Chapter Text
The living room was quiet, calm, and comforting. Only soft breathing rhythms and the faint murmurs of whispered conversation broke the stillness.
April and Donnie sat close in the reclining chair, their phones in front of their worn eyes. Their marathon had been epic: How to Train Your Dragon , How to Train Your Dragon 2 , and several episodes of Race to the Edge . But they'd both silently shaken their heads when it came time for the third movie. That unspoken agreement still lingered like a shadow.
No one in the family talked about How to Train Your Dragon: The Hidden World anymore. Watching it again was out of the question. Donnie had been the most adamant of all. He had sworn—only half-jokingly—to hack into every server that hosted the film and erase it from existence. The threat carried enough of his usual techy menace that no one dared to doubt him.
April smiled faintly at the memory as she shifted, resting her head against Donnie’s with a soft sigh. The hard surface of his skull wasn’t the most comfortable pillow, but something was grounding about it—familiar, steady, safe.
“Feeling any better, Dee?” she murmured, her voice thick with exhaustion as her eyes fluttered shut. Her limbs ached from hours of lounging, and the warmth in the room made it difficult to stay awake. In response, Donnie let out a low grumble. He didn’t shift from his slouched position, arms crossed tightly over his hooded plastron, eyes half-lidded behind his purple mask.
“That depends entirely on your definition of ‘better’ ,” he muttered, voice scratchy with sleep deprivation. His tone was sharp as ever, but it lacked its usual bite. April cracked one eye open, giving him a knowing look. “You know exactly what I mean.”
For a moment, Donnie was silent. His gaze remained fixed on the dark phone screen, where their reflections flickered faintly. He blinked slowly and deliberately before releasing a long breath. “…I guess.” His voice softened, losing its defensive edge. “Better than before. But, you know… not great .”
April hummed in understanding, her fingers idly tapping against the cracks in her phone screen. She didn’t push further. They both knew that “better” was a complicated thing these days. The room fell quiet again. A fragile peace settled over them—unspoken promises of being there, even when words weren’t enough.
A wide yawn escaped April as she stretched her arms above her head, fingers brushing the air. Her brown eyes drooped, heavy with exhaustion after the long movie marathon. “I think... I’m gonna take a nap,” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep as she slumped back against the couch.
Donnie, who had been half-lost in his thoughts, immediately perked up—if only to correct her. “ Nap? ” he repeated, arching a brow with a teasing glint in his eyes. His tone dripped with sarcasm. “Technically, it’s night. Therefore, it wouldn’t be classified as a nap —this would be considered sleep. A full, long rest, even.”
A smug smile crept across his face as he adjusted his hood with a flourish, clearly pleased with his oh-so-important clarification. April slowly turned her head to glare at him, unamused. Donnie met her look with a coy smirk, unbothered by her sleepy glower. The corner of his mouth twitched, challenging her without a word.
They stared at each other briefly, the air thick with mock tension. This was routine for them—the teasing, the eye rolls, the smug grins. They had shared countless moments like this—small, quiet reminders of the bond they had built over the years. They were best friends, sure. But more than that, they were siblings in every way that mattered.
And siblings? Siblings lived to annoy each other. April eventually huffed, a lazy smile tugging at her lips despite herself. “Whatever, nerd,” she muttered, closing her eyes as she nestled deeper into the couch. “Seriously though, wake me up if you need anything.”
Donnie could sense the sincerity in April’s voice, and a moment of warmth spread through his chest. It wasn’t a feeling he was used to—not lately. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips, barely there but genuine.
Curling his legs up to his chest, he let his chin rest on his knees. His gaze drifted, unfocused, as his thoughts began to spiral. The familiar hum of the ceiling fan, the faint scent of chicken noodle soup, and the low whir of distant machinery all faded into the background.
For once, his mind wasn’t racing with calculations, theories, or contingency plans. It was quiet. But that quiet didn’t last. A subtle movement on the floor snapped him out of his trance. His sharp eyes zeroed in on the familiar sight: a large, green tail lazily dragging across the worn floorboards.
And just like that, the realization hit him again—hard. His family was here. Not just April. His throat tightened. Sure, he felt better —better than before. His head wasn’t screaming at him anymore; the relentless buzz of panic and fear dulled to a murmur. His body still ached, muscles sore and sluggish. His shell stung worse than ever, a sharp reminder of everything they’d been through.
But still… His family was here. Donnie’s gaze followed the slow sweep of the tail until it led him to the figure resting on the far side of the room. He swallowed hard. Raph.
His eldest brother sat nestled in a bed of old quilts, mismatched blankets, and an army of squishmallows—Carol’s handiwork. The soft clutter of plushies and fabric seemed almost laughably out of place compared to the harsh reality of Raph’s injuries.
Bandages were wrapped tightly around Raph’s head, covering half of his face. The clean white material stood in stark contrast against his dark green skin. Donnie’s keen eyes didn’t miss the deep bruises peeking from beneath the wrappings or the subtle wince that crossed Raph’s face with each breath.
More bandages covered Raph’s left shoulder, and Donnie could see the cracks and fractures along his plastron and carapace—evidence of just how close they had come to losing him. But Raph's right arm made Donnie’s stomach twist the most.
Thick layers of bandages encased it from shoulder to wrist, far bulkier than the others. Donnie’s sharp mind immediately pieced it together: there had to be a stabilizer underneath, some makeshift support to keep the broken bones aligned.
The Krang. Donnie clenched his hands into fists, nails digging into his palms. The Krang had twisted Raph’s arm into something unnatural and contorted it until the bones gave way. The damage had to have been extensive—structural, deep. The stabilizer wasn’t just for healing; it was to ensure that the bones were set right and that Raph wouldn’t lose the use of his arm.
Donnie forced himself to breathe.
In. Out.
In. Out.
In. Out.
In. O̷u̴t̸.̵
I̶n̶.̷ O̸͚̲̐̎̅́͌̕͠u̷̲̠̝̍̅̋̒̇͊̉̿̓͒̌̉̈́͘̕͝͝t̸͇̲͈̫̀.̷̡̳͇̮̱̯̝̘̣̬͇̻̟͚͍̜̀͂̋̈́̋͌̆́́̂͛͛͆̽͐̓̕
His gaze softened as he looked back at Raph’s still form. Even now, even broken, Raph radiated strength. His chest's rise and fall was steady, and despite the layers of bandages and bruises, he was here.
A flicker of panic jolted through Donnie’s chest. His eyes darted from Raph to the couch across the room. Mikey. The youngest Hamato lay fast asleep, his soft breathing the only sound breaking the room’s quiet. A blanket was draped loosely over his plastron, rising and falling with each steady breath. In the dim light, Mikey looked peaceful—too peaceful.
But Donnie wasn’t fooled. His sharp gaze didn’t miss the bandages wrapped tightly around Mikey’s arms and biceps. The sterile white fabric was a harsh reminder of everything they had been through. The sight made Donnie’s stomach twist painfully, bile threatening to rise.
But something else caught his attention—a detail he hadn’t processed before. Donnie’s eyes narrowed. Bandages covered Mikey’s shin. Thick ones. He froze. There was no blood seeping through, which should have been a relief. But Donnie’s eidetic memory had already kicked into overdrive. His mind flipped through recent memories like pages in a book, searching and analyzing.
No…
He remembered now. The image struck him like a lightning bolt: an indent in Mikey’s shin. Not a cut. Not a scrape. An indent. It was like someone had taken a chunk out of the bone. Donnie’s breath caught in his throat.
That can’t be right.
He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to slow down, to reason. But his brain had already started its usual routine—racing at 4,000 miles a minute, running simulations, calculations, and possibilities.
It’s not possible. An indentation like that would mean— His thoughts stuttered as another memory came crashing forward. The fight. The big one. Krang One.
The scene replayed in his mind, unbidden and vivid, like some twisted movie reel. They had all been knocked back. Hard. He could still feel the force of it—a mere flick from that monster had sent them flying like ragdolls. The world had spun, debris scattered in the endless void they fought in.
Mikey. Donnie remembered Mikey being blasted backward, nearly thrown off the floating chunk of debris they’d been fighting on. For a moment, Donnie had thought Mikey was gone—lost to the abyss.
But Mikey had stopped himself. Donnie could see it now: Mikey slamming into a broken balcony. The impact had saved him from falling, but… His shin. Donnie’s breath hitched as the realization sank in.
Mikey’s shin was the first to hit the jagged balcony railing. The fence hadn’t given way. Mikey’s bone had. The indentation. The stabilizing bandages. It all made sense now. A cold sweat broke across Donnie’s brow.
Back then, he’d only had a second to glance Mikey’s way before throwing himself back into defense. He hadn’t had time to process the damage. There hadn’t been time for anything except survival.
But now? Now they were home. Safe. And with safety came understanding. Donnie clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. The thought of his little brother—his baby brother —taking that kind of hit and keeping it together, fighting through the pain without saying a word… Then, walking across the Verrazzano-narrows Bridge.
It made him feel sick. Mikey had always been the heart of their family. The glue that kept them from falling apart. His smile, his laughter—they were what made the darkness bearable.
And yet, there he was. Asleep. Hurt. Wrapped in bandages that shouldn’t have been necessary. Donnie swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in his throat. He’s okay now. We’re okay now. But the memory lingered, sharp and cold. Because even in the safety of their home, the scars of that battle were still fresh.
Donnie let out a shaky breath. The ache in his shell didn’t matter. The lingering fear didn’t matter. Because his family was here, and that was enough—for now. They were all–
Leo
When the name was forced to the forefront of his mind, it settled like a weight on his chest—dense, immovable. His breath hitched, and the room around him remained unnaturally still as if even the faintest movement could shatter the fragile moment, sending him spiraling back through time. Donnie was confident he would be dragged back to those awful hours if anything changed- if anything so much as he shifted.
His eyes burned. He refused to blink. If he did, if he allowed his lids to slip shut for even a second, his family could disappear again. The terror clung to him, wrapping itself around his ribs like vines tightening, constricting. He could feel his pulse hammering against his skull, a frantic, desperate rhythm. Tears welled up, blurring his vision, but he fought them back. He fought the instinct to surrender to exhaustion. But he couldn’t fight nature forever.
Eventually, his body betrayed him. His lids fluttered, then sealed shut. The moment his world turned dark, panic struck deep, sharp as a blade. His breath seized in his throat, a strangled gasp breaking through his lips as his lungs screamed for air. He forced them to expand, fill, and remember how to function. And then—
He opened his eyes. And his worst fear had come true.
The room was gone. The safety of home, of familiarity, had vanished in an instant. Instead, he stood beneath a sky fractured by swirling light, staring up at the gaping maw of the wormhole. Staten Island stretched before him, but he barely noticed. All he saw was the portal. The wound in the sky. The doorway that had taken everything from him. And just like that, he returned to the worst moment.
He could hear it—the crackle of static, the hum of circuits sputtering to life. His battleshell, comms, and creations were all springing back into function as voices surged through them, overlapping in a chaotic mess of panic and desperation. But none of it mattered. Not the sparking wires, not the alerts blaring in his ears, not the frantic voices arguing through his systems.
Because Leonardo had made his decision, it was an illogical, reckless, irreversible decision. And Donnie was watching it unfold right in front of him.
His breath hitched, his throat constricting as he heard his brother's voice crack under the weight of his fear. “Leo…! Please don’t do this!” The words wrenched from Raph’s chest, raw and pleading. He wasn’t sure if he was screaming through the comms or if it was just a whisper drowned in the chaos. But it didn’t matter because it changed nothing.
Tears burned at Donnie’s lower lids, blurring his vision as the portal began to shrink. The edges curled inward, folding over themselves, swallowing the last fragments of his brother’s existence from this world.
And then, with one final explosion—a deafening rupture of light and energy—it was gone. The portal. Leonardo. His best friend. His brother. His twin . Gone.
It couldn’t be real. Donnie stood frozen, his body numb, his mind grasping for any explanation other than the truth, staring him in the face. His breath came shallow, barely enough to fuel his racing thoughts as he scanned the sky, desperate for any sign, any proof that Leonardo had done the impossible—that he had escaped the pull of the collapsing portal, that he had somehow survived the explosion that had torn through the heavens.
But there was nothing.
The sky was still unraveling, the last remnants of the wormhole dissolving into wisps of cosmic dust, fading into the familiar skyline of New York. And below it, all around him, the world stood still.
His comms were silent. No desperate shouts. No strained orders. No hurried attempts to strategize. Just silence. The weight of it settled over the three remaining brothers like a suffocating fog, thick and inescapable. They stood still, staring up at the nebula of their brother’s last stand as it dissipated into nothing.
The first sound Donnie registered after the ringing in his ears subsided was a choked sob. Michelangelo. His only younger brother. The realization hit harder than any of his injuries. The fractures in his ribs, the bruises, the burns—none of it compared to the raw agony twisting inside his chest when the thought that he only had one younger brother now was brought to the forefront of his mind.
Mikey’s sobs were unrestrained, tearing through the air like a blade. He had always felt the heaviest, to wear his heart on his sleeve with no shame or hesitation—the complete opposite of Donnie, who kept his unkind emotions locked away, guarded, and hidden.
Or at least, he used to. Now, he didn’t care who saw. Hot and unrelenting tears blurred his vision as they slipped past the purple markings on his cheeks. His breath shuddered, his body trembling, but he couldn’t stop them. He didn’t want to stop them.
And then— A sound. Static, crackling through their comms.
The noise cut through the grief like lightning, freezing all three in place. Their bodies went rigid, their sobs catching in their throats as they stared down at the devices strapped to their wrists.
The static was weak and fragmented, but it was real. It was something. "You’ve been portal-chopped!" Leo’s voice crackled through the comms, triumph laced into his words as if he had just pulled off the most significant victory of his life. The grin was practically audible, that cocky, self-assured tone breaking through the distorted signal.
Only a blasted fool would be happy before realizing the consequences of his actions.
Mikey clutched his comm tighter, his fingers trembling as if letting go would mean losing Leo all over again. His breath hitched, voice barely above a whisper, raw and broken. “L…eo…?” A question. A plea. A desperate grasp at hope—because if they still had communication, then there had to be a way to get him back. There had to be.
But they weren’t expecting what came next.
At first, it was just noise. Wind, rushing and howling through the speakers, but so warped by static that it could have been anything. It could have been interference, background distortion—an effect of the portal’s aftershocks.
But then—An unmistakable sound, a sharp, agonized gasp. A choked, ragged groan. And then the sickening thud of something heavy—someone—hitting the ground. Leo. Their blood turned to ice.
Donatello wished he had gone deaf. At that moment, he wished he had never known the gift of hearing. The sounds pouring from the comms strapped to each of their wrists were overwhelming, overlapping into a cacophony of horror that swallowed the three of them whole. It was a fight—if one could even call it that. There was no rhythm, strategy, or restraint. It was a brutal, merciless onslaught, and they were forced to listen to every second.
The voice on the other end was raw, seething with unfiltered rage and something more profound—something broken. It was the voice of a man who had lost everything, and the words he spat out cut sharper than any blade.
“YOU! ” The accusation was drenched in fury, cracked and desperate. “ You’ve ruined EVERYTHING!”
Michelangelo flinched as if the words had struck him directly, even though they weren’t meant for him. The venom in that voice dripped like acid onto his skin, burning, corroding, twisting into his chest like a parasite. He clutched his arms around himself as if he could squeeze out the sickening feeling spreading through his bones.
Each brother reacted in their way—unraveling, splintering under the weight of what they were hearing.
Raphael trembled, his whole body shaking more violently than a leaf caught in a raging storm. His fists clenched and unclenched, nails biting into his palms hard enough to break the skin, but he didn’t notice. His breath came in harsh, uneven bursts as though he were struggling to hold himself together.
Michelangelo sobbed openly, hiccuping through his cries, shoulders jolting with every wet, gasping breath. He couldn’t stop the way he flinched at each new sound, each brutal impact that made his stomach twist with nausea.
And Donatello… he stood frozen, silent. His mind, usually a whirring machine of calculations and logic, could barely process what was happening. His breath was stuck somewhere in his throat, lungs refusing to work correctly. Every part of him wanted to recoil, shut it out, and pretend he wasn’t hearing this. But they were. And they could do nothing to stop it.
Crunch after sickening crunch, blow after relentless blow, they heard everything. Every impact echoed through the comms, each sound layering over the next in an unbearable symphony of pain. The pained cries, the crumbling of broken stone—there was no filter, no way to escape it. The static crackled in and out, distorting the noise just enough to make it worse. It was impossible to tell what metal and stone were scraping together and what bones and shells were grinding against the ground.
And that uncertainty—that was what Donatello hated the most. His mind demanded patterns, explanations, and structure. But there was no logic to this; this was only bloodshed, hatred, fury, nothing Donatello could logically decipher.
“WIPE T̶H̴A̵T̸ Ǧ̸̜̀͋͝Ŗ̷̏͛Į̶̲͇͈̫̓̽̚N̴̯͇̆̇ Ȍ̶̡̱͇͇̱̻͐F̷̡̪̪̺̓ͅF̷̛͍͓̳̺͙͓̘̄̈̎͛͂͘ Ý̸̛̯̦̙̳̣̙̱͓̖̊͂̆̀̇̈́͆̄͑̌̂̀̓͌͜ͅỌ̷͍͍̳͉̝͖̲̭̞͇̭̬͚͕̅̎͆̋ͅŲ̴̢̡͍̖͍͍̟̬̲͈̝͍͋̔̂R̶̛͖͖̦̬̦̩̣͈͓͙̯̠͎̦̭͙̱͌̿̈́̆̇̍̚ F̸̧̢͈̠̯̰͙͂̽̈́ͅÃ̴̡̨̖̥͙̟̫̭̊Ç̴̡̙͙̈͑̍̎͋̀͛͂̌̑́͘͝͠È̴̞͓̻̯̣̲̻̪̠̲̬̓̔́͛̐̓̆̂̎̄̊̓̕͠"
Silence.
That damned silence.
The comms cut off with an abrupt click, severing all connections. The only sound that remained was a low, droning static hum—a hollow, empty noise that sent ice-cold dread crawling down Donatello’s spine.
Bile surged up his throat. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. His ordinarily sharp mind, which prided itself on clarity and control, was clouded with a thick, suffocating fog. His hands shook at his sides, his body teetering between fight and collapse, but he couldn’t make himself move. It was gone. He was gone.
“Hey, Don…?”
The voice was soft. Too soft. That wasn’t right. No one should be speaking like that—not now, not when they were all grieving.
A gentle touch brushed against his knee. His body jolted at the contact, and his eyes—no, had they even been open?—snapped wide. A sharp gasp tore from his throat, his lungs seizing as if he had forgotten how to breathe until this moment. A burn spread through his chest, the telltale sting of oxygen deprivation clawing its way through his body.
Thick, hot tears welled in his eyes, spilling over without restraint as he darted his gaze around the room in a frantic panic. Everything was too bright, too blurry, too wrong.
His hands shot up, gripping the soft fabric covering him as if grounding himself in something tangible would slow the spiral. His mind was too disoriented to piece anything together. Where was he? What had happened?
Leo. Where was Leo? Was he safe? Did they get him out? Did they fail?
The flood of questions pounded against his skull, an unrelenting storm that shattered what little stability he had left. It was too much—his thoughts betraying him, splintering into static, noise, and pain. A migraine bloomed behind his eyes, a sharp, pulsing ache that he already knew wouldn’t let up.
“Hey… Hey… It’s just Raphie,” the eldest spoke softly, careful not to startle the trembling turtle before him. His voice was low and steady, an anchor against the storm raging in Donnie’s mind.
Raph’s massive hand rested gently against Donnie’s knee, the same way it always had when they were kids—when nightmares clawed at the edges of their minds, when the world outside their small, underground home felt too big, too loud, too dangerous. It was a touch meant to ground, to comfort. But Donnie wasn’t a kid anymore. And this… this wasn’t some bad dream.
One blink, and his migraine worsened, pounding mercilessly against the inside of his skull. He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut and covering them with a shaking hand, as if that would somehow ease the pain. Every movement sent another wave of nausea rolling through him, his body trembling under the weight of everything he couldn’t process.
Raph’s worry was heavy, pressing into his shoulders as he leaned closer. He moved carefully, giving Donnie the space to pull away—but when his little brother swayed forward, Raph caught him quickly. He guided Donnie down, letting him rest against his unbandaged shoulder, supporting his weight like he had so many times before. Just like when Donnie used to fall asleep at his desk, head slumped over a book too heavy for his frame, too stubborn to go to bed on his own.
Donnie clung weakly to him, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Raphie…” His words wobbled, exhaustion thick in his tone. He was slipping again, drowning in the haze of fatigue, panic, and pain. But even through it all, through the disorientation and the overwhelming weight in his chest, one thought broke through—one desperate need.
“Leo… I need to get… to Leo…”
His body tensed, his muscles fighting against his exhaustion as he pushed himself upright. His breathing hitched, his chest rising and falling too quickly as panic overtook him. His broad, frantic eyes darted around the room, searching, pleading.
The migraine surged, pain blinding and merciless, but Donnie barely registered it. He gasped sharply, his lungs forgetting how to work for the second time that night. His fingers curled into Raph’s arm, desperate, shaking.
“R… Raph—” Donnie’s voice cracked, barely more than a breath, as he looked up at his brother with wide, pleading eyes. Raph swallowed hard, his throat tightening painfully. “Er… Don, we can’t see Leo yet…” he murmured, voice low, but there was no hiding the way the words shook, how they barely made it past the grief closing in around his chest.
Even as Raph said it and tried to be the strong one, every inch of him rebelled against it. Every instinct screamed to be with Leo, see him, hold him, and ensure he was okay. To apologize. For everything he said. For every time he pushed too hard, expected too much, let his anger get the better of him. Leo was alone in that place for mere minutes, but Raph wasn’t there when he needed him the most.
And now, he didn’t even know if he’d get the chance to fix it. Raph wanted his brother back. They all did.
The weight of that reality bore down on the two conscious brothers, pressing against their ribs like a vice. Without thinking, without hesitation, they clung to each other, grasping for any solid ground in the storm, swallowing them whole. Their hands curled into the fabric, bodies shaking, breaths uneven. They were each other’s lifeline, the only thing tethering them to the present.
As they sat there, lost in their grief, Casey watched them in quiet understanding. In his timeline—the bad timeline—he had never met Raph—at least, not that he could remember. But he had heard the stories.
Stories of the great eldest brother of the Hamato Clan. The warrior who had single-handedly saved the resistance when it was nothing more than a fractured group of survivors clinging to the last embers of hope.
He grew up hearing about Raph’s strength, unwavering will, and how he fought tooth and nail for the people he loved. But seeing him now—holding his little brother like he was afraid to let go, like the world itself would shatter if he did.
Casey glanced down at his hands, fingers twitching slightly before he clenched them into fists. He took a slow breath, steeling himself as he pushed up into a standing position. His gaze lingered on the turtle brothers for a moment, something heavy settling in his chest.
They were his family. They would be his family. But… not yet. Right now, there was someone else he had to see.
Determination settled into his features, his jaw tightening as he took careful, measured steps down the dimly lit hallway. He crept, not wanting to disturb the others.
Stopping at the hall's threshold, Casey glanced at the three doors before him, each staring back like silent sentinels. His fingers twitched at his side before he reached for the first door, pushing it open just enough to peek inside—And immediately shut it. Carol’s room. Yeah, no. Not invading her privacy.
Casey took another deep breath, shaking off the awkward memory of almost walking into Carol’s room. He turned to the second door and carefully cracked it open, peering inside—a bathroom.
His eyes widened slightly as he took in the space—sticky notes covered the mirror cabinet, some curling at the edges as if they’d been there a while. Towels hung on the wall were slightly askew as if someone had rushed out and forgotten to fix them. The counter had the usual clutter—an electric toothbrush, a cup with a few random combs, and a bottle of mouthwash.
It was so… normal.
He stepped inside, looking around in quiet amazement. To anyone else, it was just a standard bathroom—nothing special. But to Casey? It was everything.
Sure, they had a bathroom in the future, but it was nothing like this. They weren’t home. They were just another room. A necessity. Cold. Impersonal. Just a place to take care of bodily functions before rushing back into a war-torn world that was constantly falling apart.
This? This was lived in. This was safe. He reached out hesitantly, his fingers grazing the smooth sink counter. The tile was cool beneath his fingertips, honest, solid, and stable. A slow, almost disbelieving smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
For the first time, Casey was in a timeline where he didn’t have to brace for the next disaster, where the weight of survival wasn’t constantly crushing his shoulders. And even if it was just a fraction, even if it was only for a fleeting moment—he let himself feel it.
The tension in his body lessened, his muscles relaxing in a way they hadn’t in years. For just a few minutes, he let himself be here.
He let himself exist in this world without the crushing guilt of leaving behind the future he knew was doomed—the future where he grew up, where his family lived, and where so many people still fought for scraps of hope.
But this timeline... this was his home now. And with that thought settling deep in his chest, Casey steeled himself again. His expression hardened with resolve as he rolled his shoulders, forcing himself back into focus.
Right. His new mission. Casey turned away from the bathroom, fingers lingering on the door for a second before shutting it gently behind him. He took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders back into their familiar tense state as he approached the last door.
His hand gripped the handle, but he hesitated. It felt too familiar. Like back on the tower, when he held the Krang key in his grasp, all he had to do was pull, make a choice, and save the world.
But every choice had consequences. Back then, it had been a single, rough tug that would seal humanity’s fate, no matter what he decided.
And now… Now, it was just a door handle. But it wasn’t just a door handle. It was a threshold to something so much more. Because on the other side wasn’t just anyone. It was him. The turtle that had raised him. The one who taught him everything. His Sensei. His father.
But not quite.
This was the younger version—the one who hadn’t seen the world burn or carried the weight of leadership in a dying world. This Leo was still just a brother. A son. A teenager who had proven himself, who had sacrificed himself without hesitation.
And even though Casey knew this was a different version of the man who shaped him, there was no doubt in his heart. This was still his Sensei.
Without giving himself a chance to hesitate, Casey grabbed the doorknob and pushed the bedroom door open. His muscles tensed, prepared for anything—another fight, an ambush, something unexpected.
What he saw first, however, caught him off guard in an entirely different way. The room was... April.
The moment he stepped inside, it was as if the very essence of her had been woven into every inch of the space. The walls were a kaleidoscope of colors—painted, decorated, and adorned with an eclectic mix of posters, artwork, and what could only be described as handmade chaos. Trinkets, keepsakes, and little bits of everything littered her shelves, each telling a story Casey couldn’t understand.
And cats. There are so many cats. Not actual ones, of course, but in drawings, figurines, and plushies. It made sense, now that he thought about it—her phone case had a similar theme.
Despite the whirlwind of personality packed into the space, Casey’s attention snapped away from his surroundings when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. His breath hitched, and his body instinctively shifted into a defensive stance as he turned toward the source.
His fingers curled into loose fists, heart pounding, before his mind even registered what he was seeing.
A tall, imposing figure stood before him, his deep violet complexion and ram-like features unmistakable. The dim lighting cast harsh shadows over his face, making his already sharp expression look sterner.
Casey’s eyes widened slightly. “Draxum.” His voice came out in a breath, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly—though not enough to let his guard down completely.
The yokai regarded him with a cold, unreadable expression. For a moment, the two merely stood there, neither moving nor speaking, as if silently assessing one another. Then, finally, Draxum spoke. His voice was as firm and commanding as ever. “What are you doing in here?”
“I’m here to see Maste—” He cut himself off sharply, clearing his throat before correcting himself. “Leonardo. I’m here to see Leonardo.” The determined set of his jaw didn’t falter, but the slip hadn’t gone unnoticed.
Draxum’s eyes narrowed as he studied the boy before him. Casey, for his part, didn’t waver under the scrutiny. He had known the future version of Draxum—a hardened warrior, a brilliant alchemist, and a crucial leader in the resistance. He had been one of the many who had stood beside Commander O’Neil; he was someone Casey had admired, even if their relationship had been more professional than personal.
This Draxum, however, was… different. Not in his strength or presence—those remained unchanged. But there was something sharper about him, less tempered by experience. Future Draxum had been softer and more approachable, making him feel less like a figure of authority and more like a trusted ally. This one? He was still all edges, still fighting battles that hadn’t yet worn him down into the version Casey had known.
“Leonardo is in no shape for visitors.”
The words came out clipped, harsher than Draxum had perhaps intended, but he made no effort to soften them. It was challenging to keep his emotions in check when his somewhat son was barely clinging to consciousness in the bed just feet away from them. Every fiber of his being was focused on that fact alone, and right now, Casey’s presence would either be a help or a hindrance—nothing in between.
“I need you to either be helpful or leave.” Casey’s brows lifted slightly at that, the sharpness of the statement catching his interest. His mind worked quickly, running through the possibilities. If Draxum was here, hovering over Leonardo like this, then there was more than simple monitoring.
Casey straightened, his expression hardening into something determined. “How can I help?” There was no hesitation, no second-guessing. If there was anything he could do—anything at all—he was going to do it. Because Leonardo needed him. And Casey wasn’t about to let him down.
The answer surprised Draxum a little. He hadn’t expected the boy to be so eager, nor had he anticipated how Casey hardened himself so quickly, his expression tightening with determination instead of fear.
“Casey Jr., I need you to find any clean bandages you can,” Draxum instructed, already focusing on the task. Draxum moved to the side, allowing the teenage boy to see the turtle. He was breathing shallowly through the oxygen mask, blood seeping through no longer white bandages. Draxum carefully peeled away a bloodstained wrapping from Leonardo’s head, his brows knitting together at the stables that had barely managed to close the wounds. “The old bandages are already reaching capacity, and we need to reinforce them before they start leaking again.”
Casey snapped into motion immediately. He might not have known much about the machines or medical tools around the slider, but he knew some. Leonardo had taught him the basics. But he knew wounds and how to keep people from bleeding out. His Sensei had drilled that into him since childhood, and battlefield experience had only reinforced those lessons.
He darted across the room, scanning every surface for supplies. “Where do you keep them?” he asked quickly. “They can be found in the box by the closet there,” Draxum responded without looking up.
When he spotted it, Casey yanked it open and grabbed as many fresh bandages as he could carry, along with a bottle of antiseptic. Even though Draxum was already handling the reopened wounds, Casey knew infections could kill just as quickly as blood loss. He dropped the supplies onto the table beside the bed and instinctively reached for Leonardo’s wrist, checking his pulse the way he’d done countless times for injured fighters in his own time. He's still steady but weaker than he’d like.
Draxum noticed but didn’t comment, simply handing him a strip of fresh bandages. “Help me secure these. I’ll hold the dressing in place—you wrap.”
Casey nodded, moving to the opposite side of the bed. His hands worked fast, calloused fingers looping the bandages around Leonardo’s head with practiced efficiency. They had no time to waste; the longer they took, the more Leo’s body struggled to compensate for the damage.
Draxum pressed a fresh layer of gauze over the deepest wound, his claws stained red despite his best efforts to keep things clean. “Tighter, but don’t cut off circulation.”
“Got it.” Casey adjusted his grip, ensuring the wrap was snug but not restricting. He glanced up at Leo’s face, watching for any flicker of consciousness, any sign that the turtle might be coming around. Nothing yet. His stomach twisted, but he pushed the worry down. Worry wouldn’t help.
“What else?” he asked, voice firm, ready for the next instruction. Draxum studied him briefly before giving a slight nod of approval. “Check for any other wounds that might’ve reopened. If you see fresh blood, let me know immediately.”
Casey didn’t hesitate. He moved methodically, scanning Leonardo’s arms and legs, looking for red seeping through the bandages. This wasn’t new to him—assessing injuries in the middle of chaos, keeping his hands steady when everything else felt crumbling.
The steady beeping of the heart monitor made Casey’s eyes snap up, his gaze locking onto the softly whirring machine beside Leonardo’s bed. He felt a little foolish now for checking Leo’s pulse manually when the answer had been right there the whole time. Still, old habits died hard. In his time, there weren’t machines to rely on—just instincts, quick hands, and whatever supplies they could scavenge.
Still, he took a moment to scan the rest of the equipment surrounding Leo, forcing himself to take mental notes. Donatello had tried to explain some of these devices when he was younger, rattling off names and functions faster than Casey could keep up. Leonardo, in his way, had simplified things when Donnie got too technical, showing Casey which readings mattered most in a crisis. Now, faced with the reality of their use, Casey pieced those lessons together, identifying the oxygen levels displayed on one screen, the IV drip regulating fluids, and the blood pressure monitor keeping silent watch.
Draxum, meanwhile, worked efficiently, wrapping a fresh layer of bandages around Leonardo’s left shin. His movements were precise, ensuring the fabric was secure but not so tight that it would restrict circulation. The former warlord wasn’t a natural healer, but he had learned—and quickly.
“You’re quick on your feet,” Draxum remarked, his sharp eyes flicking up to study Casey. He’d been making small observations about the boy in the short time they’d been working together, and the picture forming in his mind was unexpected. “And you have more training than a child your age should.” His voice was neither pitying nor judgmental—just factual, as though he were stating an undeniable truth.
Casey barely reacted, too focused on finishing the last of his work, securing a loose corner of the bandage before straightening up. “Didn’t have much of a choice,” he replied, voice even, as if the weight of that reality had long since settled into his bones.
Draxum made a quiet hum of acknowledgment before placing the roll of bandages and antiseptic spray back onto the bedside table beside them. His following words were softer, almost contemplative. “You remind me of him.” Casey stiffened slightly. He didn’t have to ask who Draxum meant.
He swallowed, glancing back at Leonardo’s unconscious form, the faint rise and fall of his chest steady beneath the layers of fresh bandages. He often thought about the resemblance—at least, in a way that made sense outside of battle. He had spent his whole life trying to live up to the idea of his sensei, of the hero his world had lost. But here, at this time, Leonardo wasn’t just a legend or a ghost of the past. He was real. He was alive. And right now, he was vulnerable.
Casey exhaled sharply, shaking off the thought. “If I remind you of him,” he muttered, reaching for a fresh cloth to wipe the excess blood from his fingers, “then I guess I’m doing something right.” Draxum watched him for a moment longer before returning his focus to Leonardo, checking the stability of his work.
The heart monitor continued its steady and sure rhythmic beeping. The sound was oddly grounding, a constant reminder that Leonardo was still here, still fighting. Some of the worry pressing down on Casey’s chest thinned, no longer as sharp and puncturing as before. But it didn’t go away.
His eyes flicked back to Leo’s face, searching for any sign of movement—an eyelid twitch, a shift in his breathing, anything. But there was nothing. Just the same stillness that had settled over him since they brought him in. The rise and fall of his chest was steady, but it wasn’t him . It wasn’t the leader Casey had looked up to his entire life, the warrior who had once felt invincible in his mind.
His fingers curled slightly against his knee before he finally spoke. “Draxum… do you know if he’s gonna wake up soon?” His voice was firm, but a thread of uncertainty was buried beneath the words. He hated how unfamiliar it felt.
Draxum paused momentarily, securing the last of the wrappings before setting his tools aside. His expression didn’t shift much, but Casey could tell the question gave him pause. The former warlord had been confident in his abilities thus far, working with methodical precision, but now, there was a hesitation.
Casey swallowed, pushing forward. “I’ve read about comas before and heard stories. But I’ve never seen one. Never seen someone just… be there but not there. ” His grip tightened. “So, how long? Hours? Days? Longer?”
Draxum let out a slow breath, wiping his hands clean before answering. “It’s hard to say.” His voice was measured but not dismissive. He wasn’t sugarcoating anything, and Casey appreciated that more than empty reassurances. “Leonardo’s body has been through a tremendous amount. Physically, he is stable, but his system has been under constant strain—fighting to survive. Even now, unconscious, his body is still working to recover.”
Casey’s jaw clenched. That wasn’t an answer. Draxum studied him for a moment before continuing. “This is not like the wounds you’ve treated on the battlefield, Casey Jr. The body and mind are more complex than simple injuries.” He glanced at Leonardo’s face, his expression unreadable. “Even if his body heals, his mind has been through its own kind of war. That is something I cannot predict.”
Casey exhaled, staring hard at the floor before dragging a hand down his face. He hated this feeling—the waiting, the helplessness. He wasn’t used to it. In his time, you fought, you ran, you did something. Sitting still felt like the worst kind of torture.
But he didn’t have a choice. His gaze drifted back to Leonardo. “I just…” He hesitated, voice lower now. “I just need to know he’s coming back.” Draxum didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached for the blanket draped over Leonardo and adjusted it slightly, ensuring it wasn’t pressing too tightly against any of his injuries.
“He is strong,” Draxum said at last. “He survived worse than most could endure. But his recovery will not be on our timeline, Casey. It will be on his.” Casey exhaled sharply through his nose, nodding once, though it didn’t make him feel any better. His knee bounced slightly before he forced himself to still.
Casey bit his bottom lip, staring at Leonardo’s unconscious form. His mind was racing, thoughts tangled and fraying at the edges. No matter how hard he tried to focus on the here and now—the steady beep of the heart monitor, the faint rise and fall of Leo’s chest—his brain wouldn’t stop replaying it. The moment the portal shut. His last glimpse of Leonardo before the dimension swallowed him whole.
This was his fault.
Not for pushing Leo to be a better leader. That part—he didn’t regret that. He couldn’t . Leo had needed to hear it, step up, and deep down, Casey still believed that. But none of that mattered now. Because at the end of it all, Casey had been the one to pull the key. Casey had closed the portal. Casey had been the one who made the call to accept Leo’s death—not once, but twice on the same day.
Or… two days? How long had it even been?
His stomach churned as the weight of that realization sank in. Time had blurred together between exhaustion, fighting, and survival. It hadn’t felt real before. Not when everything had been a rush of action, desperate choices, and impossible odds. But now? Now, with nothing but time and silence surrounding him, the reality of everything was sinking in.
Master Leonardo is gone . Not just missing. Not just injured. Gone.
And Casey had moved forward like it was just another loss in the war. Because that’s what he had been taught to do. Accept it. Keep going. Survive. But looking at Leo now, pale, body covered in fresh bandages, his breaths shallow but steady—Casey felt something in his chest crack .
His fingers curled into fists on his lap, his nails biting into his palms. What if I had waited a second longer? What if I had fought harder to keep the portal open? What if— His breath hitched. No. He couldn’t think like that. He couldn’t .
Leo was here now. He was alive. He had made it back. That should have been enough to shake Casey from this spiral, but the weight pressing down on him wouldn’t lift. He had carried the losses of his world—his people- his whole life. He had accepted death as part of the fight.
But Leonardo wasn’t supposed to be part of that.
He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing a slow, shaky breath through his nose. His heartbeat was too fast, his chest too tight, but he swallowed it down. This wasn’t about him. Leo was the one who had been through hell. He was the one who needed help.
Not Casey. Not now. So, he shoved it down. Like he always did. And he waited.
The seconds dragged by, stretching between the steady beep of the heart monitor and the rhythmic sound of Leonardo’s breathing. Casey sat still, hands clenched in his lap, the weight of everything pressing against his ribs. He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that, locked in the quiet, before hurried footsteps pounded against the floor outside.
Casey’s head snapped up when Draxum turned toward the door. They both knew what was coming—the inevitable. The door to April’s old room burst open, and a frantic-looking softshell turtle stood in the doorway. His lilac hoodie was slightly wrinkled, and the embroidered flowers were shifting with his heaving breaths.
“ Leo…! ” Donatello gasped out, voice strained and breaking. His wide eyes locked onto the bed, onto the still form of his twin, and without another thought, he surged forward. But he didn’t get far.
A larger figure was right behind him, moving fast. “Donnie—wait—” Raphael caught his brother’s good arm before he could throw himself at the bedside, holding him back despite the desperate pull. Donnie struggled for a second, his muscles tense, but when Raph’s eyes landed on Leo, he froze too.
A choked breath left the snapping turtle’s throat. “ Leo… ” Raph whispered, barely audible. He had thought he was prepared. He had thought he was ready for whatever state they’d find their little brother in. But seeing it—seeing Leo covered in bandages from head to toe, machines hooked up to him like he was barely hanging on—Raph’s stomach lurched.
There were too many wires, too many tubes. Leo’s chest rose and fell in steady movements, but the machines reassured them of this, not Leo himself. The leader in blue, who always stood up for them and kept them together with his silly jokes and puns, now looked small beneath the medical sheets.
It wasn’t right. Donnie swallowed hard, his fingers curling around the fabric of his hoodie. His mind raced, cataloging every machine, every reading, scanning over every injury. There was a buzzing in his head, the need to do something , to fix something , but his body felt locked in place, his feet rooted to the floor.
Raph, standing beside him, felt equally sick. His jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides. He had seen Leo hurt before. He had seen them all hurt before. But this—this was different. This wasn’t just a battle wound that would heal in a few days with enough stubbornness and rest.
This was proof of what they had lost, what Leo had endured alone, and what they had almost lost for good. The silence stretched, suffocating. Casey finally shifted, standing from his seat. His eyes flickered between the two older brothers, watching as the horror settled in their expressions. He knew that feeling all too well—he had lived it.
Donatello couldn’t breathe.
The moment he laid eyes on Leo, his lungs locked up, his throat constricting like an invisible force had wrapped around him. His brain processed everything instantly—because that’s what it did. That’s what it was trained to do.
The bandages. The wires. The steady beep of the heart monitor confirms life but somehow makes the whole thing feel even more fragile. Leo's chest barely seemed to rise and fall, as if the machines were doing more work than he was. It was all there. It was all right in front of him.
And yet—He couldn’t move.
His body refused to listen, feet cemented to the floor, limbs locked in place. He knew what he wanted to do. His mind was screaming at him— Move! Go to him! Do something! —but his legs didn’t budge. His hands, the same ones that had built unbreakable machines, weapons, and tech that had saved his family repeatedly, stayed curled at his sides, useless.
For his entire life, Donatello had been the one with the answers—the one who could take a problem, break it apart, analyze every piece, and stitch it back together into something better—more efficient—more functional.
But this—Leo—He didn’t know how to fix this. And that terrified him.
His eyes scanned Leo’s body, cataloging injuries before he could stop himself, like running an internal diagnostic. A deep cut beneath his bandages— too deep, the stitches are too new, still fragile. Bruises, dark and heavy beneath the surface— older ones layered with new ones. How long was he suffering? Wasn’t it only 6 minutes and 28 seconds? The positioning of the IVs— too many, which means dehydration, which means his body couldn’t sustain itself.
His stomach churned, but his brain kept going. His twin was a mess of gauze, tape, wires, and fragile breaths, and Donnie couldn't stop analyzing him like a broken machine. If he understood every single detail, he could fix it.
He could fix Leo. A tremor shot through his fingers, but still, he didn’t move.
Raph was beside him, but Donnie barely registered it. The room had collapsed into something small, something suffocating. All he could hear was the beeping of the monitor, the soft whoosh of the ventilator assisting Leo’s breathing. It should have been reassuring—it should have grounded him.
But it didn’t because every noise and movement was a reminder that Leo couldn’t do this alone. Donatello prided himself on logic, science, and reason. He had built exo-suits that could punch through solid steel, hacked into military-grade security systems in minutes, and mapped out entire battle strategies precisely down to the second.
But none of that mattered right now.
No amount of intelligence, no amount of engineering, robotics, or sheer force will take away the fact that his twin—his other half, the person who had been there from the moment he had existed—was lying in that bed, barely holding on.
And Donatello didn’t know if he could bring him back. A sharp exhale tore from his throat, shaky and unsteady. He felt sick. Dizzy. His arms twitched at his sides, a flicker of movement, but his feet would not move.
He wanted to go to Leo. He needed to. But the fear—oh, the fear —kept him shackled in place. Because if he moved, if he stepped forward, then it was real. Then Leo wasn’t just an observation, an equation to solve. Then he was there , close enough to see every tiny rise and fall of his chest, close enough to hear how uneven his breathing was.
Close enough to confirm that this wasn’t some nightmare Donnie could just wake up from. A hand gripped his shoulder. Donnie flinched. It was Raph. He had stepped closer, his massive form tense but steady, his grip firm and grounding. Donnie didn’t look at him. He couldn’t.
“Dee…” Raph’s voice was rough, quieter than usual. It was meant to be reassuring and help, but Donnie barely registered it. His mind was still stuck, still running through calculations he couldn’t solve, still trying to figure out how to force his body forward when every instinct told him to freeze.
Raph exhaled, voice lower now. “C’mon, Don.” Donnie swallowed hard. He wanted to leave. God, he wanted to. But his body wasn’t listening.
He felt it in his chest, something thick and unrelenting, pressing down on him, making every limb feel too heavy. He wasn’t used to this. He wasn’t used to his brain failing him. His body failed him. He had always acted, permanently moved. Always done something.
And now, when it mattered most, he was frozen. Because if he stepped forward and touched Leo, what if he broke him? What if his body wasn’t strong enough? What if one wrong move made it worse? What if Leo never —
Donnie clenched his jaw, eyes burning. It wasn’t logical. It wasn’t rational. But it was real. And for the first time in his life, Donatello felt like the most intelligent person in the room and still had no idea what to do.
After a long, heavy hesitation, Donatello made his choice without conscious thought. Instead of retreating, instead of turning his back and returning to the living room, where it was safe, he took a deep, shuddering breath and stepped forward.
The air in the room changed instantly. Everyone stiffened, the weight of unspoken warnings pressing down on them. Leo was in no condition to be touched—not by anything that wasn’t for medical necessity. Any sudden movement, any contact, could send him into a worse recovery state of infection. And Donnie knew that. He had to know that. He was the smartest of them, always thinking three steps ahead.
And yet, he refused to accept that truth. “Donatello.” Baron Draxum’s voice cut through the thick tension like a blade, sharp and commanding. He rarely had to enforce his authority with these boys, but now, he wielded it like a weapon. A warning. A demand.
Donnie didn’t falter. Step by step, he continued forward, slow and deliberate, his gaze locked onto his twin. “Master Donatello…” Casey whispered, a note of unease in his tone. He reached out, hesitant but firm, his fingers barely brushing against Donatello’s arm in a silent plea. “He’s not in any condition for this right now.”
The words hung in the air, fragile and desperate, but Donatello’s expression didn’t change. The warning passed through him, in one ear and out the other. His mind was set. His feet didn’t stop until they hit the edge of April’s bedframe.
Donatello stood over his twin, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling in uneven gasps. His entire body trembled, his arms rigid at his sides as though holding himself back by sheer force of will. Tears pricked at his exhausted eyes, blurring the sight of Leo beneath him. But even without a clear vision, the memories played in perfect, agonizing detail. The anger, the hurt, the betrayal—everything he had buried in the chaos of survival now surged forward with crushing weight. Guilt dug its claws into him, sharp and relentless, whispering that he should have done more and been smarter, faster, and stronger. That he should have saved his twin from this fate.
The images struck like lightning behind his eyes, flashing too fast to escape. The Krang, monstrous and all-consuming, the portal spiraling out of control, and then—Leo, struggling to stand up when they were all knocked back by a single flick. Then came the sounds, the sound of bones creaking, cracking. The choked, breathless scream that had been cut off too soon from the coms. Donnie's breath hitched as his mind betrayed him further, replaying the moment in slow motion, forcing him to relive it all. The way Leo had begged Casey as the portal swallowed him, his desperate, frantic words growing weaker, his voice growing hoarse from shouting commands.
But worst of all were the cries. The ones that haunted Donnie in the quiet moments when exhaustion couldn't keep the nightmares at bay. Leo’s voice was raw and broken, echoing against unforgiving rock and debris as he was thrown like a ragdoll—the pain laced in every cry, the sheer, unfiltered agony. Donnie had heard it in real-time, felt it in his very soul, and now it repeated in his head like a ghostly recording, refusing to fade. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will it all away, but it didn’t matter. It was a part of him now, stitched into his very being, and no amount of logic or reason could dull the edge of it.
“You fucking idiot…” Donatello whispered, his voice raw and shaking as the first tears finally slipped down from his swollen, exhausted eyes. The dam broke, and he couldn’t stop it now. His body trembled, barely holding itself together as the weight of everything—of loss, of pain, of guilt—crushed down on him. His knees buckled, and he didn’t fight it. His battered body had already been pushed beyond its limits, and now, it gave in. He collapsed beside April’s bed, his breath hitching as his gaze remained locked on his twin.
Leo was alive.
The thought hit him so hard it nearly knocked the air from his lungs. He was breathing, his chest rising and falling in steady, even motions. He was here, not lost, not drifting alone in that endless, suffocating prison dimension. Donnie’s fingers dug into the soft blankets, the fabric warm beneath his grip—the same fabric that covered his brother held his fragile, healing form. A choked sob ripped free from Donnie’s throat, his forehead pressing against the bedding as his entire body shook. His grip tightened as if grounding himself in the reality of it all, in the undeniable truth that Leonardo was home.
“You damn blasted ignorant fool…” he rasped, his voice muffled by the blankets, by his overwhelming relief. Even through the storm of emotions and the residual agony of all they had endured, he knew one thing: Leo had made it back. And that was enough for now.
Donatello inhaled sharply, forcing air into his lungs as he lifted his head just enough to look at his twin. Leonardo’s face, once so full of life and expression, was eerily slack, his features dulled by unconsciousness. Dark bruises and deep lacerations marred his skin, sutures lining his face like cruel reminders of what he had endured. Donnie’s stomach twisted painfully at the sight. He was used to seeing Leo with cuts and scrapes—battle wounds were inevitable—but this? This was different. This was brutal. This was suffering. His fingers curled tighter into the blanket, knuckles turning white as a fresh wave of emotions surged.
“What kind of arrogant moron would do that…!” Donnie’s voice cracked under the weight of his frustration, his heartbreak. His grip on the blanket tightened until it trembled beneath his hands. “Lock yourself away where… where you could have died…!” The words spilled out in a heated rush, raw and unfiltered, his pain laced into every syllable. Anger and relief clashed inside him, twisting together into something that burned in his chest, something unbearable. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. Leo had made a choice that had nearly cost him his life, and now Donnie was left to pick up the pieces. Again.
A heavy silence followed, broken only by the soft, uneven breaths of the injured turtle in the bed. Donatello’s breathing was ragged, but he didn’t move or release his iron grip on the fabric. His body ached, exhaustion gnawed at his bones, but he refused to give in. Not yet. He wasn’t done. He needed this. He needed to let it out before it swallowed him whole.
Just a step away, Raphael stood watching. He frowned, his expression caught somewhere between understanding and sorrow. He didn’t interfere. He didn’t tell Donnie to stop, and he didn’t try to pull him away. Because Donnie wasn’t wrong. Leonardo was arrogant. He was a moron. He had done something reckless, nearly leaving them without a leader or a brother. But more than that—he had left them. He had locked himself away in that hellish dimension and forced them to keep moving forward without him. And now that he was back, broken and unconscious, Donnie had no choice but to deal with all the feelings he had buried since the moment they lost him.
And if there was ever a time to let it all out, it was now—while Leo couldn’t hear it. Because the second their fearless leader woke up, they would have to be strong for him. They would have to be there for him. But for now, Donnie could be selfish. He could let himself break just for a little while.
Donnie hesitated momentarily before reaching out, his fingers trembling as they hovered just above Leo’s skin. Even with all the anger and frustration burning inside him, the moment his fingertips brushed against his twin’s hand, a soft smile ghosted across his face. He could touch him again. Leo was real. Not a memory, not a dream slipping through his fingers—he was here. His hand traced along the strong cast encasing his brother’s shattered arm, the reality of Leo’s injuries sinking in with every careful motion. It should have made his stomach twist and reignited his fury, but instead, a deep sigh slipped from his lips.
“Never…” Donnie whispered, his voice barely above a breath as he let his head rest against the mattress beside his twin. His body sagged, exhaustion pulling at him, but he refused to move away. He needed to be here, feel this, and let it settle into his bones that Leo was safe. “Never do that ever again…” His words weren’t just a demand but a plea, a desperate promise wrapped in frustration and love. He needed Leo to understand, even if he wasn’t awake to hear it.
The moment his fingers curled gently around Leo’s hand, something sparked. It started as a familiar warmth, a tingling sensation that traveled up his arm like an electric current. That feeling—one they had always called their “twin powers”—ignited deep within him, sending comfort through his exhausted body. It had been too long since he’d felt it, too long since that connection had been severed. With Leo beside him again, the energy between them hummed to life, threading through him like a heartbeat, steady and sure.
It felt comforting.
It felt like home.