Donatello remembers the night before his brothers died.
That isn't to say that he remembers it particularly well. It had taken a long time for him to decide that it had to be memory, instead of a dream, and even longer to piece together the snatches of feeling to form a picture.
The first thing he had remembered was that it had been very dark. It had been night, so of course it was dark, but something about that world made the shadows seem heavier. Impenetrable. So that had been the first thing, the sense of blindness and exhaustion and darkness.
And not being alone.
There had been fingers on his wrist. He remembers that. The fingers had been what had woken him in the first place. A light touch and rough, calloused pads pressed lightly to his pulse, and by the time Donatello had registered the touch as familiar and not a threat it had been gone. Donatello had been left to wake flailing into nothingness before falling still, his breath coming a bit too quick and his heart beating a steady rhythm against his chest.
He didn't remember falling asleep after that. He only had the awareness of waking up again to the sound of shifting voices and the quiet rustling of clothing - the creak of holster leather. He didn't remember hearing anyone say, "shh," or remember hearing the quick cut of air that was an order and meant a gesture for silence, except that then, abruptly, there had been no noise. No noise at all.
"Leo?" he'd asked, shifting tiredly without opening his eyes. Donatello had always known when his brothers were near, and maybe he hadn't remembered that they weren't his brothers anymore, but he hadn't been alarmed, hadn't even thought to be alarmed. Only confused. Only tired.
There had been a heavy pause full of too much quiet, then another shifting rustle and noise, and then a hand gentle – uncertain – on his forehead. There had been a beat before, softly, "go back to sleep, Donnie. It's okay."
Leo's voice had sounded strange, but it was his brother (that Donatello had known), and so he'd reached up to grip a wrist that was too thick and too rough, muttered a quiet, "okay," and gone back to sleep.
The very last thing he remembers from that night is little more than a flicker of thought, a blurred image. He'd woken up but only barely, and felt a grip on his hand shift and tighten. He'd tilted his head loosely to the side and found a maskless brother kneeling next to Don's makeshift bed of blankets and old pillows, leaning against a wall and eyes closed. He had been gripping Don's hand with a grip that was far too strong for the sleeping. Firm. Desperate. Stubborn. As though he would never let go.
The next thing Don remembers, he was waking up. And he was alone.