Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Donatello's welding mask presses against his face sharply, and he can feel bruises beginning to form on his green skin from wearing it for too long. His hands are no better, littered with cuts and bruises, he flexes his fingers to try and stretch out some of the ache, but all it does is send pain up his shaking arms. He’s been hunched over for the better part of two hours, and his shell is screaming at him for the abuse, but he’s far too in the zone to care. This is the longest string of time that he’s managed to work uninterrupted, and he wants to make as much progress as he can before the next catastrophe.

This machine is one of two reasons that he’s still going. An extremely rare ray of hope in this damned world. A one-way ticket out of hell.

A chamber, large and bulky, made of mismatched metal, rusty bolts, blood, sweat, and tears. The detached console pulses with a dull purple light, the only indicator that it was alive.

A time machine. A fucking time machine. If you’d told him ten years ago that he would end up building a time machine, he’d have laughed in your face and told you it was impossible. Well, turns out all it takes to dismantle his entire belief in the rules of reality is alien technology, the end of the world, and a lot of determination.

The turtle sighs, lifting his mask from his face to take a look out the small window. His little shelter was mostly underground, but it did have one window to let in the air. The air it let in was foul and polluted, sour in his senses. He could see the gray sky, too thick with smoke and smog for true sunlight to break through. He’s able to surmise from the shade of gray that it’s most likely early morning. In the old world, this would be the time when the humans of New York would be waking up, getting ready to start their days. Shops would be opening, children would be headed to school, adults would go to work.

Now there’s none of that. Shops turned into rubble and ruins, like the rest of the city. Humans lay dead or dying, either from the environment itself or from the roving bands of aliens that prowl the surface.

He leans a bit further into the machine, angling the blowtorch to a tricky spot. His shell screams at him, and that’s his only warning before a sharp spike of pain runs along his arm, his hand spasming, and the blowtorch clatters to the floor noisily, kicking up the ever-present dust and dirt.

The turtle makes no move to pick it up, because not one second later, he hears quick, heavy footsteps rapidly approach his door. He would just make Donatello put it down again anyway.

Three rapid-fire knocks, then the door swings open anyway without waiting for an invitation, and there stands his other reason.

A man stands in the doorway, long black hair spilling out of his head in greasy waves. His clothes are rough, small rips and patchwork repairs, covered in various stains and grime. A mask hangs, clipped to his belt. His most eye-catching feature is the large scar across his face, a starburst of scarring that begins at the junction between his eyes and expands outwards in scattered lines like an explosion.

"You alright, Don?" Casey Jones strides into the room, forced leisure in his gait as glassy eyes survey the scene. He had hoped Casey was asleep, god knows he needs it, but from the bags under his eyes and the exhaustion in his stance, Donatello knows that rest hadn’t found him. The humans brown eyes scan Donatello, searching for injuries, then sees the blowtorch on the ground and fixes the turtle with a look. "You still workin' on that thing?"

Donatello is really tired, and really doesn't want to have this conversation, but he can't ignore Casey, so he reaches deep to find some snark. "No. I just thought that my tools would look really nice on the floor. They really tie the room together. Fūsui and all that."

"C'mon Don," Casey says, in that tone that means he's not going to let his friend get out of this. "You know what I mean. I haven't seen you leave this room in days- When was the last time you ate anything?"

Donatello doesn't remember. Hunger has become such a constant that his body no longer registers it as important. It’s not like it mattered much, anyway. Scavenging became harder and harder every day, and whatever food they did find was old or unappetizing.

He takes too long to answer, and Casey strides forward to pull the protective mask from Donatello's head, frowning at the bags under his eyes. "You look like shit," he says, as tactful as ever. The turtle doesn't doubt him, because if he looks half as bad as he feels, he can probably give the Kraang a run for their money.

Donatello doesn't say anything as Casey tugs him to stand up, only winces as his leg, which had been folded beneath him for who knows how long, tries to wake up. He winces as he straightens, the metal in his shell twinging painfully. Thankfully, Casey doesn't make him walk far, only leads him over to his desk chair and tells him to sit and wait before jogging out.

Now that he's not hyper focused on work, he can feel a familiar migraine trying to worm its way into his brain. His mouth and throat feel like sandpaper, and he's pretty sure his wrist didn't ache like this before. He checks his watch, and it confirms that he's been working for quite a while, seventeen hours, actually.

Casey comes back balancing a plate and a water bottle. "Not much left, we'll have to make another run soon," he says, setting the plate on the desk and shoving the water bottle in Donatello's hand.

He swiftly downs half of the bottle in just a few gulps. It alleviates the burn in his throat, but it does nothing for his mind. God, he’d kill someone for a cup of coffee. He looks at the plate, and sees some dried jerky and some peaches that definitely came from a can. He takes a bite of the peaches, rolling the syrupy sweetness across his tongue before swallowing.

“Is there even anything left to scavenge? I think we’ve picked this side of town clean,”

“Yeah, but there’s gotta be something left, right? Not like we’ve seen anyone else scavenging.” Casey says, frowning when Donatello pushes the leftover jerky at him, but doesn’t argue, taking a grimace bite. Good. He needs to eat too. “I could always try hunting again.”

“Can you even remember the last time we saw an animal?”

“I’m looking at one right now,”

“Watch it, Jones. We both know out of the two of us, you’re the feral one.”

Casey gives him a shit-eating grin, and Donatello rolls his eyes, but he can feel a smile trying to pull his mouth. He clears his throat, more serious, “Well hopefully we won’t have to worry about that.” he nods towards the machine, “Just a few more tweaks, and we’ll be good to go.”

Casey looks at the machine, a more solemn look stealing away his earlier humor. They’d talked about it, over and over again, cyclical conversations that went all over the place and nowhere at the same time. Casey swallows, "So, when do we leave?"

“A couple days. Two, three at the most.”

"Don, I-” Casey says, voice hushed. “Are you sure about this?”

“As sure as I am about anything these days.”

“That doesn’t seem like a lot." Donatello runs a hand down his face. His hands are cold, as is the rest of him, but it all feels far away. “What other choice do we have?”

Casey looks out the window, the small rectangle hole near the ceiling that pours struggling sunlight into Donatello’s basement workshop. The sky is gray, mottled with even grayer clouds and a thick haze of smoke and smog. He can make out distant shapes, the ruins of once tall buildings reduced to rubble.

“I don’t know,” Casey says. He truly doesn’t. The once vibrant city that he’d called home has been transformed into hell on earth. The rest of the world hasn’t fared any better, just as ruined as New York, transformed into desolate wastelands where most people were either dead, dying, or clinging to life by fraying threads. “But is this the right thing to do? Just… leaving?”

“It’s either leave or die.” Donatello reasons, “This world is done. There’s no coming back from this. No happy ending, for any of us.”

“Still, time-travel? You know I’m all for a long-shot, but this-?”

“It’s the only way, Case, you know that.” he stresses, “The only way we stop this is by stopping it at the root. That root is in the past, something I must have missed. If I can just- If we can just do things right next time, we can stop this from ever happening.”

Casey is quiet. He’s been quiet a lot these days. He runs a hand through long, shaggy hair. He knows that the turtle is right. He usually is. “Before… You said that when we leave… this world will disappear.”

Donatello gives a solemn nod, “The machine will transfer our molecules back to a setpoint in time, but in doing so, this time will become unstable,” he monologues, as if a doctor giving a grim diagnosis, “This world hinges on the past. Every single action, every micro thing, it all forms such an intricate- weave. Changing anything, even moving a single grain of sand, means that it unravels. When we leave, we unravel everything. This world will cease to exist.”

There’s a beat of silence. Stretching and endless. Then Casey abruptly stands, chair clattering to the floor as he stalks off, facing the wall, hands braced against it as if it’ll give him strength. Words of comfort die on Donatello’s tongue.

“So, we’re just… running away?” Casey mutters to the wall. “We get to escape from this hell and just leave everyone else to- what? Fade away? Like they never existed?”

“Case-”

The human punches the wall. A loud crack echoing through the room like a thunderclap that has Donatello lunging for him. Casey makes no move to hit the wall again, only heavy breaths wrack his body, but Donatello keeps a hold on his hand anyway.

When Donatello is sure that Casey won’t do anything rash, he gently inspects his hand. His knuckles are busted open, bleeding. The skin is already starting to bruise a dark color. The turtle twists his hand, bends each of the fingers and watches for any pain, but finds none. Casey just stares, like all the fight is bleeding out of him through his knuckles.

Donatello should have expected this reaction. Casey Jones could never stand abandoning anyone, living or dead.

“It’s not fair.” Casey says, voice rough with unshed tears. Donatello doesn’t know if he’s talking about his plan, or the world in general. Donatello thinks of three brothers, long-gone, nothing but bones by now. He thinks of a father buried in a place that’s unrecognizable. He thinks of sisters, of friends, of allies, innocent civilians, even enemies. All caught up in a cataclysm that he failed to stop.

He thinks of Casey. The only reason he’s made it so far, having to live in this desolate wasteland, scrounging for food and water that becomes more limited by the day, trying in vain to fight against an unbeatable enemy, taking care of Donatello’s useless ass.

‘Fair’ was never in the equation.

The turtle pulls Casey into him. The last two pieces of a shattered family. Casey grips him tightly, and Donatello responds in kind. The turtle silently promises that he will fix this. He has to. For their family. For their friends. For Casey.

“Three days?”

“Three days.”

‘Just give me three days. I swear, I’ll get you out of here. I’ll finally fix my mistakes.’

Casey breathes deeply, exhaling in a big sigh that leaves him sagging into Donatello’s grip. The man pats his shell, carefully avoiding the metal, before pulling away, a half-hearted attempt at a smile on his cracked lips, “Guess I better start packing, huh?”

“Try not to forget anything,” Donatello tries for another smile, but it feels weak on his face, “You’re definitely the idiot who’d travel back in time and forget to bring his underwear,”

Casey pushes him. “Probably,”

Chapter Text

The next three days are spent in a daze of rigorous tests, packing, and arguments over tests and packing.

Donatello could feel the anticipation buzzing underneath his skin. Not excited, but not anxious, either. That feeling you get when you’re on the precipice of either a miracle or a disaster. It’s so much easier to bicker with Casey about what they can fit in the machine than to focus on that feeling.

Now, though, standing in front of the lightly whirring machine, he can’t ignore it any longer.

Casey stands next to him, his backpack loaded down with all his worldly belongings. Donatello’s shell aches with his own duffel bags, and he’s nearly grateful for the pain. It feels like the only thing grounding him.

He's not sure if any of their stuff will make it through the portal, hell, he's not even sure if they will make it through the portal. For all he knows, it'll obliterate them once they activate it. It could malfunction and separate them across time with no way to get back to each other. They could travel to a separate dimension where air is water and water is air. They could just be erased from existence entirely.

He doesn't know. He's run thousands of tests, read every book, tome, and ripped shreds of paper he could find, stayed up countless nights theorizing, planning, wishing, praying, and he still doesn't have a concrete answer. Nothing guaranteed to work.

Still, he looks outside, a gray, poisonous smog blankets the city he called his home. The cracks in the windows allow the stench of smoke and dust to seep into the room. This world has been dead for a long time, and it’s only a matter of time before it takes them too. This is their only chance. Even knowing all that, his stomach twists with fear.

He doesn't care if it kills him, but if it kills Casey?

Donatello shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the thought. Casey will be fine. They’ll both be fine, because this WILL work. It has to. There’s no other choice.

He feels an elbow dig into his side, and he snaps out of his spiral to meet Casey’s grin. He looks relaxed, confident, even. It’s almost enough to distract from his shaking hands. “Ready?”

“Not really. Let’s do it.”

They take a deep breath and step into the metal chamber, the hatch slamming shut behind them and plunging them into darkness for a moment before the overhead sensor illuminates them in bright red light. Donatello can practically feel the electricity underneath his feet as the machine starts to come alive around them. The metal shakes and shudders slowly, quietly, then grows faster as it revs up, preparing to do the impossible. It shakes and shudders violently, and suddenly an ozone scent fills the air. If Donatello had hair, he’s sure it would be standing up. He can feel static playing against his skin, dancing all around him and Casey.

He feels a tug in his chest, slowly spreading throughout his body, like a static shock invading his veins, it digs into him with prickling pain. His thoughts start to race, trying to fight off the feeling of fog and mud that creeps into his brain, his breathing quickens with anxiety.

He feels a pressure; Casey latches on to his hand with a fierce grip. Donatello squeezes back with equal force, feeling selfish for allowing himself the comfort as thoughts of regret, remorse, I shouldn't have let Casey come with me, what if I kill him?- fill his mind.

Then with a final groan of the machine, Donatello feels himself unravel. Every microscopic piece of him feels like it's being forcibly ripped from his body, slow and excruciating, unlike being scattered by April that was relatively instantaneous, this feels like every thread holding him together is being meticulously ripped apart millimeter by millimeter.

He doesn't know if he screams, or if Casey does, or if both or neither of them do. He’s not sure if he even has the vocal cords to scream anymore. He's not sure if he knows anything as a cold nothingness washes over him and suddenly he's not in pain anymore. He doesn't feel anything anymore.

Somewhere in the multiverse a timeline shatters behind them.

~*~

Donnie sits in his lab chair, body still coming down from the adrenaline of their excursion to the surface. Even after all the events and drama of the day, Sensei had given them his support, and it looked like they weren’t going to be confined to the sewers for the rest of their lives, so he counts it as a win.

Still, it feels a bit unfair that their first trip to the surface was soured by a kidnapping of all things. Apparently aliens were real, too. So he mentally adds that to the list of things to freak out about when he has the time.

They managed to save that girl, though. The fact that they’d had to leave her dad behind definitely stung in his chest, but at least they were able to do something.

But it doesn’t ease the memory of just how… devastated she had looked. The sadness in her voice as she’d thanked them for saving her before returning to her aunt. No doubt also shocked and devastated.

He tries not to think about how devastated he might be if he lost his father or his brothers.

The turtle sighs and then yawns. The light from his computer stings at his overworked eyes. His brothers had crashed as soon as they’d gotten home, maybe it was time he did too. He wouldn't be able to work like this.

He goes to power down his computer when he feels something. Small, almost imperceptible to anyone else without ninja training. A feeling in his gut that tells him something is wrong.

He hears the light tinkling of glass on glass, and his head whips around to see his beakers rattle on the table gently, as if there could be wind in the sewers.

His brown eyes narrow in anticipation. His body taut and stiff like a tightrope.

Then the lair erupts into shaking.

Donnie nearly tumbles out of his chair from the force as he stumbles to stand. He flees the lab just as his brothers run out of their own rooms, disoriented and confused, clearly having been deep in slumber before their rude awakening.

Raph rushes up to him, Mikey in tow, one hand grasping at Donnie’s arm. “What the shell’s happening?!”

Donnie doesn’t have a chance to answer before Leo is gliding up to them, pulling at them until they’re all following him into the living room, “An earthquake?!”

Mikey squeaks and stumbles, blue eyes wide as he scans the walls and ceiling, “Uh… dudes?! The lair isn’t gonna, like, cave-in on us is it?!”

Donnie just looks up towards the skylight where they’ve converged. New York rarely gets earthquakes. This doesn’t feel like an earthquake. This doesn’t feel right. He doesn’t know why, but something in him is screaming that something is changing. He barely even notices Sensei rushing up to them, hands ghosting across their heads in comfort as his whiskers twitch and brow furrows.

In what feels like an eternity, but in reality, is only a few seconds, the shaking subsides. Leaving only stillness and some broken plates in its wake.

“It is alright, my sons.” Sensei says, comforting and sure, “It was merely an earthquake. It’s over now. We are safe.”

Donnie wants to say something about aftershocks, about how they should move to a more fortified area, but finds the words caught in his throat. His mind racing for logical explanations, warring with the feeling deep inside him that says something just shifted.

~*~

When Casey comes to, it's to the feeling of something hitting his face repeatedly. Well, a bunch of little things. When he finally pries his eyes open, he immediately shuts them again as rain drops fall into them.

He feels himself jostling, and as the numbness in his limbs starts to ebb and the bubbles in his brain start to fade, he registers it as someone gently shaking his shoulder. He’s pretty sure he groans, but he can’t really hear it. He has half a mind to tell whoever it is to fuck off and let him sleep. They’re persistent, though, and the shaking only intensifies.

“-ase! Casey!”

Don.

A sharp spike of adrenaline shoots through his veins, kickstarting his heart to race in his chest, and Casey shoots up from his laying position. He immediately regrets it as it feels like he has a full-body charlie horse, muscles screaming and burning under his skin. “Son of a-” he tries to yell, but it comes out as more of a weak yelp as familiar hands keep him from crashing back down.

Something hard is pressing into his spine and he can already feel a dark bruise forming on his back. He achingly pushes himself to fully sit, hands slippery on wet concrete, and realizes that he's sprawled out across an expanse of steps. Blackened spots of soot and burn marks cover the ground around him, slowly smeared by the rain.

“Are you okay?” Don asks him, but Casey can hardly hear him over the sound of his own heartbeat and the ringing in his ears. One of Don’s hands reaches up to cradle his head, feeling for any bumps or cuts. Casey lets his head rest in Don’s hand for a moment. His hands were cold, and Casey’s entire body felt like it’d been lit on fire and tossed off a cliff.

Despite all his aches, he figures he’s not actually dying, “I think so,” he groans, throat feeling raw like he’s been gargling sandpaper and broken glass. He pats Don’s hand where it’s holding his shoulder, “You good?” The turtle looked okay, but he still had to ask.

“I’m fine,” Don says, his voice a rough whisper that tells Casey that Don feels just as shitty as he does. Casey fully shakes the cotton and bubbles out of his head, and really takes in their surroundings, instinctively scanning Don for injuries and the shadows for danger. His eyes only stop flitting around when he catches sight of a sign.

Harlem.

A subway sign. Not illuminated, out of service. Still, the words are legible.

He’s in Harlem.

Casey feels warm pressure form behind his eyes so quickly it startles him. He breathes in, and for once it doesn’t hurt. The air doesn’t reek the sour stench of death and cut at his throat, only the smell of concrete and gasoline and rain fill his senses. Oh, the rain. It doesn’t burn, doesn’t sting at his flesh. It doesn’t carry traces of decay and rot. It tastes like life, cool and refreshing, soothing his aches and washing away the grime on his skin. He relishes in the feeling of rain rolling down his face, eyes closed and eyelashes heavy with droplets.

“Where- Where is this?”

“A subway station. Abandoned, so no one should be around,” Don gives his shoulder one last pat, and Casey opens his eyes to watch the turtle stand. It’s slow and deliberate, ache etched into every movement, but Don doesn’t wince. He only looks around, head in a constant swivel of surveillance, spotting his duffel bags further down the steps amidst bits of caution tape. The turtle carefully walks down to grab them, legs shaky, using his staff to steady himself.

When Casey is finished with his rain-shower, he looks around, spotting his backpack overturned on the steps next to him. He reaches for it, and roots a hand around inside, making sure everything was still there. His hand glances cool metal, and he breathes a sigh of relief. He doesn’t know what he would have done if his bag hadn’t made it through.

He manages to fight himself to stand up, limbs like jello, but he holds decently steady, and he's walked with worse than just soreness. Dons made it back up to him, duffel bags slung over his shoulders. “We need to move before anyone comes to investigate,” the turtle says, moving up the stairs towards the street. He doesn't stop to look around, to relish in his brilliant accomplishment. The turtle's mind is completely focused in a way that Casey wishes he could be.

“Wha- wait, we’re not taking the sewers?” Casey asks, following behind. Even after all this time, he’s sure they still knew the sewers like the backs of their hands, so why risk being seen by humans?

Don shakes his head, eyes narrowed as they reach the top of the steps. He squints against the darkness and the rain. The streetlamps are out, cloaking the street in a blanket of shadows. None of the surrounding buildings, apartments, have any lights either. They must’ve knocked the power out, and what is a mild disturbance for the humans, will be a blessing for them. “We need to find a place topside to hold out. Too many chances to run into the… others, if we take the sewers, and I don’t want to be close by if they come running to see what caused all this,” he says, hand waving at the clear evidence they’ve left behind.

Casey tries not to think about how Don tripped over the word ‘others’, “So where do we go? I don’t know about you, but I wasn’t exactly employed in the apocalypse, and I don’t think a hotel is gonna take bolts and screws as payment.”

A small smile crosses Don’s face, one of the very few Casey has seen the past few weeks, “I’ll have you know these bolts and screws were worth more than gold a few minutes ago… years from now?” he shakes his head, “Anyways, I’ll think of something,”

“Like what?”

Casey watches as Don’s eyes cut across the street to the darkened doorstep of a corner store. An unsuspecting gray machine sitting defenseless and witness-less.

Casey looks back to Don, and his small smile has grown into a full smirk.

Oh, boy.

~*~

Henry Addison is not the bravest man.

He’s a middle-aged man rapidly approaching senior citizen status, father of the two most amazing, smartest, and most wild kids in the world, and struggles to make ends meet working two jobs. He’s lived in New York City his entire life, and it’s where he’s decided to stay and put down his roots. Despite all that, he’s never had much of a spine. He’s content with being on, what his darling wife calls, the more sensitive side.

So, when during a power outage, in the lobby of his building with only candles and annoyed tenant emails keeping him company, a man who looks like he’s stepped off the set of an action movie walks through the doors, introducing himself only as ‘Mr. James’, with a manic grin and metal in his mouth where teeth may have once been, inquires about the flyer he’d posted of one of his rental units, asking how immediately he and his partner can move in, waving an enticing wad of cash, Henry should have probably turned him away, should have told him to call back in the morning (And not answer the phone when he did), or maybe even called the cops because who just walks around with a stack of cash in New York? Was it stolen? Clearly the man was suspicious, maybe one of those Purple Dragon thugs that have been making trouble lately, or maybe part of the mob, looking for someone gullible enough to give them a new front for their operation.

But he needed new tenants. The apartment building he owned wasn’t in the best neighborhood, it was hard enough keeping the few tenants he had, let alone bring in new ones.

And his kids' college wasn’t going to fund itself.

So, he mustered up whatever scraps of courage he had buried within him, and accepted the probably stolen money, (He would later nearly faint at his kitchen table when he counted the bills,) and his hand only shook a little bit when he handed Mr. James the keys to the apartment upstairs, furthest on the left.

He ignored the way Mr. James grinned so victoriously like he’d won something, and he kept his head down when the man returned with his ‘partner’ in the long cloak with a hood pulled so tight over his head he couldn’t see his face, but radiated a strange sort of energy like he’d never felt before and moved like a shadow in the dark lobby, the candles only barely illuminating his form, light bouncing off the man’s eyes in a way that made them look completely white.

No, sir. Henry simply minded his own business and returned to calling the power company and answering annoyed calls from his other tenants. Later that night he’ll collapse on his couch and wonder just what he’s gotten himself into.

The things he does for his kids…

Chapter Text

The apartment is small. A one bedroom with a small kitchen, sparse furniture, and scent of light dust and age that clings to the faded wallpaper.

It wasn’t totally unfurnished. There’s a little couch that looks like it’s seen better days, a fridge that looks outdated by a decade, and a bed in the bedroom without any pillows or blankets. The floor is carpeted in a garish yellow carpet, and the wallpaper is obnoxiously floral in such a way it seems cluttered even without any pictures or paintings.

After they’d set all their stuff down, checked every window latch and door, every cabinet and cupboard, Donatello had basically thrown Casey into the shower, citing the man’s foul stench making them even more suspicious. Really, he just wanted the man to be clean again, and if the turtle got a couple minutes to breathe while he was occupied? All the better.

Soon enough, though, the man had pranced out of the bathroom with steam still clinging to red skin, a worn-out pink towel slung across his shoulders. The man's hair dripped water onto the carpet, but he doubts that water is the greatest offense it’s ever seen. The ravenette patted Donatello’s shoulder as he walked into the bathroom.

Donatello had taken his sweet time in the shower, careful of the hot water on his shell as he felt all his cuts and scrapes sting beneath the spray. He didn’t care, though. How long had it been since he’d taken an actual shower, and not just a sponge bath when their water supply would allow it? (Which it rarely did). The turtle relished in the feeling of clean. He’d never liked the dirt. He was always the first one to hop in the shower after coming home from a mission, eager to wash away whatever filth he’d accumulated from their fights. It wasn’t good for a scientist to work in an environment where dirt, or crumbs, or soda spills might tamper with data or end up jammed in some gears.

He might have grown resigned, even accustomed to the constant filth of the apocalypse, but now that he’s gotten a taste of hygiene again? He’s never letting it go. This timeline will have to pry it from his cold, dead hands.

He’d also gotten a proper look at himself in the mirror for the first time in a long time.

Dirt and grime scrubbed away left only a turtle in its place. Older than he ever thought he could grow, his face has lost all of the baby-chub that training could never erase, and even though he’d always been the skinniest of his brothers, he knows that he shouldn’t be this thin. His green skin is washed a paler shade than his healthy olive tone. A patchwork of scars litter his arms and legs, an intricate webbing of slashes, burns, and gashes. He looks like something Ice Cream Kitty dragged in. A turtle torn apart, put back together, and then torn apart again. He turns a bit, to get a real look at his shell. The first real look he’s had in years, since the night his shell failed him.

His shell looks weak. Not the hard shield he could always rely on as a kid; he can see little chips at the edges and scratches all along the surface. The main course, the pièce de résistance, of course is the giant crack down the middle of his shell, spreading across the surface like the limbs and branches of trees, held together by silver metal flowing through his shell, binding the pieces together. It’s almost fitting in a gruesome way, the machine guy having to be welded back together like all his countless gadgets and inventions when they inevitably end up broken. Just like him.

He looks terrible. He almost wishes for the layer of grime and dirt to return, to hide himself beneath it like a shield so he doesn’t have to see this version of himself. This stranger.

Trembling green hands grip the edges of the sink, the surface dewey from the shower steam. His breathing is even, but strangled. His throat feels like it’s trying to close, but he knows that’s not true because he can see his breath displacing steam, feel it bouncing off the surface of the mirror.

Reality finally came crashing down on him.

New York, New York, New York. He was home. In a lively, bustling city with people that are still alive. This place, this sacred city hasn’t been rotted from the inside out. The scent of burnt and decaying flesh doesn’t contaminate the air. The rain is clean and fresh, almost sweet, spilling over the buildings and streets giving life to its citizens.

That city, that hollow husk of what a home used to be is gone. A corpse that biodegraded the moment Donatello entered that Ark of a machine. From its decayed remains blooms this new opportunity. This chance to do things right. To fix his wrongdoings, to atone for his sins and finally give his family, and his city, the life they deserved.

His knees suddenly feel weak. His family, they’re alive again. Somewhere beneath this city they live and breathe and speak with no knowledge of what their lives had become. They will never know it, Donatello promises. Sensei, Leonardo, Raphael, Michelangelo, April, Karai, Mr. O’Neil, Timothy, Murakami, Leatherhead, Mondo- Everyone.

Three rapid knocks on the door startles Donatello out of his spiral, his head snapping up in alert. The door swings open a second later, letting fresher air into the bathroom to combat the humidity as steam rolls out into the hallway.

A head of dark hair fills Donatello’s swaying vision as a familiar man crouches down to his level. Donatello doesn't remember when he sat down.

“Ay, Don? You alright? You with me?” Casey asks, concerned, always concerned about him. One hand coming to rest on the knees Donatello had pulled up to his chest, the other gently cupping the turtle's face. A calloused thumb tucked under his mask to rub beneath his eye in a familiar, grounding motion.

Casey, Casey, Casey.

They’ve both changed so much. Been through things that have irreversibly altered them. Things that no one should ever have to go through.

Casey taps his face again, voice soft, but unheard as Donatello catalogues his features. A face far more familiar than his own at this point.

A starburst scar. A gaunt face. Messy stubble. Silver teeth. A crooked nose. That’s Casey Jones. That’s the man Donatello knows.

But in foggy memories he can remember a squishier face. No scars, only freckles littering his cheeks. Boyishly charming, with eyes full of mischief. That boy Donatello knew has been gone for a long time now. Not dead like the others, but gone all the same.

That boy is somewhere out there, now. Yet to turn into this man. Hopefully to never.

Donatello swears to himself that he will protect him. That boy and this man. Donatello will make sure they both live the lives they deserve. Lives of peace and happiness. Normal lives.

Somewhere between the pangs in his heart and Casey tapping his cheek, he realizes that he’s still being talked to, the deep voice, soft and comforting barely piercing the veil. Casey’s asking him a question. He needs to answer him.

“I’m fine.” His voice is croaky. Airways constricted and fighting to open again. He forces the words out anyway, reassuring Casey, “I’m not hurt.”

Casey raises an eyebrow, unconvinced, and Donatello has to refrain from scoffing at the plain ‘I don’t believe you’ on his face. Even still, Donatello gives half an attempt at a smile, trying to reassure the man. “Just a delayed response. The shock of time-travel didn’t really hit me till now, I guess,”

Casey gives a half-hearted chuckle, eyes still so concerned, but less distressed, sliding into place at Donatello’s side, leaning up against the sink’s counter, sitting with his legs extended. “I figured. Even you can’t logic your way out of that freak out,”

Donatello nods. He doesn’t want to talk about why it shook him so much. Casey probably already knows, and the turtle is thankful that he has the good sense to not call him out. The man is probably as shaken as him, anyway.

Casey knocks his leg against Donatello’s. “But you’re good? No weird time-bullshit clinging to ya? Still got all your fingers and toes?”

Donatello knocks his leg against Casey’s and wiggles his fingers in the man's face, “Yes, Case. All six fingers and toes are present and accounted for.”

Casey’s chuckle is a little more real as he bats the green digits away from him. “Good. Ya scared the shit out of me for a good minute,”

“Honestly, if we’d made it out just missing a couple appendages, I’d have considered it a win.”

“Damn. You make it sound like getting here at all was a miracle,”

“You know I don’t believe in miracles. In a manner of speaking, though, yes. Our survival was… very, very fortunate considering how unlikely it was.”

Casey sits with that for a moment, before shaking his head, “Alright, let's hop off that train of thought.” he says quietly.

For a couple minutes the two of them just sit. Breathing in the quiet of the bathroom. The heat is rapidly diminishing, and the tiles beneath them grow chilled, but neither of them move. They just lean against each other, their sides melding together in comfort and assurance.

Donatello thinks he could have fallen asleep there, with his legs numb and his shell painfully pressed against the bathroom counter, with Casey’s weight and warmth pressed into him, with the adrenaline leeching out of his body and giving way to exhaustion. He probably would have, if Casey’s voice didn’t pierce the silence.

“So, what now?” The man's voice is hushed, and Donatello thinks he might be asking himself more than the turtle; still, Casey asked a question, Donatello must answer.

“Now, we need information.” he states, “We don’t know where- when exactly we are right now, but hopefully it’s soon enough to stop a few things in their tracks,”

“Like what?”

Donatello has to remind himself that Casey wasn’t around for a lot of the early stuff, and no matter the stories he’s heard, no matter how much it feels like the man's been with him forever, he doesn't truly know much of what happened in these early days. He’s a lot more in the dark than Donatello, so he’ll need to rely on the turtle’s memory.

There’s one particular, rage-inducing memory that comes to mind first.

“Off the top of my head? Motherfucking Chris Bradford.”

Casey snaps his fingers, “Oh yeah! Rahzar hasn’t mutated yet, has he?”

“No, and hopefully he won’t mutate at all,” Claw-marked wounds, hateful barks through sharp teeth, the wounded look on Mikey’s face… “That damn dog has given us far more trouble than he was ever worth.”

“So what’re you thinking? Ya want us to, uh-...” Casey mimes a hand cutting across his throat.

Donatello gives a frustrated sigh, as much as he wishes it were that easy, they have to be smarter than that, “Unfortunately, no. Shredder is bound to notice one of his star pupils getting killed, and putting such a big target on our backs so early would be a mistake. I especially don’t want the others taking the heat for his death and getting even more of Shredder’s fury focused on them so soon, and we’ll be better off without extra Foot roaming the streets.”

“So we just let him run free?”

“For now. He’s strong, I’ll give him that, but he’ll be much more manageable for all of us as a human rather than a giant mutated dog. Same goes for Fishfa- Xever, and Stockman.”

“Agreed. So, we’ll add them to the list. What else?”

“Mostly reconnaissance. There’s so damn much that I didn’t know at this point- so much that I still don’t know. So many strings tying everything together. I’m worried that if we go around yanking on too many at once we’ll cause more harm than good.”

Casey lays a hand on Donatello’s knee, giving a grounding squeeze. “One thing at a time, Don.”

Donatello puts his hand over Casey’s and sighs. “We’re in September. The 30th. Right after we came up to the surface for the first time and saved April from the Kraang.”

They saved April, but they hadn’t saved Mr. O’Neil. April must be devastated right now. The only bright side is that the man won’t be harmed. He’s too important to the Kraangs' plans for getting to April, and though the Kraang don’t care about humans, they at least know not to harm such a valuable hostage.

As much as it hurts, he knows that he can’t just bust in to save him. He has to prioritize, and unfortunately, the fact that Kirby isn’t in immediate danger means that he’s pushed further down the list. Not to mention the fact that running headfirst into a Kraang base will definitely put a target on their backs, and that's only if the three of them make it out alive.

‘He’s alright,’ he thinks to himself. ‘We’ll get him back,’

“It’ll be a few weeks later that Mikey starts meeting up with Chris Bradford.”

Casey clicks his teeth, eyes narrowed in anger, “Didn’t that asshole pretend to be friends with him? What a scumbag.”

“You’re telling me. He and Xever attacked Mikey and tried using him to lure us into a trap to find master Splinter.”

“Man, I would’ve loved to see the beat down you four gave them for that,” Casey snickers.

Donatello smirks, “Washing them away with sewer water was spectacular,” he shakes his head, “But it wasn’t until some time after that when he became mutated.”

“So, we’ll bump him down the priority list, who’s next?”

“Stockman will need to be dealt with, sooner rather than later. He wasn’t much as a human, a half-mediocre engineer, but him getting the T-Pod made him dangerous, and it set him directly in Shredder’s path.”

“So, we’ll deal with him first?”

Donatello thinks for a moment. The order of events is hazy after a decade, but he remembers something else that happened around this time. The beginnings of an ape friend of theirs, and the birth of a new, frightening enemy.

“I’m more worried about Dr. Rockwell.”

Casey turns to him, eyes wide. “Oh shit! He’s still human right now, isn’t he?”

“Maybe. I don’t know the exact timeline between human, monkey, and his escape from the lab, but if there’s a chance we can save him, we’ve gotta take it.” Donatello’s eyes narrow, glaring at an unseen enemy, “And we need to take Falco down.”

The turtle can’t forgive that man for the heinous things he did to Rockwell, and he certainly can’t forgive him for the trauma he inflicted on his father. Splinter may have defeated him, but Donatello knew that being controlled and forced to attack them… it haunted him; and for that, Donatello has to take him down.

Casey’s hand squeezes his knee again, harder. He knows that Casey is angry too, loves Splinter as much as he does, and feels the same burning need to protect him, to protect all of them.

“Save Rockwell, beat down Falco, and then handle the T-Pod situation. Sounds like a plan to me.”

“It’ll be daylight soon. That’ll give us some time to catch a few hours of sleep and hash out the details until nightfall.” Donatello’s back twinges and his leg is asleep, and he suddenly remembers where he is. “But for now, can we please get off the bathroom floor?”

“Thank God you said something, my ass is killing me.” Casey groans, knees popping as he pulls himself up by the lip of the counter. “Too old to be folded up on the floor like that, man.”

“You’re not even thirty yet, don’t act like you’re a senior citizen,” Donatello laughs, the mess in his head a little clearer now. The webs in his brain haven’t fully untangled themselves, but he has something to work with. The bare bones, bullet points of a plan, but still a plan. His legs only feel a little weak when Casey offers him his hand and pulls him from the floor, his own groan erupting from his lips as pins and needles dance down his limbs.

Casey laughs at him, an exhausted but fond sound. He leads him into the bedroom, to the bed with only a bare mattress. No sheets, pillows, or blankets. They both flop onto it, uncaring that they’re crowded together as exhaustion sinks its tendrils into them.

‘Tonight.’ Donatello thinks to himself, staring into Casey’s closed eyelids, the man’s breathing begins to even, already teetering on the edge of sleep. Donatello’s own eyes slip closed, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

He’s been waiting a long time for this, and though the feeling of selfishness rings through his chest at the prospect of actually resting for a few hours, he knows he’ll need energy if he wants to get this right.

Tonight. It all begins tonight. He’ll finally begin to fix everything. For his family, his friends, for Casey.