bruises and checking to see if you still have your few personal belongings—you do—you ran over to the door, eyes fixated on the mind-boggling, ridiculous scene taking place in front of you.

'Oh, for fuck's sake.' You back away from the slot in the door, trying to process the blatant larping headassery. You had not thought that you would honestly be able to say that, apparently, you were kidnapped by the mother fucking Kraang, yet, in some stroke of tomfuckery on behalf of whatever deity controls your universe, you have, obviously, been kidnapped by some seriously hardcore cosplayers. If nothing else, you must admire the obviously advanced setup.

You run your fingers through your hair, chuckling almost manically. "So," you say to yourself aloud, "I got kidnapped by TMNT fanboys. Great. Fantastic, even!" You pace around the room, throwing your hands up in exasperation. "I guess this makes me April O'Neil, then? Cool." Your voice is extremely tight as you shake with intense, mostly negative emotions. "So, I'm somewhere in New York, kidnapped by the Kraang in the worst convention ever. Let me guess," you laugh, losing your mind a little as you speak to nobody. "I'm gonna have a run-in with the Teenage Fucking Ninja Turtles next, right?"

As if on cue, you hear laser blasts and shinking metal. The high-pitched beeping on an alarm sounds as you hear people—'Male, teenagers... fuck my life,'— talking about power or something as their footsteps approach your room. You pound on the door. "Hey! Over here!"

You see a brown set of eyes look in through the window. Your suspicions are confirmed: 'Definitely TMNT larping.'

"We found her," the owner of said eyes, the one cosplaying as Donatello, calls to the others. Lasers shoot by his head as he turns to stare death in the eyes.

"We'll hold them off. You pick the lock." 'Leonardo.' You breathe a soft sigh of relief; if nothing else, you are apparently on the side of the people trying to get you out in this game. You hear footsteps going towards the firing.

"Don't worry," "Donatello" reassures you, voice tight with apparent anxiety, "I'll have you out of there in a second!"

"Thanks, Donnie." You give him a half-hearted thumbs up, trying to see what he was doing through the window. "Take your time."

His eyebrows furrow. "Wait, how do you know my name?"

You sigh. "Look, man, I don't know the script for the first episode by heart. You're gonna have to cut me some slack for not being off-book."

"Off—what?" He stares at you blankly.

You purse your lips. "I'll explain if you let me out," you promise. "Just pick the lock before the blue one gives you shit."

"Oh, right! The lock!" He nods, grasping onto the logical thing you say and leaning down to start working on the alien technology. He pulls the cover off a control panel by your door, starting to fiddle with the wires.

You lean against the door, watching him work curiously. You hear the battle cries of "Michelangelo" and the toppling of robots as he works, clearly focused on his task. You zone out again. "This is some serious shit," you mumble.

He mutters in frustration. The one dressed as Raph marches over, more impatient. "Oh for the love of—get out of my way," he snarls, proceeding to take a very real-looking sai out and stabbing the panel with a very in-character ferocity. You almost feel the urge to applaud the acting, and you might if this weren't such a high-stakes situation.

The door in front of you and behind you open at the same time and, deciding against getting captured again—you remember something about hanging from a helicopter in that scenario and you want nothing to do with that—you run alongside the turtles like your life depends on it, stumbling to a halt once you reach outside and slamming the doors closed behind you, blocking it with your back.

Your feet scramble to gain some traction on the cement. "Donnie," you snap, almost impressed by the force used to pound against the doors, "put your staff in the handles of the door. We gotta go ASAP."

"Wait, hold up." The one dressed as Raph jabs his thumb towards you. "How do you know his name?"

You groan. "For fucks- it's Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, not fucking Happy Sugar Life. Get the thing in the thing before the vine thing kills us!"

"The what?" Donnie and Raph seem much more confused than before, staring at you inquisitively and angrily respectively.

"Uh, guys?" Mikey points. "I think she means that vine thing."

From the shadows emerges a towering creature made of plant life, its vinelike limbs draping across the ground like roots as it rears its ugly head. Its exposed, pulsating heart pressed against what remains of the creature's ribcage. "You did this to me," it growls. "Now you're going to pay!"

"It's-"

You cut Leo off. "Snake guy. Mutated into a weed. If you wanna kill it, go for the heart."

He looked back at you, joining the other two pairs of piercing stares. "Cut that out."

"Then don't monologue and kill it before it has mobility!"

"On it." Raph charges at its lumbering form, and within moments, it falls to the ground in a heap.

The pounding against the door is getting more intense. "Donnie! Staff!"

"Right!" He runs over, sliding his staff in between the door handles.  

You stumble forward, the pounding already starting to crack the wood. "Alright, now we can leave." Without waiting for the others, you sprint away from the building like your life depends on it. The others, clearly confused, follow.

You get a fair few city blocks away before you slow down, breathing heavy and palms stamped with the outline of the key you were holding desperately onto. "You run really fast for cosplayers," you pant, "with all the-the paint and all."

"Yeah, about that." Donatello stops next to you, a thousand questions apparently swimming around in his head. "How do you know our names?" His mouth moves a mile a minute. "How did you know the weakness of that vine creature? What do you mean, cosplay? Who are you? Who were they?"

You cut him off. "One question at a time, hot stuff. Deep breaths."

His pupils dilate. "H-hot stuff?"

Leo cuts in. "How did you know what we were—uh—cosplaying?" he asks tentatively.

"Odd time to cut the act, but alright." Your heart rate lowers to a decent pace as your mind still struggles to comprehend what had just happened. You slow your breathing. "I mean," you explain, gesturing with your hands, "it's TMNT. It's iconic."

"Iconic?" He nods. "Well, since you know so much about it, why don't we test your knowledge? To see if you're a real fan."

"Y-you think I'm hot?"

"I don't see the point, but I'm down." You shrug, deciding to ignore the melting turtle for a second. "Shoot."

He thinks for a moment. "Who's the main character?"

You shrug. "You four, I guess."

Mikey jumped in. "What's the theme song?"

"Gonna have to be more specific there, buddy."

"Is it really a great idea to just talk out here in the open?" Raph crossed his arms across his front.

"Probably not." You look around. "Unless you have a map on you, I'd suggest we go back to your lair."

"Our—what kind of stalker—"

"Look, honey," you sigh, "if we're going to go over every aspect of their lives that I know about we're going to be here for a long time. For our purposes, just assume I know everything I need to know, and if you're curious about specifics, we'll go on a case-by-case basis." You start walking down the sidewalk. "I'm guessing you guys hang out in the sewer, right?" You feel almost tempted to say that they're just flat-out psychotic, their blatant conviction in their own characters almost frightening. 'I've heard of kinning,' you think, pulling up a manhole cover you see at the end of an alley and wincing at the smell, 'but this is ridiculous.' You blink at the surprising lack of weight.

"Yeah." Mikey—no, the Michelangelo cosplayer—walked over, already hopping in. "Our show must be super popular, right? Who's the favorite character? How long have we been running?"

"Oh, you guys are—" You stop talking. "Wait, what year is it?" You start climbing down.

"Two thousand and twelve. Why?"

You step off the ladder, starting to walk behind him as he leads the way. "Well, it's not twenty twelve where I'm from. It's twenty twenty."

"Wait, hold up." He turns around to face you as he walks. "You're from the future? That is so freakin awesome!"

You rub the back of your neck, trying to ignore the smell. "I mean," you confess, "being from the future would be cooler if I was from a better time, I think." 'I wonder where they—' You shake your head. "But, if we were running on the same time, I'd only be seven, I think, so it's pretty cool I get to be here, I guess."

"Dude, totally!" He turns a corner. "Our first day up top and we meet a time traveler?"

"Technically," a voice from behind you makes you jump, "if what she's saying is true, she somehow also knows interdimensional travel as well."

'Mother fucking ninj—cosplayers, focus. Don't let them pull you in, too.' "Well, I really wouldn't say—"

"Guys, is there not a clearly bigger concern on our hands?" You were already getting sick of not hearing footsteps. "Like, say, I don't know, the fact she's claiming we're fictional characters?"

"Look, man," you roll your eyes, "I already said I'm more than happy to answer any questions I can. In fact," you continued, stopping in your tracks as you stared the red—clad turtle in the eye, "I'll even stay put until we sort this whole situation out."

"Fine by me." Leo and Raph both face you, eyes boring into your soul as you stand there awkwardly.

"Let's start off with the basics." Leo's tone is awfully light compared to his blatant skepticism. "What is everyone's name?"

You force yourself not to roll your eyes again. "You're all Hamatos." You point at the tall one with the gap in his teeth. "That one's Donatello, the yellow one next to him is Michelangelo, you," you point at the red one with the broader shoulders, "are Raphael, and the sensei appointed leader is Leonardo. Easy."

Leonardo nods. "Okay, you got the easy one." It is at times like these when you wish you could read people. "What are we?"

"Teenage mutant ninja turtles." You don't have to hesitate.

"How did we become the way we are?"

"Splinter had a Kraang run in and you got ooze on you. Last thing you touched before you transformed was a person, so you became turtle/human hybrids." You rest a hand on your hip. "Oh, happy birthday, by the way."

A sea of blank faces face you. "Wait, you know who those things are?" Donatello is the first to speak after a pregnant pause.

"Well, yeah." You shrug, the reality of the situation not yet dawning on you. "They almost take over the world in at least two season finales.

"They what?"

"Yeah." You stick your hands in your pockets, fingering the key and note, confused by their apparent horror. "I mean, I'm still on the season three finale, but alien invasion is this show's bread and butter for the most part."

 "I- what?" Raphael appears to be having a stroke. "What- bre- I- huh? What the-"

"Is he okay?" You look, completely unconcerned, at Donatello, who is swaying on his feet.

"Alien... invasion..."

You blink, walking over to him and placing your hand on his cheek. You were surprised at the feeling of skin under your palm. 'Not face paint..' You look his incredibly pale face over curiously. 'Not a mask...' "Oh." Your fingers slide down and off his jaw, falling slackly. "You weren't joking, were you?"

If nothing else, he seems less concerned than he did a second ago.

Leonardo—'The actual—hold on a minute.'—grabs your shoulder. "This isn't a joke." His face is stone. "You're being serious, right?"

You feel the blood drain out of your face. "Sadly? Yes." You force yourself to take deep breaths so as to not pass out. "But, on the bright side," you smile weakly, "I can guarantee your survival for at least a few months."

"What do you mean a few months?" Raphael is shaking as he yells, his voice roar echoing in the enclosed space. "How is it only—what the hell?"

"The show only ran over the course of an in-universe year." You fight to keep your voice steady as dread seizes your throat. "I don't know what happens after the year is up, or if it even lasts the whole year."

"So we have less than twelve months to live?"

"This is so not cool." Michelangelo is having a bit of a mental breakdown. "So, so not cool."

"Hey, it's not a guarantee!" You put your hands up reassuringly. "That's just how long the show runs. Besides, it's a kid's show. There's no way they'd kill off the main characters."

"The hell they—who the hell is they?"

"Nickelodeon."

"Who the fuck is Nickelodeon?"

You groan. "Look, I'm just saying that you four are definitely going to survive the next few months!" Your voice rises easily to his volume. "I don't know what happens after those months are up! I haven't gotten to that point!"

"Why the hell not?"

You run your fingers through your hair, laughing incredulously. "What, do you think I knew I was going to meet the IRL Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and had a chance to plan accordingly? No!" You throw your hands up in the air. "I died last night and now I'm here! Hell, I don't even know where the fuck I'm going to go, fuck knowing who's going to get the fucking ax between now and the series finale!"

"Will you two both cut it out?" Leo snapped, shutting you two up.

You put your hands up, still fuming and glaring at Raphael. He responds in kind.

"What's your name?" He looked at you.

"Y/N. Y/N L/N." Your breathing slows slightly.

"Alright. Y/N, you said you've seen up to season three, right?"

"Yeah." You nod.

"Meaning you know what's going to happen in the next few months, right?"

You nod at the leader.

He thinks for a moment. "Then we need to stay in contact. If what you're saying is true, your knowledge of our show could be extremely valuable to us."

You rub your eyes with your hands, sighing, trying to cool down. "I can do that." You put your hands down. "If nothing else, I'm more than happy to offer up emotional support. The next few months are going to be extremely physically and emotionally difficult for you guys."

Donnie pipes up. "Do you have a place to stay?"

You pull out the piece of paper. "I have an address and key, but I don't know my way around NYC." You smile slightly at the unintentional rhyme. "Do you guys know where ten west fifteenth street—wait, it's your guys' first day." You nod. "I forgot."

"It's alright." Donatello is oddly quick to say that. "I-if you want, I—we can help you find it."

You rub your arm, your previous indignance replaced with extreme embarrassment at your previous actions. "Nah, it's alright," you reassure him. "I'm sure I can find a map or something."

"It's really not safe to just wander around New York so late."

You pause at that. "That is an extremely good point." You nod. "Alright. But I owe you guys dinner or something for trusting me this far. Also," you smile teasingly, "what you're currently eating is legitimately revolting."

"Amen to that." Raphael, if nothing else, seems to have calmed down.

Mikey hopped in. "Oh, we just found this crazy awesome food—"

"I can order pizza," you reassure him.

He punches the air excitedly. "Let's go!"

"If you want, you can sleep on the couch for tonight," Leonardo offers. "It's going to get light pretty soon, and we really shouldn't be seen."

You shrug. "Works for me.”

As you follow the teenagers down the sewer, conversing as you walk, you take a moment to reflect on all that has happened so far. A part of you, oddly enough, is almost excited by the prospect of spending time with these guys. But a stronger, darker part reminds you sweetly of the dangers you knew lay ahead.

You close your eyes. 'I'm never going to see my family again, am I?'

How that is the least of your worries, you don't know.

Chapter Text

Surprisingly enough, the easiest one to convince of your legitimacy is Hamato Yoshi.

As soon as you walk into the lair, all you have to say to Ratman is that his daughter "was" named Miwa (obviously, dropping a bombshell like, "Your daughter is alive," is somewhat bad form) and that he was going to give her a fan/knife thing, and he is convinced. Maybe it is to do with his natural compassion and/or naivety, but it allows you the option to sleep on the couch and not have to wander around to find exactly where the hell that address is.

You pull your knees to your chest as you stare blankly at the dead television screen, mind wandering as you listen to the accumulative sounds of the others. You are used to being awake at ungodly hours, of course, but typically they are spent alone; this is an uncommon occurrence. Now, anyway, you wish you had a way of contacting people. You already feel homesickness writhe around in your stomach, and your dread for what is going to happen next is outmatched by your gnawing curiosity regarding the fate of your family in the fire. Of course, you know their chances for survival are close to none, but—

"Y/N?"You almost jump out of your skin, having not noticed the sinking of the couch next to you. You look over at the speaker, relaxing slightly. You put your hand on your chest. "Sorry," you breathe to Donatello as you try to calm your beating heart. "I uh, kinda zoned out."

"It's alright." His posture is awfully stiff. "I just figured—ya know, since we're going to be interacting more—we should uh, get to know each other a bit."
You nod as you stretch your legs back out. "Sounds like a plan." You turn your body to face him, shaking a little from the start but getting over it relatively quickly. "Oh, by the by, you're the one that can kill me with your bare hands. You can and should relax."

He rubs the back of his neck. "Was it that obvious?"

"A little," you shrug. "But, in your defense," you smile playfully, "if some random bitch walked up to me and started telling me every detail of my past, I'd be hesitant to get too friendly too."

"Oh, it's not that!" He put his hands up, talking oddly quickly. "It's just that you're the first human I've ever met, and really the only person I've ever really talked to that isn't one of my brothers or Splinter—"

A memory slaps you across the face. "Oh! Right!" You grab his hands, making sure his full attention was on you. "I gotta tell you something really important."

He went red. "W-what?"

"I don't think it's wise to tell you outright exactly what's going to happen," you start, impulsively running your thumb over one of his knuckles, "but if you run into a triceratops man, or if you hear about a triceratops man, you have to kill him immediately."

"I- huh?"

"Three or so episodes before the season three finale," you repeat, "you or someone else is going to run into a triceratops man, who you have to kill. If you let him live, the world as you know it will be destroyed and sucked into a black hole."

"Black hole?" He blinks. "So, in a few months, we—what?"

"Well, they call it a black hole, anyways." You roll your eyes. "It's pretty weak sauce for a black hole. I'd hasten to call it more than a portal, but, I guess, technically, it's a black hole."

"You seem to know quite a bit about this sort of thing." He smiles awkwardly. "You know, for someone who just kinda popped out of the blue."

"Well, yeah." You smile back. "People like you inspire me to learn more about how the world around me works."

His pupils dilate, and he breaks eye contact. "Wait, but you said that we had at least until the season five finale, right?" You feel his thumb wrap around yours slightly. "If that's the case, how can a black hole destroy our world? We'd die with it, wouldn't we?"

"See, you would think that." You shrug, letting his hands fall between you two. "But the show is already playing fast and loose with science in general, so."

"I am legitimately so confused right now."

You sigh, patting him on the shoulder. "Me too, buddy."

"I just—"

"Honey." You stifle a giggle. "No combination of words will make any of this make any more sense than it already does."

"I know, but—"

"Listen, if you ask me any more questions, we'll start having to deal with more time travel bullshit then we'll already have to."

He sighs. "Okay, I'm dropping it."

You nod, already feeling the sting of guilt. "But, hey," you nudge with your shoulder teasingly, "if it makes you feel any better, you definitely got the most sugar than your brothers."

He blinks. "What does that have anything to do with that?"

"Compensation? I dunno." You pull your legs under you. "Just trying to make up for the fact that it's really not a good idea for me to give out too much info about an uncertain future."

There is an awkward pause.

"So," Donatello asks gently, "if you don't mind me asking, you said you died, right?"

You nod.

"So, uh, how did you...?"

"House fire."

He blinks. "You... you remember—?"

"Yup." You chuckle tightly. "Every excruciating detail."

He tenses slightly. "I'm sorry."

You sigh. "Don't be. Not your fault." 'It's my fault, actually.'

He rests his head on his hand. After a pause, "Do you know, then?"

"Know what?"

"You know, what happens after."

You shake your head. "I blacked out and now I'm here. I'm guessing you don't run into a ton of people like me."

He cracks a smile. "I don't really run into a ton of people, period."

You try to help lighten this stifling mod you have created. "Well, I'm glad your first introduction to humanity proper is through some psycho pseudo-Cassandra."

"Less Cassandra and more just a general prophet." He grins. "If Raph believes you enough to go off the handle—well, I guess that's just Raph in general."

You chuckle. "Hey," you whine teasingly, "lay off your brother. Obviously, he's a very levelheaded man."

"Totally." He rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "Cool as a cucumber, that guy."

"Speaking of, where is everyone?" You look around the noticeably empty living room.

"Sleeping, probably. I tend to stay up later than they do."

"And why's that, Bill Nye?"

He shrugs. "It's easier to work when people aren't asking for help with things."

"That is very fair." You close your eyes as you lean against the back of the couch. "I must say, I'm not envious of your position."

You hear him shift closer. "Why's that?"

"If you don't already, you're probably—at least, from what I've seen," you clarify. "Well, it seems like, sometimes, you have the world on your shoulders. It can't be a good feeling."

A pause. "I guess you could say that, yeah."

You stretch upwards. "But," you continue, moaning softly as you feel your muscles crack, "if it makes you feel any better, I have—or at least had— access to the internet. I will gladly explain google."

He clears his throat. "The internet search engine or the number?"

You grin. "Either or, although I would most certainly lose track if my zeros halfway through at best."

He laughs. "It took me so long to figure out how to say it," he sighs, "The trick is to just say zero for a long time and eventually just kinda zone out. You can really just stop after fifty and people won't notice."

"See," you open your eyes, wrapping an arm around his shoulder—he certainly stiffened up quick— "that is why I like you, Donnie. You always know the score."

He relaxes quickly. His speech is slurred a little. "You like me?"

"Hell yeah I do!" Your voice is noticeably lighter than it was before, more relaxed. "You are totally awesome if you'll pardon my candor."

"N-not at all!" He smiled bashfully. "I'm flattered, really. I just—I'm surprised is all. I didn't think you'd—uh—like someone like me."

"What? Why?"  You are, apparently, extremely dense. "You're the coolest guy ever!"

"Well, I'm not really a guy."

"Wait, is this the whole turtle thing again?" You roll your eyes, leaning into him as you close them. "Dude, legitimately? I don't care."

His voice softens. "You what?"

"I don't care. You're smart, reliable, funny... I mean, what isn't there to appreciate?" 'I didn't expect him to feel warm.' "If I'm being honest," you shrug in an attempt to stay casual, "and, if you promise not to give me shit—"

"I won't," he promises, almost eagerly.

You smile. "I will admit that I had a thing for you, along with many other people where I'm from. Fictional crush, you know."

"You're joking," he challenges.

"Scout's honor." You raise your right hand, already starting to zone out. 'Really warm...'

"You're serious?"

You hum in confirmation. "I don't..." You yawn, the weight of the incredible stress admittedly starting to take its toll. "I don't wanna make you uncomfortable after what I just said," you mumble, curling into him, admittedly not in your right mind, "but do you mind staying here until I fall asleep? Sup... surprisingly enough, you are ridiculously warm and comfortable and warm."

He tenses up a little, but slowly wraps an arm around your shoulder. "Yeah. I've got nothing better to do." His voice is gentle, soft.

"I owe you cupcakes." You nod off.

--

You could tell you boosted his confidence if only a little bit. He stood taller the next night; admittedly, you feel a sense of pride at his pride. At least, it makes up for the verbal abuse from his brothers when they find you asleep together.

As you walk down the street that next night with Donnie shadowing you, you consider the pros and cons of revealing more about what you know; although there were certainly more items for pro, the chaos theory was sort of a big deal, and, knowing the reputation of this franchise and its post-apocalyptic bullshit, the last thing you need is to tempt fate. Still, something about this felt wrong, like not telling someone to get out of the way of a moving car. 'Wish I were Cassandra,' you think bitterly. 'At least I wouldn't feel bad.'

You stop in front of the offending building. 'Finally.' You look around for your chaperone and, after not seeing him— 'Fucking ninjas, man.'—sigh and give in. "Good night," you said to the open air.

You look back at the door, startled to see someone looking back at you. 'You are fucking with me right now.' You wave awkwardly as the man holds the door open for you. You step inside the building, making a beeline for the elevator. 'A doorman? Really?' The lobby was entirely too hotelish for your liking, the warm lighting bouncing off the smooth tile cleanly. 'How much is this place, anyway? It's fucking New York.' You press one of the buttons. 'If I'm the one paying rent, I am royally fucked.'

Somehow, via some sort of divine intervention, you find the apartment. You take the key out of your pocket— 'Note to self: scavenge up enough money for a keychain.'—and stepped inside.

The apartment made you do a double-take. It is so... familiar. Nicer than usual, more polished, yet somehow exactly how you would have used the space. The floors are hardwood, the walls painted a relatively neutral color that is easy on the eyes. As soon as you enter, you see the kitchen to your left; small, but considering it is only you, it would be perfect. To your left, down a short hall, is a bathroom—bright white surfaces with black countertops. And in the only other room in the apartment, in front of you, is a bed, a couch, some chairs, a table, a chest of drawers, a closet, a television, and a coffee table with a phone and an envelope on it.

You walk over to a large window overlooking the street, shutting it and sitting down on the couch. You pick up the letter first, carefully breaking its seal and pulling out a note and a card. Your heart leaps as you see your name in white lettering. 'Well, having a credit card doesn't sound too bad.' You place it back onto the table as you start reading.

"Dear Y/N L/N:

We understand that the transition between your previous life and this one may be difficult, and we at TIS are more than happy to provide for you and your needs during this transition period. Your questions are likely numerous. That is the purpose of this document, to address any concerns you may have.

Finances/Personal Belongings: The most noted concern of those just beginning in our program is to do with housing. We understand that it is incredibly important to the mental health of our members to have relatively stable housing, especially considering the strange, new environment they have been thrown into. Your residence is paid for by the TIS. All necessary emergency services (repair costs of any sort, medical bills, phone bills, etc.) and any utilities that may be included in said residence are also covered by this plan. In addition, your TIS assigned debit card will receive a daily balance of $300 (balance will change with inflation), which can be used at your discretion. Your residence has been pre-furnished to what our experts believe to be your taste, and your refrigerator and cupboards are filled with a variety of raw food items. Silverware, crockery, and cookware have also been included. You have also been provided with various detergents and whatever hygiene products you used before your transition. These things will be replenished biweekly unless, for whatever reason, you start using different food/hygiene products. In this event, your inventory will be adjusted accordingly.

You are currently in position of one (1) weeks' worth of clothing, including any undergarments applicable, which includes 7 pairs of pants and 7 shirts taken from your wardrobe, along with any clothing you are currently wearing.

Cell Phone: Your TIS-assigned cell phone is, practically speaking, identical to your previous device. Any streaming services you were previously subscribed to, along with any you may decide to subscribe to, are covered by TIS. Your login information is included with your banking/personal information, all of which is included in this envelope. If you wish to upgrade your phone as the years go by, or if you wish to purchase a second device, these log-ins will still be available to you, although you will be required to purchase any additional software/electronics through our website: www.TISShop.org/FU. A charging cord and block are located by your bed. We recommend purchasing a case for your device.
Please note that all websites/services/apps previously available to you are also available via TIS-approved electronic devices.

Employment: Employment has not been taken the TIS. We do not offer employment, although minors have been provided with a permit in the event that you chose to enter the workforce. If you choose to enter the workforce, aid will continue to be provided.

Enrollment: All minors are required by the TIS to enroll in their local school. Any documents required are provided in this envelope. If you are currently attending a college/university, or are thinking of enrolling/reenrolling, any credits you have accumulated will be transferred to whatever college/university you choose to attend. If you are currently a minor considering attending college, your funds will be provided by the TIS if applicable.

Identification: Any websites/services/products that are age restricted will be available to you, regardless of age.

Death: We at the TIS assure you that unnatural death, in your current situation, is not a matter that you need concern yourself with. While it is certainly possible to die, it is extremely unlikely, and we have the policy in place in the event of your death.
We at the TIS are aware of your awareness of the place you are now in. We wish to stress the importance consuming any media associated with the world in which you find yourself. If you gain nothing from this letter, please remember that we at the TIS are here for you, if only indirectly.

We wish you luck."

The letter ends there. You check the envelope to see the other documents listed.

You stand up, picking up your new phone and laying down on the bed. You are left reeling from the little information you have been given. 'So I was brought here. Well,' you sigh, closing your eyes, 'I guess I already knew that, but...'

You start scrolling through your device. Everything is still there, except for your contacts. You try to call what numbers you had memorized; they are apparently invalid.

You curl into a fetal position, clutching onto your jacket. "Well," you mumble to yourself almost bitterly, "at least I know I won't starve to death." You decide against even turning the lights off as you hug yourself tightly. "This," you decide, "is going to majorly suck."

You nod off, already dreaming of smoke.

Chapter Text

"Okay, I think I got it." You may be going stir crazy. You would not be surprised if you were, but you have more pressing matters that, ridiculously, involve the timeline of fucking Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles 2012. You had not just stood the headassery of season four and five, but conquered it, tamed it if you will. You do not remember the last time you ate. "So the only way I'm going to survive this series is if I somehow, through some sort of spiritual bullshit, get to become at least somewhat adept at ninjitsu." You sigh. "But the only reason he trained her is because of her psychic bullshit."
You stumble towards the kitchen to eat for the first time in days. "Actually, you know what? Fuck that." You open the refrigerator, salivating at the food. "I'm just gonna buy a fucking gun. Dodge bullets, bitch." You pull out a large slab of meat, tossing it on the counter. "If they aren't going to actually incapacitate people, I will."
A sudden thought stops you in your tracks. "Wait, so, what timeline am I on?" You feel your heart drop. "Because if we're doing the whole thing..." You shake your head. "You know what? Prepare for the best and accept—that's backwards."
You put the meat back. Something about the existential dread kills your appetite. You crawl back into bed, close your eyes. 'How long have I been in here?' The time had admittedly swirled in on itself, your brain completely fried from all the contemplating death. 'At least long enough to be in the no-man's-land where I'm not hungry.'
You freeze up at the sound of knocking on your window.
Your eyes slowly pan over to the covered glass. You rise to your feet.
You shake your head, trying to remember to think rationally 'This place is very high off the ground for a stalker.' Despite yourself, you quickly go to the kitchen, grabbing the largest frying pan you can find and slowly approaching the window.
'There isn't even a proper ledge out there. You're being paranoid.' Slowly, you reach for the curtain, yanking it open.
You scream at the sight of the hanging figure, only realizing you recognized said figure after a couple of seconds. Thoroughly embarrassed— 'Yeah, I could never be a ninja.'—you slide the window open, face red. "What do you want, Raphael?"
He wears a shit-eating grin. "What, scared?"
"Of a shadowy figure in my window? Yes." You sit back down on the bed, voice cold. "You gonna just hang out there or what?"
He climbs inside. "Alright, so here's the situation." He sits on the windowsill; you feel secondhand vertigo. "Donnie—first of all, where have you been?"
"Binging the most traumatic part of your lives so far on my phone so you and your brothers don't get killed by swole Shredder."
His face went pale. "Shredder?"
You blink, a factor you had admittedly completely forgotten becoming apparent. "You don't know he intends to come to the city," you remember. "That's—"
"He what?"
You sigh. "He is the least of your concerns at this particular moment. What about Donatello?"
"No, back up." His smile was completely gone. "When is he getting here?"
You shrug. "I dunno."
"You don't know?"
You put your hands up at his obvious rage. "Dude, it is honestly not that big of a deal right now. He doesn't even get close to killing your dad until the end of season two."
You are decidedly not helping matters. "He gets close to—"
"Are you gonna repeat everything I say or are you going to tell me what's going on?"
"I'm gonna—what?" Raph is quite clearly not taking this news well.
You try to calm him down. "Take a deep breath, alright? It might not get to that point, but you have to tell me what's going on first."
He growls in frustration but follows your instructions. "Mikey found out that he can apparently talk to people online, and he found this site where he can talk to—"
"I'm gonna stop you right there." You pick up your phone, typing away. "You can't, under any circumstance, let him go talk to Bradford."
"Well, I know it would be bad--"
"You misunderstand." You get up, starting to grab your things. "Bradford is working for the Shredder."
This seems to be news. "He's what?"
"Working for Shredder."
"But he's—how?"
"You have bigger concerns than the how, currently." You read the page you had pulled up again. "How long ago did he find this guy?"
"Yesterday, I think."
"Then... hold on." You read the summary of the episode in question more thoroughly. "Okay, so we aren't totally fucked, but we gotta make sure he doesn't see him again."
"Wait, hold on." He walks after you as you try to find your jacket. "Why? How could Shredder—"
"If he goes, he's gonna talk to him about general shit, right?" You slip it on. "At some point, in return for learning his secret bullshit, he's gonna want info on you and your dad."
"Then the Shredder will know where we are!" The horror in his eyes is apparent.
"Exactly." You pull on your shoes. "That, and you'll have to confront foot soldiers, which isn't good for anyone."
"Wait, is Mikey gonna be alright?"
"I mean, he gets kidnapped, but—"
"We're going. Right now."
"Awesome." You were already one foot out the door. "Close the window on your way out."
You rush down to the first floor of the building, nodding acknowledgment to the doorman as you look up and down the street. 'He has a dojo or something, right?' You try googling his dojo, only to find that, not only is it a chain but that they are all incredibly spread out. 'It's at times like these,' you contemplate, running towards the closest one, 'that I wish I could drive.'
It takes you about 10 minutes of running to get to the place, only for it to be closed. You feel tempted to throw your phone.
'Wait, when does it—hold on.' You already hate timelines. You sit down on the curb, pulling your phone out again to find some clips. 'So, Chris and Mikey meet up sometime after patrol, order pizza, and then it's sunrise.' You look up at the slowly lightening sky. 'Okay, so that means they're currently ordering, right? Because it was clearly dark in that last scene.' You put your head in your hand. 'I mean, it is, right? Because those are just wall separator things, not windows, since the sky was very clearly green in that next scene.' You get to your feet. 'So I just need to find that billboard with that specific graffiti and main message and we're good to go, right?' You groan. 'But there have to be a thousand billboards in fucking NYC.'
You stop, smiling slightly at the graffiti. 'Is that not a purple dragon?' You grin, going back to running. 'I just need to get to Chinatown, right? Is that their territory?' You swallow, turning a street corner. 'I guess we'll find out.'
The buildings tower around you as you wander the streets, the quiet desolation ringing in your ears with the force of a gong. The pounding of your feet against the pavement does little to stifle the silence. The gang in question may not be a challenge or concern for vigilantes but to you? You are barely a flower now, bright and beautiful and oh so easy to crush. But you cannot and will not stand still for long. The walls of the alleys you run crush your sides and the darkness strangles you, but despite the beating of your heart begging you to stop, you cannot. How can you?
You can stop what comes next. That is what fuels you. Never mind the fact you must stumble to a halt to vomit into the nearest dumpster who knows how many times, the taste of acid staining your tongue. You can rewrite history.
But you cannot.
You walk around for approximately too long before correctly citing that this is, in fact, futile. You start to panic.
You turn back around. 'He goes back to talk to his brothers, right?' You feel your body start to shake. You keep your phone to your ear, pretending to talk to someone as you run around like a headless chicken to not get bothered, hopefully. 'Then I still have a chance to catch him before he leaves, right? At least he won't get kidnapped.' You look around quickly, slipping into an alleyway and prying off a manhole cover, climbing into the sewer. You pull the cover back into place and start running along with them, the smell nauseating in the darkness suffocating. 'Please tell me I remember where this stupid lair is.'
You laugh in relief when you see the abandoned subway, sprinting down the tunnel. 'I can catch him,' you promise yourself. 'I can catch him before—'
You slam into someone. They grab your wrist before you fall. "Yo, are you alright?"
"Mikey!" You feel your whole body relax, but the relief is quickly squashed. 'Thank fuck.' You grab his shoulders. "You can't see Bradford again."
"Wait, what?" He groaned. "Did Raph set you up to this?"
"What? No!" As the adrenaline and panic start to wear off, you feel your body begin to falter at the excessive strenuous physical activity, panic, no food or water for two days, and sleep deprivation. You dig your fingernails into your palms to try to keep yourself grounded. "He just said that you were friends with him or something and I went looking for you!"
"Look," he sighed, letting go of you and not noticing the obvious slur in your voice, "I get it, alright? Not all of us can have a super awesome friend like Chris—"
"He's working for Shredder, dipshit." You feel the ground spinning as your skull rips itself apart. "Coolness be gone, that bitchass Dogpound fucker." You have no idea what you are saying. 'Huh,' you muse, struggling to stay on your feet. 'Usually, it takes longer than this to shut down.'
"Shredder?" You cannot feel things, so you have no idea what his actual reaction is. "He's here?"
"Yep." And with that, you collapse.

--

Suffice it to say, when you wake up, you feel like absolute and complete shit, with a pounding headache, extreme fatigue, and an obvious desire to not move from the bed in which you lay.
Thinking hurts. You decide against it for the time being.
You hear typing, soft muttering, the scratching of a pencil against paper. You do not want to open your eyes; whatever you are laying under is warm. You try flexing your fingers. You can, but it is barely worthy of being called a twitch. You feel sick and gross and sticky and like you are eating yourself from the inside out, but you are also very aware that moving will not help matters. Besides, what small part of you is not covered is freezing.
You let out a soft groan from a particularly egregious pound from your head. You hear the typing stop.
"Y/N?" Donatello's voice is incredibly soft. "Are you alright?"
You do not answer. Your throat feels like it is filled with sand.
"Oh, right." You feel the mattress shift under you. "You—right." He clears his throat. "You, uh, probably want to know what happened, right?"
You find yourself in between sleep and consciousness. You do not exactly understand what he's saying, but his voice is pleasant to listen to.
"Mikey carried you back," he explains. "He said you started talking about Chris Bradford working for The Shredder and collapsed." A pause. "Leo thought it would be a good idea to go take him down since he already spilled the beans."
'You aren't helping.' "Everyone got out alright." He is writing something. "We don't know how much Shredder knows or how he found us; Master Splinters said that the war has just begun or something to that effect." He pauses again. His voice is almost hesitant now. "If you spoke, I'd ask how...how this ends, who wins the day." He chuckles dryly. "Now that I say it out loud, I guess it's pretty clear that you wouldn't tell me, would you? Rightfully so, I guess; I don't know exactly how that sort of information might change things. Still," he sighs, "it is so... so frustrating, having information just out of reach, especially for someone like me. But you—... you probably know that too, don't you?"
It is not as if you can refute what he says.
He clears his throat. "A-anyways," he rambled, voice tight with awkwardness, "sorry for ranting. This would be totally embarrassing if you weren't so clearly incapable of coherent thought." You hear the shuffling of paper. "As far as your health is concerned," he continues, "without being able to take a blood test for obvious reasons, I can only conclude based on a totally-not-creepy physical exam that you're just incredibly malnourished and exhausted. I don't really have anything to actually prescribe you, but ya know... eat. Drink, too; just perform basic bodily functions."
He looks down at you from his seat at the foot of his bed, your eyes having fluttered shut again. "I..." he took a breath, starting again. "Remember what you said the other day? About me being able to kill you with my bare hands?" He looks back over at the line of code he is working on, ignoring the minute shaking in his hands. "I remember... do I kill someone?" He swallows, eyes focusing on the letters in front of him. "I can't really imagine it, why I'd want to." He covers his face with his hands. "I know I'm a ninja, but it's just—" He feels his voice start to rise. His eyes focus on your sleeping face; he calms back down for your sake. His words are slow and deliberate. "I always thought that we were doing all this for a fight we'd never have, that we would never have to do something like that, because... well, I don't remember why, but I just—..." His voice dies in his throat.
'Staring at her like this is creepy.' He stands up, gathering his things. 'You can't get yourself worked up over something like this. You just met her, and your hesitance is not anyone's problem but your own.' "Just..." Despite himself, he mumbles out a soft plea. "Please, don't let me do something stupid." He does not know who he's talking to
He slips out of the room.
You would not remember this happened.
He would.

Chapter Text

"Why, pray tell, don't you trust me?"

"Because you're being paranoid." Mikey gets into position at the top of the ramp as you scroll through your phone absentmindedly, watching your friends back home sincerely mourning your death. "I am an ex-peer-ee-onsed skateboarder and ninja. This is gonna be epic."

"As someone who saw that episode," you reassure him, sighing at your mother's inactivity online confirming your suspicions for the umpteenth time, "you are absolutely going to get in trouble." The lair is a mess, the ramp more so, and the entire situation is so obviously the inciting incident that you're half convinced that the universe itself is pranking you. You slid the phone into your pocket, not really in the mood to start crying again. "In fact, this is directly related to the theme of the episode. In other words, don't do it."

"Relax, dude." He sets himself up. "I am totally gonna make this jump and it is going to be sweet."

"Theme?" Donatello pipes up from his place on the ground in front of the ramp.  "The first major constituent of a clause?"

You blink. "No, the new Subway footlong. What the fuck are you talking about?"

"That's the definition of theme."

"Who uses that definition? Grammar teachers?"

"The dictionary."

You are dumbfounded. "Why would I— do you know how people usually use that word?"

"People usually use that word at all?"
You look over at Raphael and Leonardo, who are on the floor next to him, and who seem completely disinterested. "Do you guys—"

"No. Who uses the word 'theme'?" Raphael rolls his eyes. "Mikey, do you plan on jumping today?"

"Wait, so none of you have ever used that word in a literary sense?"

"There's a literary sense?"

You sigh. "In hindsight, I guess that makes sense, since— Mikey, you're gonna get grounded for it."

"Will not."

"Will too. Donnie, when you inevitably get grounded for this, after your grounding is over, come to my apartment. I'm teaching you literary analysis because that is ridiculous." You get to your feet. "Oh," you say, "before I go, when he grounds you, don't go out. If you get into trouble while you're out, get me, and if he asks why you're tired, say it was a movie marathon, and if he asks which movies, Lord of The Rings. See ya." You run out as you hear the shouts of their father telling them to stop.

You walk back up to the surface via the empty subway tunnel. You had quickly realized that it was infinitely less gross than going through the sewers, and your apartment already smelled enough like raw sewage from the amount of time you had started spending down there. You have considered buying new clothes with your quickly appreciating bank account, but you could not bring yourself to look, even with your new freedom. Maybe it was a lack of motivation? You do not exactly know. More likely is your complete lack of inspiration and faith in your own choices, but what do I know?

You start down the street to your building. You would not go so far as to say it felt like home, but you had become more accustomed to it. You had learned the bellboy's name, nodded to neighbors. It is not a stunning amount of progress, but it is progress. You spend most of your days now, if not re-watching whatever episode is relevant next, for the first time, cyberstalking people you knew from back home. How courteous of that organization to give you an up-to-date feed of life moving on without you; at least you get to see your cousins.

You do not remember the actual walk.

You remember getting to your apartment, walking right by your refrigerator, and collapsing onto the bed. You feel like shit.

You roll onto your back, going right back to stalking. You are not sure why you bother making yourself feel worse. You tried messaging them to absolutely no avail. You cannot comment on posts, either. You know this. You still grasp onto this shred from your past. It just makes you sad. Why are you doing this to yourself?

You feel a lump rise in your throat. You close the window.

You curl around your pillow, hugging it tightly. You the sound of your fingers against the screen was the only thing to permeate the room. You are following a tangent, looking for a book you were interested in a century ago. Something about a pervert? You forget.
You miss home.

—

You do not even need to look up from your phone; the panting is enough. "I'm going to take a wild guess."

"I know you said to come get you," Donnie gushed, "but it was 2 in the morning and I totally forgot and I was freaking out about this new invention and—"

You set the e-book down, walking over and grasping his hands gently. "Take a deep breath, alright? You're gonna be fine, so long as you chill out and think."

"Baxter Stockman is serious business."

"I know, honey, but you gotta calm down, alright?" You slowly pull him down to sit on the bed.

"He snapped my staff with his freakin hand!"

"You are going to go through at least 2 more of those bad boys. Breathe with me." You inhale deeply. "In."

He mimics you.

"Out."

He follows suit.

"Okay. Are you good?"

His breathing slows. He swallows, nods. "Okay, I'm calm."

"Awesome. Now, I'm gonna give you a mini version of our lesson, alright? Is that okay?" The irony of you trying to calm down the trained ninja is not lost on you.

"Yeah, alright." He nodded.

"Alright. Let's start off with the basics." You sit yourself up properly. "Now, this is a kid's show, right?"

"If you say so, yeah."

"The thing about kids shows is that there's usually a moral to each of the episodes."

"Okay."

You put up one finger. "At the beginning of the episode, you guys got grounded, right?"

He nodded.

"You guys snuck out, and you got into a fight with Stockman. That fight is the reason he's after you, right?" You try to speak relatively clearly and, more importantly, calmly.

"Yeah." He seems to respond relatively positively to this.

"And then," you continue, putting up a second finger, "Mikey losing the t-pod and not telling anyone is what lead to Stockman getting powerful, right?"
He nodded.

"In both instances, the problem was a lack of transparency, right? Not asking for help for fear of getting in trouble?"
He nodded again.

"So," you nod with him, "the way to fix this is?"

"To ask for help regardless of whether or not it will get us in trouble with Splinter?"

"Exactly." You smile encouragingly.

"Why?"

"Because that's the message of the episode?"

"You really are quick to catch on." You get to your feet. "I'm not surprised you're the brains of the group."

"Really?" His eyes lit up.

"Most definitely. Now," you get to your feet, "as much as I love when we talk, and as much as I owe you a lesson on how to identify these sorts of things on your own, I'm sure your brothers could use that advice right about now."

"Right!" He gets up. "Thank you, again."

"My pleasure, my guy. Oh, hit me up when you're off of your grounding so I can figure out a lesson plan."

"You got it." He climbed out of the window. "See you then, Y/N."

"Kick their asses." You wave as he disappears into the night.
Your smile slowly slides off your face as you close the window. You pick your phone up to check the time.
You toss it onto the bed. 'I'm making cupcakes.' You have not eaten in what feels like a while. You are already out of bed. Might as well.

--

"She called me honey."

Raphael rolls his eyes. "I'm telling you, there's no way that a girl like her is going to be into you. You're delusional."

"Honey is a pet name!" Donatello's voice rises slightly. "And—and she invited me to her place after we aren't grounded!"

"Let him believe." Leonardo pipes up from in front of the television. "I think it's nice that he and she are as close of friends as they are so quick."

"For the record, I'm rooting for ya, bro." Mikey takes another bite out of his pizza. "Sure, you're a little creepy, but so is she, so it works out."

He scoffs. "Aren't you three forgetting something? Like, I don't know, that we're turtles? Is the fact that she's an entirely different species not a factor?"

"Part turtle." He speaks incredibly fast.

"Our DNA is mutated with—"

"Oh, I'm sure you're holding onto that technicality real tight, aren't you?" He stabs the dummy in the gut. "A technicality that I'm sure she cares about."

"I did the research." He gets to his feet, running over and grabbing a diagram from his lab. "We're physically compatible."

"Donnie. Brother. No." He stops. "Please tell me you didn't seriously look into whether or not you could fuck her. I know you like this girl, but come on."

"I didn't go out of my way to research how our reproductive system works for this." He tosses it back into his lab, sliding the door closed. "I did that research a while back. I just had to investigate reproduction on the female end to make sure everything worked." He stands up straight. "Theoretically, we are fully capable of reproducing with humans."

"Theoretically?" Leo looks back at him.

He feels his face go red. "Well, there isn't any clinical research done on the subject. We're the only ones of our kind, after all, and I don't have any female samples to use."

"For fuck's sake, Donnie, do not ask her for 'samples'." He gags. "That's just fucking gross."

"I wasn't going to!"

"You were. I'd bet money on it."

"Ten bucks says he still will." Mikey drops the rest of it down his throat.

"Hey!"

"Dude, you're freakier than I am. I love you but come on." He lays back on the couch.

"Y'all are just gross." He stabbed the dummy in the neck, sand pouring out of the hole. "We need a more durable dummy."

"You could just not break the ones I make." He sits down on the couch. "That's an option."

"It's a literal punching bag. It's a show of love."

The episode ends. Leo walked over to the two on the couch, sitting on the other side of his lanky brother as Michelangelo scrounges for crumbs. "Look, it might be jumping the gun a bit to start researching if you guys can have kids. You guys aren't even in a relationship."

"I know." He rubs his face with his hands. "I dunno, man. What am I doing?"

"Exactly." He pats him on the back. "I'm not saying it could never happen, but this is a little much."
He sighs. "Yeah, that's true."

"We wouldn't lie to you." He gets to his feet. "I'm gonna go meditate for a while. You wanna join me?"

"I'm good." Donnie hopped over the back of the couch. "I'm gonna go work on this thing I've been working on."

"Alright, man." He walks off to the dojo.
He steps into his lab, sliding the door closed behind him. He sits at his workstation, a half-finished robot sat on the table. He slides his tongue in the space between his teeth absentmindedly as he goes back to connecting wires.
'She used the past tense. Had, she said.' He bounces his knee absentmindedly, reaching for the soldering iron. 'But she called me honey. She called me hot stuff. Is that an insult?" He tests the joints. 'I don't remember.'

He sets his project down for a second. He opens his laptop, smiling gently at his screen saver. It is a photo you had emailed him of the two of you to show you how it worked.

'I should make a camera. Or find one. A digital one.' He sighs, closing it. 'She is absolutely gorgeous.'

He goes back to work, still feeling your fingers around his.

Chapter Text

“Dude, hear me out here.” You are vibrating like a kid on pixie sticks. You slide your hands apart as if to display written words. “Lightsaber.”

“What’s a—”

“Donnie.” You put your hand up before he can continue. “Imma stop you right there. I am going to take your hand and kindly ask you to tell me that you know of, or at least have heard of, Star Wars.”

“I do not.”

“That is a fucking crime.”

You have been sitting with him for approximately an hour, watching him dismantle a “Kraang bot” as you register for school and start ordering supplies. You are quickly starting to realize his knowledge of anything outside the bounds of science is limited to whatever he read by virtue of his father, which consisted of one book on Greek mythology, one on the Italian renaissance, one on ancient Japanese history, and one on Japanese folklore, or anything he learned via the interests of his brothers. Because of this, he seems to know exactly jack-shit about things you consider common knowledge, such as the concept of foreshadowing or Poptarts or Hitler outside of a general association with the name and emotion of some sort, leading to interactions like the one you’re having right now.

“It’s not a crime,” he defended. “It's just I was never really interested in that kinda stuff.”

“But it’s Star Wars!” You throw your hands up. “How do you not know of Star Wars, at least?”

“Look, you’re saying it’s really good, right?”

“Well, yeah.” Your voice lowered.

“Why would somebody throw out a good movie?”

You sigh. “Yeah, that’s fair. But!” You point at him. “But I need to watch it with you, if only out of principle. Besides,” you settle down, “it’s a very… traditionally plotted story. I still have to give you that lesson.”

“Yeah, but after I finish this.”  He pushes his laptop to the side, picking up the soldering iron and moving back over to the pile of metal you know will become Metalhead.

You nod in agreement, leaning forward in your chair to watch him fuse wires. “You know what?” You smile. “I may give you shit, but it is really cool watching your whole process.”

“Hm?” He looks up at you from his lean forward.

“Well,” you shrug, folding your legs on the chair, “I just mean that it’s cool seeing how you go about building all this junk that is just… what’s the word?”

“Untraditional?”

“Revolutionary.”

He has a funny look on his face. “You think so?”

“Oh, totally.” You nod eagerly. “I told you that I thought you were one of fiction’s greatest minds, didn’t I?”

“No, you didn’t.” His face is turning red.

“Really? I swear I did the day I met you…” Your eyebrows furrow as you try to remember.

“You said something about inspiration.” He smiled softly, voice airy.

“Oh, then I—well, it kinda is the same thing.” You rub the back of your neck, feeling your own face heat up. “Must’ve—uh—misspoke. I do that,” you trail off, “kinda a lot.”

“I think it’s cute.”

You feel your heart skip a beat. ‘Oh come the fuck on. Really?’ “See,” you hear your voice rise a register, “that is so not fair.”

“Huh?” The color drains from his face as he tries to remember what sounds just came out of his mouth. “What did I say?”

“You’re not allowed to just say shit like that.” You cover your face with your hands, feeling your heart swell. “You’re not my boyfriend or anything.”

“Wait, what did I say?”

“Nope. Shut up.” You try to calm yourself down. “You didn’t mean it, whatever it was. It’s fine.”

He blinks, very confused. “You sure?”

“Totally.” Your voice is tight. “One hundred and ten percent sure.”

“You can’t be one hundred ten percent sure.” He looks back down at his project, writing your behavior off. “It’s mathematically impossible

“You wanna bet?” You start looking around the room, prior embarrassment now replaced with a desire to win this artificial conflict. “Got graph paper?”

He scoffs. “You can’t be serious.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding right now?” You lean across the table, tilting his head up to face you properly, determination burning in your eyes. Your voice lowers. “I am going to show you one hundred and ten present sure right here and now as a matter of principle.”

He swallowed, face going red again. “One moment, please.” He fumbles around for a piece of paper and hands it to you, along with a marker.

“Thank you.” You smile sweetly, acting as if nothing happened as you start to sketch. “Give me a bit of time and I will show you one hundred and ten percent sure.”

He rolls his eyes, a smile coming back to his face as he calms down. “Sure you will.”

You stick your tongue out at him. “Go back to your transformer while I blow your freakin mind, kay?”

“What’s—”

“Don’t even.”

“Gotcha.”

You chew on your tongue absentmindedly, remembering how much you love spacing out pixels when you hear a notification on your phone. You pull it out, read it, sigh, slide out of your chair. “I’ll be right back,” you promise, heading for the door. “I gotta make sure plot shit happens.”

“You know where to find me.”

“Always do.” You shoot him finger guns as you drag the door closed. You walk over to the brothers, currently engaged in their digital hockey match. You watch, waiting for Raphael’s inevitable victory— ‘Wow, my life is getting pretty damn predictable.’—before clearing your throat to catch their attention.

“So,” you smile, “what’s the game plan for tonight?”

They seem to not understand the question. “Yeah, Leo,” Raphael prompts, shooting a look at him, “what’s the game plan for tonight?”

He paused. “Is there some sort of sport thing happening?”

Your heart drops. “Leonardo,” you ask again, voice lowering, “you have a plan for the thing happening tonight, right?”

“What thing?”

You grab his shoulders. “The spill,” you clarify, voice quiet and sharp. “The mutagen spill. The spill I told you about three days ago?”

His eyes widen. “You said that was happening Friday!”

“Today is Friday!” You let go, throwing your hands in the air out of pure frustration. “That’s why I told you today is Friday! What, did you think I just liked talking about days of the week? That it’s my hobby to keep track of how many days I haven’t died?” ‘I mean, it is, but that’s not the point.’

“Well, it can’t be that important if you forgot about it.” Raphael leaned against the machine. “We’ll just go in and bust some heads. No problem.”

You groan. “Do you guys just have something against planning? I swear everything with you guys has to happen at the very last minute.”

“We don’t need the time to plan. I dunno if you noticed, Y/N, but our ‘plans’ aren’t exactly plan worthy.” He shrugged. “You just have to beat the Kraang out of them and that’s the end of it. It’d be like planning to raid a trailer home.”

You sigh. ‘They’re teenage boys. This is only episode six. Deep breaths.’ “Just… please try to heed my warnings in the future, alright? The last thing we need is for something to sneak up on us.”

“Alright, alright.” Leo focuses his eyes on you. “When is the mutagen getting spilled?”

“Tomorrow. The show wasn’t very specific on times, but some time tomorrow.”

“Then let’s air on the side of caution and assume they mean midnight. What’s the time?”

You pull out your phone. “Seven forty-five.”

“That should be enough time to get there, scope out the place, and be home before dinner.”

You feel the ground shake under you as a metallic clang pierces the air.

That is your cue to leave for fear of getting hit with a laser. “You can’t beat Metalhead. Also, Mikey calls him Metalhead.” You start heading out. “I’d stay and watch you guys waste time trying, but I haven’t eaten today, so I’m gonna grab food and meet you there.” You run out before they can ask any more questions.

If nothing else, all the running has been helping you get in shape. You are not typically the type to take runs, but you also are not typically the type to be pressed to see people. Loneliness is one hell of a motivator, as it turns out, and you were starving in more ways than one. You stop by the first place you see, grabbing some food item with a name you already forget—some sort of burrito, you think—and climb a fire escape belonging to a building overlooking the warehouse in question. You sit on the edge of the building, dangling your legs over the side as you wait for them to get here.

‘Do I like him?’ You pause at your question, mid-bite. ‘I mean, I had a crush on him when I watched the show, but this attachment isn’t romantic affection, is it? I’ve had crushes before, and I’m acting too suave for this to be that.’ You swallow, taking a drink out from your nameless cup. ‘Considering my emotional state? It’s highly likely I’m just latching onto him for lack of anyone or anything truly familiar in my life right now.’ You sigh. ‘But, then again, if that were the case, this feeling what be more familial, wouldn’t it?’ You conclude, whether you are attracted to him romantically or not, it is entirely unfair to both of you to pursue a romantic relationship with him unless he makes the first move. You have more faith in his critical thinking skills than in your own, anyhow. Besides, he acted irrationally enough around April as is; introducing a proper romantic relationship into the mix sounds a bit too risky, especially at such a vulnerable time in his development.

You hear the distant sounds of mechanical joints approaching. ‘Already liking this better than ninja silence.’ You spin around, hopping off the ledge and onto the roof proper as you go to properly admire the metal wonder.

It looks infinitely cooler than the show would have you believe, if possible. Each piece of its hull has a past and you can see it in every scratch, every dent. It wasn’t anywhere near perfect; you can easily see where Donatello had hammered out the shell of the artificial terrapin, where he had had to settle for using concrete, even the faintest ghosts of the pennies making up its chest piece. It was a glorious collage.

You run over, going down on your knees to look it over. “This thing is so fucking cool,” you gush, shuffling around it. “Like, totally fucking awesome!”

You can hear the pride in his voice, the excitement. “I know, right?”

You hop back to your feet, keeping yourself from jumping up and down for the sake of pride. “That is the coolest shit ever!” You grin, sitting back down and taking a drink from your soda. “You never cease to amaze, Hamato.”

“You think?” He sounds almost like a puppy, excited as he is.

“Dude, totally.” You sigh, feeling yourself mellow out a little. “But, more importantly,” you continue, clapping your hands together once, “we should be properly watching the warehouse in case they need backup.”

“Oh, right!” The robot stomped over to you, standing slightly behind you as you dangle your feet over the edge.

You take another drink of soda, feeling the excitement in the air dying down as you look out over the buildings. ‘It’s oddly peaceful up here. Must not have started the attack yet.’ You swing your legs back and forth as silence settled between you two.

After a moment, he cleared his throat. “I meant to ask you before,” he said stiffly, “but how did you know this was happening today? You never explained it.”

You silently thank him for cutting the tension, turning around to face him properly. “Well,” you start, lacing your fingers together around your cup, “remember when I said that the show Leo watches shows up a lot in episodes?”

“Yeah.” You are not exactly sure why he sounds so interested in a detail like this.

“And you know how you watch on cable?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, as it turns out,” you dig into your jacket pocket, “they release television guides, telling people when certain shows are playing, what times they’re playing, shit like that. So,” you conclude, admittedly smug that you had reasoned this part out, “as long as I know what episode is playing during that episode, I can accurately predict any actions that happen during the periods in which you guys have cable access.”

“So, you map out what episodes are scheduled to play on what days and create a timeline around that?”

“Exactly. Not a bad plan.” You pull up a document, showing him the timeline you’ve created with this information. “As long as you guys are on the grid, and as long as Leo sticks to watching that specific channel, I’ll be able to predict the movements of every major player in the series, which means I’ll be able to determine who we can and can’t fuck with based off how they act later down the line, and I’ll be able to give you proper foresight when the situation—”

Your plan is interrupted by a section of the ledge directly next to you to gain a new hole. You leap to your feet, quickly backing up and almost tripping on Metalhead as you regain your senses and hear Mikey’s panicked yelling.

“That doesn’t look good.” You watch the machine starts backing up. “I’m gonna go in and help.”

Something strikes you. “Donnie, real quick, be careful not to run into anything. The technology you’re using is susceptible to Kraang influence.”

“Relax. I got this.” Metalhead gives you a thumbs up before running and leaping off the building, crashing through the glass roof feet first.

You sigh, getting to your feet. ‘Theme of today’s episode is not to rely on technology. Granted,’ you muse, starting to climb down the fire escape, ‘this probably could’ve been solved by adopting a more intuitive controller and having a bit more experience, but I digress.’ You hop the last few feet down. ‘In any case, I’ve done all I can. If that isn’t enough, so be it.’

You hear the explosion as you start walking back to your apartment. ‘He should be coming here in about three or so minutes.’

If you did not know how this would end, you would be much more concerned. As it stands? You know the score before the game is even played.

You wave hello to the doorman as you walk to the elevator. You tap your foot absentmindedly to the elevator music, walk to your apartment, unlock the door, and step inside, picking a large box off the ground in front of it before locking the door.

You walk over and set the box down on your bed, walking back to the kitchen. You pull a Tupperware box from on top of it, pulling a red velvet cupcake from the container and setting it on the counter.

You had died the first time you had made cupcakes. When you had tried making them again from your mother’s recipe, you had found yourself surprisingly unintimidated as you slid them into the oven. Of course, you had sat directly in front of the oven and stared at it during the entirety of the baking process, but you were hardly going to let the worst experience of your life separate you and the most nostalgic, joy-inducing feeling there was. Who else was going to make cupcakes?

You dry your hands, not realizing you had washed them as you pick the confection off the counter. You peel off a portion of the wrapper, biting into the savory and sweet bundle of joy in your mouth. You moan softly in satisfaction, licking the icing off your lips as you walk back over to your bed, sitting down and reaching for the knife under your pillow. You slice the tape, sliding your baby out of its packaging with a soft smile. You reach back in, taking another bite as you pull out a smaller bag. You set the box on the ground, tossing the now-empty wrapper into it and wiping the excess frosting on your jeans, pulling the instrument from its packaging.

Your father had taught you how to play a couple of years back. You never thought you would get weepy over a musical instrument, and yet, here you are, cradling a hunk of wood costing a little more than one day’s allowance. You purse your lips, running your fingers along the neck as you check for any defects in its construction. You crack open the bag and, after about half an hour of fiddling and research, manage to get the strings onto the violin bass without snapping it. It wasn’t an exact replica, but it was close enough that you feel comfortable holding it, feel joy hearing it come in tune.

You play a scale. It sounds like heaven to you.

You put the rest of the trash in the box, laying down next to the first item you have bought. A stand for it would be arriving tomorrow. That makes you smile.

This is the start of something healthy for you. Ironically, it has started with you eating a cupcake, but, still, you have begun to come to terms with your situation. Granted, you have a long way to go; you still have not deleted your social media, wanting to look out for photographs and clips from the funeral, but this is a step in the right direction. You have to believe that.

One small accomplishment: you have kept your apartment sparklingly clean. It is not as if you have much to do, but none the less.

You find your fingers playing an almost lullaby. You stop yourself, not wanting to fall asleep before getting yourself situated. You set your instrument to the side, getting up to close and shelve your cupcake box for future use. You wash your hands again.

You slide your jacket off and throw it onto a seat, knowing you will likely need it tomorrow. You make it a habit to at least get outside once per day, now. You understand that, even if it is not vital, you need to establish a routine. You must keep moving, if only for your sake of mind.

You check to see the curtains are closed, strip, put your clothes in a hamper. You take a shower, comb out your hair, brush your teeth. You do these things consciously, now. You change into a shirt for sleeping, crawling into bed and turning off the light. Tomorrow, you will have to go down to the laundromat to wash your few changes of clothes. You will eat three meals. You will drink eight glasses of water.

You set your phone on the nightstand, plugging it in. You reach over, fingers curling around the handle of the kitchen knife as you slide it under your pillow.

You close your eyes, feeling your heart pang again tonight.

“Goodnight,” you call to no one. “Love you.”

Silence.

It is better than it was. You do not cry tonight, wrapping your arms around your pillow.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” you mumble, feeling yourself drift into unconsciousness. “Love you too.”

Chapter Text

Leo sighs. “Okay, the fact that this will be the second creepiest stunt you’ve pulled this week says a lot.”

“Relax.” Donatello draws another line. “If she has a map of the foreseeable future and showed it to me, it obviously makes sense that I should answer in kind.”

“But,” Raphael points out, “this is the most desperate thing he’s done this week.”

“Zip it.” He caps his pen, holding his diagram up and walking off to his newly obtained whiteboard. “Besides, it’s not a comprehensive flow chart—attempting to list every possible conversation thread would be futile. It's simply a visual aid to remember the general actions I should take in any given situation.” Although you have been promising to “teach him a thing or two” about plot structure one on one, a part of him thinks it appropriate to make the first move. It appears to be the gallant thing to do, anyhow.

Mikey hops over the table, following one of the paths with his finger. “How come you have a shark on this one?”

“Oh,” he nods, “that’s in case she decides to go to the beach and gets attacked by a shark.”

“And why are there these Xs on this one?”

“That signifies the end of one of our lives.”

“And the heart?”

He blushes. “I’m not answering that.”

Raph shudders. “Man, this just feels gross. I can already feel the secondhand disgust.”

“Raphael,” Donatello sighs, “love is a complex enigma that, if not thoroughly considered and tailored, will crumble before your very eyes. I cannot and will not destroy what little relationship we have by being reckless. Besides,” he scoffs, “in what other possible manner could I ask her out?”

“Hey, Y/N,” Leo offers, “let’s hang out.”

“See, that’s too pedestrian.” He gestures to the poster. “Trust in the—”

You slam through the door. Donnie, apparently panicked, flips the board over with fumbling hands. “H-hey, Y/N. Hey.” He stands up properly, clearing his throat. “Hey.”

You point at him. “How do you feel about busting a corrupt disgrace to the title of scientist?”

“Good!” He peaks at his board, trying to steal himself. “Where are we headed?”

“A neuroscientist by the name of Rockwell got mutated.” You start heading out. “Asshole in question is Victor Falco, AKA Feral Falco, AKA The Rat King if we don’t haul ass. He’s at Rockwell’s lab.”

“Awesome. Let’s go.” He runs after you, shooting a thumbs-up back at his brothers.

You are going to murder a man tonight. Probably. Hopefully not. Depends on how hard it is to wreck his shit. You have been stalking the Channel 6 news for about a week now, waiting for the jackass to show up, and now that he has? You are not about to let him become the monster you knew he could and would become.

“So,” Donnie startles you, lost in thought, “how was your first day of class?”

“It was fine. Met Casey, avoided Irma like the plague, all that jazz.” You turn a right.

“Casey?”

“Casey Jones. Hockey player, real bad at math.”

“A guy?” He seems interested in this subject for some reason.

“Yup.” You reach into your bag, wrapping your fingers around your kitchen knife, hands already shaking. If you must kill him, you will make it quick. “My age.”

“Oh.” He sighed. “That’s… nice.”

‘Can I just take him to the police? I don't have any evidence. This is breaking and entering.’

He clears his throat. “Y/N?”

“Hm?”

“We’re here.”

You look up at the building, sigh. “So we are.”
He moved in front of you, moving to meet you at eye-level. “Is there anything I need to know before we go in?”

You take a deep breath. “The man in the lab coat is the perp. We need to take him down, first and foremost. He may act a fool, but he’s accountable for the mutation of his partner. We either have to incapacitate, convict or, if necessary, kill him.”

He swallows. “This guy is that bad?”

“Not yet.” You start pulling the knife out properly as you push the door open with your clothed arm. “But it’s best to pull a weed out from the root.”

He follows you closely.

You look down at your phone to double-check that this is the offending room. “Here.” You back up, gesturing to the door eccentrically, heart pounding in your chest. “This is the room.”

He approaches you, brow furrowed. “Y/N,” he asks cautiously, “don’t take this the wrong way, but you look sick. Are you alright?”

You nod. “Nervous is all. Haven’t done this sort of thing before.”

He offers a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry.” He gives you a thumbs up. “I’ll be with you every step of the way, alright?”

Your knuckles go white around the grip as you try to release some tension. ‘Don’t choke. That’s his job.’ “Yeah.” You return it. “Oh, are you free tomorrow night? I still have to give you that lesson.”

His face lights up. “Y-yeah! Totally!” He grins eagerly. “Should I go to your place? At what time?”
“We’ll hash out the details on the way back.” You look prominently to the lock. “Now, I take it you have some gadget or gizmo to help us open this bad boy?”

He kneels, pulling a device from the utility belt on his hip and sliding it into the card reader. “Of course.”

The door lets out a harsh buzz, the light turning green. You pull your sleeve forward onto your hand, pushing the door open.

The room smells like metal and mold and decay, a certain lethality hanging in the air when you enter. You stay close to the wall, pulling down a lever to illuminate the harsh laboratory in an even harsher light. And there, caught frozen as he pockets a vial, is Victor Falco.

His eyes flicker towards the door.

You tackle him to the ground, shifting your weight back onto his legs, and pin his arms above his head. “Donnie,” you call, stopping his struggling with a knife pressed against his neck, “would you be so kind as to find a few things for me? I can tell you where they are in the room, but I’m a bit preoccupied.”

“Uh, sure.” His voice sounds strange to you. Tight. Nervous? Confused? You ignore it for now.

“What is the meaning of this,” the scientist bellows from underneath you. “I demand you give me an explanation!”

“Oh be quiet, traitor.” You press the blade against his skin. “We both know the crime you’ve committed against your partner.”

His eyes widen.

You keep your eyes locked on him at all times. “The first thing you’re looking for is a container of mutagen. When you get to the desk, you should see 2 stacks of drawers.”

You do not hear his footsteps. “Mhm.”

“The bottom left drawer has a false bottom. If you pull it up, you’ll find a canister of mutagen.”

You hear the drawer slide open, the shuffling of papers. “Got it.”

“Fantastic. Now, on the desk should be a flash drive belonging to Rockwell. Grab that.”

“How could you possibly know?” You feel his wrist tense as he clenched his fist. “I was so thorough.”

“I’m psychic,” you lie, smiling coldly. “Be happy I met you here and not in your home.”

“Anything else?”

“Whatever is in his pockets, besides car keys and a wallet. You’re getting new chemicals.”
The doctor does not seem to like that idea. He starts writhing underneath you.

“If you don’t stop moving,” you sigh, bringing the knife up and down quickly, hovering over his left eye, “you, a neuroscientist, will have the pleasure of discovering firsthand if what people say about losing your depth perception is true. See, I’ve always heard that it settles, but I’m more than happy to see it happen firsthand if you’ll indulge me.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“You aren’t sure.” You chuckle darkly, fingers wrapping tighter still around his wrists. “I don’t need to be a psychic to feel your shaking.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you see a green blob crouch down, pulling vials from his pockets.

“You’re a child.”

“And yet I’m the one holding a knife to you.” ‘Why am I so calm?’ “You’re selfish. You’re prideful. You won’t try anything because I know you to be cowardly, and you won’t say anything,” you nod, “because, if you did, you would have to admit to breaking into your missing partner’s lab, and deal with the backlash regarding me and my associate bringing that hard drive to the police and letting them connect the dots.” You smile sweetly. “Donnie, would you be so kind as to get some distance between you and Mr. Falco?” You do not look over at him, focused on the current task. “If he pulls anything, you need to be able to bring that to the police.”

“Got it.” A few seconds pass. “I’m by the door.”

You slide the carving knife in that general direction. “Goodnight, Falco.” You grab his hair, slamming his head against the ground once as you leap to your feet. You grab the knife, sprinting towards the door. “And that is our cue to leave.”

Donatello, who is having interesting feelings about the whole thing, appears to have been snapped out of some sort of trance. He nods, and the both of you exit the scene.
--
You wipe your mouth on your sleeve, shaking as you rest your chin on the edge of the dumpster. “T-thanks,” you smile shakily. “I appreciate it, really.”

“Not at all.” He let your locks fall from his hand. “I imagine it’s hard, what with having hair and all.” He helps you down from your perch on a stack of crates. “Are you feeling alright now?”

“Besides my mouth tasting like stomach acid? Never better.” You sigh, rubbing your face with your hands. “Sorry. The nerves just kinda…” you trail off, cheeks dusted pink. “Well, you get the idea.”

“It’s alright, really.” He smiles fondly. “You were really bold in there. It was really cool.”

“I don’t feel cool. I feel the opposite of cool.” You start down the alleyway. “But at least we stopped a ton of problems in its tracks.”

You hear a primal cry as a large primate lands in front of you.

You look him in the eyes, already tired of this episode. “Good evening, Dr. Rockwell.”

His eyes snap to Donatello, who was already unsheathing his bo staff. You look over your shoulder at him. “Chill out. He’s cool.”

“He’s a giant monkey!”

“Dude, he’s a well-esteemed scientist.” You turn to face him properly, holding his arms out to get some proper separation. “Put the effin stick down.”

“But—” He stopped, sighed, sheathed the staff. “Alright. I’ll trust you.” He seems almost disturbed by your apparent ease.

You turn back to face him properly, smiling. “Doctor,” you nod, “your partner will be of no concern to you from this point onward. Rest assured; his research has been halted.” Your tone is politely respectful.

The wild eyes of the primate calm. He seems to at least sense the general sentiment. He nods once, leaping up onto the nearest rooftop and disappearing into the night.

You nod in satisfaction, looking back at the stunned Donatello.

“He calmed down so easily.”

“He has a human mind, for the most part.” You shrug, continuing down the alley. “Let’s head back. Man, if you dad knew the kind of trouble I just got him out of.” You giggle at his dumbstruck expression, walking backward to keep facing him. “Well, are you just gonna stand there lookin pretty or are you going to come with?”

His face goes red. He nods once, hurrying after you.

You two walk quietly for a little over a minute. “Hey, uh, can I ask you something?”

“Totally.” You decide to bite the bullet and pull of the manhole cover. “What’s up?”

“Why do you call him that?”

“Call who what?” You start climbing down.

“You know, not call him Master Splinter.” He pulls the cover back on, landing beside you. “You always call him my dad or Yoshi or Mr. Hamato.”

“Well,” you shrug, “he’s your dad, right?”

“I’m not saying it’s a problem,” he clarified, “or that’s it’s incorrect, but most people—myself included—refer to him as Master Splinter.”

You start walking with him. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Donnie,” you sigh, “but, if I can help it, I honestly hope I never have to call him that.”

“Why?” He walks beside you, eyes tracing your figure subtlety.

“Didn’t I already say?” You nod back in the direction you guys came from. “You saw how I acted back there. This is only episode six or seven. The trauma I’d have to go through as a ninja here would kill me,”

“But you have the guts for it.” His voice is certain. “You’re strong enough, mentally, to be a ninja.”

You pause, your throat catching. You wonder if he would still think so if he had seen how you had spent your nights.

He clears his throat, blushing again. “I think you are, anyway.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his neck silently. You feel him seize up under you. “Thank you,” you mumble.
He slowly relaxes, snaking his arms around your waist and pulling you closer. He rests his head on top of yours gently. Slowly, he buries his hand in your hair. He is always so warm— he makes you feel oddly safe. This is only the second time you have been this physically close to him, but you don’t think for a moment that he would try anything.

You back off, clearing your throat as your cheeks catch fire. “Sorry,” you smile timidly. “I’ve just been… I’m not usually this clingy.”

He blinks out of his stupor, looking down at you. “Huh? Oh, don’t worry about it.” He grinned giddily, almost drunk. “Y-You are all good.”

You swallow. “I’ve gotta do an introduction type project for school, so I gotta get back home.” You walk back in the direction you two came. “Come to my place at about seven tomorrow. I’ll order food.”

He nods, body relaxed. “Seven. Got it.” He does.
You wave, walking back to the ladder. “Then I’ll see you then.”

He stands there, watching you leave. As soon as he hears the sliding of the manhole cover back into place, he takes a moment to celebrate the victory before starting to walk back to the lair.

‘I got a date!’

--

“There is no fucking way you got a date with her.” Raphael does not even look it up. “No way in hell.”

“And yet the flow chart worked.” He laughs from his lab, shutting off any excess equipment as to not overwork it. “It worked like a charm and she asked me to go to her place so ha.”

”You didn’t show her the chart, did you?”
“I did not.”

“Well, there you go.” Leo looks back at him from his seat on the couch. “What time?”

“Seven o’clock.” He slides the door closed. “But I’m planning on being there at six fifty-five so that she knows I value her time.”

“Does the sun set that early?”

“Why do you even ask?” Raph turns a page in his once periodical periodical. “You know he looked it up.”

“As a matter of fact, I did. Forgive me for also valuing preparedness.”

“Nobody likes a know it all.”

He grins smugly. “That’s where you’re wrong. See, I,” he gestured to himself, “have a date with a gorgeous girl tonight, one where she has already invited me into her home, and you,” he gestured to Raphael, “are reading a magazine from a company that went out of business two years ago alone.”

“Donnie, don’t be a jerk.” Leonardo looks back at the television. “Raphael brings up a valid point; you tend to act like you know everything, and the actual request wasn’t for a date.”

“How else can I interpret one on one time with her?”

“Well,” he counters, “how do you interpret one on one time with us?”

He blinks. “Wait, so you’re saying she’s… how do you put it?”

“Nah, I don’t think she’s friendzonin ‘im.” Mickey looks up from his drawing. “Think she’s sending signals she doesn’t mean to.” He sets his half-shaded piece aside. “Think about it; she said she’s been all stressed out, right? She died like two weeks ago.” He shrugs. “She’s probably just lonely and needs the company.”

“That’s… actually really insightful of you.”

He grins. “What can I say? I’m a modern McPherson.”

Raph snickers at that. “Donnie is more of a McPher—how old is that movie, anyway? A hundred?

“Hey!” He shoots a glare at his brother. “Respect the classics.”

“Not to interrupt your riveting intro to film class,” Donnie interjects, losing his shit, “but I really need to know what this is before I go, and it’s already fifteen ‘till.”

“Look, maybe she’s interested, maybe she’s not.” Leonardo’s eyes are back on the screen. “Just try to tread carefully and you’ll probably be fine.”

“Probably?”

“Again, Raph had a point.”

He groans, walking to the entrance and exit of their home. “You guys aren’t helping.”

“Not our job.”

Leo calls after him. “Be home before six!”
He turns the corner, cradling his head in his hands. ‘I am totally and thoroughly fucked.’

--

GoodFellas.

Of all the movies in the world, that is the movie you have decided to use to explain these concepts. This is the example piece that you are going to show to the vigilante. All you know is that you had started watching the Phantom Menace and had decided against explaining the concept of racial coding and this is the only other movie that you can think of right now. You have decided to commit, and you are already regretting it, but you decide to figure it out as you go.

You set the pizza on the coffee table, throwing a bag of popcorn in the microwave to pop. You do not expect Donatello to be late, so you decided to start now so that they could get started right away. You start walking to the window, stopping at the mouth of the hallway. You look yourself over one more time in the bathroom mirror despite yourself. You do not exactly know why you care so much; this was not a date, and you had not advertised it as one. Still, impressions are important, and the last thing you need is for him to not listen to you because of it. That is what you are telling yourself, anyhow.
You hear knocking against the glass. You check your phone for the time. ‘Five minutes early.’ You smile softly. ‘How responsible.’ You open it up, smiling at your guest. “Welcome, Donatello.” You take a step back. “Please, make yourself at home.”
He barely makes a sound as he steps off the windowsill, looking around your apartment, fully illuminated, for the first time.

After about thirty seconds of his investigation, you clear your throat. “Donnie?”

He snaps out of it. “Huh?”

You smile gently. “You wanna sit down? I bought pizza.”

“Uh, yeah.” He nods, sitting down and facing the television screen. “I like your place.”

“Thanks.” You sit down next to him, tucking your feet under you as you flip on the television. “How do you feel about gangster movies?”

“Gangster movies?”

“Yeah.” You list a couple on your fingers. “Scarface, Godfather, all that jazz.”

He shook his head, brow furrowed in confusion. “How can you make gangster movies legally?”

“That is a long answer. The short version?” You lean forward, taking a slice from the box. “The police are kind to those who cooperate, and people think their stories are fascinating.”

“So they’re documentaries?” He mimicked you.

You shrug. “Sometimes. Not always, but sometimes. You want something to drink?” You hear the microwave beep as you stand up.

“Water?”

You nod, walking over to pull the popcorn out of the microwave and grab your drinks. “I trust the walk wasn’t too bad?”

“Not at all.” The small talk is torture. “Getting to your window was a bit of a challenge, but it wasn’t anything too bad.”

“That’s good.” You pour him a glass. “I’ll have to get something for that; maybe a planter or something, so you have a bigger ledge.”

“It’s alright.” He taps his fingers against his knee. “It’s wide enough to stand.”

“Still.” You place his cup on the counter, dumping the kernels into a large plastic bowl. “I wouldn’t forgive myself if one of you guys got hurt trying to come in through the window.” You grab a can of soda out of the refrigerator, sitting down and handing him the glass.

He smiles slightly. “You’re really sweet sometimes, you know that?”

You grin. “I try,” you hum, starting to pull up the movie. “I think you’re pretty cool too, Hamato.”

He chuckles. “You make me sound like I’m fifty.”

“Oh, totally.” You nod in agreement. “You’re an old soul.”

He blinks. “Old soul?”

“Mature, I mean.” You shrug. “I mean, handling the stuff you do with any degree of tact, to me, displays a great maturity you don’t see in most teenagers, myself included.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

You get back up for napkins and plates. “Not at all.” You hand him one of each. “It’s an admirable quality, though not one I particularly envy.”

“You think?” His hands linger for a moment longer than typical as he took them.

“Yeah. You want me to turn down the lights for the movie while I’m up?”

His face goes red. “I-I mean,” he stutters, “if you want to.”

“Then I will; shows the image better when it’s dark.” You walk to the wall, flicking off the lights and sitting down next to him, setting your slice on your plate as you turn on the movie.

Your reactions to it are different.

He does not seem what you would call disturbed, but he gets grossly invested in the story extremely quickly. He is noticeably more interested in watching you watch the movie, but he studies the plot intently, noting the more domestic plotline between the lead and his wife in particular. His reaction to the violence is strange to you; he is not aloof, so to speak, but he does not flinch much until the fighting is between Henry and Karen.

You have seen this movie what feels like a thousand times. Whenever you think it applicable, you lean over and whisper to him about the directing, the script, the plot—it is supposed to be a lesson, after all. But you realize that your attention, every so often, shifts to the bed, to your pillow with the knife underneath it. The violence of the movie makes you edgier than you are used to.

About halfway through the movie, you move closer to the boy sitting beside you. You lean your head against his shoulder, closing your eyes as you listen for cues for comments. You don’t notice his reaction, but you do notice how his arm snakes around your waist, pulling you closer to him. You do not object; you were the one who initiated, after all.

“Here’s a psychology relationship thingy you can tell your family about.” You cringe at that poor little girl standing in the hallway. “’That’s all in your head’ is classic gaslighting. I dunno if that’s really your area or not.”

“Oh, yeah, I see what you mean.” He fiddles with the cloth of your jacket absentmindedly. “It’s kinda hard for me to wrap my head around, people staying like that. I mean,” he clarifies, “I get why, but—”

You both tense up as a young man on screen is shot dead by Joe Pesci’s character.

You exhale. “Yeah, I get what you mean.” You shrug. “But folks get scared, ya know? In her case, she doesn’t want to break the family apart, and she’s really into him.”

“What? No way.”

“Yes way.” You look up at him. “What can I say? We fall into infatuation so fast with bad people who say what we want to hear.”

“Don’t you mean fall in love?”

You watch as Lorraine Bracco holds a gun to her husband’s face. “Nope. Love is entirely different.”
“Yeah?” He glanced down at you.

“Apples and oranges.” You gesture to the television. “Love is supplementary, a beautifully imperfect connection between people.” Your voice becomes smoother, airier. “It’s a bond built on trust and respect. Infatuation is more of an addiction than anything.” You sigh as Liota meets to discuss his relationship with Sorvino. “At least I think so. That’s why love at first sight is a bunch of bullshit; you can’t have that kind of profound trust with someone you just met.” You shrug, looking back up at him. “Then again, what do I know? I’m an inexperienced, fifteen-year-old girl.”

“That makes a lot of sense, actually.” He looks back down at you. “I get what familial love is, but whenever Master Splinter talks about his wife, he has a hard time putting what he means into words.”

You hear their guilty verdict. “Totally get that. Articulation is not easy to do.”

A few minutes go by.

“May I be frank?”

“Please.”

You watch as a man drags his wife out of a Christmas party. “This movie is exactly why I don’t ever want to learn how to do the stuff you do. It changes you, all that violence; desensitizes you.” You bring your knees to your chest. “Especially Raphael. I swear, that shift was as dramatic as his, at least at this point in the flick.”

He pauses. “Please, tell me you’re kidding.”

You close your eyes, breathing slowly. “I’m going to try my best,” you swear, “do everything in my power, to see to it that you guys don’t experience more than you have to.”
You mean it. He can tell.

You two are quiet for the rest of the movie. You explain why certain directing choices were made, connect the beginning with the end, talk about the theme, all while you two watched their fall from grace. When the movie ends, you realize how tangled up in him you are; your head on his chest, legs draped over his with his arms around your waist. You feel the icy air against you, as if his skin attracted it to you. You push the hair out of your face. “So,” you stretch, turning the light back on, “do you wanna see another movie, or do you have a curfew?”

He pauses. “I should honestly probably get home,” he sighs. “If I’m not home early they’ll start getting ideas.”

“Oh, yeah.” You nod, completely understanding the reasoning. “You can take the leftover pizza home if you want; the guys’ll probably eat it before I do.”
“Mikey’ll be on cloud nine.” He picks the box off the coffee table. “Thanks.”

“Any time.” You stand at the window, opening it for him.

He climbs onto the windowsill, looking down at you from his perch. “I had a good time.” His face flushed. “We should do this again.”

You nod in agreement. “Definitely.” You rub the back of your neck. “I’ll pick a lighter movie next time.”

“Alright. It’s a plan.” He gives you a thumbs up.

You steal yourself, cupping one side of his face and kissing him gently on the cheek. “Goodnight, Donnie.” You smile. “See ya tomorrow.”

You are a bit concerned he’s going to fall off the windowsill. “Y-Yeah,” he grinned, words slurred. “See ya later, Y/N.” He waved, climbing up and out of your window.

You smile softly, sigh. You flop back on the bed, rolling over. You have not been this at ease since you died.

‘I really like that guy.’ You close your eyes. ‘I really, honestly do.’

You drift off to sleep, dreamless for the first time in too long.

Chapter Text

You were wondering before; yes, apparently it cracks, not splatters like you thought it would.

You are not sure how that is the only detail you remember about today. Some things happened before, you are sure. You do not remember those things, but you know there was more that happened.

As soon as the deed is done, you start climbing down the fire escape. You jump down the last story down onto your hands, wiping the blood off on your jeans as you sprint out into the street, running and busting through the front door. You scramble up the steps towards the front of the building, taking your bag and smashing it through a window to climb through. You hear the cries of combat above you as you grab Murakami by the ankle, crimson staining his skin as you swing him back onto solid ground. Electricity flows through your veins as you grab a shard of glass off the metal balcony, sawing at the rope and cutting him loose. You pull the gag out of his mouth, pulling him, staggering, to his feet as you both start back down the stairs. 

He is saying something. You do not hear him, the sound of muffled screams and shattering bones ringing in your ears like a gong, his face tattooed onto your eyelids. A part of you notes how strange it is that you are not being followed; then again, it is not you they are after.

The walk is surprisingly short, you think. You push the door open for him as you both walk inside.

“Murakami?” You hear your voice call out to him.

“Yes, Y/N?”

“Do you have a bathroom?” Why are you so quiet?

“Yes.” He walks behind the counter. “Right in the back.” 

“Thank you, sir.” You walk to the back of the shop, pushing the appropriately labeled door open and walking to the sink. You start scrubbing the blood off your hands, scraping what had dried from under your fingernails as you look up at yourself in the mirror. You blink, perplexed by your expression. You look corpselike, the dim lights of the tiny bathroom casting long shadows across your features. You reach up, feeling the structure of your face. Your fingers gently pull your skin out of place to confirm that, yes, that is you. 

Your digits are ice against your skin.

You remember more details than you wish you did about what transpired the minutes before. You remember how much he strained not to shake underneath you. You have muted memories of talking of some sort, but when you try to focus on the memory, your ears fill with static.

‘I must have dissociated or something,’ you reason to yourself, trying to cling to your own body as you relive that scene in your head. 

You remember the sounds he made before you let go. You remember how his shirt was drenched with sweat as Leonardo tried reasoning with your enemy. You remember how he had squirmed underneath you, how odd you found that; he must have known that he would not be able to make it out of this unscathed, you are sure. 

You feel your fingernails graze your now pale complexion. Paler than usual, anyways; you were never the observant type.

You remember securing your position with one foot against the edge of the building, your heartbeat irregular as you held him there, knuckles going white around his clothing and skin. You remember hearing what you thought was a laugh as you leaned forward. Oh, how he had tremored, eye to eye with his executioner.

“If you knew what was coming next,” you murmured into his ear, “you would thank me.”

You had promised yourself not to look over the edge when you dropped him. There was nothing you could do about the sound.

Your middle and ring fingers feel at the ledge of your eye sockets. They gently tug your eyelids apart, holding your eyes open as you stare yourself blankly in the eyes. A lump rises in your throat as your limbs tingle from the excess adrenaline.

‘I killed a man.’

You wipe your face off with your sleeve as you shut off the faucet. You flick your hands dry, wiping the excess on your pants as you walk back onto the main floor, collapsing in one of the stools and resting your head on the counter. Time is swirling together now. Is that normal? You do not know.

‘You solved a lot of problems.’ You close your eyes, replaying his last few moments on repeat. ‘If he survived, he’ll never be able to do ninjutsu again. Taking only Xever down will be a cakewalk by comparison, and Karai… there’s no way Shredder can get allies to the states that fast.’ You hug your sides. ‘The episodes after next, besides the Stockman ones, cannot happen, meaning I have more time to come up with a game plan regarding Karai’s arrival. I doubt he considers us much of a threat, even now, so as long as I can figure out how to get the guys to survive next—’

Your thoughts are interrupted by the ceramic thump of a bowl being placed in front of you. 

“You must eat, my friend. Food heals the mind.” He smiles gently. “Your murmuring speaks to your distress.”

You look up at him, sitting up properly despite yourself. “Thank you, Murakami.” Your fingers wrap around the handle of the spoon. It shakes violently in your hand; you place your hands on the table, for now, not trusting yourself to not spill the broth over yourself. 

“Would you like me to lend you my ears?”

You hum in discontent. “I’m alright.” You chuckle dryly. “You should probably sit down more than I should; you must be in quite a bit of shock after what happened.”

“That is true.” You watch him pour himself his bowl. “Yet I feel as if we’ve experienced equivalent amounts of pain over both of our lifetimes.”

That made you smile, if only weakly. “Hardly.” You fold your hands together, scratching at a piece of dried gore that you had apparently not gotten off the back of your hand. “You have quite a few years on me, sir. The stories you could probably tell would make my head spin.”

“My life has, thankfully, been rather peaceful.” He sets the bowl down next to you, sitting and starting to eat. “I came to New York when I was a young man, and I’ve run this shop since then.”

You hold your hand up to see if the shaking has lessened; it has, slightly. “And your family?”

“Thankful for my health and wellbeing.” He smiles. “I see them, still. They live farther downtown.”

“For your sake, I’m grateful.”

He chuckles. “I’m sure they will be quite excited by my story.”

You slow your breathing, taking a sip from the bowl and humming softly. “Did your mother teach you to cook?”

“She did, although,” he nods, “I must admit that her food will always be better than mine.”

“I feel that.” You smile shakily, taking another bite. The dryness of your throat does not lessen. “I’ve been trying to get some family recipes down for at least two months on my own, and every time it’s just not the same.” 

He nods slowly. “As always is the case with these sorts of things, I’m sad to say. It doesn’t get better with age, I’m afraid.”

You rest your head in your hands, closing your eyes. You can still hear him. “That totally sucks.”

He laughs. “Yes, well,” he sighs, “that is the nature of getting older.”

He reminds you too much of people you knew for you not to smile at that. If nothing else, this conversation serves as a slight distraction, some sort of relief from the ringing in your head; you do not even know how you would talk to the Hamatos about this sort of thing. They may be the only friends you have right now, but they are hardly known for their tact or reassurance. You do not want their advice to let it go or to hear that this whole thing will pass. They cannot understand this, you do not think. “You know what?” You take another bite. “Getting old, from where I stand, seems completely and totally overrated.”

He smiles. “You remind me so much of my son; he used to say the same thing before he left for college.”

“And after?”

He clears his throat. “’It’s not totally overrated.’” He chuckles. “He has a wonderful little girl. She has the sweetest voice you’ll ever hear.”

“I guess that’s true.” You pause. “It just feels like, sometimes, I’m never going to be that old, you know? Never have kids or a life after high school.”

He nods. “I’ll tell you this right now: every adult you’ll ever meet has had that same thought. There’s no way around it; everyone has that sort of doubt.” He sighs. “But there are a lot of adults out there with kids and lives, so we must be doing something right.”

Maybe Murakami does not fully understand what you mean, but you feel better, talking to him. You might have talked to Yoshi about this, but you doubt you would want to; he seems too high up, almost, too important to bother with this sort of thing. “I guess that’s true.” You sigh. “It doesn’t make it seem any more possible, though.”

“Well, there isn’t anything I could say that could make that change.” He takes another bite. “But never forget that things, no matter how bad they are, have to get better eventually. Life comes in waves, and if you stand your ground against them, the calm will come.”

You pause, sigh. You reach into your bag, pulling a wallet out and placing a twenty onto the table. “Thank you, sir.” You finish your food, getting to your feet. “I’m sorry about roping you into all of this. Hopefully, at least, the others will be able to help you more and keep break-ins to a minimum.” 

“You don’t have to pay.” He smiles. “You saved my life, after all.”

“I insist.” You rub the back of your neck. “Besides, the guys are probably going to come to see if you’re alright in a bit, and I don’t want them to raid your kitchen.”

He laughs. “For the young men that saved me? I owe them my life itself. Gyoza is the least I can provide.”

“Still.” You start towards the door, pulling it open. You look back at the man.

‘This is worth it.’

You wave back at him. “I’ll see you later, Murakami.”

“I look forward to when we meet again.”

You close the door behind you, starting up the street towards your apartment. 

You feel sick.

Chapter Text

“Will you shut up?”

Donatello looks up from his computer. “Huh?”

Raphael’s eyes do not leave his magazine. “You’ve been muttering under your breath for the past hour and it’s starting to get on my nerves.”

“You’ll live.”

“You won’t for long if you don’t cut that shit out.”

He sighs. “Are you ever content with just leaving me be?”

“As your brother? No.” He sets the article down. “You’ve been acting weird all week. Usually, I could not care less, but you wreck enough shit without the added benefit of being distracted.”

He looks back at the screen. “So, I’m a ticking time bomb to you?”

“Yes.”

He looks back at the screen as he tries to think of how to answer. “It’s just that…”

“Oh, wait, don’t tell me.” He smirks. “You’re all depressed because your girlfriend has a life.”

He goes red. “I don’t care if—she’s not my girlfriend, first of all.” His voice rises.

“Sure, sure.” He stretches. “You know, typically, girls aren’t into guys who obsess over them.”

“Look, I’m worried about her!” He sets the computer down.

He blinks. “Why?”

“Are you kidding?” He throws his hands up in exasperation. “She killed a man!”

“Yeah,” he nods, “and I’m pissed I wasn’t the one to do it. What’s your point?”

“True,” he smiles cooly. “What you fail to consider, however, is that the rest of us aren’t psychotic.”

“I’m hurt.” He places his hand on his chest. “I will have you know that I’m definitely sane.”

“See, this is why nobody comes to you about their problems.” He leans his head back. “You ask why I’m down, and you immediately give me a hard time.”

They both turn their heads toward the entrance as their two other brothers walk back into the lair.

“How’d it go?” Raph gets up to meet them.

“You didn’t miss anything.” Leo sits down next to Donnie, glancing at his laptop before staring at the empty television screen. “Nobody was there.”

“Really?” Donnie’s eyes tear away from his computer screen. “Nobody?”

“Man, it was weird.” Michelangelo stays standing. “It was, like, two bots and then  nothin’.”

“That is incredibly suspicious.” The tallest brother saves his work. “You used the stuff, right?”

“Worked like a charm.” Leonardo stretches. “So, what’d we miss?”

“Donnie bitching about not talking to his girlfriend for a whole week.”

“Can it,” he hisses.

“Donnie,” his brother speaks from next to him, “I’m sure that Y/N is perfectly fine. If you’re worried about her, you can and should go check on her.”

He groans. “If it were that simple, I would’ve done that by now.” He holds his head. “But what would I even say?”

He sighs, “I’m not going to say the same thing every time.” He gets up. “Mikey, you try. I’m going to go meditate if anyone wants to join.”

“Hey!” Mikey sticks his tongue out at him. “How come I have to do it?”

“Because Raphael is as cuddly as an eel.”

Raph glares. “Do you wanna go right now?”

“See?” He walks off. “And I did it last time. Your turn.” They hear the doors to the dojo slide closed behind him.

Mikey sits down in Leo’s spot. “If you want,” he offers as his brother walks off to the dojo, “I can try talking to her.”

“Would you?” He sighs. “I’m not good at this sort of thing.”

“For sure, man.” He gives him a thumbs up. “What are brothers for?”

“If you don’t make him do things,” Raphael warns, “he’s never going to learn to do them.”

“Man, he’s our bro.” He wraps an arm around his neck. “You can’t just leave your bro out to dry.”

“The hell I can’t.” He gets to his feet. “You guys have fun with that. I’ll be in my room.” He walks off, taking his pet turtle with him.

“Don’t listen to him.” He shoots his brother a thumbs up. “I’m sure everything will work out.” Mikey hopped to his feet. “Be back in a bit.” He waved, running out of the lair. “I’ll be back in ten.”

--

The look on his face is less than reassuring.

“Well?” Donatello, who has been checking the time religiously, is sitting at the door like a dog waiting for his owner. “How did it go?”

He smiles tightly. “I have good news and bad news.”

He groans, holding his head in his hands. “Just tell me.”

“Well,” he says hesitantly, crouching down in front of him, “she’s not dead.”

“That isn’t exactly a high bar to hurdle.” He takes a deep breath. “What’s the bad news?”

He pauses. “She’s… freaked out.”

“On a scale of one to ten,” he asks slowly, “with one being—”

“Nine.” His younger brother nods certainly. “At least a nine.”

He stands up. “I should go check on her.”

“Yeah, I don’t know what to do.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I think I made things worse, actually.”

“What else is new?” He runs out. “Tell Leo I’m going out,” he calls over his shoulder. He does not wait for a reply.

He does not blame himself entirely for the events currently happening; he is well aware that her inclusion into their mess was not willed by him. However, a part of him can not shake the belief that he and his brothers have, by virtue of their lifestyle, caused her more pain than he had ever wanted. A part of him, still, believes that he or someone else should have bitten the bullet; of them, you should be the last person in line to murder.

‘I should’ve said something, done something.’

He lands down on your roof, starting to scale down the building. You have left your window open: he can see your floral curtains fluttering in the autumn breeze. Artificial light streams from your apartment as soft music plays from inside. He lands on your windowsill carefully, reaching in past the curtains to knock on your wall. “Y/N?”

He hears the music shut off the shuffling of bedsheets, three steps. You pull the curtain open.

You have not slept in a week. You have continued to go to school, scared as to what would happen if you did not, but you have not eaten or drank in a while either; more accurately, nothing has stayed down. You have contributed these things, easily, to the newly introduced variety in your nightmares. You wonder, now, if seeing his body would have been such a bad thing; your head has conjured up every possible position he might have fallen in, anyhow. At least, if you knew, you would only have one image torturing you as opposed to the seemingly different variations your head could come up with.

Donnie is not a psychologist. He has never been able to fully grasp the subject as much as the others in the scientific field; all of medicine, for that matter, has, regrettably, been hard for him to wrap his head around, what with how different he and his brother are from humans, physiologically. His master was the closest he had to an actual human until you had shown up, but he was hardly exemplary of your typical human. However, be it by what knowledge he does have or by the way you hold yourself, he can easily tell you are off. The color in your face is gone, the bags under your eyes larger than he has ever seen them on you, and every move seems oddly sluggish to him.

“Oh, hey.” You smile tiredly. “If you’re here about Michelangelo, he was just here a few minutes ago.”

“I’m not.” He climbs inside. “He got back to the lair ten or so minutes ago. Are you alright?”

Your eyes are flooded with black for a moment, a wave of numb pain and vertigo washing over you as you spread your stance slightly, not wanting to trip over your own feet. You hold your face in your hand as you steady yourself. “Totally.” You wince as you nodded. ‘Let’s not move our head more than we need to.’

Years of attentiveness and common sense tell him that you are blatantly lying. “What happened?”

“Huh?” You close your eyes. “Oh, nothin.” You take a couple steps back, slowly sitting back down on the bed, which was covered in packets. “Please,” you insist, “make yourself comfortable.”

He shuts the curtains, crouching down in front of you to look your features over more closely as he tries to identify what, exactly, is wrong with you. “Am I allowed to touch you?”

You look down at him from your seat. “I mean,” you sigh, “you can, if you want. Just not anywhere a general physician wouldn’t touch, alright?” You give him a half-hearted thumbs up. “I trust you to know where you can and can’t put your hands.” You highly doubt that he has any bad intentions, really, but you want to make your intentions clear.

“O-oh, of course,” he nods quickly. “I wouldn’t do anything you wouldn’t—well, not that you wouldn’t—” his face went red. “I-I mean—”

“Dude, relax.” You roll your eyes good-naturedly. “Take a deep breath or I’m gonna the wrong idea.”

He does “S-sorry.” He rubs the back of his neck. “That was weird.”

“You’re all good.”

He presses the back of his hand against your forehead. “You don’t have a fever,” he notes, still red in the face. “Did you eat anything you normally wouldn’t?”

You give him a thumbs down. “I’ve only had soup. Do you want some?”

He blinks. “Soup?”

“Yeah.” You look back at the kitchen, where a pot of soup is sitting on the counter. “Ran out of leftovers a couple days ago.”

His eyes widen. “Days?”

You nod, wincing as you feel your brain pounding against your skull. “Yeah,” you sigh. “It’s been hard to keep things down. Glad I ran out, actually; I think I got a—”

He cuts you off. “How many days do you take between meals?”

You pause. “Now?” You shrug. “One meal every day or two.”

“Day or two?”

“Again,” you repeat, very confused as to why he looks as though he is about to have a heart attack right then and there, “it’s been hard keeping stuff down lately.”

“How are you not dead?”

You blink. “I beg your pardon?”

His voice rises as his speech sped up. “How many cups of that do you eat in a sitting?”

You sit up properly. “Maybe three or four and a couple pieces of toast?”

He looks about ready to pass out. “Are you insane?” he cries, an octave higher than usual.

You cover his mouth with your hand. “Shut up,” you hiss. “You’re gonna wake my neighbors up.”

He stops talking, grabbing your hand and pulling it off his mouth. He gets up, muttering something about being ridiculous as he pours you an unusually large bowl of soup and placing it in your lap. “Eat.” He stands there, glaring at you pointedly.

You are, admittedly, surprised by his icy, commanding tone. You do as instructed. “You act as though I’ve poisoned myself,” you point out between bites. “It won’t kill me, you know.”

“I’m not a licensed dietitian,” he informs you, clearly upset, “but the recommended caloric intake for a woman is approximately four thousand calories—”

“That’s wrong.” You are already halfway through the bowl. “It’s two.”

“Do you seriously want to get into a debate on something science-related right now?” You are genuinely scared by his expression; every word sounds oddly lethal, as if they themselves could kill you.

You swallow, standing your ground. “We can look it up, if you want,” you offer. “I know for a fact I’m… right…”

He has glared directly at you. It almost shuts you up.

You quietly eat the rest of the bowl. You set your spoon down with a gentle clatter, clearing your throat as you try to ignore the way he was staring at you as if he were trying to dissect you with his eyes. “Done.” You showed him the empty bowl.

“You genuinely see nothing wrong with your dietary choices?”

You shake your head, immediately regretting it. “I know it’s unhealthy, but not to the same degree you seem to think it is.”

“And you honestly believe that you only need to eat two thousand calories to be healthy?” His tone was softer now, likely in reaction to how quickly you had recoiled.

You nod hesitantly, ignoring the way your head pounds.

He pauses. “We’ll talk about that later,” he decides. “For now, I have to ask: why can’t you keep food down, exactly?”

You lean back, placing the bowl on the nightstand. You stay like that, closing your eyes. “I just keep seeing it,” you explain simply. “Hearing it, too; it’s kinda like tasting really bad and then having the aftertaste stuck on your tongue, but for memories. Or like doing something embarrassing and, every once and awhile, having something happen to remind you of it.”

“It? Oh.” As soon as he says the words out loud, he knows what you are referring to.

“Yup.” You pop the P. “I dunno if you knew, but it doesn’t splat.”

A heavy silence smothers you both, despite the sounds of the city.

You feel the bed shift. Your eyes glance over at the man lying next to you, hands folded across his stomach as he stares at the ceiling.

“I honestly don’t know what to say.” He sighs. "I wish I knew how to do right by you.”

“You don’t have to—”

He cuts you off. “I want to, though.” He rubs his face with his hand. “I want to be able to invent something that makes things easier for you, to keep you from getting hurt.”

“Dude, it’s fine.” You punch his arm lightly. “I’ll be fine, eventually. Just not right now.” You smile weakly. “But, hey? At least my dreams have a bit of variety, right?”

“Dreams?”

You chuckle tightly. “It turns out my head is rather creative when it comes to ways the body can bend. I almost wish I had seen the bodies; then they could all be consistent.”

He groans. “See, it’s stuff like that that makes me feel bad about not being able—not that it’s your fault,” he back peddles. “I just—”

“Stop stressing so much,” you cut him off. “That’s my job. Don’t put yourself into a tizzy on my account.”

“How could I not?” He threw his hands up in the air. “I care about you, Y/N. I’m obviously going to care if you’re alright.”

You pause. “My mental stability should be the least of your concerns right now, what with Shredder and all.” You close your eyes. “The only reason he hasn’t beaten you and your brothers within an inch of your lives is that I knew where he’d be when. All things considered,” you roll over to face him, “my having bad nightmares is a small price to pay.”

Another silence.

You sigh. “You should probably get going.” You pull yourself onto your elbows, leaning forward onto your knees. “I gotta stake out Shredder’s lair tomorrow so you guys know when to come in.”

He sits up next to you. “Y/N, I—”

“You should stop worrying so much, alright?” You smile gently. “I have some sleep meds if your dad needs them.”

He opens his mouth to say something, pauses, closes it again. “Alright.” He stands up. “I’m sorry for bothering you.”

“You didn’t.” He didn’t.

He stops in his tracks.

You rest your head on your legs. “Yeah?”

“Will we see you tomorrow?”

You purse your lips. “I don’t know,” you admit. “I’ll definitely call you, though; it’ll be something of a feat to hijack a hijacked chemical truck.”

He looks back at you. “Please, be safe.”

You nod.

“Eat, too.”

You nod again.

“And drink?”

You roll your eyes teasingly. “Yeah, Dad, I’ll eat.”

His face flushes again. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You got it, buddy.”

You look so small.

‘I did that.’

He climbs onto the windowsill, hesitating to leave. “Goodnight.”

You wave lazily. “Goodnight, Donatello.”

He climbs out of your apartment.

You wait a minute or two before you close and lock your window. You pull the curtains shut properly behind him, walking back to the kitchen to put the food away.

You sigh, doleful. “Sorry.”

--

You were maybe thirteen years old. It feels like longer, but you were most certainly in middle school

Driving home after school one day, you had stared out the window, the radio playing something you half paid attention to. You don’t remember, now, what prompted the conversation—you figure it was some sort of assembly you had mentioned—but, somehow, the question of what to do if you were tied up in the back of someone’s car had been brought up. This was not an unusual line of conversation, considering your family’s conviction that you would be kidnapped someday, but you remember it specifically because, after he brought it up, you had run the scenario over in your head what felt like a thousand times.

“It depends on where you are in the car,” he had said. “If you’re in the back seat, you have to reach forward and try to choke the driver out, if you can’t get the doors open.”

“And if I’m in the front?”

“Ram your body against his. Get a hold of the wheel and swerve the car.

The line of thinking had confused you. “But,” you countered, “then the car would crash; we would both get hurt.”

“You have a better chance of surviving a car crash than whatever would happen to you once you get to wherever you’re going.”

You two had not spoken for the rest of the drive.

Now, you stare ahead at the road, eyes occasionally glancing at the man in the driver’s seat as you try to come up with a plan. You wish, now, that you had gone with your initial instinct to call instead of sending Leonardo a text message; who knows when he will get it?

“I feel almost sorry for you,” the man sneers. “You would be better off getting killed in the explosion than what’s going to happen to you.”

You say nothing.

“Hey?” He barks out a laugh. “You’ll get to see what happens to them.” He sighs happily. “I can see it now. The smoke, the fire, the smell.”

You eye the door. ‘Locked. Shit.’

“Those freaks won’t know what hit them.” He leans forward, staring at the truck in front of them. “Shouldn’t have messed with us if they didn’t want to meet their maker.”

‘Could I even survive it?’

“You know somethin’, kid?” He grips the wheel tighter. “I gotta give ya some respect; not a ton of kids would’ve come this far. Personally,” he shrugs, “I would’ve killed you right then, but Shredder wants more out of ya, apparently.”

‘Would he?’ You shift your feet to your right.

“I’ll thank you for one thing, though; I was getting sick of that pompous asshole.”

‘I just gotta get his hands away from the wheel. There are people in the back of this van. They’d survive, right?’ You fight to keep your breathing steady.

“For someone who hangs with those freaks, you ain't slick, hangin on the street corner.”

‘They’re ninjas. I gotta believe they’d be fine.’ You shut your eyes, stealing yourself.

“How you got Bradford is be—hey!”

You slammed your torso against him, eyes squeezed shut.

“What are you, fucking suicidal?” He yelled, trying to push you off.

You pull away, slamming one foot against his cheek and stuck the other into the wheel. You hear honking as you desperately bang your foot into what you pray is his body. You feel the car speed up as he screams obscenities at you. You force the wheel away from you as hard as you can.

The next few moments are a blizzard of broken glass, voices, and blackness as the metal deathtrap tries to shake the life out of both of you.

You figure that you must have passed out a second, for the next thing you remember is the smell of gasoline.

Your eyes snap open. You look over at the man stuck half out the window. You reach back, trembling hands fumbling with the buckle strapping yourself in. You slam yourself against the front window as you hear it click open. You use your arms to pull yourself through the hole, the rope slicing against a stray piece of broken glass.

Your head is spinning. The only thought currently on your mind is to get away from the car.

For some reason, you find yourself unable to stand. You, instead, crawl, dragging your body desperately away from the wreckage. You do not feel yourself doing it, ignoring the glass shards sticking themselves into your palms and under your nails, the way they slashed into your stomach and sides as you drag yourself over them completely irrelevant as you claw towards the sidewalk.

You hear the explosion.

You pull yourself into an alley, waiting for the ringing in your ears to stop as you hear the conflict happening a few blocks down. You swallow your vomit as you stare forward blankly, the smell of smoke filling your nostrils.

Another.

You fall forward, tears filling your eyes as the pain settles in. You do not know what happened to your legs, only knowing for sure that they could not and would not support your weight. Every muscle and every tendon is vibrating. Your hair sticks to your body as your clothes soak in some sort of warm liquid.

You do not like that smell.

‘Why is everything spinning?’

You hear yelling, the screeching of wheels against asphalt.

‘I’m going to die.’

The sentence repeats in your head over and over again as you lay there in the alleyway.

‘I’m going to die here.’

You do not know why you are shaking right now.

‘I don’t want to die here. Not now.’

“Help,” you beg. “Please, God.” You feel a sob rise in your throat. “I don’t… wanna…”

You hear screaming.

“Help,” you breathe.

You black out.

Chapter Text

“How is she?”

Donatello sits down next to his brother on the couch. “Same as yesterday,” he sighs. “Comatose.”

“I still can’t believe it,” Raphael smirks. “That stupid bitch decided to total the fuckin—"

“Raphael,” he promises coolly, “I will personally make it my life’s goal to make sure you can never open your mouth again if you don’t shut up.”

He puts his hands up. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Will you two be quiet for a minute? I’m trying to listen.” Leonardo kneels in front of the television.

There is a new news story.

“They can’t arrest her, can they?” The tallest brother glances at the others.

“Nah.” Michelangelo is sprawled out on his portion of the couch, eyes dully focused on the screen. “They’ll side with her before someone from a street gang, ‘specially with those…” He trails off. “’ Sides,” he clears his throat, “any good public defense lawyer would call it self-defense, and there’s no way the police would convict a teenage girl of any degree of murder with the injuries she has; bad press.”

“Mikey,” Leo asks, “how come you know that and not how to multiply numbers by seven?”

“Because seven is a stupid number that was created just to make us all feel stupid.”

“Leo—”

“He’s right,” Raph agrees. “They won’t put her away for something like that.” He chuckles darkly. “Besides, there’s no more evidence.”

“After what happened with the neurologist?”

“Donnie,” Leo turns to look at him. “She’s going to be fine.”

He opens his mouth to argue, closes it.

”The perpetrator,” the news anchor reads, ”was found this morning after a panicked nine-one-one caller had seen the hand of the assailant hanging over a ledge. The corpse had, presumably, been flung away from the scene of the incident as a consequence of the explosion, miraculously landing on the roof of a nearby restaurant. The body has been identified as Fong Zhao, who was arrested on multiple charges of armed battery earlier this year. The police have refrained from offering Channel Six detailed information, but we have an anonymous source who claims that he and the gang he is supposedly involved in, locally referred to as the Purple Dragons, was also involved in the hijacking of a truck carrying a substance believed to be tear gas. The driver of the truck testified in favor of this statement earlier this evening. An investigation is currently ongoing regarding the involvement of the men in question, and we at Channel Six implore our viewers to come forward with any information you may have on the case or the supposed ringleader, the recently escaped Xever Montes. More on that later tonight. Up next, a local—”

Leonardo shuts off the television. “Well, there you go.” He stands up. “See? Didn’t even mention her name.”

Donatello breathes out a sigh of relief. “Good,” he nods after a moment. “That’s... good.” He cradles his head in his hand, his concerns hardly pacified by the report.

This, he cannot excuse. This is entirely a matter of his own negligence.

‘I should’ve noticed sooner, insisted to come with.’ He zones out, his brother starting a conversation about something he cannot bring himself to pay attention to. ‘How could she be that reckless? It’s Shredder for fuck’s sake; I should’ve at least noticed the body or something, anything.’ His fingers lace together as he stares a hole into the ground. ‘Even if I couldn’t have stopped her, I should’ve been there, if only after the fact.’ He runs his tongue along his teeth absentmindedly. ‘Some ninja I am. Some friend. Some—’

“So, I broke Y/N’s arms, right?”

His head snaps up. “You what?”

“There he is,” Raph chuckles. “Knew that’d get his attention.”

“Don’t make me go over there,” he glares. His face flushes in embarrassment.

Leonardo rolls his eyes at his brother’s antics. “As I was saying, it’s been pretty quiet, hasn’t it? Since the incident?”

“Now that you mention it,” Raph points out, “since the whole Leatherhead fiasco, I don’t think anything’s really happened. Ya know, besides the Kraang thing.” He crosses his arms behind his head, leaning back into the couch. “It’s been getting’ kinda boring If I’m bein’ honest.”

“It’s that desire to fight that’s going to get you killed,” Donatello informs him, staring at the television screen. “Saw what happened to her, right? Weren’t you just saying how stupid she was being?”

“Yeah, but that’s different.” He smiles sharply. “She’s got exactly no training. As much as you guys seem to have a thing for humility all of a sudden,” he waves his hand contemptuously, “the only reason she got hurt is that she was being stupid, so we’re pretty much undefeated, no thanks to Leo.”

He stands up, deciding against fighting him. “If you need me,” he says curtly, “I’ll be in my lab.”

“Watch it, Raph,” the eldest brother snaps.

“Why should I?” He throws his hands up. “Am I wrong?”

Mikey quietly grabs his comic off the floor, retreating to his room, presumably.

Donatello slides the door in between him and his brothers as he sits down at his desk.

You have been stuck in the hospital for about two weeks now.

‘Technically,’ he corrects himself as he pulls his laptop open, ‘it’s been three hundred fifty-seven hours, meaning it’s closer to fifteen days than two weeks. Why do I know that?’ He pulls up an image, uncapping a permanent marker and working on one of the more mindless parts of his latest project: reviving an incredibly battered map. He already has a frame for it once he is finished, but, knowing his brothers, the fading colors would likely be a point of contention if he did not at least make an effort to make it easier to read. Fortunately for him, it is not laminated. Unfortunately—depending on how you look at it-- a lot of the finer details—the integral streets names in particular—are all irreparably smudged and, therefore, will have to be all rewritten by hand, turning a once twenty-minute job into at least a two-hour investment.

He tries to tune out the incessant arguing of his two older brothers as he focuses on making his minute handwriting legible despite the infuriatingly fat marker nib.

“You should have taken her offer for a pen when you had the chance,” he mumbles to himself.

His hand stops.

‘Would it be weird to go check on her again? Just to make sure she’s still alright? I mean,’ he goes back to work, ‘even if it were, how would she know?’

He shakes his head to clear it. ‘Stop that. You’re being a creep again.’

Over those two weeks, his distractedness has become more of a problem than it has in the past in reference to his work. He is hardly a stranger to having a thousand thoughts bouncing around his head at once, but where once a rapid stream of information was there is now an aggravatingly slow sludge. The origin of said mind sludge is not at all a mystery to him, which makes the whole thing infinitely more frustrating. ‘Frustrating? Depressing? Does it even matter?’

He rubs his eye absentmindedly with the heel of his palm as he strains to see what he is doing. The smell of the marker is corrosive in his nostrils. His hand shakes. He sets it down, wringing his hands as if to force them back into submission as he stares holes into the map. ‘This is not supposed to be challenging.’ He closes his eyes, the image of you lying on the ground, a bloody, skeletal figure shaking and begging for your life carved into the backs of his eyelids, a hideous scar.

He can not stop thinking about what you said the night before the incident. Something about being able to care for yourself.

What would you say to him now? He imagines that it would be something to remind him of how the accident is your fault, how he should not beat himself up over it, but all that does is convince him that he should have been faster to act or to respond or something. There had to have been something he, in his infinite wisdom, could have done.  What else can he reason? That he is powerless? That he had no say in what happened that night of nights?

‘How come I can plan and build a combat vehicle out of alien technology and an old subway car and I can’t—’

He jumps at a loud banging at the door.

“Donnie!” He can hear Raphael’s wicked grin from behind the door. “Bank robbery! Let’s go!”

He sighs, capping the marker. His breakdown will have to wait.

“Comin’!”

--

The ringing in your ears is already annoying.

You have been awake for about five minutes. You have elected against moving for a plethora of reasons, but the ringing is a relatively large determining factor in your decision. You are, admittedly, not sure where you are until you hear the tell-tale incessant beeping you remember from your childhood. You do not open your eyes yet. You are incredibly drowsy for some reason.

 ‘Hospital?’

You sit up carefully, wincing as a numb pain permeates through your arms. You run your fingers over your face curiously, feeling for any perceived disfigurement as your eyes scan your surroundings. The small room you have been placed in seems standard; there are a couple of chairs under a window that makes up half of the wall, a television screen in a corner of the room, an inoffensive painting, and a  small vase filled with some sort of white flowers.

You feel a protruding scar on the right side of your face. It traces from the bridge of your nose to about halfway across your cheekbone. As you bring your hands down to pull the hospital gown away from your body, you catch sight of your hands. Long, jagged cuts run vertically along the front of your hands, and as your eyes travel up your arms, you notice fewer, shorter scars along the insides of your forearms. You swallow, pulling the cloth away from your body to see long scratches running from your thighs to under your ribcage. You pull the blanket off to find that one of your legs is encased in a white cast.

You blink. ‘What stupid thing did I do?’

You lay back down, fingers absentmindedly tracing the scars. ‘I must have been out for a bit.’ You push the hair out of your face, noting how oddly shaky your hands are as you try to focus on what had happened. ‘Why wouldn’t my folks be here? They wouldn’t ditch me in a hospital, would they?’ You hold them out in front of you, palms to the ceiling. ‘I don’t look old or anything. My nails aren’t much longer than they were before, so I can’t have been out for that long.’

Your eyebrows furrow. ‘Parents…’ You swallow. ‘Oh, right. The fire.’ Your eyes go out of focus. ‘Dead. I was, too, until recently.’ You put your arms down. ‘I’m hungry. Where am I?’ You close your eyes. ‘New York. East coast. How far is the East Coast from the West Coast? I should call her so she knows I’m—no, she’s dead.’

“All dead and gone,” you mumble the tune to yourself.

You cover your face. ‘Focus. What happened?’ You recall what you think is a church. ‘Turtles. Turtle. Oh, TMNT. Where are people? Focus.’  You yank at a piece of your hair, mumbling to yourself as you try to run through the memory again.

The image of that man’s body takes your breath away.

You shut your eyes tighter. ‘Right. Car. Glass. Glass would be a good candy. Could you make glass out of sugar? Isn’t that what a lollipop is?’ You hug yourself tightly, careful of the IV as you roll onto your side towards it. ‘I killed someone. Someones. That’s not a word. Gasoline smells bad.’ You feel tears prick at your eyes. ‘I deserve to die for that. There has to have been an easier way to do that. I deserve to burn again. That explosion was so prettily animated in that episode. I can’t breathe.’

You curl your legs up towards you, using the arm not connected to the IV to hook behind your knees. You bury your head in your shoulder as you force your breathing to slow. ‘I miss her. Where is he? They’re dead and you killed them, you heartless bitch.’

You feel a sob rise in your throat. You swallow it back. ‘Stop being a pussy.’ You hear yourself start to count softly. ‘They’re all dead and gone. You’re on your own here, so get a grip.’ You grip the blanket. ‘After all, who are you going to turn to? The guys who already risk their lives every day? Or maybe Splinter, who will probably tell you some bullshit about letting your pain go?’

‘That’s not fair,’ you argue with yourself. ‘You can turn to Murakami. Casey might be willing to help.’

‘Because Casey’s known for his reliability and Murakami would want to deal with your stupid emotional problems.’

“Twenty-three,” you whisper, keeping your voice even. “Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six…’

You pull yourself back up, bringing your knee to your chest as you wipe any tears that may have leaked out with the back of your hand.

You do not have to wait long until someone comes in to check on you, a taller gentleman with sharp features and sunken eyes behind curly black hair. He introduces himself as Nurse McGrath, gives you a run down of the dizzying number of injuries you had suffered in the accident, what they had done to fix the problem, and starts to discuss what would become of you now.

“The doctor predicts that you’ll be able to remove your cast in approximately six weeks, and that you will regain your fine-motor skills fully in eight.” He is obviously half asleep, but you can hardly blame him; the clock on the wall reads that it is about three in the morning. “The symptoms from the whiplash should completely fade in about three months. If you would be open, there are medications we can prescribe to help with the pain.”

You smile. “Thank you, sir, but I’d rather not.” You are sincerely concerned what might happen if you start taking any sort of medication right now, considering your mental health.

“I should probably warn you in advance that the police might ask you to come in to identify the guys who kidnapped you.”

You blink, confused. “How do they know I was kidnapped?”

“Anonymous tip, according to the news.” He scratches something into some form or another. “I dunno the specifics, but nobody thinks they’re gonna charge you with anything, ‘specially since the driver was from that street gang.”

You nod. “Gotcha.” You purse your lips. “What day is it?”

“Twenty-fourth, now.”

You sigh. “Well,” you shrug, ignoring the pain it causes, “at least I’m not dead.”

“At least.” He caps his pen. “Technically, you’re free to leave, but the doc thinks it’s a good idea to stay overnight. Your insurance provider has your medical bills covered, so you’re good for it.”

“Honestly? I’m surprised I don’t feel weaker.” You smile. “I’m more than happy to head home tonight, if that makes most sense.”

“Personally, I wouldn’t stay.” He starts heading out of your room. “Your cellphone is locked up. I’m guessing you want it?”

You nod eagerly, realizing quickly that makes the ringing worse.

“I’ll bring it right back, then.”

You refrain from touching it until he leaves.

It looks as if it was put in a blender, but you find it does still turn on.  A problem quickly arises: your hands cannot hold the phone. You set it down on the mattress, each movement taking a ridiculous amount of time to coordinate as you type like someone who has never used a phone before. ‘Fine motor skills. Right.’ You type out a message after approximately too long that tells Donnie that you are out of the hospital and heading home.

You check out of the hospital at approximately four-thirteen. The trip home is a straight line of a walk that takes you approximately twenty minutes. Getting in through the door with a walker is a bit of a challenge, but it works out well enough.

You lock the door and windows when you get home, shutting your phone off as you crawl into bed.

You let out a low groan as your head punishes you for your heinous crime of moving. You had realized ten minutes into your walk that you were not at all physically strong enough to walk that long, and you already hate yourself for it, among other reasons. As you crawl into bed, ignoring your body’s protest, you still stand by your decision to not take any medication, especially now.

You feel as though you are being suffocated as you cling onto your pillow, pressing your face into it as you cry silently, the ringing in your ears only getting louder in the silence of your apartment.

‘I feel sick.’

You remember your first night here. You remember the feeling it had caused you, the numb ache of loss as you submitted to the situation you had found yourself in. It feels like an eternity ago, now. You know, logically, it cannot have been more than two months since you got here.

You had decided against taking a cab back home. You had the cash, and you still do, in your bloodstained pocket. You saw many as you walked home, and you had turned a blind eye to them all.

You feel yourself trembling again. You remember the first night you had slept on your own here, the nightmares you swore were the product of a mind much more sadistic than yours ever was. You remember, too, the nightmares you had after Bradford, the way that, for the first time in your life since you were five years old you woke up drenched in sweat and crying for your mother.

What possible dream could come from this?

You reach a hand to the nightstand, hovering over your cellphone as you consider your next action.

Slowly, you retract it, letting it rest next to you. ‘It’s four. He’s not awake.’ You do not have the energy to get up to grab the bottle of sleeping pills from your bathroom.

‘I don’t want to sleep. I can’t take another nightmare.’ You rest your cheek on the pillow, forcing your eyes shut. ‘Mare. Why is it called a nightmare? Are mares truly that terrifying?’

“One,” you whisper. “Two. Three.”

Chapter Text

"I'm thinking about getting some gloves."

He looks over at you as he laces up his skates. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you nod, smiling slightly to yourself as you look your hands over, trying to imagine what they would look like. "Like, badass, fingerless gloves."

He smiles. "Dude, those would look metal as fuck."

"Totally, right?" Your smile widens. "With studs and shit."

He gets to his feet, hopping onto the ice. "Hell yeah." He drops a puck to assault as you go back to your backed-up coursework the best you can—your handwriting has gone to hell, but you are working with what you have.

You flinch at the crack of his stick, the cross of the T ending up underneath the letter somehow. A cheer from Casey tells you the rubber cylinder's fate.

'I swear I learned this.' You squint at the basic algebra, the pencil, crudely held in your fist, hovering over the packet. 'Why can't I do this?'

"How's your pile coming along?" Another crack.

"It's comin'." You run your fingers through your hair. "Just... trynna remember how to do ne—... subtraction." 'Not debate. Negating is debate.'

He laughs. Another crack. "Man, that thing really fucked you over, huh?"

"Thoroughly." You decide against continuing to torture yourself, having been at it for the past five hours—most of it in the library before Casey invited you to watch him practice some more— and set the large stack of homework back in your bag. "Are you actually making the shots?"

"Casey Jones doesn't miss shots." Another crack.

"Pardon me, oh almighty king of the ice." You stand on your good leg, grabbing the side of the wall to watch as he went back to collect his pucks.

You two have managed to bond over a mutual respect/love of heavy metal and hockey and, seeing as you are staying out of the Hamatos' hair for a while—not upon request, but out of courtesy—you have managed to spend a lot more time with him than you may have otherwise. Your school has not assigned Biology any big projects yet, so, until you are assigned it, you do not have anything other than your health to stress about.

"Pardon accepted." You watch his form as he performs another slap shot.

"You..." you trail off, trying to remember what you were going to say.

"What?"

You shrug. "Dunno." You lean your head on your arms. "I'll remember eventually."

He drops the second puck. "Got any plans after this?"

You sigh. "Nope. Probably gonna head home and try not to cut my fingers making dinner again."

He takes another shot. "Then let's go out after this. You and me."

You smile. "What, don't have any plans either?"

"Nah." He drops the third. "Dad doesn't care if I'm home late anyway."

"True, true." You have decided against prying into his home life; it is not your place and does not concern you in the slightest. "Where do you wanna go?"

"Wanna catch a movie? Heard there was this new pizza place just a couple blocks down if you wanna try to sneak it in."

You snicker. "In the box and all?"

"Yes." He grins mischievously and hits this one off the walls. Some way, somehow, it still makes it into the goal. "I bet your sweatshirt is big enough to stick the box under."

You stick your tongue out at him. "Not in the mood for burns on top of scars, Jones," you reprimand him teasingly. "That just ain't it."

"Then you can wear mine under that one and—"

 "Your sweat-soaked hoodie you've been practicing in all day?" You cringe at the thought.  "Over my dead body."

"I mean..." he licks his teeth, smile widening, "it's not exactly like you're in the best—"

You laugh. "So not cool!"

He puts his hands up in defense, gliding over. "I mean, am I wrong, though?"

"That is completely besides the point, you ass." You balance on your foot, crossing your arms. "Damn. Making fun of the girl with the broken leg."

He leans against the wall. "Man, you were dying before the crash."

You roll your eyes. "Alright, whatever, Jones." You lean against your hand. "How's Johanna," you sing.

He presses his hand against your face, pushing you away. "Annie is doing fine."

You grin, steadying yourself on the wall. "Do you feel her, Johanna?"

"I'm gonna tell her you call her that if you don't quit it."

"Do you think that walls can hide her? Even when you're at her window?"

He pushed his arm all the way out. You hop back.

"Her name isn't even Johanna."

"But she is Johanna," you whine in protest, not bothering to hide your mirth. "She has the hair, the voice, the disposition. She's an ingénue and you know it." You have been teasing him about this for a while now: the girl in question—Annabelle Halshaw, a year below you two—had caught his eye when he had heard through the grapevine that she was the lead singer in some indie band. When he had shown you a picture and told you the story, you insisted on calling her Johanna for her golden hair and soft, sweet singing voice he had proudly had you listen to.

"She's not."

You roll your eyes, sitting back down as you grab your bag. "Lie to yourself all you want," you goad, "but deep down, you know in your heart that the truth," you put a finger up, "is apparent."

He hops off the ice, sitting next to you as he unlaces his skates. "Whatever." He smirks. "How's The Don?"

You avert your gaze. "I haven't seen 'im."

"Boo." He tied the laces together. "Some girlfriend you are," he ribs.

You go red. "Not my boyfriend. Not even friends with benefits."

"Yeah, sure." He sets the skates into his bag. "That's why you already know his family."

"That—"

"And why you've had him over to your place."

"If you don't cool your tits, I'm telling Lucy you're crushing on her friend."

"Don't you dare!"

"What," you simper, "think I won't?"

He grabs his bag. "If you do, I'll show her that video."

You laugh, following him out of the rink. "You're the worst." You note how strange it is that he spent so little time on the ice as you two walk out, but you do not say anything about it.

"Hey, you're the one throwing threats around."

"Yeah," you argue, "but my threat is clearly better."

He rolls his eyes, pushing you again.

You two keep chatting on the way to the theatre about anything and everything, from new bands to upcoming games to the newest blockbuster horror movies. You are not personally on the hockey team, but, as his friend, it is your duty to care. Besides, you figure, it gives you something to look forward to.

The movie is fine. You convince him against sneaking an entire pizza in, you split a bucket of popcorn, and you give him shit for getting freaked out by the disembowelment scene. It is payback for him teasing you about crying during the last movie you two went to a couple of days ago.

You two stand at the streetlight.

"Dude, it's like eight," he groans. "It's not even late."

"True," you agree. "Counterpoint: I still have another week's worth of work to do by Friday on top of the homework I'll have to do anyway, so unless you wanna help—"

"Forget I asked." He pulls his hood up against the autumn wind. "Need me to walk you back?"

"Nah." You shrug. "If someone mugs me, they'll give me an excuse to not do my homework."

"Murdered?

"I'm already halfway there."

He grins. "See ya tomorrow, Y/N."

"See ya, Jones." You wave as he runs off.

The walk home is quiet and considerably easier than it was a couple of weeks ago. Seeing as you now get queasy whenever you get into a car, you have been limited to taking the subway and walking, which, among other things, has contributed positively to your physical strength. You know that you should probably at least try to take the bus or a cab around town to build your tolerance up, but the last time you tried, you had almost tripped and fallen from how shaky your legs were getting out. Oddly enough, you note as you go through the door, you do not have a considerably larger fear of heights than you did before, or of fire, but cars were tripping you up, even though you were the one that crashed it. You feel thankful that, at least, you do not think your fear is crippling. At least, you reason, you can still get into the car.

You lock the door behind you, debating whether you feel like adding to the collection of cuts you now possess-- they are self-inflicted, but not intentionally so; you stubbornly refuse to acknowledge the fact that you physically cannot use your hands to cut things. You decide against it tonight, tossing your bag on the bed as you sprawl across it, admittedly exhausted. You allow yourself a couple of seconds with your eyes closed before you pull yourself up with a groan and get back to work.

A part of you wishes that you had the physical energy to stay out longer. You are always trying to find excuses not to sleep, and although the mountain of homework and readjusting your timelines for things you missed is certainly one way to keep yourself preoccupied, it is not exactly what you would consider fun. Then again, reliving your greatest traumas while you sleep is not exactly fun either.

You catch yourself peeling at the newly applied bandages on your fingers, fingernails catching under the crudely applied adhesives. Applying bandages properly requires more dexterity and patience than you currently possess, and you are hardly going to ask someone else for help with something as stupid as that. You have lasted this long without needing too much help. People can live by themselves. You will live, probably. Well? Not your concern.

'I should eat something.' Your eyes strain to focus on the piece of paper in front of you, your mind wandering aimlessly as you try to impress the actual importance of finishing this upon yourself, but you find that is an insurmountable feat.

You drop your bag off the side of the bed, reaching down and pulling your shoe off, leaning back into your pillows, the weight of the day practically immobilizing you. Fumbling hands switch the lamp off, bathing your room in momentary, blissful darkness before the gravity of your decision sets in.

"Alright, me," you breathe to yourself. "What's it gonna be today? My folks? Bradford? What's his face? Hell," you chuckle, "why not all three? I'm sadistic enough, I'm sure."

You close your eyes. "Give me your worse," you challenge as you slip into unconsciousness.

—

Two weeks.

He had kept his distance for about two weeks. It was not as if he did not care or was not morbidly curious what the crash had done to you—his glances through the curtains did not tell him much—  but, after some debate, he had figured you needed time to recuperate before you would want his company. Two weeks, he figured, would be enough time for you to get back on your feet or, at least, for you to start wanting company.

His excuse to see you had come in the form of his brother's newfound prideful boasting. Feigning insult was as good an excuse as any to go see you; after all, he just so happened to be in the neighborhood anyway, and it was normal to pop in to see someone if you were already just a couple blocks down, right? Sneaking away was easy enough—they would not mind his absence—and he, after much prep work, knew exactly how and why he was going to say the things he would to get in your good favor. The plan, he knows, would have gone swimmingly.

His plans seem asinine when he hears you crying.

His brothers do not cry much. He does not, either; it was a habit that they had all thoroughly bullied themselves out of when they were much younger and, if they still did, he knew nothing of it. His master did not encourage this, per se, but talked, then, frequently about the importance of maintaining a more stoic disposition and not allowing emotions to cripple you in battle. Practically, Donatello was satisfied with that explanation, having not properly cried for more than a year now. To hear the sound again, especially coming from you, was novel.

Novel, too, is how you are crying. The sound is less of actual sobbing and more of you being strangled, quiet gasps for air escaping your lips as you shake on the bed, curled in on yourself and clutching at your chest as if whatever pain you are experiencing is centered and can be relieved by something between your collarbones. His eyes, for the first time, trace the lines on your skin, your sleeves riding up your arms to reveal them to him, tears racing down and along the gash in your face. Everything about the scene, from the soft gasping of panic to your position to the heavy scarring, is completely foreign to him, rivaled only by one or two particularly hard nights when he and his brother were much younger.

He slides in through the window, leaning onto the bed. His fingers flick your lamp back on as he grabs your shivering shoulder tightly, shaking you awake as he mumbles words of encouragement.  He is not sure if his help will be appreciated, if snapping you out of it was even what he is supposed to do in this situation, but now is not the time to think of that. You are in pain. He can offer you this kindness. "Wake up," he pleads, not thinking of how this would look until your eyes snap open to look at him.

Immediately, the reality of the situation sets in, and he scrambles off the bed. 'Why did I think that would be a good idea?' Panic. 'You just walked into her room like a fucking creep. See, now she's going to—'

"Sorry."

He blinks, looking up at you from his place on the floor. "Huh?"

You clear your throat, wiping the tears from your eye with your sleeve quickly as you bring your knees to your chest, voice hoarse. "Sorry," you repeat. "That you... I'm not sure what I'm apologizing for, but I know I should be apologizing."

He is completely dumbfounded.

Your eyes glance to the open window. "I should probably start closing and locking my window, right?" You rub the back of your neck, voice clearing the longer you talk. "It didn't occur to me since I'm so high up, but if you guys can get in, The Foot can too, right?"

'Why is she apologizing?'

You push the hair out of your face. 'You need something, right? I—uh—need to stop saying 'right' so much." You shake your head to clear it. "' Sup?"

He hears himself mumble some bullshit out about being in the neighborhood.

You sigh. "Sorry." You close your eyes. "I'm usually up later; I've been so tired lately."

'Is she serious right now?' He is completely lost. 'She was just crying her eyes out in her sleep and now she's apologizing? Did I miss something?' You are smiling now, eyes still bloodshot, as if the whole thing is a figment of his imagination, still shivering where you sit.

He rises to his feet, kneeling in front of you on the bed. "What was it about?"

You blink, seemingly confused. "Huh?"

"Your nightmare," he clarifies. "You were crying. What was it about?"

You avert eye contact. "Nothing too crazy," you shrug. "Just about the crash. Nothing too exciting." If possible, he thinks the bags under your eyes are worse than the last time you saw him.

He takes your hands loosely, turning them palms up to look, for the first time, at the patchwork quilt that is now your skin. "What happened in it?" He runs his thumb along the lines, keeping his voice low; he remembers how that used to help when Mikey used to have fits when they were younger. Leonardo and Raphael were never good at that; they took better to being more violently snapped out of their moods, but, then again, they never had this kind of breakdown; theirs were always more driven by loathing, self or otherwise.

You pause, still not looking him in the face as your muscles relax. He remembers, vividly, how he had done something similar when you two had first met, how much better, health-wise, you looked. 'How long has it been since then? Three months? A little less?'

You take a deep breath. "Just... family shit," you mumble, eyelids drooping as you trace his frame loosely. "Fire."

Your gaze is piercing as you finally look at him properly. He feels something catch in his throat as you bow your head.

"It's my fault, you know." Your voice is so soft, barely a whisper. "That they're dead, I mean."

The air is a suffocating blanket that smothers you both.

"I never told you, did I?" Your focus does not shift as it might have a bit ago. It is locked solely and intensely on him, taking in every detail of his expression. "How I died? How they died? Why I died?"

Hesitantly, he shakes his head. He thinks it best to just be quiet and let you talk. He does not think he has ever heard anyone speak in quite the same tones, ever looked at him quite the same way you are.

You take another breath. "I wanted to try my hand at baking." You force your eyes to stay focused on his. "I was—still am—not good about sleep. I always slept bad, and never at the right times. I used to take pills for it, to try to get myself back on track."

He sees where this is going.

"I thought I could still stay up as late as I was used to." You glance to the side, stealing yourself a second before focusing back on the boy in front of you. "I sat down in my room, turned on a movie. I set a timer. I fell asleep." You swallow, hands shaking in his. "I can't smell well, either. I must not have smelled the burning." Your lips curl in a bitter smile. "Sure as fuck felt it, though, when I woke up."

He lets you finish.

You try to blink the tears out of your eyes. "They were asleep," Your voice rises ever so slightly. "I fell asleep at two something. I woke up when they started yelling." You purse your lips, face reddening in shame as your nostrils flair. "They were trying to get someone out of bed when the roof caved in above them. My door got blocked."

You feel yourself smile.

"So," you strain not to cry, "that, Donatello, is why I'm here and why I'm dead, and why I really do deserve to burn again." You laugh. "Hell, my body count is rivaling some serial killers, so that's... that's certainly something."

He lets go of your hands, face blank.

You lean forward, placing your hands on your knees. "I don't blame you," You wipe a wayward tear out of your eyes, trying to swallow the frog in your throat. "Fuck, man, I'd think less of me, too, if it were me." You nod towards the window. "I get it if you want to leave, but I thought you might want to know why—"

He stops you mid-sentence, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you to him.

Your arms lay slack at your sides as you try to process what is happening.

He does not say a word.

You break.

You burry your face into him, tears welling in your eyes as you let out a strangled sob. You hold onto him tightly as you struggle to breathe, body shaking as you wrap your own arms around him the best you can. The sound roars in your ears like thunder, the deafening quiet of the apartment punctuated only by your own cries. He gently holds you there, resting his head on top of yours. Each sound you make sounds as though you are physically being choked by your guilt, and his chest feels as though it is being crushed by an invisible hand as he listens to your pain.

Neither of you knows how long you stay like that.

He considers telling you a story from a long time ago, about some training he and his brothers had back then, but thought better of it; he does not want to upset you any more than you already are, and being in good company with someone like him may not be exactly what you need right now. Granted, he does not know what you do need, but he knows listening to him talk about bashing brains would not help your sensibilities any.

Instead, he stays quiet.

You pull away after a while, wiping your face off again as you mumble out an apology.

"Don't apologize." He clears his throat. "It's good to cry; it releases endorphins."

You smile at that. "Well," you giggle tearfully, "if it releases endorphins."

He smiles back, face flushing. You look good, he thinks, even with your face all red. He knows that, scientifically, there is probably a reason, but he cannot think of it right now.

He stands up. "I'll get—"

You grab his hand tightly.

He looks back at you.

"Can I ask a favor?"

He blinks. "Of course," he agrees easily. "Anything."

You glance off. "Promise not to take it weird?"

He feels his heart rate increase. "Y-yeah," he nods.

He feels you pull him gently back on the bed. "Can you stay here tonight?"

His eyes widen as they flicker between the mattress and you. "What," he clarifies breathlessly, "like sleep with you?"

You nod.

"In the same bed?"

You hesitate, nod again.

He clears his throat, face heating again. "Like, actually?"

"If it wasn't actually, I wouldn't ask, would I?" You grip his hand tightly. "I just really don't want to be alone tonight."

'Oh.' He mentally kicks himself. 'She's scared. Don't make her uncomfortable.'

"It's alright if you don't—"

He is extremely quick to reassure you that he is more than happy—'Bad choice of wording.'—to stay tonight until you fall asleep, but that he would not stay the whole night as to not worry his brothers.

You nod in agreement. "That's fine." You rub the back of your neck. "Not sure I would be good company when I wake up, anyway; I still have class."

"Oh, right." He nods in understanding, pushing himself further onto the bed. "Which side...?"

You shrug. "Which way do you face?"

"I usually lie on my stomach."

"Then it doesn't matter." You slide your sweatshirt over your head after a bit of squirming around, tossing it onto the couch.

His face is now scarlet. "Okay then," he mumbles, laying down on the side away from the window. 'Is she going to—no, stop that.'

You look over at him, face down on the mattress. You can almost feel the heat coming off him. "Are you alright there, buddy?"

He nods.

You shrug, laying down under the blanket and curling into him, facing the window. "Mind getting the light?"

He reaches over, clicking it off.

You sigh in content, turning to face him, teetering on the edge of the mattress. "I'm not venomous," you inform him teasingly. "I've said it once and I'll say it again: of the two of us, you should not be the one who's a nervous wreck."

"You dunno that." His voice is muffled by the bed.

"You're the strong one," you argue.

"So?" He turns his head to look at you. "I'm the guy laying in the—I'm just gonna stop that sentence."

"It's only bad if it isn't consensual." You smile reassuringly. "I invited you to lay with me, right? So, unless I make you uneasy, then we're all good."

He breaks eye contact. "So," he clarifies, "you don't mind if I move closer to you?"

You shake your head.

He hesitantly slides himself further onto the bed. "Can I move closer than this?"

"You've already seen me bawl my eyes out. You're doing me a service. Move as close or as far as you want."

He moves to press his side against you. "Is this fine?"

You nod. "Look, how about this?" You rest your arm under your head. "If you do something I'm uncomfortable with, the safe word is pina colada."

'We already have a safe word?' He was not sure if he is on cloud nine or just terrified of you.

You are very confused why he looks so warm. "Do you need me to turn the AC on?"

He shakes his head. "I'm good," he assures you tightly. Slowly, he reached an arm out and over your waist, pulling you closer. You do not seem to resist in any way, wrapping your good leg around one of his to pull him closer.

'Conscious touching.' He glances down at you, trying to act cool. 'Conscious, intentional touching. She smells so nice and she feels—okay, this is not going to work if you keep being a perv.'

"Thanks," you mumble, humming softly. "I appreciate this more than you know."

Cloud nine. Definitely on cloud nine.

"Every time."

You giggle.

He blinks. "What?"

"Every time," you note, already nodding off. "Like in that book."

'Which one?' "They wrote it down for a reason, right?" The longer he spends like this, the smoother he feels.

"Totally." You smile, closing your eyes. "Just know that this goes both ways, alright? If you ever need help like this, you know who to call."

This is new. 'Help like this? What, like crying?' His eyebrows furrow as he tries to understand what you mean. 'Or he means if I ever need company in my—what did I just say?'

You pick up on his confusion. "Emotional help, I mean." Your fingers trace the indentations in his shell absentmindedly. "I mean, I know sometimes I didn't want to go to my family about stuff. I dunno if you have that..." you trail off, realizing that you might be unintentionally bashing his brothers. You sincerely do not want to blow this.

 "I mean," he says after a bit, "I think I get what you're talking about." He sighs. "You mean stuff that they'd make fun of me for, right?"

You nod.

He feels his heart melt a little. "I'll have to take you up on that."

You forgot how safe he makes you feel. "Goodnight, Donnie," you mumble sleepily.

"Goodnight, Y/N."

You pass out not long after that. If he has to estimate a general amount of time, he will clock it in at about five minutes. He does not move, however, until about thirty minutes before sunrise, too busy listening to the sound of your breathing and memorizing how exactly your body feels next to his. As he slips out of the window, early morning air waking him back up completely, he wonders if, someday, he could stay to see you wake up next to him. Not out of necessity, but just because you both wanted to stay like that for a while more.  

'I hope so. It's a nice dream to have, anyhow.'

Chapter Text

“Where were you?”

The younger brother looks up at his senior. “Huh?”

“You were gone all night.” Leonardo leans against the door, crossing his arms. “Don’t look so surprised; I started getting up early to meditate.”

He shrugs in feigned nonchalance, already dreading the ensuing conversation. “Out.”

“And where’s ‘Out’?”

Donnie slides out of his chair, deciding his straining eyes need a break. “Just went to check on Y/N is all.” He rubs them with his arm, quietly noting the sounds of fighting in the dojo were starting to cease as he sits on the couch. His rounds of sparring with Leonardo were finished a little over an hour ago; a part of him is grateful it took him this long to corner him.

This got a raised brow. “You were checking on her for hours?”

He does not look him in the eye. “It’s not impossible.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“It wasn’t that late,” he argues.

“Donnie,” he presses, “you didn’t get home until five in the morning. Where were you?”

He feels his face heat up. “I said.”

Leo leans down to look his brother in the eye. “Final answer?”

He swallows a yawn. “Look, I know it was stupid—”

“I didn’t say it was stupid.”

“No,” he snips, mildly irritable from a lack of sleep. “You implied it.”

The doors to the dojo slide open, the disgruntled look on Raphael’s face all the evidence the other two need to know who won.

Mikey dives onto the couch, sprawling out next to his slightly older brother. “Did you ask yet?”

“I did.” He glances at the disgruntled boy. “Donnie was, apparently, at Y/N’s all night.”

The reaction is immediate.

“Details!” The small victor sits up, leaning forward on his knees in usual attentiveness. “Was she good?”

“What did you—shut up, Mikey.” Raph’s attention snaps back to his tallest brother. “What did you do to her? Did you—”

“Wait, hold on!” Donnie’s face feels uncomfortably hot. “N-Nothing happened!”

“Yeah, sure.” The second eldest rolls his eyes. “You think we fell off the truck yesterday? Who stays with a girl all night in her room without something happening? Nobody,” he cuts him off before he can defend himself.

The youngest’s voice rises over his brother’s before he can continue. “Dude, big picture!” He gestures to his brown-eyed brother. “He got with a girl first! He has valid info or whatever he says and stuff!”

“What are you two even talking about?” He wrings his hands. “Look, nothing happened!”

“Then what were you doing at her house,” Raphael eggs. “You weren’t just sitting there, right?”

“… no.”

“Then what were you doing there?”

He pauses, the two excitable boys waiting on bated breath. “She wanted me to spend the night,” he explains carefully, “because she was having bad nightmares and didn’t want to sleep alone.” He leans back, tossing his hands in the air. “That’s all.”

Silence falls.

“So,” clarifies Raphael, “you spent however many hours in her room, in her bed, and you didn’t make a move?”

“I—look!” The conversation is taking a shift for the worse. “I was trying to be nice! The last thing she needed was me doing whatever you’re insinuating!”

“He has a point,” Michelangelo nods knowingly. “Brownie points are key.”

“When did I say I was doing this for brownie points?”

“Look,” the eldest interjects. “Regardless of whether or not he was doing the ‘smart’ thing—” air quotes, “my bigger concern is that you didn’t bother calling to let us know where you were. You could’ve—Raph, do you have something to say?”

He rolls his eyes. “Are you really gonna act like you wouldn’t do the exact same thing if it were you?”

The leader pauses. “Would you like to take this somewhere more private?”

“Sure.” A venomous smile curls Raph’s lips. “Dojo?”

“Bring it.”

As the two leave, Donnie looks back over at Mikey. “Okay,” he sighs, “did I miss something?”

A shrug. “Man," he grins brazenly, "bold of you to assume I follow half of the things you guys say.”

He pulls his T-Phone from his utility belt. “Do you think I did the right thing? Honestly?”

Another shrug. “I dunno.” He looks over his older brother’s shoulder, reading the text on the screen curiously. “Can’t have gone too bad, though, if you two’ve been textin’ all day.

He pushes his head away with his free hand. “It hasn’t been all day,” he corrects. “She just filled me in on this week’s episode and we just kept talking after that.” He smiles faintly. “Although, she did check to see if I got home alright.”

“Hey, that’s totally progress!” He grins encouragingly. “I mean, the bed thing was bigger progress, but this is also progress.”

You push through the turnstile with a bit of difficulty, hopping on your good leg as you pull the walker over the divider using your free hand with an embarrassing clatter. “Sorry,” you wince, feeling your face heat up as you slide down the railing. “I’m still getting used to—”

“Holy—are you alright?” The distress is apparent in the youngest’s voice as he sees you for the first time in a month. “You look like you—”

“I’m aware,” you cut him off dryly, holding a paper bag as you stumble over to the couch. “Whatever you’re about to say, I’m aware.” You put it down in Donnie’s lap. “Here.”

He blinks, picking it up as you regain your bearings. “What is it?”

“Not poison or snakes. Open it.”

“Yo,” Mikey interrupts, pointing at your banged-up leg, “can I draw on your white thing?”

It takes you a second to figure out what he is referring to. “Oh, you mean—yeah.” You lean your head back against the back of the couch. “Just know that I’ll take white-out to anything that could get me kicked out of school.”

“Deal!” He runs off to your room as his brother pulls the bag open, pulling the pastry from its confinement.

“What is it,” he repeats, icing already on his fingers.

“Cupcake.”

He fingers the wrapper, his brick stare seeming almost to dissect it. “What is it for?”

“Besides being messy?” You smile gently as you watch him try to figure it out, feeling your heart swell. “It’s food.”

“How much of it is edible?”

“Everything except the paper bit.”

He peels the liner back. “And how do you eat it, exactly?”

You lean forward on your arms. “The goal is to eat the frosting and the cake part at the same time, so however you accomplish that.”

He smiles sheepishly, eyes softening as he looks back at you. “Is it possible to eat it without the frosting getting on your face?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

He tentatively holds eye contact with you as he takes a bite, unsurprisingly getting icing sticking to the space around his upper lip. You wait tentatively as he licks the excess off, blinking in delighted surprise. “What’s in this, exactly?”

You feel yourself beam at his tone. “It’s nothing too special,” you shrug nonchalantly, bubbling with excitement. “It’s a personal favorite; red velvet with cream cheese frosting.”

He takes another bite. “Do you have more? Follow-up question,” you note his speech quickening, “can you make more?”

“Totally,” you nod in agreement. “I wanted to make you something as thanks for—”

“Back!”

Donnie shoves the rest of it in his mouth as soon as you two hear him.

“Sorry for the wait; I couldn’t find my stuff.” He plops down with a cardboard box filled with various discarded art supplies. “I’d use spray paint, but he—” he nods to his brother, currently trying to choke the rest of the cupcake down—“said I’m not allowed because of fumes or somethin’, so.”

“Fair.” You allow him to drape your calf over his legs, digging into the cardboard box he was carrying and pulling out a pencil. “Got any plans?”

“You’ll see,” he grins, starting to sketch shapes out. 

The taller of the two wipes the excess frosting off his fingers. “Oh,” he snaps his fingers, “when you two are done with that, Y/N, I still gotta do that physical.”

“Physical?”

He clears his throat in preparation for a very redundant explanation. “A physical,” he explains calmly to his over-excited brother, “as in a physical examination, not whatever you’re thinking of.”

He blinks. “Like a doctor’s visit?”

“Donnie was asking about my recovery time,” you add helpfully. “Apparently, it’s weirdly long, but I don’t have any weird medical problems, so he wanted to see what the deal was.”

“That, and your comment about how ‘insanely high’ we jump, apparently.” 

“Do not air quote that!” You lean your head back to look at him, hair falling onto his lap. “Not when you guys put high jumping to shame.”

He adamantly avoids eye contact, face warming. “It’s not that high,” he mumbles. “Especially if we’re bringing a sport like high jumping into this.”

“I respectfully disagree.” You lay your head down properly, looking up at him from his thighs. “Considering your falling form, it is a miracle you still have working hips.”

“What’s wrong with my form?”

“It doesn’t include a parachute.”

“Okay,” Mikey interjects, “it may not last unless you cover it with something. Just, FYI.”

You lean your head up to look at him. “Noted,” you nod. “I’ll pick up varnish or something on my way home.”

He nods. “Oh,” he asks innocently, “mind turning over? I have to get the other side and I don’t want to hurt you.”

For some inexplicable reason, the boy you are currently laying on looks as though someone has put a gun to his head.

You do as asked with a bit of difficulty, bringing your knee closer to your chest as it is now closest to the back of the couch. “Like that?”

“Perfect. Thanks.”

You look up at Donnie. “Let me know if you need me to move,” you smile. “If your thighs go numb or anything.”

His voice is oddly tight. “You’re good.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “Sure? You sound very uncomfortable.”

“Never better.”

“He’s alright,” Mikey reassures you, shooting a thumbs up at his brother behind your back.

“...Alright.” Your eyes focus absentmindedly on what you thought was a couch cushion; upon further inspection, it appears to be a repurposed training mat. You bring the arm not currently pinned to your side under your head, humming an earworm softly.

The boy currently under you is silently panicking as your fingers squeeze gently around his knee, making a conscious effort to stare at the television and only at the television with his hands hovering awkwardly over you. Surprisingly enough, out of the corner of his eye, he does not catch his younger brother trying to stare at you weirdly, sincerely focused on drawing.

You feel him, eventually, resting his hands down, one resting in between your shoulder blades, the other in your hair, twisting a lock of it around his fingers gently. “Still alright,” you ask.

His voice is almost airy, now. “Mhm.”

‘This is nice.’ You trace little designs into the mat as your mind begins to wander, the boys starting to talk about something you struggle to pay attention to. This is not the closest you have been to him physically, but it is nice not to be crying this time around. "Domestic, almost, even if he doesn't think so.’

‘I should learn how to braid.’ Braiding is not something he has necessarily needed to know how to do in the past, but as he wraps the fibers around themselves, curious about the texture, he wishes that he knew; using your hair as a material of sorts would certainly be interesting, and he knows he has the dexterity for it. Admittedly, the conversation is less of a conversation and more of a speech on his brother’s part, but he tries to pay attention.

“So,” Mikey continues, digging into the box and pulling out a pencil sharpener, “he’s watching this guy all stealth-like, right? The guy’s out here, giving out his plans like they’re candy or whatever, and he’s just kinda recording it on one of those little tape recorders you used for that one thing a couple weeks ago-- you know the ones, and-- you don’t mind spoilers-- long story short, the guy gets caught, and when the crew got there, he was totally messed up.”

“Sounds like Batman,” you mumble sleepily-- ‘He really is warm.’

“Huh?”

“Your story.” You hoist yourself up, looking over your shoulder back at him. “Sounds like this Batman cartoon.”

“Batman?”

“Universe…” you stifle a yawn. “My universe has this thing called Batman, and there's a crossover thing in a different iteration of this universe. I guess you wouldn’t know about that, would you?” 

“Different iteration?” Donatello looks down at your head in his lap, desperately in need of a cold shower.

You feel Michelangelo bend your leg forward. You nod in confirmation, trying to will yourself awake. “Didn’t I… did I?” You lay your head back down properly. “You guys are, like… mega-famous down-- back-- there.”

“I’m not sure if you did.”

“Well,” you giggle sleepily, “you are.” You try to count on your fingers. “You’ve got the original comic, the old cartoon, the two-thousand three animated show, the CGI movie, this one, the two live-action movies, the twenty-eighteen animated one-- gorgeous animation by the by that I have to show you later, Mikey-- that crossover movie with Batman, the live-action show, the other, older live-action movie, the IDW comic series, that weird one with the hats-- there’s a ton.”

“Dude, that is sick !” The resident artist grins. “I bet they were awesome.” 

You consider telling him about the IDW comic. You quickly decide against it.

“How long have we-- as a property-- existed, exactly?”

“I dunno.” You shrug. “The first animated show was the eighties, I think.”

“...huh.” 

You notice him fiddling with your hair, finally. You don’t mind.

“It’s been too long.” 

You freeze, suddenly very awake and painfully aware of your current position. 

One of the few good things about having your own apartment: you seem to have forgotten the fear of being walked in on.

“Please, relax.” You hear his smile. It does not help matters. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

The other two, astonishingly, do not seem nearly as anxious as you are.

You look up at him from your spot on his son’s lap. “You look as healthy as ever.” ‘I miss my grandpa. Is Grandma okay?’ You were unable to find your relatives on your father’s side through social media-- they could be dead for all you know.

“No thanks to my diet,” he chuckles. Yoshi walks out of your field of view. “Don’t mind me; how long have they been in the dojo?”

“Half an hour?” You hear the jostling of the box and the snap of an uncapped pen. 

You hear him sigh. “Let’s just hope nobody’s died,” he mutters, walking into the dojo.

The three of you strain your ears to-- unsuccessfully-- hear what is going on. The door snaps open as the two brothers leave together in heated silence. 

Mikey shakes what you can now identify as a paint pen. “Who won?”

“Nobody.” Leo’s voice, snippy. “Is she out?”

“She is not.” You turn your arm awkwardly to wave back at him. 

“Then,” he shrugs, “nice to see you.”

“Likewise.”

“So,” Raph interjects, apparently very interested in the current situation, “can someone please explain what, exactly, is going on here?” 

“I’m painting her white thing.”

“Of course. Donnie?”

The mortification would be apparent if you were looking at him.

“Nothin? Okay then.” You shut your eyes as he sits down on the other side of you. “You look terrible. Nice scar.”

“I am too close to very  sensitive areas for you to give me a hard time, Raphael,” you warn.

“Whatever.”

“I’m heading out.” Leo nonchalantly bounds the steps, hopping over a divider.

“Tell her I say hi,” you call back. “Remember, consent is key, yellow roses lead to friendzoning, and to always  use a condom.”

“... No comment.” He runs off.

“I have so many questions.”

“Ask me later.”

It takes him about twenty more minutes to finish covering the entirety of your cast in brightly colored characters and objects; if you have to describe it, you will say that the style is contemporary pop illustration with composition reminiscent of the renaissance period if the single art class you have taken is serving you right. 

“This,” you smile, a little misty-eyed for some reason, “is absolutely gorgeous. Thanks, Mikey.”

He beams. “You’re totally welcome! If you ever get more white things, I’ll draw on those too, if you want.”

“Dude, for sure.” You nod in agreement, looking back at Donnie. “Isn’t it cool?”

Donatello has been quietly jabbed at for the past twenty minutes and is mostly desensitized to the quality of his brother’s art; frankly, it is not his area, and he cannot judge it one way or the other. Despite this, he gives his brother a thumbs up. “Very.” 

“Don’t stroke his ego so much,” teases their older brother. “Donnie’ll get jealous.”

“Hate to steal her from you all,” he interrupts, “but I still have a physical to do, so if you would be so kind as to shut up, that would be great.”

‘Green with envy. Is that racist? No clue. Pretty colors.’ Donnie is talking to you. “Huh?”

“I asked if you were still on board.”

You nod. “Mind grabbing my walker?”

He shoots his snickering brother a glare. “Want me to just carry you to the lab?”

Panic. Immediate panic. “You sure you can carry me?”

He shrugs, smiling. “It’s only a few feet. Besides,” he points out, “aren’t you the one always going on about how strong we are by normal standards?”

You do not have a rational way to explain why the idea of being off of solid ground, held up by someone who can potentially drop you, is distressing. You also do not want to insult him in any shape, way, or form. “Promise you won’t drop me?” Your stomach turns.

“Swear it.”

“Can I paint your walker while you guys are doing that?”

“Of all the things you could've chosen--”

“Lay off.” He offers his arms. “You can trust me, I promise.”

You pause. The statement is entirely true, but your gut is screaming at you not to do that. The same gut told you that slamming your body into the person driving the car you were tied up in was a good idea. 

You latch your arms around his neck, burying your eyes in the crook of his neck as to not see when and in what direction he is moving you. “Please,” you mumble, trying not to blatantly beg, “do not drop me.”

He does not exactly understand why you are clinging to him so tightly, but he is hardly one to complain. He slides an arm under your knees, picking you up.

Raphael is heckling you. You are more concerned with your body inaccurately telling you that you are going to die from this. Tears prick your eyes as you try to breathe.

He looks down at you, mind wandering as he walks away from his brothers. You look so sweet to him, shaking like a leaf in his arms. Cute. He had thought the same thing when you had started clinging to him during that movie forever ago, when you held his hand last night and pulled him back onto the bed with you. You are not normally openly vulnerable and, although he is hardly one to talk about vulnerability, it is always a sight to behold. 

“Please don’t drop me.” He is not exactly sure if you are aware of your own, almost silent begging as you repeat the phrase over and over. ‘You trust me.’ His heart melts.

It takes no time to get you to his lab. He sets you down on a chair, but you do not seem to understand that as you still cling tightly to his neck.

He chuckles nervously. “I need my body to perform the physical, Y/N.”

You were not aware he had put you down. Your eyes snap open as you let your shaking, iron grip relax. “Sorry,” you mumble, face going a gorgeous shade of pink. 

“No prob.” ‘Prob?’ His face changes color to match yours. 

“So.” He claps his hands together just a bit too hard, slamming the door closed when he hears his brothers’ snickering. “Let’s get started.”

--

You sit on your couch, applying another coat of varnish to your cast as you listen to a cooking show because something something exposure therapy. Also, listening to people scream at one another about food textures is soothing.

Your results were not surprising to you; by the standards of humans in this universe, you are a walking talking coma patient. It was a bit funny, watching him freak out about a blood pressure that you knew-- through the help of google-- was completely normal. You are fine for the most part, if he was using the tools given correctly, and so, you are currently preoccupied with making sure the gorgeous painting on your fiberglass prison is going to stay gorgeous. The only thing he had insisted on, really, was that you not cook, after seeing your crudely applied bandages on your fingers.

You lean back into an actual couch, pulling out your phone and scrolling through pictures of gloves again. You are determined to find a good pair; the deep scars on your hands are not fading any time soon.

You can hear the window slide open. “If you’re planning on killing me--” you stop when you look up to see the look on Donnie’s face. “Something up?”

He says absolutely nothing, leaning his staff against the wall, closing the window in a daze and he stands next to the sofa. “Are you busy?”

“No.”

“Good.” His eyes glance at the space next to you. “Can I stay here for a bit?”

“As long as you like.”

He lays his head on your lap as he sits down, staring blankly at the television screen. He immediately understands why you like this-- your thighs are incredibly soft.

You immediately understand why he was awkward. You have no idea where to put your hands, but you eventually settle on his head as you turn the volume down. “What’s up?”

He takes a deep breath, licking his teeth as he sighs. “I,” he explains, “just realized what my reality is right now and I-- okay, I know this sounds stupid--”

“Not at all.”

“It does,” he insists. “I know it sounds stupid because I realized it did when I was working it out, but I just-- hear me out, okay?” His voice oozes exhaustion. 

“I’m hearing you.” You listen to him, laying your phone face down on the coffee table. “Hit me.”

He takes another breath. “I just fought a giant… thing.” He rolls over, looking up at you. “Mikey called it Jacob or something, and it was about twenty feet tall and it looked like something out of a monster movie and it destroyed us in a fight.” You hear his voice rising, and you just nod along, letting him talk. “It wiped the floor with us. And the only reason it existed was that Leo, apparently, got a girlfriend named Karai-- you know her?”

“Hot alt chick with the wicked eyeshadow and eyeliner that could kill?” You nod. “Yeah, I’m familiar.”

“Her-- wait, should I…?” He trails off, shakes his head. “Another time.” He covers the side of his face with his hand, gesturing animatedly with his other. “Anyways, apparently he met this girl because she wanted to do a heist with him-- this girl, working for the Foot, of all people-- sixteen or whatever-- she goes and just touches a button to mix the DNAs of all the creatures an alien race could find on Earth, and then bails.” He realizes he is shouting, lowers his voice. “The alien creatures, in case you forgot, that look like brains and waddle around on tentacles which, by the way, makes no evolutionary sense whatsoever, decided to create a button that mixes the entirety of their samples of DNA together in a smorgasbord of wrong, okay?”

“Uhuh.” You nod along. You know what he means, even if the word he used was technically not correct.

“This thing,” he continues, officially ranting, “destroyed a building! It set the whole thing on fire, which was probably only Kraang, but also maybe had normal people in it, which is concerning.” He rubs his eyes aggressively. “So, to recap, an alienish creature named Jason or whatever got created by Leo’s crush and destroyed a building and that was just what happened today!” He raises his hands in the air, almost accidentally hitting you in the face. “I didn’t bat an eye at this!”

“Man, I feel you.” 

“And I understand,” he continues, “the irony of telling you this, considering I am a giant, talking turtle created by the very same mutagen that created Justin or whatever its stupid name was, was taught ninjutsu by my ninja master father who is also a rat, and that you have already previously died--”

“All very bizarre things,” you agree.

“-- but this is just…” he sighs. “My life is getting so… weird? It was already weird, I know, but more so than I thought it reasonably should be.”

You wipe a bit of oil you notice on his cheek off with your thumb. “This world is a weird one,” you admit.

His voice is lower now as he follows your hand with his eyes. “I…” He takes breath. “I just wish we were more normal, you know? That our lives were more normal, that our existences made more sense, you know?”

You cup his face in your hand gently, remembering how your mother used to do the same for you. “I do.”

You feel him leaning into your touch. “I wish,” he mumbles, almost to himself, “that I was a normal, human teenager who went to school and didn’t know how to use a bo staff and had three, normal brothers who could try to get girlfriends without worrying about whether or not they wanted to kill them.”

You sigh, running your thumbs along the edge of his eye socket, feeling the soft skin shift under you. “You’re very well adjusted for a teenager trained in the art of assassination,” you joke softly.

He chuckles dryly, closing his eyes. “My mother is an empty canister in a locked cabinet in the kitchen.” He exhales slowly. “My stepmom was murdered by a man now actively trying to murder me and my entire family because of a decades long feud. Well adjusted is probably the highest compliment you could give me.”

“I’ve given you higher.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.” You glance up at the television screen, then back at him. “You’re holding up better than I am, and you’ve been fearing for your life since you were real little.”

“Apples and oranges.” He rests his hand on yours. 

“Look,” you shrug, “the way I see it, life is a series of events that all string together to the present.”

“Butterfly effect.” 

“Exactly.” You smile down at him. “And if things didn’t happen exactly as they did, we never would’ve met, the world would be totally screwed, and we would be missing out on one of the greatest minds on the planet.”

He looks to see if you are being serious. 

You are.

“You also wouldn’t have a broken leg and messed up hands,” he points out ruefully.

“Meeting you was worth it.”

He reaches up, running his fingers along the scar on your face. “I disagree.”

“It’s my body, and my physical detriment. It doesn’t matter if you’re stupid enough to think it wasn’t worth it.”

You feel his body relax

You two shut up for a bit, watching the show absentmindedly.

After a while, he pipes up. “It’s alright if you say no,” he starts tentatively, “but is it alright if I stay here again tonight?”

“Will your brothers mind?”

“They don’t care so long as I’m home before sunrise,” he shrugs. “I just like it here. Smells better.”

You smile brightly. “Sure,” you agree easily. “I sleep better with you here, anyways; I don’t worry about people sneaking in through the window.” You check the varnish. “I just have to wait for this to dry the rest of the way, first. You’re free to go to bed without me, though.” 

In all honesty, you’re just happy not to be alone.

He nods, standing up and drawing the curtains. He sits down on the bed, untying the mask behind his head. ‘I could get used to this.’ He smiles slightly, slipping a hand into his utility belt and texting his brothers where he was to avoid his brother’s scolding in the morning. He slips that off too, dropping both onto the side of the bed and starting on the wraps on his feet and hands; he had learned his lesson when he had gotten up morning before, having gotten a few hours sleep at home, to large, noticeable indentations in his flesh where the foreign objects had been. 

You glance over. “Do those go in the wash?”

He looks back. “Not usually, no.”

“Do you want me to wash them?”

‘You are too considerate.’ He shakes his head. “It’s alright.” 

You shrug, putting your hands up. “Suit yourself.” You cross your hands across your stomach, staring absentmindedly back at the screen. “You can use the shower in the morning, but please do not use all of the hot water. Fridge is open if you need breakfast.”

“Nah,” he sighs, slipping the clothes into his utility belt. “I’ll eat at home.”

You nod in acknowledgement. 

It occurs to him as he sets his knee and elbow pads with the rest of his things that, technically, he is stripping in front of you, and you are not batting an eye. As soon as that clocks, it also dawns on him that you are showing the most skin he has ever seen-- an A-shirt and gym shorts-- which had not even registered until he was laying in your bed. You are relaxed and in your warm apartment, watching a television program with him in your bed. You are awake and absolutely gorgeous and you feel safer with him of all people.

His heart swells as he slides under the blankets, the sound of the television white noise at this point.

You glance back at him, the phrase “Snug as a bug in a rug," coming to mind as you look over at him, struggling to keep his eyes open. “You gonna fall asleep?”

His face warms. He nods. "It's been a really long day," he admits. 

“Then goodnight,” you smile. “Sweet dreams.”

He smiles sleepily. “Goodnight, Y/N,” he shuts his eyes.

You swallow.

You forgot how much you missed this.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

He finally speaks. “This isn’t going to work if you keep moving around.”

You dig your nails into your palms as he pulls another shard from your back. “I know. Still hurts.”

A pause. “I could ask Master Splinter to let you have some alcohol to numb it if you want.” His voice throughout the whole process has been incredibly soft, from since you woke up in his room until now. “The skin disinfectant is going to sting more than this.”

“I’ll drink myself to death,” you promise, half-joking in an attempt to lighten the suffocating mood. “Seeing how the past couple months have gone, I should probably just get used to pain, right?”

He pulls another piece of blood-soaked glass from your skin, placing it into a can at his side with a clink. “I really hope that doesn’t happen.” You feel him pull another portion of the skin on your back taught. “The pain thing, I mean. Not to say that I want you to drink yourself to death—”

“I get what you mean.” You try to keep an eye on him without moving your neck, not wanting to get blood on his sheets. “I’m the same way about the murdering thing.”

Silence, again.

“How’s the cockroach thing going?”

“It’s going.” He is quick if nothing else; he is already three-quarters of the way done, now at your waist. “It seemed to be working alright this morning, so it should work tonight if I’m lucky.”

You smile gently. “That’s good, then. You’re due for some good luck.”

“Of the two of us?” He leans to the side from his seat on his chair, studying your face. “I think you need it more than I do.”

You laugh. “Most teenagers boys don’t have half-naked girls on their beds because of medical reasons,” you argue. “I’d say you dealing with me is worthy of some good mojo.”

“The portal wouldn’t have been destroyed if not for you.” He leans back, pulling a particularly large piece out of your hip. “We wouldn’t even know what their ultimate plan was, what to look out for, what to expect.” He bends down, and you hear the gurgling of a liquid being poured out. “Besides,” he reasons, “it was as much my fault as yours for not thinking of the glass walls. It’s the least I could do.”

You bite down on your tongue as he starts wiping the blood off. “Shit,” you hiss, “that stings.”

A hint of excitement laces his tone. “Wanna know why?”

Your jaw relaxes as the pain subsides. “Sure,” you chuckle, strained. “Why does it hurt?”

“Well,” he starts, “this antiseptic, like most antiseptics, is comprised mainly of two compounds: ethanol, or just normal grain alcohol, and hydrogen peroxide.” He sounds like a passionate schoolteacher when he goes off about anything science-related. It is absolutely enrapturing, listening to someone so in love with their craft. “Now, ethanol activates vanilloid receptor-one, which is also activated by capsaicin, which is what makes food spicy. But the funny thing about that,” he continued, “is that, usually, the receptor is only activated by really high temperatures—the receptor is what lets you register hot things as hot.”

“I thought you said you didn’t know about medical stuff.” You wince again as he continues to clean your wounds.

“Oh, I’m just not good at applied medicine,” he chuckles nervously. “None of the serious stuff, I mean; I’d never be able to perform a proper surgery or prescribe medications without a ridiculous amount of research, but I know how to set bones and how certain chemicals react to certain receptors.”

“So, you know how it works but not how to fix it?”

“I guess so, yeah.” You hear the chair move as he gets to his feet. “I started looking into it the first night you came here, actually, since I never looked into how burns worked until…” he trails off, clears his throat. “Anyway,” he tries again, “ethanol lowers the temperature threshold to body temperature, making the cut burn. It’s also why it’s painful to drink things with a high alcohol content: your receptors register it as if you’re actually being burned.” He pushes your hair off your neck carefully. “Hydrogen peroxide acts similarly, only it activates a different receptor, known as transient receptor potential ankyrin one, and while not as much as known about it, it’s theorized that it acts similarly, resulting in you feeling pain.” Your fingernails dig into your palms again as you suck in air at the burning sensation on your neck. “But it’s important to note that antiseptics are different than disinfectants. Disinfectants are for non-organic surfaces because they contain higher concentrations of biocides than antiseptics.”

You exhale as the pain subsides. “Have you used antiseptics before now?”

“Of course.” You feel him start to place things—they feel like pads—on your back. “But I made sure to account for the differences in skin types, so unless I made a big mistake at some point, the odds of you getting chemical burns is close to zero.”

“Your confidence is very reassuring,” you grin. “By any chance, do you plan on reimbursing the cost of cutting my shirt up?”

“Nah,” he shrugs. “Was planning on having you walk out of here in the middle of fall in NYC without a shirt to make double sure you get hypothermia. As you said, we have to add to your list of injuries.”

“Of course,” you “nod’ knowingly, cracking yourself up. “No pain, no game.”

“Glad to be on the same page.” He sighs. “Honestly, I don’t have a ton of fabric to fix your shirt or jacket, so unless you have some on hand—”

Your response is immediate. “You take my shirt and fix it,” you interrupt. “If one of them is going, it sure as hell ain’t gonna be that fucking jacket.”

He blinks. Your words register after a second.

“I do not mean it in—I mean—” you immediately backpedal. “I’m not—you get what I mean, right?”

“Y-yeah. Yeah, I know what you—yeah.” He is doing absolutely nothing to help the embarrassment. “I got it; i-in hindsight, I probably should have tried taking the jacket off, but I was worried I’d cut your skin up more.”

You press your face into the mattress as you feel what you assume is tape being laid along your sides. “I appreciate it.” A pause. “I don’t actually remember what happened after the main explosion happened. What…”

No response. You feel his knee sink to the bed as he reaches over, applying the adhesive on the other side of your skin quietly.

“I don’t wanna know?”

“Probably not.” His hand presses the creases flat into the curve of your back, sighing again.

You smile nervously. “I made a fool of myself, then?”

“… I wouldn’t say that.” He applied another pad to your neck. “Just—for glass rain, you were pretty calm, I’d say.”

“For glass rain,” you highlight. “Seeing as I don’t remember it, I can’t imagine it was good.”

He removes his hands. “I honestly don’t know why what happened happened,” he admits. “Just know that the guys are probably not going to give you a hard time for it.”

“Probably?” You finally turn your head to look at him.

He shrugs, gently turning your head back. “Mikey, sadly, seems to get it more than we do, so that’s two.”

You lick your lips absentmindedly. “Hey,” you shrug, “I’ll take fifty percent.”

You feel a heavy blanket drape over your back. “I still have to get the glass out of your hair, and I don’t have anything else for you to wear, so this’ll have to do. I won’t look while you adjust it.”

Your eyes strain to check. Sure enough, you watch him turn around and face the opposing wall.

You sit up, pulling the blanket around yourself to save your modesty. “You’re good. Need me to turn around?”

“Uh, yeah.”

You lift yourself, careful of your leg as you reposition yourself to have your back to him. “Thanks for this, if I haven’t said it already.”

“It’s no problem.” Fingers part your hair, tweezers now attached to your scalp. “You should see the stupid injuries I’ve had to help my brothers with.”

“I bet,” you feel yourself grinning. “I’m surprised you guys haven’t torn each other to shreds yet.”

“There have been close calls.” You hear the clinking of the can again. “Especially after getting our hands on weapons when we did. You would not believe the number of concussions we had.”

You put your hands up for dramatic effect. “Madness.”

“You laugh,” he laughs, “but figuring out our anatomy to any degree of accuracy was hard enough. I’m convinced Mikey messed Raph up with his nunchaku when we were ten.”

You let him move your head. “This I gotta hear.”

“Oh, it isn’t a really interesting story,” Donnie clarifies. “He just accidentally hit Raph in the head too hard during training and almost caved in his skull.”

You try not to laugh. “What counts as an interesting story, then?”

“Well,” he contemplates, “there was that time with the oven.”

You turn to look at him the best you can with the limited movement he allowed. “The time with the oven?”

“Wax paper catches fire if you put it in the oven.”

You nod, turning back. “Was it you or Mikey?”

“A bit of both.” Clink. Clink. “I thought wax paper implied paper made of some sort of wax, and Mikey was trying to make decorative candles. The theory,” he continues, clearly trying to make himself not sound stupid, “was that putting it in the oven would get more consistent heat throughout the wax.”

You try to hide your amusement for his sake. “I take it that didn’t pan out.”

“It did not.” He chuckled dryly, combing his fingers through your hair to feel for glass. “Splinter was so mad, I thought we wouldn’t see tomorrow.”

Your fingers clench as his hand catches. “Not so harsh,” you breathe in pain. “You’re gonna rip my hair out.”

“Oh, sorry.” He removed his hand. “I forgot it was—that’s stupid,” he edits. “I’m not used to dealing with hair is what I meant.”

“It’s alright,” you reassure him quickly. “Just try not to tug so hard.”

“I don’t think there’s any glass left anyways, so.” You hear the chair wheel away from the bed. “That probably won’t be a problem.”

You turn around properly, adjusting the blanket over your torso. “Thank you for all your help.”

His eyes flicker downward for a second before staring directly and deliberately at your face. “You’re welcome,” he nods, not moving his eyes. “You were incredibly easy to work with.”

“You made quick work of it.” Your legs cross over another, your worn sneaker matching the color of the concrete floor. “And don’t worry about my shirt; I have to go shopping, anyways.”

He blinks. “Why?”

“Well,” you reason, “My clothes are already kinda worn, and I’ve been meaning to buy leather gloves for a while, so it would give me an excuse to go look for a good pair.”

“Leather gloves?”

You nod. “I was hashing it out with Casey, and he agreed they would look badass and cover up my hand scars.”

“You know,” he suggests, poorly feigning nonchalance, “I could make you some.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I have the know-how, and I’m pretty good with that sort of thing.”

You shake your head immediately, face heating up. “After everything you’ve done for me, I can’t let you do that.”

“Sure you can.” You can practically see the gears turning as he verbally plans it out. “I’d need measurements, of course, and finding good quality leather might be a challenge, but it would allow a lot of stylistic freedom. If you gave me a sketch of what you and Mikey worked out a sketch—”

“Dude, no.” You feel like such a girl, getting flustered over something like this. “Never mind how much unnecessary work that would take—”

“It would take me an afternoon, tops.”

“—it would be way too much trouble to find all the right materials and everything!” You shake your head more vigorously. “You have enough on your plate already.”

He pauses. “What if I could give it a practical use? Like, for self-defense or something. Would you let me then?”

You blink. “Self-defense?”

“Yeah.” You feel as though you are missing something when he hurries to clarify, “You had a knife next to you when I came to pick you up. Having something more user-friendly might—not that you can’t use a knife, but you don’t have a ton of experience with them, especially using a kitchen knife against the Foot and you get what I’m saying, right?”

You hesitate, trying to understand what he said before nodding. “I guess that makes sense,” you concede. “It would be shitty to go out like a bitch after convincing myself I deserve to live so many times. That would be kinda inconvenient.”

Despite the fact he looks like you just put a knife to your throat, he nods. “Yeah,” he confirms tentatively. “Inconvenient.”

You shift the blanket under your arms, folding it so that it would stay at your chest. “Alright,” you sigh, “You convinced me. But!” You aim to accentuate this caveat, “But, not my design. If you’re going to go through all the trouble, you design it to how you think they would look cool, so you feel good about what you’re making.”

“You trust me to not make you look bad?”

“Totally.” You smile. “Looking at the Shellraiser makes me want to vomit, but it’s not from lack of style.”

He blinks. “What?”

“Exactly what I said,” you commit.

Your statement makes him take pause, but, eventually, he seems to get what you mean. “Then… thanks,” he nods. “I should probably fix your jacket first, though. Unless you want to walk around New York in the middle of the night in a blanket.”

“I’d rather not,” you admit. “I feel like that would not be my greatest move.”

He gets up. “Are you alright to be left alone? It’s alright if you aren’t,” he clarifies, “but I’d have to shift the timetable a bit if that’s the case.”

You blink, confused. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“No reason.” He is lying, you are sure. “Just wanted to check before I told the guys I was good to go.”

Something about that statement seems strange to you. “Wait,” you clarify, “why would you go on another mission tonight?”

He averts eye contact.

You lean forward. “How long have I been weird?”

“Not too long, I don’t think. You were out when I got there.”

You reach over, forcing him to look at you head-on. “Are you lying to me?”

He does not answer.

“Has more than a day passed?”

He shakes his head. “It’s only about seven.”

You let go, resting your face in your hands. “so, I’ve been out for, what, sixteen hours?”

“Kinda.” He fiddles with his hands nervously. “A little less, I think.”

“And how long have I been out of it?”

He takes a moment. “You were crying a lot when you woke up,” he concedes. “At about two in the afternoon. I think you cried yourself out, because when I came to check on you—I thought maybe water would help— you were out.”

“Wonderful.” You look up at him. “And was it loud?”

“Not really.” He looks as though he was being interrogated. “I wouldn’t have come, but I left something in here that I needed.” His voice is back to being soft and calm. “You were mumbling about your hands a lot. I actually tied you up,” he chuckles nervously, “because you were moving around so much and getting the shards farther into your back.”

You sigh, something in your stomach sinking. “Probably not a terrible move. Then what?”

“When you started getting normal again,” he continues, “I untied you and got you to stop moving when I started taking the glass out, and I’m guessing you remember the rest.”

You do not say anything.

He stares intently at a corner. “I know this might come off as rude,” he starts carefully, “and I don’t mean to be rude…”

“Spit it out,” you gesture. “Let’s just… what’s up?”

“I honestly do not know enough about this sort of thing to help you.” He looks back at you. “I wish I did, really, but I don’t. I don’t know how you’re wired, mentally, and it’s really not an area I can help you with.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“But I do know,” he continues, “it has to be hard, trying to find help, given the circumstances, especially after everything that’s happened.”

“Please,” you almost beg, “just get to the point.”

“I think it would be a good idea to start spending more time with Master Splinter.” He looks down at his hands. “I think, given that he knows more about this sort of thing than I do, it would be good for you.”

“So, you’re prescribing therapy?”

“I’m not saying you’re crazy—”

“That’s not what I asked.”

The silence is choking you.

“I don’t know if you have a disorder,” he sighs. “Again, not my area of expertise.” He tries to phrase what he means right, and the next few sentences come out slow and deliberate. “All I know is that the people you’ve known your whole life aren’t around anymore, and you’re having really bad nightmares, and that you freeze up when you get really scared. I don’t want you to suffer on our account.”

You stare down at your feet.

“If not because you’re worried about it,” he tries at a different angle, “would you do it as payment for the gloves? That way, it’s not a handout.”

You smile at that. “Hand out.”

It takes a second. “Pun not intended,” he sighs. “I kinda wish it was, now.”

You look up. “I’ll talk to him while you guys are gone on your mission tonight.”

“Thank you,” he breathes. “I appreciate it, really.”

You smile properly. “Hey,” you say, adjusting the blanket. “You take glass shards out of my back and I scratch yours, or something like that.”

He chuckles. “I should probably go let the guys know,” he gets to his feet. “If you want,” he offers, “you can come with.”

“I’ll take a raincheck.” You get up after him, vision blacking out for a moment as you grab the wall for support. “But I can help you grab all your stuff to move out, if you need.”

His eyes go wide. “You don’t have clothes,” he reminds you.

You almost roll your eyes at this particular concern. “Covers more than a bathing suit,” you reason. “I’ll be careful about making sure it doesn’t slip, I promise.”

“But what if it does?”

“Then they should take a picture of the only pair of tits they’ll ever see in person.” You start to hobble towards the door. “I’ve dealt with worse wardrobe malfunctions. I’ll be fine, really.”

“Your flippancy is incredibly concerning.”

You try not to laugh. You look back at him, grin. “Concerning? Me?” You bring a hand to your chest. “I’m offended, sir. Besides,” You giggle, “I need to have a chat with your brothers if that episode is today.”

--

The look on his face immediately validates your decision. “Could you run that by me again?”

You wrap an arm around his shoulders, hand traveling across the open air as if to reveal your statement. “Cockroach. Terminator.”

“Okay, I’m going to need you to give me more explanation again.”

A sharp grin spreads across your features. “Imagine this,” you explain smoothly. “A giant cockroach—“

“Hate it.”

“— that is also a cyborg—“

“Hating it more.”

“— complete with near invincibility—“

“Sounds like my worst nightmare.”

“— with saws.”

“And it is.” Raphael removes your arm from his shoulders. “I’m sold. No more of that.”

“So,” you confirm, leaning back against the wall, “what is everyone not going to do?”

“I dunno,” Mikey admits easily. “I was too busy watching the horror settle on my brother’s face.”

“I’m not horrified—” he protests. 

“You are.”

“Am not!”

“Am too!”

“As a neutral bystander,” Leo pipes up, trying not to openly laugh, “yes, you are.”

You keep your eyes focused on Raphael and not the car. “Look,” you cut in, “are you gonna let him do his job or nah?”

“I’m not promi—“

“The hell you ain’t” He shot a furious look at his younger brother. “You best not breathe on Donnie before the roach is back in the car and as far away from that fuckin’ ooze as possible!”

“Reassuring,” you nod. “Good.”

“If you’re so worried about Donnie messing up,” Leo suggests, “why don’t you use the remote control? You’ve watched him work with it before, right?”

You scoff. “I’d rather chop off my hands with a dull knife than get in the death mobile.”

The other two brothers antagonize each other. “It’s not that bad.”

“Isn’t it, though?” You cross your arms, a sick feeling sinking into your stomach at the thought. “Never mind the fact the lead engineer is a teenage boy, or that it’s made of the finest trash, but it’s also a moving, mechanical vehicle driven by another— and I mean this with the utmost respect— rowdy hormonal teenager.”

“Hey,” he protests, “that’s not true.”

“Karai.”

His face heats up. “It was a mistake that I’ve already owned up to.”

You put your hands up. “Look, man,” you clarify, smiling as the crisis is thoroughly averted, “I don’t blame you. Karai isn’t exactly a dime a dozen, and we can all agree she is an extremely formidable fighter who can thoroughly kick your ass.”

Donnie is getting a run for his money with this blush. “What does— she cannot,” he stammers, “and even if she could—“

“Oh, do not even,” you tease. “We all know that her being a formidable opponent who knows every weapon in her arsenal like the back of her hand and uses them well has something to do with why you like her so much. Raph’s the same way.”

Speak of the devil. “What’d you say?”

“You have a thing for strong women who can probably kick your ass.”

He seems to consider this for a minute. “I’ll get back to you on that.”

“Cool. Anyways.” You turn your attention back to Leo. “The point is, as someone who is also into people who can kick my ass— literally or academically— I get the appeal. Also,” you add, grinning like a moron, “her eyeliner game is on point, which doesn’t hurt.”

He blinks. “Do you like Karai?”

“Absolutely. One hundred and ten percent.” You shrug. “She’s badass.”

“More so than Donnie?”

“Are you guys ever going to get in  or are you guys just going to stand out there all night?” Donnie pokes his head out of the vehicle. “We’re losing darkness.”

'Saved by the bell.' “Point is,” you say quickly, “I don’t want in that thing. Couldn’t pay me.”

“Leo! Hurry up!”

“Comin’!” He climbs into the Shellraiser, wheels spinning as the team drove off and out of the lair.

You close your eyes.

You do not want to go to Hamato Yoshi for therapy. You will bet money it does not go well.

‘You promised, though. Might as well have, anyways. Did you promise?’

Your morals and ideologies completely clash.

‘Ninjas aren’t all rendered insane. They have to be doing something right, in theory.’

You use the wall for support, already knowing the walk home is going to suck as you limp towards the dojo. 

Chapter Text

“I trust you won’t be creepy.”

“I’m thankful.” Yoshi runs his thumb along the rim of his cup slowly. “You have little faith in me, as I understand it.”

You try not to be disrespectful. “Well, things in your life could’ve gone better, right?”

He seems to consider this for a moment. “I suppose so.” He takes a slow drink. “Mistakes from my youth have led to many hardships. Still, though the road has been a long and strenuous one, I would not want to change my past.”

Your untouched drink is cradled in your hands. “You don’t regret anything?”

“It is a foolish and maddening thing, longing for a life unobtainable to you.” He closes his eyes, your own scanning the walls for the photograph you know is in some nook or cranny. “Besides, if things hadn’t happened the way they did, I wouldn’t have my sons.”

You can understand, intellectually, he does not mean to be—and likely is not— as arrogant as you perceive him. Still, something about the way he sits, the way he speaks, even how he looks at you now makes you feel painfully inferior, as if you reacting the way you are makes you somehow beneath him in more than a literal sense.

You decide against arguing the point, eyes flickering from the shrine back to the man in front of you. “I guess that’s true.” You know you are not going to drink any of what he has offered until you have to. “And you’ve always thought like that?”

He nods. “It was what I was taught.”

Nodding, you look back down at your cup, a deafening stillness settling between you two. ‘He convinces me to come here,’ you grumble silently, ‘and all I get for it is a lecture and an awkward silence.’ You look back up at him, setting the clay vessel on the ground and pulling your knees to your chest. ‘I could be doing something else, like fixing my shirt or something.’

“Speaking of them,” he continues, “Donatello tells me you have been experiencing night terrors.”

‘Snitch. Did he tell me he told him?’ “You don’t?”

His eyebrows rise. “Sorry?”

“We have the same trauma,” you explain simply. “Both our families died in fires we caused. Think that counts.”

He does not even flinch. “I’ve never thought of it that way.” He smiles softly. You want to punch him in the face. “I suppose so, yes.”

“You seem pretty calm about it.”

He chuckles at your expression. “I’ve had fifteen years to come to terms with my loss,” he takes another drink. “And,” he jokes, “I was often simply too exhausted to have nightmares back when the wound was fresh; caring for four young boys is tiring, you understand.”

“Right.” You crisscross your legs in front of you. “Yeah, the makes sense.”

“Having said that,” he continues, voice lowering, “I can’t imagine going through what I did at your age.” He sighs. “If something like that happened to one of my boys at this age, I can’t honestly say how they would cope.”

‘Poorly. I’d guess they’d cope poorly.’

“I understand that you and I have differences in ideals and morals.”

“You could say that.” Your mouth stretches into a wry smile. “I honestly only started hangin’ with and helpin’ y’all as a way to make up for my manslaughter. With this exception, I live by the adage, ‘Not my circus, not my monkeys.’”

“As I said,” he covers his mouth to hide his amusement, “we differ in that respect. I take it that’s why, when Donatello explained the situation—” you break eye contact—“he was unable to explain in any sort of detail what they were about.”

“Not his circus not his monkeys. ‘Sides,” you shrug, “he was already being really caring and understanding, and I was already sobbing my eyes out, which I’m sure he already told you, so.”

You stare down at your tea. “Are you going to elaborate?”

“Not if I don’t have to, no.” Your face heats up.

“Do you want my help?”

‘I hate this,’ you squirm. “Honestly, I wouldn’t be here if Donnie hadn’t asked me to.”

“For someone who believes in leaving people to their own devices,” he notes, “you seem to value the requests of my son a great deal.”

Your knees are back up to your chest. “He’s important to me. He’s been there for me. It’s the least I can do.”

He takes a beat to gather his thoughts. You brace yourself for a lecture.

“You care for him, then.”

You nod once, treading carefully.

“Romantically?”

You still do not look at him directly, staring instead at the gorgeous screen door. “I dunno.” Your fingernails scratch at the surface. “I’m not exactly in my right mind, you understand.”

“I can’t say I do.” A pause as he takes another drink. “Then again, I’ve only felt for one woman all my life.”

“Look at that,” you try to joke. “Another difference between us.”

“Do you mind letting me in, then?”

“A little,” you admit, “but I will since there isn’t really a point to being here if I don’t.”

“That’s the spirit.” You can hear his smile.

You set the cup down again, glancing up at him before fiddling with the laces on your shoe. “People under stress and without anywhere else to turn tend to latch onto the first people they relate to,” you explain, practicing your knot tying with fumbling fingers; there is no harm in practicing your dexterity. “He was the first guy I met after I died, got kidnapped, and almost got killed by a giant vine creature. I like him,” you clarify quickly, “I really do, but it’s hardly fair to pursue that sort of relationship, especially considering everything going on with the Kraang and Shredder.” Your eyes go out of focus. “We get along great,” you mumble. “He’s sweet, kind, generous, and empathetic. He deserves to make sense of his feeling properly without me muddying things up with my possibly trauma-induced attachment.”

“So,” he clarifies, “it is not that you aren’t in love with him, but, instead, you’re worried for his sake?”

Your face goes scarlet as you choke on your saliva. “T-that’s a bit—uh— extreme , isn’t it?” You rub the back of your burning neck. “I’m not even sixteen, Yoshi. You don’t understand love properly at sixteen!”

“I fell for my wife at thirteen,” he smiles. “It’s certainly not impossible.”

“That’s—look,” you protest, “that is entirely besides the point. The point,” you state, “is that is completely irresponsible for me to pursue a relationship with your son. Frankly, I’m surprised you don’t agree.”

“He cares for you. You know that. Who am I to decide who he does and does not pursue, especially when that person makes him happy?” He reaches for a worn kettle sitting between you two on a table, pouring its contents back into his teacup—you remember Leo telling you that it is technically called a yunomi. “I find love typically does no harm so long as it does not consume you. Moderation is key.”

You look up at him. “So, you don’t have any reservations about it?”

He takes another drink. “I wouldn’t say that. He is my son, after all. In truth,” he admits, “I was more concerned that my sons would never experience what I did than anything. Given the circumstances of our existence, I’m sure you can understand my wish to give them a relatively normal, happy life.”

You sigh. “I guess, yeah.” You adjust your blanket again. ‘Seems counterintuitive, teaching them the art of murder, but I guess that’s his normal.’ “That’s just a generally good parenting thing though, right? I’d hope you’d want that even if you weren’t a giant rat and they weren’t anthropomorphic turtles.”  

A parent. He is talking to you like one might speak to their kid.

“I suppose so,” he nods. “It’s been difficult, but we’ve certainly come a long way over the years.”

The screeching of tires pierces the still air, the chattering of his four sons bouncing off the concrete walls.

You strain to hear what they are saying. “I never noticed that there was an echo in here. It’s less noticeable than in the tunnel.”

“That’s by design,” he explains. “I’ve made something of an effort to dampen it.”

“Oh, that’s cool.” You set the yunomi on the table. You sigh, holding your breath and downing your now gross, cool tea in three quick gulps. “I hate to cut this short,” you lie, wiping your mouth with your sleeve and tottering to your feet, “but I’ve gotta check to make sure everything went smoothly on their mission and adjust my timetable accordingly.”

He nods, deciding not to point your tell out. “I won’t keep you, then. Would you like to borrow my cane?”

This is not the first time he has offered. You, of course, refuse.

“Oh well. I thought I’d offer.” He sets his cup down, staying seated. “It has been pleasant talking with you, Y/N.”

“Likewise, Mr. Hamato.” You nod once in acknowledgment, hopping over to the door and slipping out into the hallway.

Your stomach churns at the stench coming from the lab—you can smell the gasoline. You lean against the wall, making a pointed effort not to eavesdrop and rapping your knuckles against the door. Their voices immediately lower to hisses and someone drags the door open.

“Hey,” Mikey beams. “We were just talking about you. Need somethin’?”

“Just is an over-exaggeration.” There is a considerable amount of protest as Donnie pulls him away from the door with an uncomfortable edge to his voice. “P-please, come in.”

A beaten DIY van sits pathetically on the subway track, looking not dissimilar to a burnt, crushed soda can from where you stand. The once hot pink graffiti has most certainly seen better days, and you squirm at the thought of the sound it must have made if you understand the situation properly. Raphael, who you glance at out of the corner of your eye, looks similarly beat up. Of course, you are not going to say anything because you value your life.

You whistle, smiling incredulously. “So,” you try not to laugh, “I take it you took on the cucaracha.”

“Made it my bitch is what I did,” boasts Raphael. “Shot it with a laser.”

“Cool, cool.” You chuckle at his excitement. “You take care of the egg?”

Is there a better sight than watching the light in someone’s soul die? You would hesitantly say no. “The what ?”

“Right outside the building,” you elaborate. “On the side of the road. Looks like a horrifying imitation of an orbee?’

He takes a slow, deep breath, holds it, exhales. “I’ll be right back,” he says calmly, and sprints out of the lair.

Michelangelo laughs. “Were you being serious or are you messing with him?”

“Serious.” You readjust the blanket, trying to subtly figure out how to breathe without being assaulted by the mechanical smell. “I won’t joke about that sort of thing. It’s cruel.”

He hesitates. “… speaking of, are you alright? I didn’t get to ask before.”

The other two are quietly watching the interaction with an odd amount of intensity.

You shrug. “I guess. Probably.”

“Alright,” he nods. “Just lemme know if you need to talk, alright? Donnie’s no—ow!”

“Don’t talk bad about people in front of them,” Leonardo criticizes. “It’s rude.”

“You called him special, like, four hours ago!”

“The word of the day is hypocrisy.” Donatello puts his hand down.

“Hypocrisy’s right” You rub Mikey’s shell reassuringly. “To be fair, though, Leo could honestly probably just dodge it anyway.”

He leans into it. “I guess,” he grumbles, shooting a look at Donatello. “Favoritism.”

“It’s strategic favoritism,” the tallest brother corrects. “It’s to encourage parti pris.”

“Cronyism,” you tease, grinning. “You mean cronyism.”

“Hey, I’m plenty qualified!”.  

You stifle a giggle as his face reddens, looking back over at the battered vehicle, raising an eyebrow.

“That was a team effort.”

“Yeah, okay, Hamato .” You blow a strand out of your face. “How long do you think it’ll take to fix?”

“Half a week? Maybe a bit less.” He looks back at it ruefully. “The spy roach completely jacked it.”

“Clearly.” You remove your hand, Mikey seemingly thoroughly comforted. “Then mind if I borrow a needle and thread so I can fix my jacket? I have school tomorrow.”

“Do you have the dexterity for that?” Leo crosses his arms across his chest absentmindedly.

“If I can hold a pencil,” you reason, “I can do basic stitching. ‘Sides, it’s only gotta hold until I get home.”

“I didn’t know you sewed.”

“I don’t. That’s why I’m asking now.”

Donatello pipes up again. “I really don’t mind—”

“Dude,” you reason, “you have to fix a whole ass van. I’ll manage.”

He pulls his phone from his pocket. “It’s a quarter to twelve. You won’t finish before midnight.”

“Then sucks to be me.” You shrug. “I’ll fix it here and walk home.”

He looks at you with a surprising amount of incredulousness. “It’s New York City.”

“You go out at night all the time,” you protest.

“I can carry you—”

Immediate panic. “Nah, I’m good!” You try to sound confident. “I walk home all the time, remember?”

“Not at midnight.”

“What’s a couple hours difference?” You would rather get attacked or kidnapped than fly over buildings again.

“A hundred-twenty minutes,” he states. “You know that crime is statistically more likely to happen at night, right?”

“That tracks. What’s different?”

“Violent crime peaks at midnight.”

Mikey butts in. “Why can’t she just go in the blanket? It covers enough.”

Donatello rolls his eyes. “Mikey,” he sighs, “she’s a teenage girl walking around with her torso covered by a single conspicuous quilt. Let’s use our heads here.”

It takes him a minute. “So you’re worried about her getting, like, attacked?”

“… were you paying attention to any of the conversation? Or the lesson we just learned?”

“Dude,” he protests, “when do I ever?”

“What, you mean the one where y’all learned to face your fears or the one where talking about people in front of them is rude?”

The bitter edge to your words is not lost on him. “Look,” he reasons with you, “I-I’m not saying you’re incapable of taking care of yourself—”

“You are , but that’s not the point.”

“Shut up, Mikey.” You are surprised he did not punch him, though, admittedly, you can hardly argue the point. “What I mean is that if you put yourself in harm’s way, you’re going to get hurt.” He nods at Leo. “He’s a really experienced fighter and even he gets overwhelmed if he goes out of his way to do something reckless and dangerous like Karai .” He spits out her name like it is poisonous.

“Since when have you had a thing against Karai?”

The eldest brother sighs. “I’m never living that down, am I?”

“Unimportant, and nope . Point is,” he continues, fingers twitching at his sides, “it doesn’t make sense to tempt fate.”

You open your mouth to argue. You close it again. He has an extremely valid point all things considered, especially considering everything that has been happening, and although you are completely certain about your stance on him carrying you home, you would be lying if you said the idea of stumbling home without your walker or shirt sounds very appealing.

“Then what exactly are you suggesting?”

He looks off. “I’m suggesting she stays the night, Leo.”

Mikey blinks. “What, in your room or on the couch?”

“It would be up to her.”

That works for you. “Your home. You pick. Where do you keep your sewing supplies?” You slip out of the circle the four of you have formed.

“On top of the bookshelf,” he points. “Behind the cardboard box.”

You nod, hopping over.

Mikey offers his two cents. “It makes more sense for you two to share a room. It’s kinda cold in the front room, and you guys’ll probably end up going to bed at around the same time anyways. She also has your blanket.”

You stand on your toes, fingertips brushing against a plastic container.

“That’s a fair point.” You catch it before it cracks open on the ground. “Training starts pretty early, so she should have time to grab her things before school.”

“See? Foolproof plan.”

“Would Master Splinter approve?”

“Leo,” you call over your shoulder, “he’s slept over at my house twice already. I really doubt he cares.”

“But we don’t know .”

“Then you can go ask him.” You turn around. “Where’s the jacket?”

“In the cardboard box.” Donnie starts towards the train wreck on the tracks.

You pull it down, taking your shirt and jacket and sitting down, crossing your bad leg under the one you can use, despite the nausea. ‘Exposure therapy.’ “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

You feel a tap on your shoulder. You glance up at Mikey, who crouches down next to you as Leo waves to his brothers and leaves. “You need anything?”

He shakes his head. “Just wanted to hang out with you is all,” he shrugs. “You didn’t go after Donnie.”

“I didn’t,” you nod in agreement.

“Why?”

“Because car.” You unlatch the box, carefully digging around inside for some pins. “That, and the smell is bad enough from over here.”

He crosses his legs in front of him. “That’s fair.” He taps his foot absentmindedly. “You think he knows?”

“I thought I made it pretty damn clear,” you shrug, “but it’s Donnie, so I wouldn’t bet on it.”

He grins at that. “Then do you wanna hang out while you work on that out front? He isn’t exactly talkative when he gets in the zone.”

You shake your head. “If I do, I won’t get much done,” you admit. You unwind a long portion of the thread, snapping it apart. “Besides, the only way to get over a fear is to face it head-on.”

“Alright.” He hops to his feet. “Thought I’d ask. Have fun.”

”Bet,” you mumble through a bit tongue, shaky fingers making threading the needle almost impossible. “You too.”

“See ya.” He waves, running out of the lab.

You let out a breath, picking a piece of loose wire off of a table and creating a poor imitation of a threader. While you genuinely enjoy talking with Michelangelo, you have some things to think over.

Clumsy fingers start on a running stitch. If your timetable still holds true—which, surprisingly enough, it has thus far—the episode after next’s plot will take place in about three weeks. Your cast is coming off in two. You do not know where and when The Kraang are coming through their portal, or if there is any way for you guys to know, but seeing as you are skipping the episode where the turtles get stuck in a labyrinth under the assumption that, without Baxter being bullied by the Shredder and his goons, he has no reason to construct it, you would tentatively estimate the next episode will happen in about a week. You are still fairly sure that Stockman will not get involved with the Shredder without his input until Oroku finally opens his eyes to the dangers and powers of the Kraang, which should happen around the same time as the next episode.

Your eyes glaze over as you get into the groove of it. ‘The next episode is also when the guys get on Karai’s shit list because they betray her, and, if that happens, the episode where the Shredder starts getting involved with the Kraang and comes to appreciate their resources." You prick your finger. ‘It wouldn’t be long after that before Saki gets the idea to create a mutant army, and with Baxter already somewhat on the villainous map, our best chance to make sure he doesn’t end up under his employment is to…’

You wipe the sticky liquid on your jeans, careful of the bandages on your back. ‘It’s not a guarantee that he even knows Baxter exists.’ Your eyebrows furrow in concentration as you try to keep the stitches separated at equal distances. ‘Hell, it’s not a guarantee he’s even alive. Still, it’s better to air on the side of caution and not think about how you’ll have to do it until the time comes.’

You let out a soft sigh. “I’ll buy a gun, when that happens,” you murmur to yourself. “Just want more time where bodily harm is all I have to deal with is all.”

--

You slide your poorly stitched jacket over your shoulders under the blanket, pulling your sleeves into place and zipping it up. After folding the blanket up and draping it over your arm, you pull yourself to your feet, hopping over to Donatello and his death trap as he sat down, looking over his work. “How’re the repairs comin’?”

The two of you have not spoken for the three hours it took you to repair the jacket, and significantly more progress has been made on his end than yours. At the very least, the generally rectangular frame was pounded back into submission.

He looks over at you, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand and stifling a yawn. “Fine,” he sighs, looking back at the hulking mass of metal as you lower yourself down next to him. “It won’t blow up or anything if it’s driven, but it still needs another day’s worth of work to get it back to where it was before.” You nod along as he goes into more intimate detail, not understanding half of it, but happy to just listen to him talk resentfully about the whole process that you can tell he genuinely does not mind.

“Sounds like a time.” You rest your head on your good knee. “And you’re not gonna fix the graffiti?”

“It rubs off,” he shrugs. “Besides, it’s not exactly important to the design.”

Your head bends in a subtle nod, cheek numb from the pressure of your knee. “Are you going to sleep today?”

He shrugs. “Maybe? It wouldn’t be a bad idea.” His legs are almost crisscrossed in front of him, and he leans his weight back on his skinny, muscular arms. “I honestly don’t want to leave it alone, though. It would be weird to just leave it unfinished.

“Hardly, but alright.” You sit up for a moment, handing him back his quilt. “Thanks for giving me something to cover myself up with, and for not ditching me on a roof, and patching me up, and—I owe you, is what I’m getting at.”

He smiles tiredly. “Don’t worry about it, really,” he reassures you, his face flushing and muscles relaxing slightly. “You’ve made it up plenty.”

“I disagree. I’ve never saved your life.” You trace the fading lines on your cast his brother had left.

“I don’t think a ton of people would literally kill someone for me and my family,” he argues. “That’s pretty awesome, right?”

‘Not sure how I feel about framing murder as a positive thing.’ You do not say anything, looking back at his work.

He sighs. “You should go to bed,” he advises practically. “It’s getting late.”

“Never stopped you.” You straighten your legs. “I’ll go if you come with.”

“Tempting,” he teases with a sudden burst of confidence, hoping to his feet and outstretching his arm to help you up, “but what’s in it for me?”

Your face lights up as your face goes red at his borderline roguishness, taking his arm pulling yourself up. “For as much shit as you’re going to get for it,” you promise, pecking where his nose would be with an almost kittenish smile, “I’ll get up extra early, make everyone breakfast, and go topside for coffee.”

His face almost turns the shade of a human blush, forwardness gone in an instant. “C-can’t,” he stutters, clearly flustered. “When I was eleven, I got addicted to it and I’m not allowed to have any anymore.”

“Relatable,” you giggle. You blow the hair out of your face, comfortable as he helps you walk towards the door, the air between you two charged with electricity. “Is that for all caffeine or just coffee?”

He opens it for the two of you, ever the gentleman with the quilt over his shoulder. “Tea’s fine. Don’t bring tea down, though,” he quickly clarifies. “Leo’ll have a very inconspicuous fit.”

You blink curiously, looking up at him as he pulls you along. “Why?”

“It’s the one food thing he’s particular about,” he shrugs, not bothering to hide his gooey smile as you use his upper arm for support. “Couldn’t tell you why.”

“Are you particular about any foodstuff?”

“Not really?” He helps you up a few steps. “I’m not Mikey, but I don’t think I’m that picky about that sort of thing.”

“That’s fair.”

You do not let go of his arm to use the wall. You do not even think to if Donnie is reading your body language correctly. His smile widens as he opens the door for you.

You give a nod as thanks, lowering down onto the foot of his relatively narrow bed. “Alright,” you clap your hands together quietly as he sits next to you. “How do you wanna do this?”

You are sitting on his bed, willing, with no pretense other than sleeping getter. He is currently on cloud nine.

You look back at the frame. ”Too narrow for us to lay side by side,” you note. “You sleep on your front, meaning you will likely take up most of the room.’ You look between him and the bed, trying to imagine a position that would work. “You could lay on top of me, I guess, but then your legs would hang off the end.”

“I can sleep on my side,” he offers hurriedly. “If that makes things easier, I mean.”

“You sure?” Your fingers fumble with your shoelaces.

He nods eagerly. “S-so long as you still don’t mind being close to me, I mean. The bed’s still kinda narrow.”

You roll your eyes, smiling. “We’ve slept together before,” you reason. “If you wanted to pull anything, you would’ve the other two times.”

He glances off, face still red. “Y-yeah,” he rubs the back of his neck bashfully. “That makes sense.”

You gesture to the bed. “Then,” you nod once, “so long as you’re comfortable, you lay down. I’ll work from there.”

He tentatively lays himself down, facing the wall, tensing ever so slightly as you lay behind him, legs curling up under his thighs.

You lay your arm under your head as a pillow, the other pulling the blanket over the two of you. “This work,” you whisper, closing your eyes.

“Mhm,” he hums, covering his face with his hands. “We closed the door, right?”

You look back over. “Yup.”

“Locked it?”

“Seems so.”

He relaxes a bit. “Alright,” he nods, quietly reveling in the way your fingers, again, traced the indentations in his shell like the first night.

‘When I wake tomorrow,’ he realizes, ‘she’ll be right there. Right behind me, in my bed. By choice.’ He smiles behind his fingers. ‘When we get older, maybe we could have our own place. Or our own room, more accurately, where she just lives with us. Imagine her moving in. If—no, when,’ he corrects himself, ‘we defeat The Shredder, if I ever get the nerve, I’ll ask her.’ He reaches his leg back, entangling it with yours carefully. ‘Would we have to get married first? No, you move in before you get married, right? I should’ve paid more attention during those movie marathons.’ He closes his eyes as you drift off, focusing on this train of thought. ‘How long do you need to be in a relationship before you get married? How would we get married, even? Legally, that would be impossible, right? I can’t go to a courthouse. And if we had a child—practically speaking, of course—would they live with us or go to a public school? We could give them a good education, I’m sure, but—’

You shift in your sleep, absently laying your arm over his side and pulling him closer.

He exhales, allowing himself to relax back into you. ‘Not tonight.’ He rests his hand on top of yours. ‘It’s too late, too soon.’ His thumb runs along the back of your hand, letting himself drift off in your arms.

‘It’ll be okay. We’ll last long enough to take it slow.’

Chapter Text

“So then I was like, ‘Screw you, man, you don’t know me.’ Because he was being a dick.”

You nod, taking another sip from your straw. “So he was.”

“Well,” Casey continues, gesturing with his pizza slice, “that’s why he gave me a black eye on the ice. And now Annie won’t talk to me.”

With a sigh, you reach up, wincing slightly as the muscles in your back crack. “Well,” you smile tiredly, “that does sound like a predicament. Want me to try talking to her?”

“Nah.” He leans against his hand, taking a bite of his food. “It’s whatever. Didn’t like her, anyway.”

You smirk. “Bullshit.”

“Smartass.” He rolls his busted eyes. “How’s your boyfriend?”

“Nonexistent.”

“Bullshit,” he mimics. “Isn’t he all over you?”

“Hardly.” You wave your hand dismissively. “‘Sides, he doesn’t want a relationship, I bet.”

“You slept together .” He swallows. “You slept together and he didn’t make a pass at you.”

“What does that prove?” You take another drink. “Just because he or I want it to happen doesn’t mean that it should.”

“Bullshit,” he sings once more. “You’re just scared of commitment, I bet.”

Your face flushes. “That’s not it!”

“Then why not ask him?”

“Look,” you fumble for an excuse that was not ‘He’s a ninja,’ “he’s really busy, what with his sports and science stuff. I’m lucky he has time for me at all; what we have is fine until things calm down a bit with him.”

“So never.” 

“Pretty much.”

Another bite. “If he’s so smart, won’t he be going off to Harvard or some shit? Shoot your shot.”

“Who are you to give me relationship advice?” You push him, placing your hand on the pizza box between you on the bench. “You just fucked up with Johanna.”

“Maybe the reason you two are still virgins is that you’re both smartasses.”

“We’re like fifteen!” You laugh. “What, you’re a lady killer now?”

“Hey, I’ve made my rounds.” He grins. “You know the blond chick? Jenny?”

You stick your tongue out at him. “She is completely out of your league, Jones,” you huff. “Know your place.”

“And she’s in yours?”

“Did I say that?” You take another sip. “No, I did not.”

He sighs. “I’m gonna set you up.”

You blink at this sudden change in subject matter. “Huh?”

“There’s this guy on the team who has a thing for you.” He takes another bite of his pizza. “I promised I’d try.”

“Out of the goodness of your heart?”

“Surprisingly, yes.” He leans back on the bench, head flopping back. “We’ve been buddies for a while.”

Your eyes trace the cracks in the pavement carelessly, weighing your options. “Where?”

“I’m looking for a yes or no.”

You fiddle with your collar. “Which guy?”

“Carter from bio.”

With bright green eyes, long black hair, you can hardly describe him as ugly. A bit pompous, but not irredeemably so. The idea of going on a date with another man-- another human, no less-- is hardly unappealing, especially given the fact that you are almost completely certain that whatever you have going on between yourself and Donatello is going to go exactly nowhere. It would be nice, you know, to go out to lunch or dinner with a pretty boy.

Your gut tells you it is a bad idea. Your gut also told you to go try and check out Shredder’s lair that one time, and now you could not walk.

“I’m down.” Why not? Life is about taking risks that do not result in your lack of motor functions. “You got his number?”

He nods, pulling his phone out of his pocket and texting you the contact. “He’s a good guy,” he promises. “He’s not gonna try shit, probably.”

“You sound certain.”

“Shut up.” He scrolls through his phone. “Who knows, though? Maybe you’ll like him more than your guy and you won’t have to keep pining over him.”

“And there’s the ulterior motive.” You cross your arms, setting the cup on the ground. “If I get stood up, it’s your ass.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He leans his head back forward, picking at his nails absentmindedly. “Whatcha gonna do? Fight me?”

You smirk. “It’s as realistic as you getting with Jennifer Barker.”

“And that’s my cue to leave.” He stands up, wiping his hands on his jeans and taking the box. “I’m taking this.”

“Have at it,” you follow suit, checking the time. “Don’t eat it all at once.”

“I will absolutely ignore your advice.”

“Obviously.” You wave. “See ya tomorrow.”

“See ya.”

The walk home is long, as always, but with every passing day, you get better at walking with one good leg. Having lost it in the dumpster with little more than reassurance that knowing whoever took it needed it more than you do, you have learned a thing or two about balance, and yet you still quietly long for your other leg. ‘It would be nice to be able to run places,’ you muse. ‘It would make me feel better about walking around at this time of night.’ With all the walking you have to do— you still do not have a metro card because you are foolish— you are still relatively strong, but getting places without hobbling and having the option to run away would be nice. 

You unlock the door to your apartment. ‘Just a couple more days before I can walk properly again.’ You pull it open, kicking your shoe off. 

Someone is sitting on your couch.

You take a shaky step back— ‘I can’t run’—, tripping on your feet and falling on your back in the hallway, your drink spilled on the floor. It is as if your body is struck with lightning, every nerve on edge as you crawl away, voice caught in your throat as you try and get as far away from the door as possible. Your body drags with you. 

Too slow. 

A hand grabs your ankle. It drags you back into the room with barely a grunt, and with a slam, the door shuts, and you are locked with a figure whose face you cannot see. 

The door locks. 

The figure lets go of your ankle, heart pounding in your heart as you try and reach for the doorknob, tears pricking your eyes. You can barely use your hands again, progress gone in an instant. ‘Don’t kill me.’ You pray to stop shaking. ‘I can’t die here. Not after everything that’s happened.’

The light clicks on. 

“What the fuck is your deal?”

Your eyes snap open. A rush of embarrassment slams into you, a wave of shame making you hot all over as you become painfully aware of the fact that you look absolutely pathetic, clawing at the door. 

You pull yourself to your feet shakily, turning back to look at Raphael. “You,” you mumble, opening the door and grabbing your keys from off the floor, not even bothering with the cup, “are the fucking worst.”

“You’re the one that’s all jumpy.” He rolls his eyes, sitting back on the couch. “Who did you think it was?”

You scramble for another answer. “I don't know,” you snap. “If you didn’t know, I’d like to introduce you to the concept of texting someone before you sit ominously on their couch.”

“You’ll live.”

“Barely!”

He sighs. “Sit. We have to talk.” 

You toss your keys onto the counter, shakily hobbling over to the kitchen, hands clenched still. “You talk.” Your voice starts to stabilize. “I’m going to have a drink and wish it was alcohol.”

“Do you remember the first month you were here?” He crisscrosses his legs. “A week or so in?” 

You lean down, grabbing a drink container. “When Mikey almost got kidnapped? Yeah.”

“Do you remember what you said?”

“Do I remember what I said over two months ago? No, I do not.” You set it on the counter, reaching into the cabinet and pulling a plastic cup down. You consider a glass one but did not want to clean glass shards off of your floor again.

“Then let me remind you.” He leans back into your couch. “You said, and I quote, that Shredder doesn’t get close to murdering Master Splinter until season two, whatever that means.”

You nod, setting your hands on the counter until they stop shaking. “What about it?”

“Shredder gets close to killing my father.”

You sigh, dreading the ensuing conversation. “Look,” you reason, “it probably won’t get to that if we’re smart.”

“The first word I think of when I think about our group is not smart.”

“It’s one guy.” You lean against your hand. “So long as he doesn’t pull a Leo and martyrs himself—“

He cuts you off. “What does martyr mean?”

“If he doesn’t throw himself in harm's way for the sake of the greater good—“

“So my Leo throws himself in harm’s way?”

“Have you met your brother?” You try and grab your cup. “Of course he does.”

His eyes widen. “So you’re telling me my brother dies too?”

“I did not say that.”

“But you—“

“The point,” you snap, “is that so long as your father values his own safety, he will be fine. There are preventative measures that we can take to make sure he doesn’t kick the bucket, so for now, worry about how you’re going to survive.”

He gets up. “How does he go the first time?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why?” He stands in front of you, staring you down. “Why won’t you?”

“Because you’ll kill yourself over it.” You pick up your cup, taking a sip. “If I told you what happened in the future, you’d pull something to try and defy that, right? Then we wouldn’t even know what it was anymore, and our one tactical advantage would be shot."

“But—“

“I only tell you,” you cut him off, “about certain things so you can prepare to face them, not to try and avoid them. There are very few exceptions to that rule.” You set the cup back down, staring back. “There are things we can do to prevent things from happening, but not right now. Right now, our top priority is to make sure the Kraang don’t kill us all.”

“How come you get to know stuff we don’t?”

“Because.”

He throws his hands up. “Oh, well if that’s the reason—“

“Do you have anything else you wanna say or are you planning on just being up my ass?”

He closes his eyes, hands together as he takes a slow, deep breath. “Yes, actually.”

“What?”

“Karai approached us today when we went to check our Donnie’s stupid signal thing.” He opens them again. “She wants to team up.”

“Cool.” Your voice softens. “That’s good.”

He leans against the counter. “Can we trust her?”

You take another drink. “Trust is a strong word right now,” you sigh. “Aligning with her is a good idea, though. Just trust her as far as you can throw her.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well,” you shrug, “you can trust her to get you things and give you access to stuff. Just keep your guard up is all. Be diplomatic about it and you’ll be fine.”

He nods. “Cool.” He smiles. “Donnie’s been very anti-Karai so far.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He chuckles. “No idea why?”

You shake your head. “Thought he’d like having a kunoichi on his side.”

“You’d think.”

“Well, he’s gotta get over it some time.” You take another drink. “Preferably sooner than later, though. Fucking with Karai…” you shudder. “She’s incredibly powerful. If we can stay on her good side, it would make our lives easier.”

“Ours, you mean.”

“I have a stake in this too, you know.”

He scoffs. “How?”

“We’re on the same planet.” You reach down, fixing your pants over your cast. “Plus, I’m a target of the foot by association.”

“You aren’t fighting with us.”

“Would you rather I did?” You look back up at him. “Because when I do it seems it’s in the wrong way.”

“It would be helpful if you weren’t useless.”

“But I am, so it isn’t.”

“I guess.” 

You stand back up straight. “Is that all?”

“Nope.” He walks back to the couch, sitting down. “I’m staying here a bit. Leo’s being an ass.”

“How so?”

“Same way as per usual.” He leans back into the couch. “Thinks he’s better than everyone.”

“And you don't have a better place to hang?”

He shrugs. “My brother likes you well enough. Besides, I want to know the person who’s making all of these big decisions in my life.”

“So it’s because you don’t like me?” 

“Kinda, yeah.”

You take another sip from your drink. “That sounds paradoxical.”

“So?”

“So,” you lean your head against your hand, “why would you want to talk to me if you don’t like me?”

“Because your brother likes you,” he repeated. “If you’re going to be hanging around a ton I might as well try to like you.”

You smile. “That is incredibly mature of you, Hamato.”

A scoff. “You can’t call us all Hamato.”

“Watch me.” You hum, taking another sip from your drink. “Can I get you anything, by the way?”

“I’m good.”

“Suit yourself.” You reach into your bag— luckily, nothing has fallen out— and pull out your phone. “I just need you out by eleven-thirty. It’s a school night.”

“Even without being involved in our fights,” he shakes his head, “you are a total pussy.” 

“Suck me.” You grab it off the counter, carefully carrying your cup to your bed. “And keep the noise down. “My neighbors have been pleasant and I want it to stay that way.”

“Buzzkill. You clearly don’t spend enough time with Mikey.”

“You know,” you grin, pulling out your notes as you sit down, “your brother says the opposite. Donnie, I mean.”

“I figured.”

You glance over at the window as he fiddles with the remote. “How did you get in?”

“The window.”

“No shit.” You look back over at him. “Red button, but I lock the window."

“No, you didn’t.” He clicks the button. “It was unlocked when I got here.”

“Huh.” Another stream of electricity flows through your veins. ‘They know where I live.’ You swallow. 

“Must’ve forgotten.” 

You did not. You would not forget. There was no way you could have, or would have, forgotten to do something like that. 

“Must’ve.”

Chapter Text

You are going to kill him. 

“That is absolute fucking horseshit!” You pace back and forth in front of the restaurant. “ His ass was the one who invited me!”

You can practically hear his eyes rolling on the other end of the line. “How is it my problem if he flaked?”

“You’re guilty by association!” You cross your arms. “It’s a favor to you! How is it not at least partially your fault?”

“Because he said he’d be there.”

You hang up on him. You have been standing here for half an hour, and only now do you hear that he can’t be there because of something about a movie. While, under different circumstances, you would be relatively understanding, standing outside in a dress in November is making you a bit less amiable.

You sit down on the step, letting your hair down and leaning forward on your knees. ‘What a waste of a perfectly good twilight.’ 

You pull out your phone. It’s your father’s birthday back home, ironically enough. You smile bitterly. He and your mother told you when you were younger you wouldn’t be allowed to date until you were eighteen— something about them being worried about you getting in a bad situation— and here you were, flouting their rules, sitting alone on the steps of a restaurant with just enough money for food. ‘Does this count as disrespectful?’

Nobody online has said anything about it. No messages hoping he rests in peace, nothing from extended family. 

You set the phone down at your side, quietly watching people walk by. You had your cast taken off today. The people at the hospital gave you some sort of weird juice, and now you can walk around with only the occasional ringing in your ears and half-decent handwriting. ‘Not that my handwriting was that great before,’ you muse. ‘Maybe I’ll finally be able to sit in a car without wanting to jump out.’

“Something got you down?”

There is a thing you have noticed about people’s voices thus far that, until now, you have not thought about in detail; people do not sound exactly like their voice actors back in your world. For example, Donatello does not sound like Rob Paulsen, but the way he shapes his words, the tone of his voice, and the general pitch is relatively similar. He sounds like a teenage boy who happens to talk like his character, and it is by this you have been able to identify voices. 

Oddly enough, she sounds nothing like Kelly Hi. 

Your blood goes cold. “Yeah,” you sigh, desperately keeping your voice steady. “My date bailed on me.”

Karai sits down next to you on the steps, looking out with you. “That sucks.” She chuckled. “Why’s that?”

“No clue.” ‘Why is she trying this?’ You rest your head on your knees, hands clenching and thoughts going a mile a minute.  ‘I’m not made by the Kraang, and the guys shouldn’t have messed with her anyways, so she shouldn’t have my— but I did kill— but she doesn’t care about that, and neither does Shredder.’ 

“Well,” she sighed, “that’s teenagers for you.” She points back at the restaurant. “Can I get you something? My treat.”

You swallow thickly. “Sure.” Your hands are shaking despite your best efforts. You hope you do not look as completely terrified as you feel. “But I can pay for my own food.”

“Are you alright there?”

‘Sadist.’ You nod. 

“Are you sure?” She chuckles. “You’ve gone pale.”

You scramble for a plausible excuse. “I’ve been fasting.” That is not a good example of an excuse. “I need to start getting more iron in my diet.”

“I’m sure some food inside will have iron in it.” The smile on her face— she is not a good liar herself— tells you all you need to know, all venom and quiet pleasure. You seem to shrink next to her. 

It is not a request. It is a veiled demand. 

You get to your feet. You will not make it far if you run. “Have you been here before?” You force yourself up the steps, opening the door for her. 

“No,” she admits, nodding thanks, “but it’s supposed to have good reviews.”

“So you were here for the food?”

A shrug. “You could say that.”

The two of you settled in a booth not terribly far from the door, on your insistence. If you are putting yourself in this situation— ‘At least Casey knows where I am. Why did he have to suggest someplace where I know nobody?’— you may as well not make it easy for her. She orders a milkshake— you can not hear her very well over the roaring in your ears, but that is what she gets— and you drink water exclusively from the straw because your hands are currently incapable of holding anything. ‘What was even the point of all those dexterity-based exercises,’ you cannot help but internally whine, ‘if as soon as I need to be coordinated, I get all flinchy and shaky?’

“I didn’t catch your name.”

Your head rises too quickly. “Huh?”

Another smile. You hate her. “Your name,” she repeats herself. “You haven’t given me your name.”

“Y/N.” As soon as you say it, you know you messed up. “Y/N Collins.”

“Collins?” She leaned against her hand, quietly staring you down. “What is that?”

“Huh?”

“I mean, what country is that from?”

‘Great question.’ You strain to smile back. “No clue. My parents haven’t ever brought it up.” 

“Really?”

Your face burns at how easy the clinking of her fingernails against the glass puts you on edge. “Is that unusual?”

“I wouldn’t know.” She took a sip from her drink. “I don’t have many friends, you understand, and I’m from overseas to boot. I don’t know much about what’s normal.”

“Yeah?” You follow her example. “What’re you here for?”

A shrug. “My father’s here on business. Cutlery.”

“For restaurants or?”

“Sure.”

‘If I call Casey, he— but then I’d have to be in his van.’ You clear your throat. ‘Bathroom. Maybe the bathroom has a window.’ “Do you mind if I step out for a sec?” You stand up. “I have to use the restroom.”

“Not at all.” She looks up at you through her eyelashes. “Want me to come with?”

You shake your head, trying not to trip over yourself as you make it to the back of the restaurant, purse over your shoulder. ‘Maybe she won’t think anything of it.’ You lock the door behind you, exhaling as you look around the small room. As is typical of your luck these days— though, you suppose, fighting back tears, it’s not so much these days if it’s been going on for months; you miss your mother— there is none. Graffiti, sharpie illustrations, no toilet paper, and no window. No plan for if the date went badly in the first place— you kick yourself for having forgotten that essential step— and no ride home. You have money for the ticket home— he said he would pay— and a phone and a charger and it is at times like these where you wish you valued your life more. The only chance you now have, as far as you’re concerned, is to either run or fake a phone call at the table.

You just got out of a cast. 

You take a deep breath, walking back onto the floor, thanking her for her patience. She nods, waves it off as no trouble, and starts talking again as she drains her drink. You listen, you try to keep the conversation going the best you can, drink right alongside her. 

You do not remember when you start having fun, when you start laughing along with her at something or other, but you are now. 

“So,” she sighed, lacing her fingers together under her chin. “Who was the lucky guy?”

You blink. “Huh?”

“The guys you were here to meet.”

“Kid from Bio,” you answer. “Can’t remember his name.”

She nods. “Do you have many guy friends?”

“A couple, I guess.” 

“What’re they like?”

“Busy.” You smile slightly. “Most of them are, anyway. The guy that set me up is free most of the time.”

“What about the others?”

“They’re into martial arts.” You glance down at your glass, and for a moment, you swear it looks slightly blue. “Their dad’s into it.”

“What’re their names?”

You blink, picking the glass up and placing it on top of your hand. “Reese and Donnie and Legoshi and the other one.” ‘Why is my drink blue?’

“The other one?”

You nod, eyes drooping slightly as you struggle to rationalize the color change. “Can’t remember his name.” 

“Michelangelo, maybe?”

“Maybe.” You take another sip, trying to taste what it is. “That name sounds familiar, but I can’t remember from what.” Something with salt. 

“You said your name was Y/N?”

You nod again. ‘Water isn’t blue, right?’

“Then, Y/N,” she smiles again, eyes slowly drilling holes into your skull, “do you know who I am?”

“Legoshi’s sis, right?” You look up at her. “You’re Karai Hamato.”

Your eyes are too blurry to tell exactly what is happening with her face. “What?”

“Your name.” You take another sip. “Karai Hamato. Or Missy. It’s one of the two.”

“I’m not a Hamato.”

“Yeah, you are.” You giggle before the words slip out of your mouth. “You’re fucking— well, not fucking— you let stepbrother, right? Half brother?” You are forgetting something important. “Are you two blood-related?”

“We aren’t.”

“You sound angry.”

A blink. “I do not.”

“Do too.” ‘I don’t like her for some reason.’ “You’re getting all red in the face.”

“Because you’re accusing me of something I’m not.”

“Fuckin…” you grin. “If you’re into that shit, I’m not gonna fuckin judge you or nothin, but at least fuckin… uh… own up to it.” Your eyes drag across the table lazily. 

“I’m no Hamato.”

“You are too.” 

They land on a plastic bag. 

‘Oh. That’s why.’

“Who told you I was?”

“Your stepdad.” You get to your feet, holding your bag. “Or dad, I guess? I dunno, whichever one didn’t kill your mom.”

There’s something else in her voice as she gets up, following you out. “How do you know that?”

“I just said how.” The cold air outside hits you like a brick. ‘Run.’

“So you know where—“ You shove your weight back on her, slamming her body and in turn her into the brick wall and run. 

She grabs your something. You fall, head slamming painfully against the ground. You kick her, she grabs your hair. In what you might later describe as a drinking effort, you reach your hands up towards her face. You feel something squishy, a cry, and she’s facing you now, dragging you into somewhere considerably darker than outside at night. You feel something in the back of your head, she covers your mouth as you cry out, and you do the only thing you can think of. 

You taste something again. Something is in your mouth. She stumbles back. You trip up to your feet, and you fall in the direction of the nearest subway tunnel. 

The things happening around that time are swirling around in your head, now, face held in your hands as you quietly curl up on the subway. You do not remember entering a train car, or buying a ticket, or even what happened to the object in your mouth, but the crying you remember. You remember someone touching your shoulder with a soft voice, looking up with your mouth covered in sticky, dried stuff and fingers covered in red and clear goo, and that being enough to have them get off at the next stop. 

You do not know how long you are on the train. When you finally feel yourself again, your phone is almost dead. Hours must have passed. You do not remember leaving, but you remember the ringing in your ears again as you dial someone, sitting on the sidewalk in what used to be the only dress you owned. You are reasonably sure you are going to burn it. 

—

“Is this okay?”

“What?”

“This.” Mikey gestures around himself. “What we’re doing.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“They’re people, right?” He looks over at his brother, currently skimming the same magazine again. “The Kraang, I mean.”

It takes a second for him to process the question, but Donnie does not have to look up from his sewing to know his brother’s reaction. 

“It’s just a question.”

“A fuckin— do you hear yourself?”

“I’m just—“

“Leo,” he turns to his older brother, “is killing the threat to all of humanity wrong?”

“But we just blew up a giant ship of them though.” He crisscrosses his legs. “Aren't we killing a ton of people, then?”

“Mikey,” Leo sighs, not looking up from the TV, “there are more people in New York than there are Kraang that we could ever kill.”

“Eight million.” He sincerely hopes the gloves are not too large. “For number's sake, it’s eight million.”

Leo shoots his brother a thumbs up, glancing over at his brother’s project curiously. “Thanks, Donnie.”

“Even if we were actively going on a killing spree and mowing them down that way, there is no way in hell any of us could kill two million Kraang per person even if we wanted to. That’s not even talking about the number of people who would be fucked once they were done with New York.” Raphael punctuates this with a pointed and aggressive flip to the next page. “End of story.”

“But—“

“And even if they stopped at New York,” he continues, cutting him off, “that would still be eight million people dead because of us getting cold feet.”

Mikey opens his mouth again, sighs, and closes it. “Fine, okay.” He leans back against the concrete, eyes going back to his phone. “Anyways, why do you keep getting water on your thing?”

“Hm? Oh, you mean the gloves.” His taller brother looks up. “It’s easier to get the needle through it when it’s warm and wet. Plus, it makes the— stop laughing!”

“Then you thought it too.”

Heat rushes to his face. “You’re so immature.”

“But you thought it too. That's hypothetical.”

“You mean hypocritical.”

“I said what I said.”

Michelangelo’s phone rings. 

He puts a finger, bringing it to his face. “Hel— hey, slow down.” His brow furrowed, the other three leaning towards him. “No, wait, what— who’s she?”

There’s a pause. 

“She did— wait, hold on.” He tosses the phone to Donatello. “It’s for you.”

He catches it. “Hello?”

“Could you pick me up?”

He blinks. “What, with the Shellraiser?”

Your voice is paper. “Yup.”

“You hate the Shellraiser.”

“She wants to go in the Shellraiser?”

Donatello waves his younger brother off, letting you talk. “I hate Karai more, currently. Please pick me up.”

Leo pipes up. “What happened?”

He ignores him. “Where are you?”

There is a pause as she checks, his brothers watching for his reactions. “One-oh-three Saint Corona Plaza.”

“Got it.”

“What happened?” Raphael, this time. 

“Need me to stay on the line?” With a pointed glare at his siblings, he climbs into the ‘raiser.

“Please.”

He calls behind him at his brothers. “I’ll be back before two.” The phone is brought back up to his face as they moan about a lack of info. The machine is spurred into motion. “What are you doing in Queens so late?”

“No idea.” He can hear your strained smile. “Ask Karai.”

His heart stops. “What happened with Karai?”

You repeat your statement.

“She didn’t—“

You cut him off. “I’m not back in the hospital, no.”

He resists the urge to sigh in relief. “Did she follow you?”

“I’ve yet to be hit over the head, so I’ll hasten to say no.” There is something off about your voice, a certain quality about it that he cannot quite pin down. “I’ve been essentially useless the whole time, what with her drugging me and all.”

“She what ?”

“I think she did, anyway.” It is incredibly disturbing to him how calm you sound. “Unless water’s blue and kinda tastes salty now. I don’t imagine it would be though,” you ponder, chilling years off of his life, “even if you guys messed up the mission. It would be green, since that’s the color of the acid, right?”

He mumbles something out about indicators, head reeling as he tries to not hit a street lamp. 

“That’s what I thought.” You sigh. “Say, have you got any hydrogen peroxide at your place? No, wait, scratch that, I’m burning the dress anyways.” 

“Dress?”

“Yeah.” You huff. “Last time I’m letting Jones set me up on a date. Last time I’m going on a date period until all this gets worked out, actually.”

‘It is not okay to feel happy that she had a bad date.’ Still, he tries to steer the conversation away from the horrifying for a minute. “What happened?”

“I got stood up.” 

“Why?”

“I forget. Where are you?”

He glances up at the street sign. “Still pretty far.”

A pause. 

“You know,” you swallow, “I should really stop doing this. It’s not exactly great of me to have to ask for your help all the time.”

“None of us mind.” 

“That’s not the point.” He hears a car on your end whiz by. “I should be able to go a week without making you go out of your way for me. You guys manage.”

“We’ve also been training in ninjutsu since we could walk.”

Tired, he decided. You sound tired. “Other normal people manage.”

“You’re not a normal person, though.”

“Sure I am.” Your words sound slow to him. “I keep interesting company is all.”

“That’s a word for it.”

“What, don’t count yourself as interesting?”

He turns a corner. “Not the first word I’d use, no.”

Another long silence. Occasionally, he notes, you will him something into the phone, say a quiet, unintelligible word of phrase he cannot quite make out, presumably in an effort to continue looking like you are on the phone to passers by. The streets, like most nights nowadays, are mostly empty, save for the occasional cop car or kid, making the commute a relatively uneventful one. It gives him time to think, anyways, and after a while of quiet contemplation and forced slow breaths so he did not look quite as panicked as he felt once he picked you up, a question quietly surfaces.

He would have come in a heartbeat. He was not exactly sure what he would have done, but he would have come running, regardless of if he could help. Why would you not call? Why would you try and deal with that sort of situation alone? Did you not trust he would come? 

His fingers tighten around the wheel. What had you been thinking going out alone, anyway? After all that was happening, you thought it was a good idea to go on a date without a plan for if it went south? 

Another sharp turn. If nothing else, he thinks, he can not say you are no longer naive or lacking in innocence. Maybe you are just incredibly prideful. Regardless, it will get you in more trouble than you had to be in. 

What would he do if you got yourself irreparably damaged?

—

You are not having a good time. 

You have managed to convince yourself that this is not, in fact, anything like the car. For starters, it is less aerodynamic; it is a metal box on wheels, designed for subway travel and is, therefore, not designed for optimum wind resistance, meaning it cannot go as fast with the same amount of energy. The inside of the vehicle is also distinctly dissimilar to a car, its origins blatantly obvious, and was entirely lacking in windows. While this is enough to convince you currently that climbing into the machine is not as serious a death sentence, the fact of the matter is that, yes, it is a metal monster on four wheels that drives on roads. If you keep your eyes shut, maybe you will not vomit as soon as you stumble out of the door. 

Your stomach hurts. A lot of your body hurts, actually. You do not remember the “fight” with much clarity, but you do understand your head hurrying. You have yet to get a good look at yourself, but if you had to guess by the stains on your fingers that you can now identify as blood, the bad taste in your mouth that you are fairly sure is vomit and the flaky stuff on your face that also looks suspiciously blood-like, you would hasten to guess the answer is “not great”. You certainly do not feel great, if that is indicative of anything. 

He has not said a word so far.

You do not force conversation, now. You would prefer not to talk about the ordeal, anyways.

There are monitors that he is staring at in order to steer. Why he would not just get an actual steering wheel or the old hull of a car from a junkyard is beyond you, though you guess a hippie van would not offer the same armored protection as a subway car. 

“We got molested by a sea monster today.”

You look over at him, eyes half lidded. You want to sleep. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His eyes are focused on the screens. “Apparently it liked my submarine.”

“That’s… a thing.” You rub your hands on your thighs absentmindedly. “How did that work out?”

“Fine. It wasn’t all that strong.”

Your lips curl up into a weak smile. “That’s good, then. The mission went alright?”

He nods. “Without a hitch, funny enough.”

“That’s cool.”

The conversation dies as quickly as it starts.

The drive from that point on is an uncomfortably quiet one. You pick blood from under your nails, thumbs occasionally tracing the scars on your fingers— you are still not used to the difference in texture— as the hum or an engine rumbles underneath you. You are reminded of a memory from when you were younger, driving down the hallway, basking in the warmth of your own body heat with your arms tucked to your chest from under your top layer. The machine you were in now was colder, staler, but the hum of the engine, the time, all reminded you quietly of simpler times. 

You swallow thickly. ‘I’m such a coward.’ You shut your eyes gently, stomach churning. ‘I’m going to get the people I care about hurt, aren’t I?’

Donnie says something. 

The Shellraiser is stopped. You look up at him. “Huh?”

When he was younger, he and his brothers did not know the limits of their own strength. When they were first learning to fight, when they were first sent to spar against one another when their sensei was asleep, they would often go a step or three too far. He was never one to get involved— his brothers were stronger, more enthusiastic fighters— but he remembered distinctly what they would look like the morning after a fight, cheeks and eyes various shades of purples and blues and blacks. They would ask him, on occasion, after particularly brutal brawls, for him to paint over whichever brother’s face— usually Raphael or Leo— to hide them from their father. He got used to the sight, got better at understanding their anatomy, which chemicals mixed together would do which things.

He is getting sufficiently tired of seeing you hurt the worst he has ever seen. 

You look so small in the seat, face black and blue, hands shaking. Your skin is paler than when you two first met, less healthy, a thin coat of sweat coating your skin and hair stuck to the back of your neck. Your dress— he has never seen you in one— is stained with rust, hidden poorly from under your jacket. He can tell already which bruises will take a while to disperse, where she had busted your nose and slammed your head against something hard. You need a shower and water and a blood test to make sure you do not die from whatever Karai gave you. 

He clears his throat again. “I don’t want to be rude.”

“You’re doing me a favor. You have a right.”

He does not look you in the eyes. “It’s just… can I ask a question?”

You sigh. Even your voice sounds tired. “Shoot.”

His fingers trace the rim of the steering wheel. He takes a slow breath. “Why didn’t you call?”

“When she cornered me, you mean?”

A nod.

He glances over at you, staring down at your hands, turning them over. “You were on a mission. I didn’t want to mess it up.”

“I would’ve come, you know.” 

“I know.” You smile ruefully. “That’s why I didn’t.”

His fingers grip the wheel again, trying to not openly overreact. “Y/N,” he says carefully, “if a mission fails because we need to come save you from Karai, then we fail the mission.”

“How many people in New York would die if you guys did fail?”

“That’s not the point.”

“It is.” You look up at him. “You get yourself in a lot of trouble because of me. You have to make sure I don’t kill myself all the time. Think logically, Donnie.”

He snorts, heart pounding in suppressed, almost overwhelming frustration. “Are you going to say something about thinking logically?”

“Fair point. But you get mine, right?”

“I don’t, actually.” He leans back in his chair, fingers gripping tighter still. “The only reason we’re messing with the Kraang at all, the only reason we started all this, is because I saw you and wanted to help you .” He counts on his fingers. “The only people I really, honestly care about this much are my family and you, and I know that, if I had never met you,” and he looks you dead in the eyes now, “I would just make a filtration system for my family and that would be the end of it.”

Your eyes are still gorgeous. Behind the bruises and the blood, you really are stunning.

“Sure,” he concedes, “maybe Leo would’ve gotten involved because he’s that selfless. I would’ve gone along with it, since he’s my brother and all, but if that were the case…” He takes a slow breath to calm down. He never thought it would come out right now at all times. “If that were the case, I would’ve never tried red velvet cupcakes. Mikey wouldn’t have a friend outside of the family. I never would’ve learned about crime movies, or had talks about science with anyone but myself, or any of the thousand other things you’ve given us.” He does not know exactly when he grabs your hands, but he is now, and you are so warm and alive right now. “I care about you. We care about you. You have to know that. For fuck’s sake,” he laughs, “I’ve told you outright, before!”

You open your mouth to say something. No words come out, for once.

He squeezes your hands. He cannot tell if your heart feels like his does, the straining against his chest, the aching feeling. He was never good at reading people or emotions or any of that. 

But it’s time now. He can barely think. If he does not now, he might not ever. 

“I love you, Y/N.”

Chapter Text

“I can’t.”

You are delirious. You feel it, anyway; the rushing of blood to your head, how light your voice sounds, how hard it was to climb out and how hard it is to rationalize what hell you just heard. Your heart is pounding, your hands are shaking. Are you sure it is not a result of the drugs? No. Are you sure it is not helped by the bombshell just dropped on you? Yes. 

“Why not?”

“Because,” you laugh, running your hands through your hair with just a bit of delirium in your voice, “i-it is going to get you and I killed, Donnie.”

Sitting on a swivel chair in his lab and watching you pace, he is not sure how to feel. You are not rejecting him. That alone is enough to confuse him, but your reaction now is making his head as messy as yours. “Wait,” he puts his hand up, “I’m confused.”

You turn to look at him. “It’s not rocket science.”

“But you're not rejecting me.”

“Oh, of course not,” you wave it off. “I’ve had a thing for you for months, but that’s not the point.”

His eyes widen. “I think it should be.”

“I don’t.”

“But I do.” He hops off, trying not to openly freak out again for his brothers’ sleep’s sake. “I think that is the quintessential point, actually.”

“How is that more important than the practicalities of a relationship between us?”

He fights the urge to grin. “Because you like me.”

“Like’s a weak word for it.” You stop pacing for a moment. “You’ve seen me at my weakest. I let you see me at my weakest.” The words spill from your mouth quickly. “Your mind is as beautiful as your smile and I care for you deeply, but that means nothing right now,” you do not meet his eyes, “because the most relevant thing— stop smiling, this is serious— is that having a relationship with you creates a massive risk for the both of us, especially you, given your line of work and you seem to be completely ignoring that.”

It is hard not to smile. It is equally hard to truly consider the implications of your words when you are actively saying that you… well, he is not sure exactly what you are saying, other than that you like him more than just as a friend. “You more than like me?”

You stare at the wall. “I’m not going to be responsible for getting you hurt more than you will be already.”

He walks around so he can see your face, trying to keep it together. “But I don't care about that.” 

“What if I do?” You shoot a glare at him, your face stained a gorgeous shade of red as you try to will him to take this seriously. “What if I care about your safety, that I might be the jackass who gets you in a bad situation.?”

‘Huh?’ He purses his lips. “What sort of bad situation?”

“Holding me for ransom comes to mind.” You cross your arms tightly. “Hurting me to get to you guys, luring you into a trap. Karai knows where I live.”

‘“If that’s a concern,” he reasons, taking a step towards you, “then just because we aren’t together doesn’t make that less of a threat.”

“How so?”

“I care about you regardless.” He takes another step.

“But—“

“If anything,” he walks over to properly meet your flickering gaze, “us being in contact with one another more frequently will reduce the chances of one of us being kidnapped.”

Your voice does in your throat. He is very close. “W-well,” you still avoid his eyes, “that doesn’t mean the idea of a romantic partnership doesn’t present its risks.”

“Of course it does.” He laughs— you are always the more confident of you two in this sort of situation. “But there are greater emotional and psychological risks in us not being together.”

Your body tenses slightly as he grabs your hand. You swallow. “I don't—“

“Every night,” he speaks quieter now, “We go out and we put ourselves in danger. By associating with us, you’re putting yourself in danger. That is irrevocable. Agreed?”

Slowly, you nod. 

“If something happened to me,” he continues, “if something happened to you , and we didn’t at least try this, I, personally, would hate myself for it, for not exploring this while we still have time. Does the same go for you?”

The back of your legs are against the counter. You nod again. 

He sets his hand on the countertop next to you. “I wish that I was a normal human.” He breaks eye contact. “I wish that I was in a position where I wasn’t telling you all this after you just went through what must have been a terrifying, traumatizing ordeal. I wish that we both didn’t have to do this like this, that what happened over the past few months didn’t happen and that I could just do this like they do in the movies and ask you out to look at the stars or whatever.” He takes a breath. “But I can’t. Because I’m not.”

You are not moving, now. Your eyes are focused on every micro-expression, every flinch in his face, mesmerized for a moment by the way his eyes shine under the fluorescent light. When did the room get so quiet?

“We’re in a situation where both of us are in a lot of trouble with an organization that wants our heads. That’s partly my fault.” He looks back at you. “We don't have the luxury of worrying about that. Us being together isn’t going to increase the danger at all: if they plan to use you as leverage, that is not going to change because we’re honest with each other about our feelings.”

You swallow again. “Can I say something?”

“Please.”

You clear your throat. “I want to be in a situation where I can do what you described.” Your fingers clench and unclench as you try to articulate. “I just don’t want you to get yourself hurt because you’re worried about me, or get distracted when you’re in such a high-risk situation, or to do something irrational on my account.”

“Y/N,” he takes your hands gently, still on the counter.  “I’m going to do that regardless. That just comes with the job.”

“But would you do it at a higher frequency if we were together?”

“Probably not.”

“How?”

“Because I’m going to care about you regardless.”

“So whether I say no or not—“

“The irrational behavior is a given, yeah.”

You look up at him. “I hope you know that this will come with its own complications. Neither of us knows the first thing about maintaining a romantic relationship.”

“Are you familiar with the scientific method?”

You nod. “Question, background research—“

“We’ve both done plenty of that.”

“Hypothesize, test, analyze, conclude, repeat until you get a result.”

“That’s what we’ll do, then.” He smiles. “If something doesn’t work, we’ll look over the problem, analyze the data, make a conclusion, and try something else with that in mind.”

You pull your hands off, gently pushing at his chest. “This isn’t fair,” you mumble, “having me like this. It’s hard to think enough as is.”

He blinks. “Huh?” He looks between the two of you, backs off. “Oh, right, sorry,” he sputters, rubbing the back of his head. “Personal— I— sorry.”

“It’s all good,” you smile, exhaling. “But I do see your point.” You rub your arm. “I agree with your reasoning, but if we continued like that, I would’ve kissed you, and my mouth tastes gross right now, so yeah.”

His face is finally matching yours. “You— really?”

“Was that not your intention by pinning me to the counter?” You giggle, trying to relax. 

“I didn’t really realize I was doing it, to be honest.” 

Your smile widens. “Glad I’m not the only one that’s freaking out about this.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles nervously, “I’ll admit that this is my first confession.”

“You did a damn good job.” You sign, pushing the hair out of your face. “On a more serious note, I can’t go back to my house because I’m fairly sure Karai knows where I live. Do you mind?”

“Oh, not at all.” He walks over, pulling the garage door open. “It’s not a bad idea, anyway. It’s less likely you’ll be followed the free trips you have to make.”

“How convenient.”

“It is, huh?” He steps into his lab properly. “Well, you can’t really argue with convenience, can you?”

“I guess.” You fold your arms across your chest, your jacket constricting around you. “Seriously, though,” you look up at him, “we have to be really careful about this.”

He nods. “Of course.” He smiles. “But, hey? We’ve gotten this far without dying.”

“Barely.” You look down at your dress. “I don’t suppose you have a spare set of clothes, huh?”

“I do not.” He looks around a moment. “I can go back out and grab your things if you want.” 

You wave it off. “It’s alright. It’s just blood.” 

“What did you even do to her?” 

You sit down on the countertop, leaning forward to rest your head on your hands. “I don’t remember.” You bring one away from your face to look at what specks of blood you could not quite reach, the blood too far under your nails. You absently look around for something to use to pick it out. “I think I must’ve bitten her; my mouth tastes like blood.”

“You aren’t bleeding or anything, right?” He gets up. “And could you sit down for a second over there? I’m going to try and run a blood test to make sure there isn’t anything in your system that can cause long-term issues.”

You do as asked, settling into a proper chair. “Not that I know of. My head hurts, though.”

“Where?”

You gesture to the back of your head. “That’s probably part of why I can’t remember everything that clearly.”

He pulls up a chair, grabbing a syringe from a box. “Alright,” he admitted, “I’m still not amazing at this, so if you have bruising, I’m sorry.” He holds his hand out. “Arm.”

The process of him drawing blood from your arm is not a smooth one, but it is not unforgivably unpleasant. He puts the blood into a vial, sticks it in his centrifuge, and claims that he will be able to get proper results in approximately three hours. Until then, he suggests, it is not a terrible idea for you to have some food and drink while he goes and grabs your things; you insist that this is unnecessary, but he is already out of the door and back into the Shellraiser before you can say much.

You sign quietly as he leaves. ‘I don’t even think that phone is his.’ You slide the lab door open, slightly— and you can take solace in slightly— limping towards the kitchen. ‘On an unrelated note, holy fucking shit, I have a boyfriend.’

“Are you alright?”

You freeze at the entryway. “Uh, yeah.”

“You sure?” Leo walks past you into the kitchen, pulling down a tin from one of the cupboards. “You look all banged up.”

You follow him in, leaning on the island as you discretely catch your breath. You are too skittish, now. “Yeah.” You chuckle. “Your girlfriend’s just strong.”

He pauses. “Wait, you had a run-in with Karai? Actually?”

“What do you mean, actually?” You lean on your arm. 

He turns to face you. “Donnie mentioned it as he was running out. What did she want with you?”

“Don’t remember.” You sigh. “She drugged me. I don’t remember anything.”

“She what?”

“Drugged me. You didn’t deny the girlfriend thing.”

He ignores you. “Are you alright?”

You shrug. “I feel crappy, but not more so than typical. Your brother’s running a blood test to make sure there’s nothing lethal in my system.”

Sapphire eyes bore into you. You do not typically spend time with the eldest brother, preferring to hang out with the younger members of the family. You have never noticed how intense his stare is. 

You clear your throat awkwardly. “Leo?”

“Sorry.” He does not sound it. “Lost in thought.” He turns back to the cabinets, pulling down a tin. “I came out here to make tea. Do you want some?”

“So late?” You perk up at the idea of not having the vague taste of blood and vomit in your mouth. “Will you sleep?”

He nods. “It has a bit of caffeine, but it’s not coffee-strong or anything.”

“Then sure.” You start to rise. “Need me to do anything.”

“You can grab the cups if you’d like.” He points to another cabinet. “Bottom shelf.”

You do. The cups are taken from your hands, filled, and dumped into a kettle. The whole process, containing entirely too many steps to someone as unbothered by that sort of thing as you, seems incredibly tedious, but you suppose that is half the appeal, the ritual. He explains, with a fervor not dissimilar to his brother’s, the reason behind his doing what he was doing, how you can not brew green teas at a boil, how portioning works, and all the little details of the process. 

“And I take it,” you cut in as he takes a breath, “you learned all this from your father?”

“Of course.” The tea is made, cups are set down. He watches you expectantly. “Have some.”

You take a tentative sip. It is better than what you had with his father, although, you suppose, that has more to do with the fact that it’s warm. “It’s good.”

“I know, right?” He takes a sip.

A few moments pass, the two of you quietly draining your respective cups. 

You set yours down. “If you don't mind me asking, why are you up so late?”

“Donnie isn’t back for the night,” he shrugs. “It’s the responsible thing to do, to make sure he gets home safe. Where did he run off to?”

“Just to grab some of my clothes.” You rub the back of your neck. “They know where I live, now.”

“They?”

“The Foot, I’m pretty sure.” You stare down into your cup. “The only person I told where I was going was the guy I was meeting and a classmate of mine. I don’t frequent the area, so the logical conclusion is that they followed me from somewhere. Also, my window was open.”

He nods. “So you’re staying here, then?”

You nod.

“With Donnie?”

You nod again. “Do you mind!”

“Not at all.” He takes another sip from his tea. “What you two do is none of my business. I asked because the couch isn’t exactly comfortable.”

“It’s also not a couch,” you agree. “They’re wrestling mats on a concrete step.”

“Speaking of, though…” he swallows. “You mentioned having a thing for Karai, before. I take it that’s thoroughly extinguished?”

You snort. “Dude,” you giggle, “bros before hoes. I would never do that to you.”

He blinks. “What?”

“You’re totally into her.” You lean against your hand. “I think she’s hot, but that doesn’t mean I’d ever even consider going after her.” 

This seems to be something of a surprise to him. “Really?”

You nod. “Obviously.”

“That’s… incredibly considerate.”

“That’s just called not being a scumbag.” You wave it off. “I’d never really consider it.”

“Never really or never?”

“I said what I said.”

“But actually,” he chuckles, “are you over it?”

You laugh. “I think the drugging is a bit of a deal-breaker, and you are free to quote me on that.”

“Hey, you can never be too sure.”

“Fair, fair.” You swallow the last few drops from the cup. “Thanks for the tea.”

“Thank you for the company.” He smiles. “You and I need to talk more.”

You nod in agreement. “This was indeed a very pleasant conversation.”

“Now that I have you, though, mind if I ask you something?”

You shrug, leaning against the island. “Shoot.”

He takes a moment to articulate what he’s trying to say. “What are your intentions with my brother?”

“What do you mean by intentions?”

He laces his fingers together. “You and Donatello are… close.” He glances off. “Closer than any of us are to you, I mean, apart from maybe Mikey.”

You nod in understanding. “So you want to make sure I’m not just messing with him,” you guess. 

“Kinda?” He sighs. “It’s just that we’re all a bit new to interacting with new people in general, so none of us are great at picking up social stuff, ya know?” He looks back at you. “We don’t think you’re a bad person or anything, and I’m not accusing you of anything, but if you are trying to start something with him beyond friendship, it would be nice to know.”

‘Funny you should mention that.’ You rest your head on your hand. “Leo,” you smile wearily, the tea not being particularly good at waking you up, “I literally just had a conversation with your brother about this exact thing.”

You think his jaw may have gone a little slack from that statement. 

You continue. “I’m not going to explain what we talked about. That’s not my place.” You stand up properly. “But I can assure you that the situation has been handled to some degree. You do not need to worry.”

“Donnie had a conversation with you about your guys’ feelings?” His voice is oddly light. “Actually?”

You nod, placing your hands behind your back. “We had a heart to heart.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

He blinks. “Huh.” He stands up properly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I assumed that was going to be harder.”

“Your dad already pulled me aside, to be fair.” You try unsuccessfully to hide your amusement.

“But still.” He looks over at you. “He told you about how he feels about you?”

“Mhm.”

“And whatever your decision was, you were cool with it.”

“Yup.”

He laughs. “I know he’s my brother and all, but… wow , actually?”

“If you ask me ten more times,” you assure him, “my decision will not change.”

“Well then,” he places his hands on the counter, “good for you guys, I guess.”

“Thanks.” You have no idea why he finds this so surprising, but who are you to rain on his parade? The rumble of an engine stops your heart momentarily. “That’s your brother, I’m guessing.”

“So it is.” He rinsed off his dishes, putting them back away. “I’ll see you in the morning, then?”

You nod, waving as the two of you part ways. “See ya.” You quickly clean your cup, sliding it back into place before stumbling off to meet him.

Donnie beats you to the door. “I used a trash bag.”

“Thank you.” You take it from him, slinging the bag— small, still; you need to go shopping— over your shoulder. “Fitting, too.”

“Why?”

You shrug, starting towards his room. “They’re all messed up.”

“They are?”

“Before,” you explain, only barely stumbling as you spin to face him, “they weren’t all torn up.”

“I guess.” He fiddled with his hands, following. “But trash is kinda harsh.”

“It’s not.” You smile wearily. “This was the nicest thing I own. Speaking of,” you reach his door, “do you mind if I change?”

You. Changing. In his room. It takes him a couple of seconds. “Oh, yeah.” He takes a step away from the door carefully. “It’s all good. Just, uh—“

“I’ll make sure to let you know when I’m done. And I won’t take over your space.” You slide open the door, pointedly dropping your things in a free corner for him to see, and slide it back in place. 

He leans his back against the door. “I did the test, by the way.”

“Yeah?” Your voice is only slightly muffled by the door. “Am I dying?”

“Not tonight you aren’t. Not at an excessively high rate.”

“Hell yeah.”

He clears his throat. “So,” he hesitates, “to clarify, what are we, now?”

The shuffling of plastic pauses. “What do you wanna be?”

“I don’t really know.” He keeps his voice down, rubbing the back of his neck. “Do you want to be anything?”

“Well, we don’t have to have a label if you don’t want.”

The idea was almost laughable, him not wanting to have a clear idea of where their relationship was at. “I’d prefer it if we did.”

You slip open the door a crack. “I’m honestly too tired to come up with a specific set of wording.” It slides completely open as he takes a step away. “But, if we’re doing the whole relationship thing, I’d personally prefer something mutually exclusive. Is that alright with you?”

You are dressed in a pair of gym shorts and a tank-top, the same thing you had worn last time he was over. “Could you elaborate a bit?”

“Gladly.” You step aside for him, your shoes neatly lined up next to the threshold. “I don’t date anyone else, and neither do you for the duration of our relationship. If either of us does, then the relationship is terminated. Do you agree to those terms?”

“Who else am I going to date?”

You smile. “It’s not out of a lack of trust for you, Hamato. It’s just a formality.”

“Then yeah,” he nods, stepping past you, “I’m more than happy being the only one you date.”

“Excellent.” You slide the door back closed. “Then we are dating.”

“If you want to.”

“I do.”

His heart flips. “Than yeah, we’re dating.”

“Gotcha.” It is cute, seeing you act so professionally about something like this. “Would you like to discuss intimacy right now or deal with it if or when it comes up?”

“Intimacy as in?” He swallows. 

“Everything past what we’ve already done.”

“Then maybe after we’ve slept.”

You nod. “Then, Hamato,” your bruised face stretches into a smile, outstretching your hand for him to shake, “you officially have a girlfriend. Congratulations.”

His hand shakes a bit in yours; you squeeze it gently. “And you have a boyfriend if you want it.”

“I do.” You walk over, sliding the lock shut gently. “By the way, since we’re a thing now, I think it appropriate to tell you that your blush is absolutely stunning.”

What are words? Donatello cannot remember. 

You turn back towards him, pointing to your face, now gently flushed yourself. “You don’t quite turn red,” you explain, “but you turn a different color when you blush. It looks pink compared to your face, but I think that, if I were to paint you, it would be closer to yellow than green, since green and red make yellow.

He feels light-headed. “So long as we’re being honest,” he slurs, “I think your eyes are the most gorgeous things I’ve ever seen.”

Your face is flushing darker than he is. 

“And,” he adds, grinning, “I think your dress would’ve looked really nice on you if it wasn’t covered in blood.”

You snort quietly. “You’re too kind.”

“I’m not.” Tentatively, he cups your face with his hand, spurred on by you. “You’re really pretty.”

You leaning into him does not go unnoticed. “My face looks like it got hit with a frying pan.”

“Then call it the halo effect.”

You smile again, your skin warm against him. “Must be an incredibly bright halo.”

“Your smile’s bright.”

You have to take a second to articulate a smooth-sounding sentence. “You’re really good at the complimenting thing.”

“I’m really not. There’s just a lot to compliment.”

‘Will I have to get used to this?’ Your face feels incredibly hot, words caught in your throat. You are not exactly sure what to say to that. “I- uh,” you stutter, scrambling to match him. “I think you’re really smooth.”

“You do?”

“Yeah.” You clear your throat. “I mean, you’re making it hard for me to talk, so you must be doing something right.”

He never thought that he would be in a situation where he was the one making you stutter and blush. There is a foreign bit of pride that comes with it, he notes, satisfaction from making you squirm a little. He does not mind that at all.

Your hand reaches up, resting on top of his. “Is it time for bed?”

“Huh?”

“Bed.” You nod towards it. “I’m still doing the school thing, you know. I’ve just got to do it via the subway, now.”

“Oh, right.” He looks back at it, then at you. “Same way as before?”

“Fine by me.” You hold his hand for a second before letting it fall from your face. “If I wake you up tomorrow, I apologize.”

“Don't worry about it.” He sits down on his bed, you beside him as he starts to unwrap the wraps around his left hand. “I’ve got to get up early, anyway.”

To his surprise, you slide off the bed, down onto your knees. You start undoing his knee pads. “Do you mind?”

He looks down at you, then stares at his hand. “Not at all,” he nods, voice tight. “Have at it.”

You do, fumbling hands helping in the effort to get him ready for bed. It takes longer for you to do it than it would have taken him, but the odds of him making any sort of comment on it were nonexistent. Who was he to protest to a gorgeous girl helping him out of his things?  After a bit of struggling, the two of you manage to get him undressed and unmasked. His things are folded and placed by his bedside on a cardboard box, the two of you settle beside one another, your legs carefully intertwining with his. 

He falls asleep first. You had noticed the first night, and you remember now with your head against his chest; as he exhales, he makes a quiet sort of whistling sound, not quite a snore, but a noticeable little noise that acts as a quiet reminder that he is there next to you. 

Your eyes slide shut. In the quiet darkness, it is hard not to think, not just about the newest development in your social life— you are still trying to properly accept that you have a boyfriend now— but your life leading up to this. Your fingers once again gently trace the indentations in his shell, once, twice over, finding comfort in recognizing the way the geometric pieces of plastron merge across his front. You would not have noticed if you were not as familiar as you were now with the shape of his form; you can feel with scarred flesh the various scratches and bumps, where and how his torso must bend despite the hard bone. 

He was right. You know he was, when he said that you five were lacking in regards to time. You were, too. This— this being any sort of formal attachment beyond friendship— will likely end poorly for the both of you by nature of both of your existences. Still, lying there next to him, it is hard not to appreciate how safe you feel next to him, how good it feels to not be alone. ‘If I can do what little I can well,’ you reason, more for yourself than the boy sleeping next to you, ‘maybe I can justify the risk. Maybe I can let this happen.’ It is with this thought in mind that you fall asleep. 

If that is all you can do, you sincerely hope that you can live with that. 

Chapter Text

“Get the fuck away from me!”

She slams you into the wall, your head pounding before you are yanked out of the way. Karai, currently trying to wriggle out of Leo’s arms, looks considerably worse than she did before, her left eye covered in bandages, one forearm missing more mass than the other. You had not gotten a clear look at her during the struggle; you had presumed— and you can see now that it is an unfounded assumption— that you were the only one who was left worse for wear. 

Currently, she is staring you down with murder in her eyes. It would be hot if you were not terrified.

She flings herself forward, using her legs on the smooth wall as leverage and dragging Leo with her. “You have the nerve to challenge me and run away like a coward?”

“You fucking drugged me!” You almost laugh at the ridiculousness of the question. “You tried to kidnap me! What other possible reaction should I have had?”

“To face me properly!”

“I don’t really want to do that!”

“Mikey, no!” Raphael is momentarily distracted from his helping his brothers by his youngest picking a cardboard box off the concrete floor and trying to slice it open with a nonexistent fingernail. “Put it down!”

“It’s a box.” Giving up on that particular method, he tries to get his fingers under the tape. “What’s it going to do? Explode?”

The fight is momentarily forgotten as everyone’s attention is directed towards him and the bodies of every other ninja in the room are thrown at the box in an attempt to get it away from Mikey. It is only after almost half a minute of wrestling for it do they realize what you can surmise from your tentative distance; the box is decidedly not exploding. There is a momentary eruption of yelling as the Hamatos unanimously scold the youngest amongst them for trying to open a strange box— as if they would not do it themselves, you cannot help but smile dryly— before even considering its contents.

You dissociate a lot more than you used to now. You did not do it much before ending up here. It is hard not to in stressful situations like these, and being locked in a ten-foot by ten-foot box of solid concrete, in your mind, counts as stressful. The room is lit, you note passively, by lighting not dissimilar to that in a storage unit hallway, tubes of electricity that hums overhead with not nearly enough force to fill quite the whole space. Nostalgic and unnerving. ‘Oh joy.’

You are snapped out of it by the box being plopped down in front of you. You had not noticed that you had sat down, absentmindedly wiping the blood off your lip with the back of your hand. “Here.” The second oldest brother kicked the box closer still to you. “You know what’s happening?”

You shake your head. “If I did,” you promise, reopening the flaps, “I would have a plan by now to get us out. I don’t, so I don’t.”

Donatello sits down beside you, looking over your shoulder as you start looking over the contents. “Letters?”

“Looks it.” Your breathing slows as you turn them over in your hand. The colors of the envelopes are the first thing you notice: they are incredibly obnoxious. Each letter is labeled in an odd chicken scratch with at least one name, and with a quiet focus— you have always loved this sort of menial work— you sort them. You discover, through this, that there is at least one letter for each person in the room, a stack with both Donnie’s and your name on them, “All”, and a stack with no name at all. Only one is plain white, and has the word “Instructions” written on the front. “And this isn’t the Foot’s doing?”

“I wouldn’t be here if it were.” She exhaled slowly, crouching at the other end of the room. “The handwriting isn’t mine, nor my father’s.”

“Awesome.” You turn one of the letters over, a vibrant orange with white text. “And it’s too messy to be Kraang, right? Then who wrote it?”

“Does it matter?” Raph took his stack, flipping through them. “What’s in them?”

Leonardo leans down, picking up the only plain envelope. “Probably nothing good.” Breath held, he carefully unseals it, taking out the piece of paper neatly folded inside and reading it aloud. “Answer, and you get to leave.”

Raph looks over his shoulder, confirming. “Is that all?”

“That’s all.”

“Answer what? The letters?”

“Presumably.” You pick your stack up, flipping through them

“But with what?” Donnie flips through his, looking the handwriting over closely. “We don’t have paper and pen to write back.”

You shrug. “Verbally? Is there a microphone anywhere?”

“Why should we do what a stupid note says?” Raph crosses his arms. “It’s a note.”

Leonardo begins to carefully open his first envelope. “We don’t have another lead. We just have to answer carefully, if it’s sensitive information.”

“Or we could lie.”

“Karai,” you sigh, “we know nothing about the people who brought us here. Tells exist, intent exists; they could probably figure out if we were lying.”

“Then what do we do if it’s stuff we don’t want them to know?” The hothead is wrinkling his letters from how he is holding them. 

You pick one of the letters— an annoying orange color— and set the others in front of you. “We answer carefully.”

The eldest brother pulls his paper out— thankfully less obnoxiously colored than his envelope, reads it. His brow furrows. “Karai,” he looks again to confirm, “you don’t know where we live, right?”

“If I did I would have killed o— your father already, yes.”

“Then why is it asking about this?”

You glance over his shoulder at the note, which reads as follows:

Leo, you seemed very surprised about Donnie actually being open with his feelings about Y/N. Has Donnie always had a hard time expressing his feelings? (Also, what’s your favorite type of tea?)

—Randomtheaterkid23AJ

You also have to read it a couple of times over, not quite sure what to make of it. It is entirely useless information to anyone that is not in your immediate social circle. There is absolutely no value in knowing, besides maybe tempting him into drinking something poisonous. 

Leo seems similarly confused. “Why would someone ask this?”

“Great question.” You glance over at Karai. “Do you care about what kind of tea Leo likes?”

She shrugs. “It would make me less hesitant to kill him depending on the answer.”

He shifts slightly away from her. “I like kukicha when we can get it,” he says carefully. “It’s very pleasant.”

She considers his answer for a second, sighs, relaxes. “That’s a fair answer,” she supposes, crossing her arms. “Not a good one, but not egregious.”

“Thank you.” He relaxes again. “And what’s your favorite?”

“Sincha.”

“Of course it is.”

“What about the other part?” You fiddle with the laces on your sneakers. 

“Well,” he shrugs, glancing over at his taller brother, “he’s just… how do I put it?”

“A pussy?”

He glares. “Thank you, Raphael.” He goes on. “He’s just not very confident as far as romance is concerned. None of us are that well versed; you two are the first girls we’ve met in person.” He crisscrosses his legs. “So I just didn’t expect him to be so open about it.”

“Wait.”  Raph puts his hand up. “Wait. What was the question?”

“Why I was confused that Donnie—“

“He confessed ?”

“You didn’t know?”

“He did?” Mikey’s head shoots up to look at the group, previously occupied with trying to stack his letter into a tower incredibly unsuccessfully. “When?”

“A couple days ago.”

You cross your arms, slowly sinking in your concrete seat as the two boys lose it. 

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Raph demands. 

Leo puts his hands up defensively. “I figured you knew!”

“I hate to interrupt this riveting discussion about your brother’s love life,” Karai pipes up, “but we have quite a few letters to go through and I, for one, would like to get out of here as soon as possible.”

“Well said.” You pick up one of your letters. 

“Don’t talk to me.”

“Gotcha.” You tear the purple envelope open. 

How far/long do you think you and Donnie’s relationship will go/last?

You slip it into your jacket pocket. “A while. Hopefully, a long while, provided one of us don’t die.”

“What was the question?”

You wave it off. “Just something about baking,” you subtly show the boy next to you. “Nothing important.”

He reads it. His eyes widen as he looks back up at you. “Really?”

You smile nervously. “I hope so.” You fold it back up, slipping it into your pocket. “Your turn.”

He, similarly embarrassed by his brothers’ incredulousness, opens one of his. 

So Donnie, you didn’t used to be super physically affectionate, but since you’ve been with Y/N, you’ve been getting more touchy-feely? What’s that about?

—Randomtheaterkid23AJ

He reads it over, glances around. His face flushes.

“What is it?” Mikey looks back from his and Raph’s interrogation of their eldest brother, trying to read over his shoulder. “What’s it— hey!”

He swallows the paper dryly, cringing at the sensation. “Nothing important.” He smiles tightly, trying to calm down. “The answer was that things changed and that’s all that there is to say about it.”

You grin. “Didn't look like nothing,” you tease, sliding over next to him. “What did it say?”

“Nothing important,” he repeats, blushing harder. “Nothing of note whatsoever.”

“You sure?” Closer. 

“Totally.”

You sigh, shrug. “Whatever.” You lean against his arm. You look up at the others. “Who wants—“

“ The feelings were mutual?”

You blink. “Yes?”

What proceeds is a lot of indignant shouting that lasts a time. The words you can pick up are “what,” “how,” and “why”. You do not attempt to answer any of them, instead reaching for your stack and pulling out another letter. 

Y/N, do you ever feel like since you’re changing the course of the future for the turtles since you’ve seen the show, that even more dangerous outcomes will happen instead?

—Randomtheaterkid23AJ

“That’s the person who wrote my letter too.” Donnie reads over your head, pointedly ignoring his brothers.

You look up at them. “I’m allowed to like who I like,” you say simply. “Don’t make it a thing.” You think the question over a second as they recompose themselves. “Yes.” Your hand rests on your boyfriend’s. “All the time.” You look up at them. “I’m trying my best, but I am incredibly afraid that isn’t good enough. But that’s all I can really do.”

“What was the question?” 

You toss Mikey the letter to pass around. “Who wants to go next?”

Karai is already reading her letter. Her eyes darken. Silently, she slips the piece of paper into her shirt, letting her arms fall at her sides as she looks into the corner. 

Leo looks over at her. “What did it say?”

“Nothing relevant.” She shrugs nonchalantly. “Someone named Frosty Sky wants to know about a personal relationship of mine.”

“Shimigami?”

“Shinigami,” she corrects. “And no, a different—“ she stops. “How do you—?”

“Don’t ask questions that you don’t want the answers to, M.” You smile sweetly, enjoying her twitch of discomfort. “But whatever. What’s the answer?”

She does not consider it long. “Absolutely nothing.” She waves it off. “I can separate my work and personal life just fine. In this case, any connection we have is more predatory than anything; if circumstances changed between us, then that would be all that there is to it. The relationship would likely remain the same.”

“How informative of you.” You lean away from him to grab another letter. “Raph, wanna open one of yours, or would you like an unmarked letter?”

He crosses his arms. “Everyone’s already lying about what’s in them,” he shrugs. “Let’s hear one of his.”

“Or her’s.” You pick a blank envelope. “Or theirs. We don’t know.”

“It could also be a group,” Donnie adds helpfully. 

“Exactly.” You rip it open, sliding it out. You open your mouth to continue. 

After a moment or two, Donnie shakes your shoulder. “Y/N?” The blood is draining from your face. “Are you—“ He stops, his eyes focusing on the paper. 

Can Y/N perhaps be kidnapped? (successfully this time. It’s cool if not, but I’m kinda a sucker for that kind of stuff:)

—Dynamic_derp

Seeing as she seems entirely incapable of thinking ahead, I would be genuinely surprised if she didn’t end up getting kidnapped. I have an idea for that, actually; maybe not in this volume, but I’ll see what I can do. 

The letter is not signed. 

You finally speak. “Glad to see people are looking out for my well-being,” you smile weakly. “And glad to see that people are willing to provide services like these.”

He looks over at Karai, unsuccessfully staring her down. “You’re sure that this isn’t your doing?”

“Donatello,” she sighs boredly, “if I were capable of kidnapping her at this time, she would be in at least two pieces by now.” 

You place the paper down on the floor, folding it to keep your hands busy. You were shaking ever so slightly. “Does someone else want to go?”

“I can.” Raph tears his open, reading it aloud. “Raph, I’ve noticed you’ve been very skeptical of Y/N, and that you seem to be warming up to her.” He takes this opportunity to roll his eyes. “What are your thoughts on her?” He folds it up. “Same one as the first letter.”

You lean forward, resting your head on your hand. “Yeah, Raph,” you smile, forcing your fear down for now. “What do you think of me?”

“You’re annoying.” He shrugs, ignoring your mock indignance. “But I don’t think you mean us harm. Even if you did,” he smirks, “you’re too weak to take any of us.”

You stick your tongue out at him. “Dick.” 

“Hey,” he laughs, “they were asking for honesty, right?”

“Don’t you have anything nice to say?”

He thinks for a moment. “You aren’t more annoying than Mikey,” he sighs. “I’ll give you that.”

“Hey!”

You smile at Mikey’s outburst. “I’ll take it,” you laugh. “Hey, we’ve got a while, still. I could still win an ‘okay,’ I bet.”

“Don’t push it.”

“Whatever.” Your gaze flickers back down to the letter resting at your side. You shake your head; ‘It’s not set in stone,’ you try and convince yourself. ‘It’s just a letter.’

“For that comment,” the youngest boy picks his letter up, “I’ll answer mine.” He rips it open, tossing the discarded letter onto the floor. He grins. “That isn’t a fair question.” He hands it to Leo to read. “That’s like asking a parent who their favorite child is.”

“It’s about pranks,” Leo explains. “They want to know his favorite prank.”

“How come you guys get all the easy questions?” Donnie crosses his arms. “We get really personal ones and you guys get ones about your special interests. This is rigged.”

“It is,” Raph agrees. “In our favor. Suck it.”

Mikey thinks for a moment. “To answer the question… I mean, you can’t really go wrong with water-based pranks, but if I had to pick…” he snaps his fingers. “Shaving cream in the cabinets.”

You blink. “Why?”

“Nobody knows for a solid while that anything’s wrong.” He grins. “They’re lured into a false sense of security, then bam!” You jump. “Shaving cream.”

“It gets everywhere, though.”

“That’s the price you have to pay for art.”

“Wonderful.” Raphael crouches down, looking at the remaining letters. “They’re all for you two, now.”

“Maybe our kidnapper’s just a voyeur.” You pick up another letter, purple this time, carefully checking its contents. You blink. “Okay, this one’s odd.”

Donnie leans over. “What does it say?”

You show him. 

Can you please include more adorable fluff between Y/N and Donnie?

—Sakura

If the situation arises, yeah. I feel a little bad for putting them through all this, but it makes for a good story, and I’m not about to change the entire tone because of guilt. Still, an effort will be made. 

“A voyeur with a god complex,” you correct yourself. 

“That is weird.” He takes the letter, reading it again. “Maybe it’s confirmation of that one interpretation. The simulation thing?”

“What?” Raph walks over. “What does it say?”

Donnie reads it aloud reluctantly. “Fluff, in this context,” he explains, “I believe refers to meaningless niceness.”

“It’s a writing term,” you elaborate. “Like a fluff piece or fic. Sweet, wholesome, feel-good.”

He crosses his arms, going back to his place. “I’m confused. How come one of them wants you kidnapped and the other one wants you to do whatever ‘adorable fluff’ means?”

You shrug. “I don’t know, Raphael. Why don’t you ask our kidnapper?”

Donatello picks up another letter, reads it. 

One of my favorite tropes is the smart guys who info dumps, and the partner who will sit there and listen, even though they don’t understand half of what’s being said, because they just love hearing them talk. Every time that happens here, I feel like squealing, because you just do it so well ❤️

It is an absolute treasure of a trope. Not nearly done enough. It’s a good deal on both sides; the receiver of passionate rants gets taken in by how passionate their partner is, and the giver just gets someone to talk to about it. 10/10 shit. 

“Do you understand what I’m talking about half the time?”

You think about it. “Yes,” you say slowly. “Listening to you talk is similar to listening to someone talk in your second language; you understand the gist, but it’s sometimes hard to follow.” You smile. “But I do like listening to you. Your voice is very pleasant to listen to.”

Raphael gags. “Please, save it for after.”

“You’re just jealous,” you jab. “When you get a girl you get way worse than us. Can it.”

“ When ?”

“Raph gets a girl?”

“Focus, people.” You pick up another letter. “This one’s to both of us.”

I’m wondering how Y/N would react to the research Donnie did into the… compatibly of their, uh… parts. Because I feel like he’d be over here mortified, while Reader’s just kinda secretly pleased they hypothetically could be together in *that* way.

He would die. End of discussion. Her reaction would not even matter; he would collapse into a puddle and probably kill himself.

You blink. “Compatibility of parts?”

Donatello is frozen in place. 

You look up at him. “What;” you ask as the life leaves his eyes, “like pairing something?”

“Would you like me to kill you for you?” Raphael seems decidedly more entertained by the conversation that he is.

“Nah,” he mumbles. “All good. It’s fine. I’m fine. That’s a lie,” he admits easily, “but if I say it enough it might be willed into being.”

“Is it something bad?” 

“Depends on who you ask.”

Michelangelo is quietly losing his mind. Karai seems as confused as you are, and Leo seems to almost pity the two of you. “Do I want to know?”

“Great question.” He looked down, fiddling with his hands. “No idea.”

“Then I won’t ask.” You leaned back.

“Okay. Next letter.”

“Don’t—“

He didn’t even let Raph get the word out. “Next letter.”

Out of every turtle which is your favorite? (I would just like to say I completely thought your book was a joke at first, but I am fully invested in the story- I don’t get that from a lot of authors, I’m pleasantly impressed ♡︎)

-Rayonix

Depends on the version. In the 2012 version, it’s Donnie, even though he doesn’t get much of a character arc (which I will absolutely be remedying). 80s, it’s Raph. Rise, it’s tied between Leo or Donnie. 03, it’s Mikey, from what I’ve seen. Bay, it’s none of them, with Mikey being the lesser evil. While this being taken as a joke was not my intention, I cannot help but feel some sort of pride that I was able to get you invested. I hope that this lives up to your expectations.

“So we know whoever is keeping us here is an author.” Donnie passed the letter to his brothers. “They are—“

“Versions?” Karai stares at him. “What does it mean by versions?”

“Another example,” you roll your eyes, “of a question you would not like an answer to, M. Chill.”

“I’m absolutely certain I want to know what that’s about, Y/N.”

“You aren’t.”

“We literally have one more of these stupid letters to do before we get to go home.” Raph shoves the last envelope in Donnie’s face, another obnoxiously orange one with both your names on it. “If you don’t read it, I will.”

He could not have grabbed it faster. Moving away from the rest of his family carefully, he opens it up so that the two of you are the only ones able to see what it says.  

Hey guys have you secretly thought about doing a little more than kissing? If so, would you?

-TheGoldenRose745

You take a deep breath, sigh. “Can we not answer this?”

“According to the letter,” supplies Leo, “you have to.”

“Donnie, are you okay?” Mikey leans down to look at his brother, who looks about ready to jump out of a window. 

“I’m not, no.”

“Cool, cool.” He stands back up, making an effort not to read the letter himself. 

“To answer the question,” you lean against your knees, “because this will not be less painful the longer we beat around the bush, yes, and I would need to know more before I would try.

Your boyfriend’s eyes widen. “What?”

“I told you before how I thought of you,” you say simply, picking at your fingernails. “There are some details we would need to iron out before, but yeah.”

The words die in his mouth. 

“What about you?” You look up at him through your eyelashes. “What’s your answer?”

“I…” He glances off. “I mean, it’s not— well, it’s not like— well— uh—“

“First part.” You turn to face him properly. “Yes or no?”

“Yes.”

“Second?”

“Yes.”

“There you go.” You lean back against the wall. “It’s over and done.”

Everyone waits for about ten seconds for something to happen. 

Raph breaks the silence. “So? What now?”

“I dunno.” You close your eyes tiredly, leaning your head back against the wall. “This wasn’t in the source material.”

“Then what do we do?”

“We could start checking for cracks in the wall.” You hear Donnie get up next to you. “We aren’t suffocating, and the light’s electrical, so there has to be some sort of opening.”

There’s a general agreement amongst them as they search. 

You do not help. 

When you open your eyes again, they are gone. You are sitting on the floor of the kitchen, legs crossed in front of you with your back against the cabinet. In the background, you hear some stupid show playing, meant to stimulate you enough to stay awake to watch the oven. The thing inside it— you cannot quite tell what it is through the tinted glass— is taking too long, you know. You wish that it would just cook already so you can go to bed. 

And then you hear it. Footsteps. 

You have no idea why or how you know it’s Karai. Maybe it’s just how light they are against the floorboards, or maybe it’s because you hadn’t heard the door open, but your first, immediate thought, is to go tell your parents, to hide with them in their room. Limbs dragging your body down, you push yourself up, crawling down the hallway to let them know what’s happening, and even though you can barely move, you manage to get to their door, to push it open, to let out a hushed whisper before the door is slammed shut with reassurances coming from inside that things are going to be okay. You try again for the door handle, try to explain that, no, they don’t understand, she’s dangerous, but it’s already melting from the heat, and as your heartbeat pounds in your ears, you bang on the door to let you in, you hear her behind you, feel her grab you, kicking and screaming with some metallic taste in your mouth back into the kitchen smelling of burnt sugar. She grabs you, slams you against the counter, leaves you limp on the floor before going back to their room, and though your body feels like it’s on fire, you try to get back up, because if they went this time it would absolutely be your fault. You try so hard, fingernails digging under the floorboards to drag yourself forward before hands drag you back, and you are smothered by the smell of burning sugar and smoke. 

You shut your eyes tight, falling limp against the floor as cuts run up your body, knives tearing your front to shreds as you slip back under. Your last thought before you lose yourself is, oddly enough, is to what, exactly was in the oven that smelled so bad. 

—-

Your eyes snap open at the smell. 

You do not remember falling asleep. How you fell asleep is not your problem, at the moment. The most important thing was the fire. In an instant, you are out of the cot, slamming the door open as you scramble out into the hallway in a bleary panic. Your bare feet scramble for traction as you rush towards the smell, waving it out of your mouth as you try to find the source. 

The scene that awaits you is strange. 

Donatello is sat in front of a metal dome, Michelangelo trying to block the stream of smoke coming out the top with his hands. Raphael, meanwhile, is staring at his brother, currently bound and muzzled with pieces of rope and chains.

Mikey is the first to spot you. “Oh, hey!” He grins. “Sup?”

“What the fuck is going on?”

“Funny story!” He yanks his hand away from the smoke, now billowing up to a presumed air duct. “You know that thing you told us not to do?”

Your heart pounds in your throat at the smell. It’s not just smoke; it smells almost rotten, like bad meat set alight. You cover your mouth with your shirt. “What?”

“The egg thing?”

You cough. “The lab thing?”

“Yeah! We grabbed it anyways.”

“Stop moving!” Raphael is trying unsuccessfully to stick his brother, a needle in one hand as he tries to keep him still. His brother squirms under him, snapping at his junior with covered teeth.

You look around for a window to open up, briefly forgetting the exact circumstances of your current residence. “And the fire?”

“Disposal.” Donnie looks up. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“How much longer?”

He looks back at the dome. “Ten minutes?”

“And you couldn’t do this outside because?”

“I had already made the fire and it was too late to move it.”

Your gaze falls on Leo. “And what are you doing?”

“Blood test.” Raph finally got him pinned by his neck, effectively straddling him as he finally got the needle in. “For the shot.”

“Of course.” Your smile is not a gleeful one under your shirt. “Of course.” You look down at yourself, back at them. “Need any help with anything?”

“We got this.” He tossed the syringe to Mikey. “Let the ninjas handle it.”

“Do not throw glass things!”

“Can it, Donnie.”

‘The smell isn’t going to clear out anytime soon.’ You can already feel the bile starting to rise in your throat. “Then I’m going to go.” You run back, grabbing your sneakers and your bag before leaving. “Call me if you need me or when the smell leaves.”

You have no idea where you are going.

When you get back up to the surface, when you had gone into the first place that sold food and ate it in a place with a lot of foot traffic and potential witnesses, you realize that it is your birthday today. You are officially sixteen years old and celebrating your first birthday without your family. 

‘It’s not like I’m alone.’ You take a bite of your sandwich. You had forgotten, had never mentioned it to any of the people you knew now. They would not know it was your birthday. You were hardly going to bring it up. It was not important, despite the cultural implications and your personal feelings on birthdays. Adults celebrate their birthdays quietly all the time, after all. 

You toss your sandwich bag into a nearby trash bin, start walking around. You have money. You are going to buy yourself something for your birthday.

Your first thought is to get a taser. It was a paranoia brought on by a dream, you knew, but a part of you could not help but have the distinct feeling of being watched. You do make an effort, but apparently, you cannot sell a taser to a minor, which you find unfortunate. The same goes for knives and pepper spray. You can buy a rape whistle, but you figure that would do you little good against ninjas. You consider buying a sex toy— you no longer live under your family’s roof— but apparently entering sex shops is not allowed for minors, despite what the internet has to say in the matter. You decide on a pair of combat boots with thick, heavy soles perfect for kicking people in self-defense. You grab a pint of ice cream from a pharmacy, eat it in an hour while listening to something or another, do a bit of homework— your handwriting is getting better, you note proudly— and still have some time left over before it gets dark. When the foot traffic moves, you move with it, always in clear sight of crowds of people, out in plain sight. Your fingers tug at your hair, smelling like the smoke and sewer, probably, but it is nice, feeling the sun against your skin, air cleaner than below ground, if only barely. 

You tug at the sleeves of your jacket, leaning forward to link your fingers together around your legs. You really should pull the plug and just delete social media from your phone; you always check the notifications, and you always feel bad whenever you do. It’s an addiction you never thought you’d have, looking back at the lives back home, unable to contact them, but one you loath to part from. And how can one worry about that when the air outside smells so much nicer than underground?

You think you feel eyes on you a few times. You ignore it. ‘Honestly,’ you think, getting up and passing by the largest man you have ever seen, ‘I must be going insane.’

Chapter Text

About two weeks ago, he had been talking with Raphael over some old movie they had found a while ago. Halloween was coming up, and while their father slept and their two brothers went out at the mention of it, he and Donnie watched The Haunting, never permitted to watch films like it when they were home, to Raph’s amused incredulity. “We risk our lives every day,” he had laughed, “and you’re scared of a movie from the sixties?” 

They were. 

So, they had sat, side by side, as the smaller woman on-screen— “An ingenue,” Donnie explained, not at all sure if he was right but parroting something you had said— slowly lost herself to the building. The conversation switched from the logistics of a house such as that to the concept of paranoia. 

“I wouldn’t lose my mind,” Raph had announced. “What’s the ghost gonna do?”

A scoff. “You say that,” he rolled his eyes, “but you don’t know. She was fine before.”

“It’s a house.” The older boy rolled his eyes. “Creepy stuff happened there. So what?”

“That’s not the point.” He leaned against his hand, occasionally glancing back at him. “It’s the isolation, the lack of trust in her own judgment, the gravity of any mistake she makes that’s supposed to be scary.”

He gestured at the television. “But this?” His back hit the cement as he leaned back. “Honestly, she’s freaking out worse than you do.”

He looked back at him. “I don’t freak out that often.”

A barking laugh. “That is a fucking lie.”

“Is not.” Heat rushed up his neck. “I can keep my cool.”

“I’ve seen you around her, man. I’m not stupid.”

He straightened up. “I’m not freaking out about her.”

“Yes,” he sighed, “you are.” He lets his head fall back. “Whenever she leaves, you get all weird with your phone.”

His voice rose an octave. “I do not!”

“Do too. You’re doing it right now.”

Donnie looks down at his hands. Sure enough, his phone is turned backwards and forwards in his hands, as if waiting for a call. He was. “It’s,” he failed to defend himself, “just because I like knowing where it is.”

“Sure.” He folded his legs onto the seat. “You know how many different ways there are for her to die? You aren’t going to get told as soon as it happens if you sit next to the phone all the time.” 

He stopped.

“I mean,” he continued, and Donnie swore he was just trying to get in his head, “she’s great at getting herself in bad situations. At least with this chick,” he pointed back to the screen, “it’s ghosts or some shit. I’m surprised you let her out of your sight, from how you act.”

Donnie takes a slow breath. “Raphael?”

He looks down at him. “Yeah?”

“I am painfully aware of that.” He smiled. “The cast? Great reminder.”

“So? Why do you?”

He sighed deeply. “Because keeping her underground all the time isn’t fair.”

“So?”

“I care about her, believe it or not.” He folded his arms around his stomach. “Besides, we are hardly able to get enough food for ourselves a lot of the time. I can’t exactly provide for her.”

“So—“

“I have, yeah.”

He leaned forward. He was not as good at studying people as Leo, but Donnie could feel the effort being made. “And you know—“

“Yup.” He popped the P. “That's another reason, the morality of it.”

“And if she was fine with it?”

He chose his words carefully. “Then I’d like to know she’s safe.” The movie is white noise, now, the images on the screen seemingly meaningless. “Why do you ask?”

“Curious is all.” He is glad his brother can identify, at least, the slight edge to his words. Of the four of them, he and Raph were the two worst at reading people, so it was not always any guarantee that he would pick up on it. 

“Why?”

He shrugged, finally looking back at the movie. “Just not sure it’s worth the effort.”

His eyes shifted back towards him. “Watch it.”

“Not what I mean.” 

“Then what do you mean?”

He thought for a moment. “It’s like worrying about the moon,” he said slowly, never the wordsmith. “It’s going to come, you know it’s going to, so why stress about it?”

“Because you can’t stop the moon.” His response is immediate. 

“And if Shredder himself went looking for her,” Raph replied, “or the Kraang came in the middle of the night, or she fell in front of a train or whatever, that you could stop?“

“I’ve got to believe so, yeah. Can we watch the movie already?”

“It’s called multitasking.”

“For you, maybe.” He tried to change the subject. “See, I’ve got no idea what’s happening now.”

“But if you know that you can’t stop everything—“

“There’s something to be said,” he glared, “about the benefits to hope, that believing that something will happen is good in its own right. Faith and all that. If we’re going to talk about this all day—“

“I’ll get off your back.” He put his hands up half-heartedly, went back to the movie. “Just asking is all.”

This line of conversation is not uncommon. It is for lack of a better thing to talk about, Donnie thought; it is easier to relax and think about something that might be feasible than talk about the serious, life-threatening stuff. He could hardly blame him for interrogating him. He knew that, if it had been he who was pining after some girl, he would have asked him all about it. It was something they had been raised to have interest in by their father and having the reality of a dream they had all considered fantastical fuels better conversation than the inevitable demise of their planet. Still, he wished he was not so curious. 

The movie continued. 

—

You are gone too long. 

At first, when he had brought this up to his brothers, the first thing they said was that he was being paranoid. It was not as if you did not leave the sewers every once and a while, by his inadvertent suggestion; humans require vitamin C to function. You may stay out for hours at a time, out with friends they do not know, for school, so as to not lose your place in the world above. None there would ever fault you for it, of course. If they had the option, they would likely do the same, and it is only by virtue of this that he, as scared for your safety as you are, that he makes an effort to trust you to come back. 

He texts you an hour after you leave, and you respond, for what that’s worth, as little as it is, something simple, a picture of the park. An hour after that, he texts again, the smell of rotting meat finally starting to disperse as his brother rests in his room, just to make sure you are still fine and healthy, to another response, an unenthusiastic— he chides himself for his reading into it— confirmation of your safety and a reminder to text you when the situation is sorted out. And when it is, when he tries texting you again— ‘The sun must be going down’— he receives another response, explaining that you are going to go back home for the night, that you would see him tomorrow. 

This is when he realizes something is wrong. 

From his lab, watching his phone with the door closed in some half-hearted attempt to keep the others from panicking as if he was the calm one, his first thought is to try tracking your location. While he does not have any sort of application installed on your phone that would facilitate this, he figures that tracking your IP address cannot be incredibly difficult, all things considered. He decides against it, hesitant to jump to his immediate inclination, that you were hurt. He does not want to believe something has happened to you. 

He waits another hour before calling, pacing around his laboratory, picking random pieces of nothing from the table, sanitizing equipment to keep his hands busy. He figures that is the simplest way to confirm or deny your safety. He calls three times, waiting five minutes— his eyes are screwed to the numbers on top of the screen, watching the seconds— between each attempt as to allow you a window of opportunity to respond.

He rips at absent hair, rubs at his face at the last ring, silently willing you to just pick up the phone, to give him some confirmation that you are not lost or gone or—

“Pick up,” he murmurs under his breath, heart beating in his throat as if that will get you to answer faster. It does not, of course; your number is read to him in an automated, bored woman’s voice, prompting him to leave a message, and this is when he starts panicking. 

He wants to go to your apartment, first, to check if you are there, just sleeping. He tries to, runs out of the laboratory and into his bedroom— your things are still there, laying in bags on the floor— for keys and his staff before running back out. 

His brother sit around the television, watching the news impersonally, making jokes about what was being said, about the mannerisms of the reporter, a blonde woman— a childhood crush for them all at one point— named April Showers— an internet search provided her name as April O’Neil— currently talking about some international conflict. The air in the room is light, cheery, as he rushes to the door. 

“Donnie!” Mikey cries out. “Where’re you—“

He does not have the time nor patience to explain the situation in detail. “She’s not answering her phone.”

“So?”

“So?”

Mikey supplies unhelpfully, “She's probably asleep.”

“She wouldn’t go back to her apartment.” He links his hands behind his neck, every muscle in his body tense. “All her stuff is here. It’s not even eight and she’s asleep?”

“Maybe her phone died?”

“It rang,” he snaps. “It wouldn’t have rang if it was dead.”

Raph looks up from the television. “And your plan to find her is?”

“Go to her apartment.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what the text said to do.”

“And you’re listening to a text you don’t think she sent you because?”

He stops. “It’s a trap.”

“No shit.”

“Should I go grab Leo?” Mikey folds his legs, shutting the television off. 

“He’s in no position to do anything physical.” The antidote was not amazing at doing its job; it had left him vomiting up the excess foreign material making its way through his body, and though he had stopped about twenty minutes ago, he is still bound to the bed in his room until they can make sure it all left his body. “If he hears, he’s going to want to help.”

“Then what can we do?”

“I don’t know.” Donnie crosses his arms across his stomach, vomit rising in his throat. “I-I could track her phone, but who knows if it’s bugged or even in the same place as she is, or if that’s a trap.” ‘I should have given her the gloves.’ “But if we wait, who knows what will happen to her, what they might do.”

“Or what she might say,” Raph agrees, shutting the TV off. “But it’s not like we can do anything without any leads.”

“But if we follow any—“

“Exactly. We need to get Splinter or Leo involved.”

“Wouldn’t she call if she was in trouble, though?” Mikey fiddles with his fingers nervously. 

“She didn’t last time.”

“Mikey has a point, though.” Desperately, he smiles. “Wouldn’t she say something if she felt unsafe?”

“Would a ninja give her time to text?” Raph is oddly still. 

“Why does it have to be the Foot?”

“Who else would want her?”

“Kraang?” The youngest one gets to his feet. “Can’t we look at the thing to see?”

“What thing?”

“You know,” he snaps his fingers, trying to form the words. “The rectangle thing?”

Donatello thinks for a second. “The hard drive-looking thing?”

“Yeah!”

“The foreign technology that I can’t hack into? The information all in a language we can’t interpret?”

“… yeah…”

“Great plan.”

“That’s my line.” Raph sighs, putting his head in his hands. “No use panicking right now until we have something to work with. It’s not his fault she got kidnapped.”

“Could you not?”

“I’m getting Splinter.” Mikey runs off. 

“Donnie,” Raph looks up at him, “you’re going to burst a vessel.”

‘She said this was going to happen.’ He looks over at him. “I’m panicking.”

“Obviously.” He closes his eyes. “If you panic, though, you’re going to do something stupid. Breathe.”

“How am I—“

“Inhale.”

Automatically, he does.

“Exhale.”

He does. 

“Again.”

He repeats the movement. 

“She’s going to be fine.” Raph leans back. “If it’s the Foot, then they’re going to want info out of her. They wouldn’t kill her right away. We have time.”

“But—“

“If it’s Kraang,” Raph continues, eyes still closed, “then they’re too stupid to set a trap, and they obviously don’t want her dead, so we have time.”

Slowly, his heartbeat calms. “But—“

“You’re not useful to anyone if you’re losing your shit.” He pats the place beside him. “So sit down, put the phone down, and try to think.”

With a bit of nudging, he does. Leaning forward, head practically in-between his legs, he swallows back the desperation rising in his throat. Memories of you, lying in your own blood, curled on yourself with glass sticking out of you or lying on your stomach with a trail of red behind you resurface in his memory, and those, he cannot help but remember, were without intent. He can only imagine the ways they can get you to talk or do whatever they need you for. 

He feels a hand on his back. ‘I brought her into this.’ He squeezed his eyes shut. ‘It’s my fault she’s in this. She said this would happen.’ “Breathe,” Raph says, voice softer than he has ever heard. “It’s okay. We’re going to find her.”

“I—“

“She’s tough.” Donnie swallows again. “Wherever she is, I’m sure she’s fine.”

He tries to regain his composure. “You don’t believe that,” he gets out. 

“She survived Karai,” he argues.

“The safety thing,” he clarifies.

“Sure I do.” He leans down to match him. “Besides, she’s gone through a lot. She’ll manage.”

He wants to believe that. 

—

It is oddly quiet in this room. Cold, hard— every sound you make echos off the walls— but uncomfortably quiet. There isn’t a light, nothing to illuminate the space around you or the faces in front of you. You don’t need the light to tell the handcuffs will leave an ugly mark on your wrists, to hear the rattling of the chains, binding you under the hole in the wall. The bars, at least, do gleam in the light ever so slightly. 

You do not like the smell. It is not smoke, but an odd, human smell, like period blood, hydrogen peroxide, and mildew. There is nothing on your face that you can feel that might be the source, so you can only assume the things that have happened here.

“You’re early.” It’s the first thing you can think to say to the looking shape that catches your eye first. “What’s your name again? Takahashi?”

He pauses a moment. “Takeshi,” he grunts. “Once.”

“Takeshi,” you correct yourself. “Why am I here?”

He is a very tall figure. You had thought so when you had first seen him too, though your bigger concern had been the way long, inhuman claws dug into your arms, leading you off to some alley or another. A bit top-heavy, you think, with proportions not quite suited to walking on hind legs, but not as unfortunate a mutation as was possible. A feline ninja: a cliche, but useful.

His voice is a low sort of growl, not necessarily aggravated, but seemingly tired. You can feel the vibration in your throat. “Do you not know?”

“I’ve got a general idea,” you smile quietly— there is nowhere for you to run, obviously— “but I don’t know the specifics.”

You can hear the gentle thump of his knee against the floor, the chain too short for you to stand up. “Do you know not of the location of Hamato Yoshi?”

“Sure I do,” you say, “but I thought this was about Bradford or the truck.”

“The fate of Chris Bradford is irrelevant to my being here.” You can hear his scowl. “I’m only concerned with Hamato.”

“Then you made a poor decision, picking me as a hostage. I’m terrible with directions.”

He takes a deep breath. “Even if you cannot give us an exact location,” he says, “any information regarding the Hamatos is valuable to us.”

“And what will you do if I don’t tell you?” You lean back against the door, legs still numb. 

“We will leave you in the dark until you do, with no access to food or drink.”

You do not even consider it. “Then this is where I die, then?”

“You do not have to.”

“Sure I don't.” You smile ruefully. “It’s fitting, dying for someone. I’m fine with it.”

Your legs curl to your chest as you sense him move closer. “Do you know true hunger, child?”

You say nothing. 

“When your stomach,” he promises, voice quiet, “consumes itself in desperation, when your mouth stops creating saliva, when your tongue becomes sandpaper in your mouth as your body seizes in agony…” he chuckles darkly. “Then, you will tell us everything.”

“Or I’ll go crazy from the lack of stimulation.” Your bare feet run across the ground. “Or go blind or something to that effect.”

“Then you’ll divulge your secrets?”

“Not until I do.” You sigh. “That gives me three days or so to hope for a savior, right? Am I allowed that much?”

“In a city such as this? To hold onto hope?”

“What else am I supposed to do?”

“Confess.”

You laugh. “Aren’t you guys the ones going on and on about honor? What honor is there in that, selling people down the river?”

“None.” You hear the shifting of cloth as he rises again to his feet. “That’s why. It would be fitting for a Hamato.”

“I’m no Hamato.”

“You may as well be, to my master.” His footsteps are barely audible, but you do hear them against the stone. “I’d like to see you crumble the same as them.” You can hear the sliding of stone as he steps out of the room. You are not deserving of a goodbye. 

You lean over onto your side, bare legs curling up to your chest as you stare out into nothingness. You have never been in a place quite this empty, quite this cold. You wonder if you would appreciate someplace warmer, think better of it. You would not be surprised if they heated the room in slow increments, like how you boil a frog. How does dying of slow cooking feel?

You close your eyes. The floor is cold against naked skin, hard, but you don’t mind it too much. It means that your body will not work as hard, anyways; finding a girl in New York is finding a needle in a haystack. You do not doubt that someone will look for you, but you assume it will take a while. 

It is not your first night alone. You feel more lonely than usual, though. 

“Goodnight, Y/N,” you sigh, burying your fear very deep down. “Goodnight, Donnie. See you when I see you, I guess.”

You fall asleep. 

Chapter Text

 She sat down on my lap, arms wrapping gently around my neck as she nestled her face into the crook of my neck. Her legs wrapped around me as she pressed herself against my chest, breathing a soft breeze in my ear. “Hey,” she mumbled softly. “Sup?”

It was still strange to me. Not bad. Extraordinary, almost, that she could find something like me comforting enough to hold this close, so close that I could feel her heartbeat against mine. Her voice was a song in it of itself, her eyes blindingly gorgeous, her lips…

“Nothing much.” I wrapped my arms around her waist, leaning back on my bed as she clung onto me like I was life itself.

“Cool, cool.” Her body relaxed against me as I ran my fingers through her hair softly. She traced the indentations of my shell almost absentmindedly. “Glad to hear it.”

There was something oddly domestic about all this, her curling into me as we chit-chatted. After all that had been happening over the past few months, both of us were welcome to this kind of normalcy. It felt safe.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” I smiled softly, “but you aren’t usually this clingy. Is something up?”

She slid farther down my body, crossing her forearms and resting her chin on the barrier. “Missed you is all,” she sighed. “Am I allowed?”

‘Missed me. She missed me.’ I felt my heart melt. “Encouraged, actually.”

She pursed her lips, suppressing a laugh. “Did you miss me?” She slid back up, placing her hands on either side of my head as she hovered over me.

I grinned, leaning up and pressing my lips against hers. I felt her smile as she cupped my face in her hands, pulling herself closer to me. I pushed myself upright, leaning back against the wall as she straddled me properly, moving her hands to the back of my neck as she tugged gently at my lips. Her chap stick tasted of strawberries.

She pulled back, placing her hands on my thighs as she leaned back. Her face was flushed a gorgeous pink, her chest rising and falling gently. She cleared her throat, running her tongue deliciously across her lips. “I’ll take that as a yes,” she giggled. “Jeez, you were never this forward before.”

“Wasn’t I?” I fiddled with her jacket absentmindedly. “Right now, I don’t remember.”

She shook her head. “You wanted to be?” She placed her hands over mine. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

I paused. ‘She feels so real.’ “Was I not passionate enough before? Be honest.”

“Hm?” Her eyes widened. “Oh, shit, I didn’t mean it like that.” Her face flushed darker. “I just thought it was cool, you know? I didn’t mean it as an insult.”

I slipped my hands under her jacket. “I didn’t take it as one,” I sighed. “Just wonderin’ is all.”

She leaned forward, placing her chin back on my chest. “I think you were a pretty damn good boyfriend to me, personally.” She shrugged. “I mean, I feel like I made my opinion on the matter very clear.”

I smiled ruefully. “You did, huh?”

“I mean, I hope I did.” She closed her eyes. “I wanted you to be happy, after all.” She brought her arms up and under her head. “Obviously, I didn’t do the best job in the world, but I think I did alright.”

“Personally?” I twirled a lock of her hair around my finger. “I think you did an excellent job.”

“Really?” She sounded almost confused by the statement. “But you’re sad because of me. I didn’t do my job right.”

I rolled my eyes, smiling. “When did I ever make it your job to think about whether I’m happy?”

“When you asked me to be your girlfriend.” She looked back up at me with her gorgeous eyes. “That’s when I considered it official, anyhow.”

“It was never your job.” I ran my tongue along the back of my teeth. “Not your job to protect me or the others, either. What’s the point in knowing how to swing a stick really hard if not to be able to protect myself?”

She laughed. “Please,” she scoffed. “You need protecting more than I do.”

“Do not,” I grumbled.

“Do too.” She reached up, gently tapping the space between my eyes. “Have you seen what’s happened since I left?”

I wrapped my fingers around her wrist, pulling it to my mouth and kissing it softly. “I think we’re doing pretty well on our own.”

“Sure.” I felt her heartbeat speed up. “You look totally fine.”

“This is the exception, not the standard.” I closed my eyes. “I think I deserve to indulge in you for a while. Splinter and Leo do it all the time with Karai.”

“But it’s not healthy.”

A lump rose in my throat as I held her closer. “I know.” I cleared my throat. “In my defense, it’s not the same.”

She placed her other hand on my face. “Liar,” she cooed. “It’s exactly  the same.” I felt her shrug. “’ Course, I’m the queen of escapism, so I’m hardly one to judge.”

“Not that.” I kissed her hand, holding both her wrists and pulling them from my face. “I mean you.”

She looked up at me, blinked. “Huh?”

“You aren’t the same as the girl I was dating.” I ran my thumb over the radiuses in each of her wrists. “You don’t smell quite the same, or taste exactly like her, or feel quite like her.”

She sighed. “Always the observant one.” She pursed her lips. “Do I look the same?”

I nodded. “You look just like you did.”

“I’m surprised.”

I shrugged. “Your phone had a lot of photos of us. One video, too; you sound just like you did.”

“Speaking of smell,” she glanced at my sleeve, “are you planning on washing that thing any time soon?”

I shake my head.

“Why?”

I hesitate. “It’s all I have left of you. I’m scared to.”

“See, that’s just blatantly not true.” She did not try to get my hands off her. “You have my phone.”

“You know what I mean.” I break eye contact. “This is the only physical thing  I have of yours.”

“It’s still morbid.” She stuck her tongue out at me. “And I was wearing it for a long time. It certainly could use some TLC.”

‘I should have asked what that stood for when we were back home.’ “But it smells a little like you, and I don’t want to wash the smell out.”

“Dude, I’m not going to haunt you across time over a stupid jacket.” She rolled her eyes at my care. “It’s not even a good jacket; it’s from my middle school.”

“It’s not that I think you’ll hate me for it,” I repeated. “It’s just that it’s a little piece of you and I want that little piece of you to stay the same as it was before we left.”

“Before I died,” she corrected matter-of-factly. “You want it to stay the same as it did before I died.”

“But you’re not dead,” I countered. “If you were, then why would I care so much about getting back home?”

“What,” she teased, “are you saving the world not just out of the goodness of your heart?”

“No amount of goodness,” I sigh, “is worth living out in space over. We just want to get back home.”

“Is it not an adventure?” She rolled over, back against my chest as she looked back at me. “Hanging with one of the universe’s greatest minds must be cool.”

“Sure,” I concede, “but I’d rather be back on Earth with you.”

She whistled. “You keep talkin’ like that,” she warned cheekily, “and I might start getting the idea you like me or something.”

“We wouldn’t want that, now would we?”  

She sat up slowly. “I wish we could stay like that for longer,” she sighed, “but you’re on deck in a couple minutes.” She stretched her hands above her head. She paused. “I’m not going to encourage false hope,” she started, “but, if we ever get to see one another in the proper flesh, treat me right, okay? You’ll have to give me the rundown when you see me again.”

I followed suit as she climbed off me, rubbing my face with my hand. “I will,” I promise. “It’s not going to be an if, alright?”

She paused. She looked back at me, smiled. “You know something, Donnie?” She smiled softly. “You’re really fuckin awesome.

I felt my face heat up. “Thanks.”

She turned to face me properly. “See you later.” She waved, the scene dissolving around me.

I got to my feet, walking to the door.

“It’s going to be a matter of when.” I felt my hand grip around her jacket. “I promise. I’ll make this right.”

Chapter Text

“You certainly look worse for wear.”

“Ha ha.” I collapsed onto the couch, leaning my body against the armrest. The day had been entirely too exciting for my taste; too many plans went horribly wrong, I had almost died at least five times, and my body felt like an abused rag doll. I was ready to relax.

“Hey, I still think you look like a million bucks, personally.” She put her hands up in defense. “All I’m saying is that you have certainly seen better days.”

I sighed. “Look, it was a long day.”

“I’d say.” She crossed her ankles, drumming her fingers against the cushion. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Absolutely not.” I rested my head on her lap. “I honestly just want to watch this movie.”

“You? Not wanting to talk?” She rested her hands on my scalp. “You really are beat.”

“I’m allowed.”

She hummed in agreement as she turned on a movie.

I smiled gently. “First date.”

“Bingo.” I felt her lean back. “It really is a fantastic movie.”

“But you always got on edge when we’d watch it.”

“And you cried at the ending of Beauty and the Beast. Let me be.”

My face flushed. “I thought we agreed never to speak of that again,” I mumbled.

“I don’t remember signing any documents to agree to that.”

“Verbal agreements are still things that exist.”

“Blow me.” She flinched at the gunshots.

I rolled over to look up at her. “And I didn’t cry,” I informed her. “Crying implies inarticulacy. I do believe I was very articulate that night.”

“Fine,” she conceded, covering my face with her hand. “You babbled.”

“Babble implies meaninglessness. I was very meaningful.”

She laughed. “Liar!” She pouted playfully. “I will push you off if you don’t cut it with the backtalk, mister.”

I wrapped my arms around her waist, latching onto her tightly. “Try.”

She huffed. “That’s just unfair.” She moved her hand. “Just watch the damn movie.”

“No thanks.” I looked up at her. ‘God damn she’s pretty.’ “I like looking at you more.”

“That is equally unfair.” She went red. “That’s just—foul. I’m calling a foul.”

“What,” I beamed, “am I not allowed to compliment you, princess?”

“That, too,” she stammered, voice rising a pitch as she tried to regain her composure. I always loved how cute she got when she was flustered; made me feel better about my lack of aplomb.

“I think it’s perfectly fair,” I assured her. “You couldn’t imagine how much duress I was in when I was with you.” I broke eye contact, the statement reminding me of something. “Similar to how you feel right now, probably.”

She paused. “Hey, Donnie?” Her voice was slower, more hesitant.

“Yeah?”

She sighed. “I…” She thought better of it. “Never mind.” She shook her head. “Are you going to fall asleep?”

I let my eyelids close. “Probably,” I admitted. “I always sleep better in here.”

“That’s curious.”

I rolled over onto my stomach, getting more comfortable. “How so?”

“Logistically,” she explained, running her fingers along my shell, “it doesn’t make a ton of sense. How you act, I mean.”

“I don’t follow.” I looked up at her

“Well,” she explained with a shrug, “you don’t use me for sex.”

I blinked, not at all expecting that answer. “Huh?”

“You miss me, don’t you? In that way?” She did not look from the screen, face flushing again. “It makes sense that you would use me for more explicit activities than this. You don’t mean that you’re tired from that, so I don’t see why you’d sleep any better in here than in the company of your brothers.”

It was my turn to go red. “Look,” I objected, “I—”

“If you say you never thought about it you are a liar.” She glanced down at me. “We both know you’re lying if you say you haven’t at least considered it.”

I paused. “You're still not her.”

“I know.”

I groaned. “Look,” I explained defensively, “I feel safe with you, alright? I feel safe with my brothers too, but it’s not the same, you know?”

“I guess.”

“I just…” I sighed. “If I knew, you would know, wouldn’t you?”

“Very true.” I felt her tense again as the characters screamed at each other on-screen.

I fiddled with her shirt absently. “I like sleeping in here, though, for a lot of reasons.”

“You always slept better with me.” Her finger traced the indents in the carapace.

I nodded. “When you thought I was sleeping,” I recounted, laying my head back down, “I remember you used to do this thing where you used to sing in almost a whisper, and I always thought it was one of the most beautiful sound in the world, no matter what you sang or whether you were in key or whatever.” I stifled a yawn, pulling her closer. “And,” I continued, “if we were sleeping together, it was always nice, having you so close. You used to hold me real close— kind of like this— while you slept.”

I heard her smile. “You like being touched,” she noted.

“Like you would not believe.” My arms stayed loosely draped around her waist. “When you let me be this close to you, it always…” I swallowed the lump rising in my throat. “It always made me feel needed, you know? Like I really and truly mattered to you the way you matter to me.”

She did not say anything for a while, busy fiddling with the large hole in her jacket. “How’s your dad?”

“Well.” She felt almost real. Such a good imitation.

“I’d hope.” She chuckled. “If he wasn’t, I’d be pissed.”

“I’m not sure he’s grateful, though.” I could not quite tell if I was asleep or not. “I think he would have rather died himself. He’s had a harder time meditating, lately.”

“He’ll live.” She shifted underneath me. “He fuckin better—if he dies some stupid, avoidable death, I will personally wring his neck from the afterlife.”

“I’ll pass the message along,” I assured her wryly. Every once and a while, she would ask about that. They were not particularly personal questions, but, whether she meant it or not, questions about Master Splinter were always something of a sore spot, much to Leo’s chagrin. I would never tell them, of course, why I had grown noticeably colder towards our father, but something told me they had an idea of why I found it difficult to look him in the eyes.

“Y/N?” I felt myself sit on the borderline between sleep and consciousness—I recalled, absently, that the technical term was hypnagogia.

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

She leaned down, kissing the top of my head. “I love you, too,” she promised.

‘What a stunning imitation.’

I slipped into unconsciousness.