Hey all, so since I haven't done anything truly angsty for a while, please enjoy. This fic is only going to be a two-shot:)

Thank you to my wonderful Beta, Amonraphoenix for beta reading this fic for me! Thank you soo much! XD

A/N Don't own TMNT... :(

Chapter 1

Now I lay me down to sleep...

Raphael lay upon the cold, damp ground, staring up at the quite stillness of the darkened night sky. He hadn't really noticed how many stars filled the sky above him each night as he and his brothers slipped from shadow to shadow, protecting the city that was their home.

He had never given the stars any more thought than he had given the moon, the sun or the lazy clouds that would drift across the expansive skyline filled with gleaming skyscrapers that pushed ever upwards.

But the truth was, he had never really noticed how truly magnificent the night sky was, blanketed as it was with so many stars that it would take a lifetime or more to count their number; though he was sure that there were those who attempted this futile exercise anyway.

A soft exhalation of air left his lungs as he continued to stare upwards. The agonized pain that had stolen away his breath and driven all thoughts from his mind had long ago subsided, leaving only a vague sort of numbness that was somehow comforting.

A shallow intake of breath inflated his lungs barely enough to move his chest, or perhaps, his chest did not move at all, he couldn't tell and there was a small part of him that didn't care anymore if it did or did not.

He felt disconnected from everything. He knew that he lay upon the uncomfortable forest floor, wet leaves, twigs and other bits of vegetation clinging to his battered torn and burned skin. He knew that each and every breath that he took was shorter and harder to take than the last, and that each beat of his strained heart only allowed more of his precious lifeblood to be pumped from his body and onto the damp springy loam beneath him.

Grievous wounds criss-crossed his body, several bones had been broken and his chest felt as if it had been torn open and a red hot poker jammed through the opening for good measure. If he moved his head to look down at his body, he would possibly be able to understand why his chest hurt so damn much, but the effort to do so seemed too burdensome.

Instead, he stared up at the beauty of the night sky, and hoped that his brothers had fared better than he had. As long as they had saved Michelangelo and his other brothers lived, that's all that he cared about; he could give his own life without any regrets.

And he wasn't good with goodbyes, so it was better this way, dying alone...

The canopy of the forest swayed gently above him, the sound of wood creaking and the rustle of leaves soothing his weary mind. Darkness seeped along the edges of his vision to blend in with the indigo spread out above him in a glorious array of twinkling lights that called to him invitingly.

Raphael felt his eyes slip closed as a short shallow breath was released, no intake of breath followed. His chest remained motionless; quiet, gentle stillness settling across his broken body giving rest to his battle worn and weary soul.

I pray the Lord my soul to keep...

Donatello's breath came out in harsh ragged gasps, the cool night air he was dragging into his lungs burning his throat which was already raw and hoarse from his frantic calls which echoed desperately through the darkened forested night.

His toes struck a tangled root causing him to stumble; pitching his body forward needles, twigs and sticks digging into the palms of his hands as he hit the ground.

Scrambling quickly to his feet, he pushed himself forward, having lost his bearings long ago he scanned the treetops searching for a plume of dark black smoke billowing into the sky.

Catching only the faint wisp of charcoal against nearly black indigo, he darted forward in the direction of where he hoped his red masked brother would be.

Legs nearly giving way beneath him, Donatello struggled to push himself forward, his own bruises and lacerations forgotten as he tried frantically to find Raphael, who he could only pray was still alive.

It had all happened so fast… It had all gone so wrong so very quickly.

They had been trying to pry Michelangelo from the hated and feared clutches of Agent Bishop, who had, three days ago, captured Michelangelo while their baby brother had been on his way home after picking up takeout for dinner.

Donatello blamed himself for not having noticed their baby brother's absence sooner, but he had been too busy trying to get the security system he was working on upgraded. Leonardo had been busy with training, and Raphael had been absorbed in cheering for his favourite wrestler on TV that none of them had noticed that Michelangelo had not come home.

It wasn't until he had extricated himself from the lab, his stomach growling angrily at him to get some food into it and his brain screaming at him that he needed another jolt of caffeine if he was going to pull off this all-nighter, that he found no leftover pizza in the fridge.

Raphael's match had just wrapped up and he chose that moment to walk into the kitchen complaining about how Michelangelo hadn't told him that dinner was ready.

Donatello had observed that there was no pizza in the fridge and both had sought out their baby brother, wondering if he had decided to hog all of the pizza to himself. But they hadn't been able to find their mischievous baby brother anywhere.

Alerting Leonardo to the situation, they confirmed that Michelangelo had been gone for over two hours. A quick call to April and Casey had informed them that Michelangelo had not stopped in for a visit with their human friends and it was at that moment that a slow, dread filled panic had settled into their heart and minds as Donatello ran back to his lab, determined to locate the whereabouts of their missing baby brother.

It had taken his three days to do it. Three tiring, frightening, gruelling days of hacking government systems and satellites after finding Michelangelo's abandoned cell phone smashed upon the ground in a darkened alleyway. Forceful inquires were made to the Foot Clan and the Purple Dragons which turned up nothing but sly smiles, insinuations, and culminated into the giving and receiving of bruised and battered flesh.

After sifting through hours upon hours of satellite images, he was able to make out the grainy, grey image of Michelangelo being forced into a black van.

From there, it was a frantic search through more satellite images until he was finally able to track Michelangelo's whereabouts to a facility located a two hours outside of town in a densely forested area.

Parking far enough away so as to not alert any guards, they had slid silently through the darkened woods like shadows, coming upon the large, one story concrete structure. Slipping in had been a simple enough task, and Donatello had believed that he had been so clever, that he had disabled all security alarms and cameras, but he had been overconfident and so very wrong.

Upon their entrance, lights flashed, sirens screamed, and wave after wave of armed and highly trained commandos appeared, thwarting their efforts to free their missing brother from his captors.

They were completely outnumber and outmaneuvered, which delighted Bishop to no end. But Donatello had a few tricks of his own up his sleeves. Bishop may have had a backup security system in place, but this didn't mean that Donatello wasn't able to hack the computer network's functions, turning off the power and plunging them all into a brief darkness that lasted long enough for them to slip past the bulk of Bishop's forces and take the stairs down to the lower levels. Here they found the detention cells and what looked to be a scientific laboratory/operating room -if the lab equipment coupled with the single metal, blood spattered gurney with biting straps were any indication of the purpose of the room's function.

Feeling a sick sensation rolling through his gut at the sight of the blood -which he silently prayed wasn't Michelangelo's- he and his brother's desperately searched the cells and found them all to be empty.

Fear had shot through him at their lack of success and the absolute certainty that the blood they had found in the lab was his brother's. However, he was almost relieved to not have found Michelangelo. The lack of their reluctant host's presence as well as his baby brother's allowed him to reassure his brothers that Michelangelo was still alive. How injured he was or how close to death he was Donatello could not say, but he did know that if their baby brother was dead, they would have found him either on the metal slab or in one of the cells abandoned by the man who had kidnapped him and discarded like so much refuse after he had served whatever purpose Bishop had needed him for.

Fuelled by this knowledge they had made their way back to the main level of the facility and heard what sounded like the whirring blades of a waiting helicopter.

Spurred on by the knowledge that they were about to lose Michelangelo, possibly forever this time, they exited the building in time to see the helicopter just beginning to lift off. Running towards it, the smothered sound of shots being fired at them from the remainder of Bishop's forces, they knew that they weren't going to be able to catch the ascending helicopter.

Not saving Michelangelo had never been an option. Pulling a grappling hook from the duffle bag that he had slung over his shoulder which was full of supplies -like a first aid kit and a few other pieces of technical and medical equipment- he spun it over his head before launching it into the night, praying to whoever would listen that the hook would find purchase upon the landing skids.

Thankfully, his aim had been true and he and his brother's had latched onto the rope as if it were a lifeline to their orange masked brother's safety, and in truth, it was.

Scaling the dangling rope amid gunfire coming from inside the helicopter, they managed to pull themselves up and into the interior of the helicopter through the side doors, struggling to get the weapons away from the two commando operatives who were guarding a bruised, battered and semi-concious Michelangelo who was bound and gagged on the floor of the cab.

Leonardo took care of Bishop's men with quick efficiency, Raphael diving into the cockpit to confront Bishop who was piloting the helicopter.

The helicopter banked to the left as Raphael struggled for control of the helicopter while wrestling Bishop's weapon away from him.

Donatello was only partly paying attention to his surroundings, his entire focus upon Michelangelo's eyes, once brilliant and full of life, now pained, tired and listless.

Pitching forward in response to the helicopter's sudden change in direction, he was able to grab his baby brother before he slid out the other side of the helicopter.

Pulling Michelangelo into his arms, he quickly assured his baby brother that he was going to be okay. From what Donatello was able to observe, Michelangelo had been beaten, deep bruising and lacerations marring his usual forest green skin, and one arm appeared to be broken, but otherwise appeared in good shape considering he had been at the hands of Agent Bishop for three days.

It was at this point that it had all gone so very wrong.

Alarms were blaring and lights were flickering as Raphael managed to kick Bishop from the pilot's seat.

Sparks flashed from the broken consol as Raphael attempted to gain control their rapid decent. Bishop, slumped over in the co-pilot's seat, suddenly opened the door and jumped from the cockpit just as they were thrown into a spin. None of the occupants within the cab were able to keep their footing and were suddenly flung out of the helicopter and into the dark void of the night.

There was no moment of weightlessness; of being briefly suspended within the air before gravity caught up to the objects that were subject to its law. Instead, the force of being ejected from the helicopter pushed the air from his lungs and shot the occupants catapult-like towards the ground, while the helicopter was thrown into a tailspin, careening away and vanishing into the night.

Donatello clutched Michelangelo tightly, able to latch onto his baby brother just as they were flung from the disabled helicopter. His arms, like two bands of steel, were wrapped around Michelangelo's waist, braced for impact. He didn't even have a chance to scream, to tell his brother to hang on, not to lose hope and to survive and maybe this was a blessing, as he was not expecting to survive the next few moments. All of them would hit the ground, their bodies crushed by the force of the impact killing them instantly.

Closing his eyes tightly he felt as his carapace struck and continued on through the tops of the darkened trees that sprouted from the rich soil below.

Leaves and branches cut through his skin and slashed viciously at his face before he felt what little air he had been able to suck into his lungs, forced out at the impact of his carapace slamming into rough, unforgiving earth.

Opening his eyes, he realized that he had been knocked unconscious. He wasn't sure how long he had been out: a minute, five ten? he wasn't sure, but he knew that when he tried to take a breath, he was unable to. The wind had been knocked from his lungs and they burned; screaming at him to do a better job of feeding their oxygen deprivation than what he was doing now.

Digging his fingers into the damp earth, he rolled himself onto his stomach. Able to accomplish this small task, he slowly brought one knee up. Sliding one arm up, he finally sucked in a much needed breath of air.

Unsteadily, he managed to pull his throbbing body onto his hands and knees, his gaze swinging around to get his bearings.

Eyes falling upon the motionless form of his baby brother, he forced his protesting muscles forward and scrambled to his injured brother's side.

Fear tasted thick and bitter upon his tongue as his shaking, dirt stained fingers pressed into his brother's throat, desperately searching for a pulse. Letting out a sigh of relief when he found one, he quickly assessed his brother's injuries.

He was thankful that it appeared that Michelangelo had only added a few more scrapes and bruises to the collection he already sported.

Michelangelo's eyes slowly fluttered open and Donatello was relieved that he was lucid. After quickly ascertaining that his baby brother was in better shape than expected, he fashioned a sling for Michelangelo's broken arm from the square scrap of linen from his first aid kit, which had also survived the fall.

At that moment, Leonardo had stumbled from the trees and nearly into them. Leonardo assured both he and Michelangelo that he was okay, a tree having broken his fall. Donatello informed Leonardo that both he and Michelangelo were fine, and it was then that they realized that one of their number was missing.

Immediately his eyes searched the surrounding woods, but it was the dark clouds of billowing smoke that finally caught his attention and his heart sank into the very pit of his stomach.

Memory washed over him and he realized that it was entirely possible that Raphael hadn't made it out of the cockpit of the helicopter before it crashed into the unyielding ground; the trees giving little to no resistance to the power, weight and force of the spinning wrecking ball of metal the helicopter had become.

Donatello hadn't even heard the crash of the helicopter and realized that he must have been knocked unconscious for that brief moment. Though, if the look of dawning horror that was filling Leonardo's face was anything to go by, they all had been.

Calling his older brother back in a sharp voice that managed to break through the blind panic that had sent Leonardo darting in the direction of the billowing smoke, his brother's dark, worried gaze looked at him over his shoulder, fists white knuckled and his muscles taunt with impatience.

Donatello had stood, ordering his older brother to get their baby brother back to the van as quickly as possible.

Leonardo had of course protested, his concern for Raphael pulling him in the direction where their missing brother was located. His blue-masked brother had argued that Michelangelo needed him more, and that he would find Raphael and bring him back to the van as quickly as he was able to.

Donatello countered this by pointing out that Michelangelo's wounds, though grievous, were not life threatening and that if Raphael had indeed been caught within the wreckage of the helicopter, would be most in need of his medical knowledge.

The air between them hung briefly, charged with the bleak thought that each refused to speak or acknowledge: that Raphael may be beyond needing any sort of medical attention.

The skin around Leonardo's eyes had pulled tight, his face pale, eyes filled with grim determination. At that moment, Donatello had realized that Leonardo was balancing on the edge of a finely honed blade, not wanting to contemplate the worst, but refusing to believe the best.

Donatello had not given his older brother any more time to think or to protest his actions. Instead, Donatello took off at a dead run, ignoring his older brother's worried shouts, letting them fade into he background because he refused to give Raphael up for dead.

The sweet scent of burning wood and gasoline caught his attention. The sound of his frantically beating heart, his quick, gasping breaths and the roar of blood through her ears was drowned out by the roar and crackle of flames as they hungrily devoured all it possibly could.

Breaking through the clearing created by the merciless, cleaving metal blades of the helicopter, his feet froze to the very ground on which he tread.

He watched as the wreckage groaned and screamed before him, the flames busily licking and consuming their way across every surface; the mangled, blackened steel no more than a motionless skeleton, its twisted visage lying upon the ground long past its final death throws.

A heartbeat or two later had him crossing the bleak expanse of rutted, scorched earth before him, his eyes locked upon what remained of the cockpit in front of him.

The helicopter lay listlessly on its side, a fallen, mangled bird that had its wings clipped and was carelessly discarded, like a broken toy.

Ignoring the thick smoke and heated flames, Donatello strode through it all, leaping up upon a twisted landing skid to allow him purchase from which to crane his neck over the edge, and glance into the ravaged interior.

His lungs burned as he sucked in a shaky breath, his eyes open mere slits against the onslaught of heat, smoke and light.

Eyes moving swiftly and scanning the interior, he found it to be thankfully empty. The vice that had, unbeknownst to him, been squeezing his heart so agonizingly in his chest that it had become nothing but a painful clump of flesh that quivered with too much fear and grief, released just enough to let him know that the vice was still there.

Pulling away and jumping from the skid, his eyes scanned the darkness, a slow kind of dread sliding across his exposed flesh and a new kind of fear slipped through his mind; the taste of terror bitter and biting upon his tongue which darted out from between dry lips.

That his brother had been flung from the cockpit was obvious, and this was both a relief as well as a mind numbing complication; because now he had no idea where his brother could be.

Raising his voice in hue and cry, it was snatched up and stolen by the wind that suddenly swept through to fan the flames of the wreckage and cause gooseflesh to ride across his arms.

He tried to raise his voice above the sound of creaking, screaming, dying metal and electronics, but was unable to.

Taking a calming breath, trying to slow his heart and ease his frantically galloping mind, he tried to concentrate. Sharp, roving eyes calculated the trajectory of the helicopter when it crashed, the forces that had acted upon it, and where, if Raphael had been flung free, he could have been thrown.

Knowing time was too precious a thing to waste, and the results of his analysis too large an area to search alone, he struck out in a direction he believed to have the best chance of success and stopped. His head turned as something at the fringes of his mind beckoned him in the opposite direction.

Skirting around the edges of the burning mass of twisted and shattered metal, he broke into a run.

Like lightning across his skin, it felt as if his flesh was crawling over his very bones as desperation filled him.

Tripping over a twisted root, his knees struck the ground hard, dirt twigs and stones bitting into his flesh, but he didn't even feel the pain; it was inconsequential.

Teeth gritted with effort, his chest heaving with exertion, he opened one eye and then another, his gaze falling upon a sight that caused his heart to skitter to a stop, his brain to go blank and his breath to catch in his throat.

A few feet away, tucked within a small clearing, his brother lay partially sprawled at the base of a great tree. Raphael looked peaceful as he laid there, his face pointed towards the night sky, looking for all the world like he had decided to give into the weariness that had consumed him and decided to find a nice spot to sleep.

This idyllic image was only marred by the battered, burnt and bruised flesh that was visible even in the weak light, and the spike of broken wood projecting out from his brother's plastron.

Air sucked from his lungs he tried to speak, tried to do anything but stand there; a frozen witness to the silent, heart rending, soul shattering tableau.

A whisper of shock, of grief, of hope, all contained within a single breath and a single word slipped from between his numb lips.

"Raph."

So concludes chapter one, hope you guys enjoyed, there are tissues in the corner if you need them:)