A/N: Written for my friend over on Tumblr: Darthempress, who laments not enough DonxKarai in the fandom world. Well, this may not exactly be what she was hoping for, but it helped me with some writing block I've been wrestling with.

Age of Senescence

Right on time, it starts. She writhes along the floor, clawing the corner, nails ragged, but still leaving long jagged gashes in the woodwork; matching the earlier ones. Her breathy groans erupt from her between the seconds. He counts.

"1 … 2 … 3 …"

By the time he reaches fourteen, the neglected clock-tower which shadows their shelter has finished marking time, disjointed as it is, and despite the effect it has on her, he's glad. He's come to rely on it. It has a certain reliability. He has used it as a sort of foundation to build routine upon. Karai's deteriorating mental state was becoming a problem; her behavior becoming erratic and unpredictable.

With the last note fading, she is rocking, hands positioned on either side of her temples; head shaking back and forth in time with her movements. She's ready for him to approach. If he's careful, he'll be able to talk to her for a little while. If he doesn't scare her. She's always more pliant when the chimes end.

It may be his excitement at the prospect of speaking with her that makes his hand shake as he crouches down near her. But it's enough to ruin the quiet. The cracked tray only makes the smallest sound as he sets it on the ground in front of her. But she freezes. He sucks on his bottom lip, eyes darting from the tray to her face, curtained by the dark hair. He can't see her eyes. Can't tell if they will be cloudy or reflective. He decides that since she isn't freaking out, it's a promising sign. He makes himself more comfortable, sitting on his arthritic ankles isn't a good idea, but the posture is the most reassuring for her. The most calming.

Her hand shoots out and he knocks it aside. Maybe the position wasn't a good idea after all. If she decides to lunge today, he'll have to flip her over his shoulder. He braces; watching her as her eyes dart back and forth but instead of attacking, she suddenly slumps back. Blinking, her eyes clear as they focus on his face. They are clear and he sees himself reflected in the emerald irises and his heart stumbles.

"It's stopped," she says simply.

For a moment, he is left speechless. She hasn't been coherent in days. There is too much gratitude in his heart. It is choking away his ability to speak.

She picks up the bruised apple with delicate fingertips, ruddy from clawing at the walls, a few fingernails have split and are bleeding. But she examines the apple and then closes her eyes as she bites into it, relishing it as though it was not overripe to a point of being applesauce in a peel. Some of the juice dribbles down the sides of her mouth to her chin to drip onto her chest. A line that he cannot help but follow trails down between her breasts until it vanishes beneath the filthy shift he's put her in. His eyes snap back up when he feels her hand on his cheek. Heat floods through him. He is ashamed.

"The apple … it's good."

He's nodding, still unable to speak. Still locked on his own reflection in her eyes. Unbelieving his luck. Her gaze travels around the room and he wonders how much she remembers; fears it.

She finishes the apple in another few bites and places what's left of the core on the tray. With the heel of one hand, she wipes her chin and bottom lip. She drops her hands onto her lap. He reaches out and tentatively takes them both in his.

He has found his voice. "Do you want me to wrap your fingers?"

She gazes down and nods in a distracted way. So much like a child that it hurts his heart. It's too much like when he'd taken her away from the compound a year ago.

He is finishing when she makes a soft sound. He looks up, worry creasing his eyes.

"Where's Leo, Donatello?"

And the words have him drowning suddenly in tar. He can't breathe, so he slowly stacks the remainder of the bandages into the battered tool box that serves as their first aid station. When will he learn? At the heart of the matter is a simple equation. It adds up to the same solution time and again. The same reiterations of value amounting to the same outcome. Her heart and her mind is locked in time. When that door opens, it'll all be over. And he'll be left here. Left behind. Without even his reflection to keep him company.

The words are those that have been carefully chosen and reused ad nauseam to cause the least amount of damage to the delicate circumstances. He speaks each word as if they are a code for her to decipher, a secret message that he hopes will go above her head. If only he is that lucky.

"He is not here."

"Because of me."

He starts, then grimaces. No. She hasn't been this clear in months. But now it's falling apart. He can tell by the way she's rubbing her arms and the nearly imperceptible twitching starting to form around her eyes and mouth. It always happens when she starts to think of him. And if she remembers the day she ran her blade across his willing throat the transition will be brutal. Violent.

But that doesn't even matter to him. He can defend himself easily from her uncoordinated attacks. That is not the reason his heart is twisting and sinking down into the empty abyss where his soul should have resided. It is a simple thing; a selfish thing. And he doesn't even try to lie to himself any longer. There is no point. He doesn't want her gone again. He hasn't gotten a chance to talk with her yet. Not really. Despair wars with disappointment within him. It isn't fair. He'd be alone again. Here in this hell hole. Without a soul to speak to except himself, something he'd been doing with more and more frequency. It was starting to worry him.

There's only one thing that keeps her with him, just for a little longer. And only if he is careful and only if the stars are aligned correctly and the sun is at the right angle and who is he kidding? It's fifty-fifty at best. Most likely much worse odds. But his body cares nothing for statistics. His stomach twists even as his heart rate increases. The warmth already spreading, the blood racing in anticipation of what's to come. He is hardening even as he sits there with one hand still resting on the tool box.

"I … I need … I need him." She stands up.

"I know."

"No. No. I … I need … I need him," her voice raises with her brows and she turns to look up at the ceiling just as he catches her by the elbow and spins her back to him, nearly losing her. He cries out in anguish as he pulls her in tight and crushes his mouth to hers. His tongue, dry and hot, invades her equally parched mouth. Her weak attempts to pull away from him dissolves quickly as his right hand reaches down and cups her bottom, squeezing one cheek hard enough to make her groan into his mouth. His finger slides forward and she shudders. He works it as his tongue continues to plunder hers. He feels her shudder; feels the moisture and he both hates himself and is proud of his ability to do this to her so quickly. Her arms snake around his neck and her lips break away from his; they move to his throat, sucking and kissing him; lapping at him and making him tremble.

"Don't go. Please, I don't want to be alone, Karai," he says in between running his mouth along her jaw and down her neck, nipping at her, making her jump.

He doesn't want to do this. Knows it's wrong. That he is taking advantage of the situation for selfish reasons. But the fear is too great. He is a coward. She is with the wrong brother. He is diminished even by Leonardo's memory alone. But he does not stop. He can't be alone.

"Not alone," she moans and rolls her pelvis forward to grind against him.

One leg hooks around his hips and he wastes no further time; leading them both down to the floor. There's not a blanket or anything soft to lay her upon, but it doesn't matter, because she's looking into his eyes and she's still there; focused; awake; alert. Present. He sees his duplicates within those green eyes, reflected there, and he wants to look away from the desperate, pathetic appearance of his distorted face. But she captures his attention as she'd done with his image; his mind; his soul, what's left of it. Opening up her legs, parting her lips. Nodding. Yes. Oh, yes. This. He is lost.

"Protect me," she whispers. And she means keep me, take me, hold me against the dark; tether me.

It is nearly enough to make him stop. Because he knows this language. It's a language of love, one he is fluent in, but never engaged in personally. He knows it from the peripheral endearments passed between April and Casey; causing him untold scars; tiny and ineffectual towards making him bolder; braver. But he remains what he always was: a coward with a caged heart of his own design.

But these words in particular. He knows. Too well. He knows this phrase best from reading the letters so carefully hidden in his brother's room. Her words and his. Exchanged in secret correspondence. Only disinterred by his desperate search for something … anything of them left in the wreckage of what was once their lives; their happiness; their innocence. After the fire. After the destruction of the lair when the Foot took everything from everyone. After he lost them all. When he was trying to find something to hold onto lest he lose himself as well. Before he found her. And had he not read those letters he would have cut her throat the first day she collapsed into his arms, in a delirium, mistaking him for Leonardo. The brother she murdered. Upon his request. When all was lost, they clung to a notion of honor that was ridiculous and arcane. She was to follow him, but was caught, taken away, betrayed. Tortured and left to rot, until he sought her out and set her free.

Because she loved him once she is almost like family. Because she is all the connection remaining that he has to any of them now. Because also, he is afraid of the emptiness. The long hours so lonely and silent. There is nothing left of the past and the future is ash. The invaders that came after the Foot's conquests are gone, civilization is nothing but a lost dream. But more than anything he doesn't want to be alone. He can't be alone anymore. He can't. So, he'll take this. He'll keep the shadows at bay for as long as he can, before they overtake her mind.

If he's lucky, she'll stay with him long after it's over and they'll be able to talk. They'll talk of dreams they've had, of projects that he aches to work on, of nothing, of everything. But Donatello is rarely that lucky. She nearly put out his eyes the last time when she slipped away during this intimate act. Once she started screaming and would not stop for hours after he'd scrambled away from her and hidden in the other room, crying; helpless and guilt ridden. But he's willing to try. Because if her eyes stay locked on him and clear; reflecting him back; if they remain an unfrozen sea, fathomless and deep; it'll be worth it. He'll hate himself all over again when the quiet does come, because it will, eventually. But it'll be worth it.

His breathe is stolen as he frees himself; dropping down and thrusting forward; banishing all thought, all regret, all fear, keeping her clear for a little longer, as long as he possibly can. She moans, but her eyes remain locked on his. Still here.

As he clenches his jaw, he manages to utter one single word: "Always."