Donatello sighed. One of his clients had exceeded their bandwidth and crashed their website. Again. They were a little nonprofit that insisted on having more images on their site than their bandwidth could support; their site crashed at the end of every month, and he was already providing them with more service than he was charging them for. The turtle knew they couldn't afford any more than what they were already paying, so he let it slide. Years of loving her in silence had left him with a soft spot for anyone trying for things that were just beyond their reach.
As he bumped up their disk space the door rattled down the hall. "Hey babe," Donatello called.
"Aw, Donnie," a familiar voice boomed. "I knew you must've missed me."
The door slammed and turtle felt his entire body stiffen in his chair. Casey Jones. Casey Jones was in his apartment. How was Casey Jones in their apartment? Donatello's brow furrowed. He must have met April in her classroom and picked up her keys. Or her office. Or maybe they had even met somewhere for lunch. A twinge of jealousy tweaked at Donatello's insides. While he was stuck in their apartment, Casey Jones had just walked right back into her life.
"Oh," the turtle cleared his throat awkwardly. "Hey Casey."
"That's right, dude. Casey Jones is in the house."
Donatello rolled his eyes. It had been less than a minute and he was already laying it on thick. A few wide strides was all it took to put Casey Jones and Donatello face to face. The turtle tried not to swallow too loudly when he saw him.
The sturdy, wiry boy they had known in their youth was gone; though he still held his long black hair back with that same faded black bandana. Casey was wearing his uniform: hoodie, sneakers, and jeans that were undoubtedly too tight. Wide shoulders strained under a sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled up. Defined veins ran down his arms, emphasizing just how toned he must be under his hoodie. Every year, at every underground Christmas party, Donatello's eyes had been on his brothers and April, not Casey. Casey Jones had grown up, and he hadn't even noticed.
"Ya like my new choppers?" Casey Jones asked with a wide, toothy grin. "Got 'em while I was still on my Dad's insurance."
"Cool." Donatello said, his face entirely flat. "Couch's this way."
The turtle offered no compliments on his houseguest's new teeth, or agonizingly ordinary appearance. He only led the way down the hall, mentally griping to himself. The apartment wasn't even all that big, but the hall felt miles long, and only became longer with each nagging thought. He's actually kind of good looking, you know...Donatello frowned as he realized why Raphael always pouted when he came home for Christmas.
When they reached the living room Casey dumped his dufflebag at the foot of the couch, then gingerly leaned his bundle of hockey stick bags against the wall. Donatello involuntarily wrinkled his nose. The duffle smelled like beer and unwashed socks. As Casey plopped down on the couch and began to unlace his sneakers, Donatello opened a window. He would rather be seen than have to smell his houseguest's feet. Nosey neighbors be damned.
"Who's this?" Casey asked, almost sweetly. His knees popped as he leaned forward to pet the cat at his ankles.
"That's Kahn," Donatello muttered as he fussed with the curtains.
"Pft. You nerds would name your cat after a Star Wars character," Casey was scratching her hard behind the ears. The cat let out a long contented purr.
The turtle's eyes narrowed. "It's Star Trek," he began, ready to roll out his prepackaged explanation of how Star Trek's examination of the human condition and metaphorical plotlines emphasizing issues of racism, sexism and globalization through compelling narratives made it vastly superior to George Lucas' one trick pony, but Casey cut him off.
"Yeah, whatever man," he mumbled dismissively.
Kahn only continued to purr. The turtle's brow ridge furrowed. Traitor. He thought. Her back arched under the stranger's touch. As she pressed herself against Casey's leg, her entire body undulating like a wave.
"You, uh, have any pets back in…" Donatello's pathetic attempt at small talk put itself out immediately, like a fire with too little kindling.
"Michigan," Casey said, listlessly, as he leaned back against the couch cushions. "And no. No pets. Too busy playing hockey. The whole thing sucks, man. We just cracked the Division One top five." He sighed. "We were just getting good."
The turtle frowned. He almost felt sorry for Casey. But it was Casey's own fault, really. He was the one who had let his grades slip. He was the one who had lost his scholarship. And his place on the hockey team, evidently. Still, a small ember of empathy burned somewhere in Donatello. April would know what to say. To console him. April cared. She had tended to Casey for years with the patience of a midnight gardener. Donatello had resented Casey for that, until he realized she had tended to him, too. She had pruned back the gnarled growth of his self-doubt so they could shine light on each other's strengths. Kind, patient April. She had helped them both grow.
What would April say?
"Well, uh," Donatello glanced over his shoulder. "Feel free to make yourself at home."
The turtle scuttled back to his office to await April's return. Having her home would make it less awkward. He hoped. Hours stretched on like eons, but a knock at the door came eventually came. Donatello didn't bother to ask her how she got into the building without her keys; he just gave her a kiss. Once a kunoichi, always a kunoichi.
April discarded her bags, and her books, and immediately began to ask Casey all the questions Donatello had neglected to. How are yous and how was your flight and tell me all about its were strung together with kind smiles and warm laughter. She had already ordered them a pizza. Pizza was usually reserved for evenings spent in the lair with his brothers, but April seemed happy to make the exception for their houseguest. April was happy. Donatello tried to convince himself that that should be all that mattered.
The three of them sat around the kitchen table, eating pizza and exchanging stories about lives that had become so ordinary it was almost absurd. Whenever Raphael's name was mentioned Casey's mouth was always conveniently stuffed with pizza. Donatello asked what Casey's plans were; April shot him a needling glare, but Casey didn't seem to notice. The turtle excused himself early.
By the time April came to bed, Donatello's tablet was aggressively issuing low battery warnings. She closed the door softly behind her, peering over her shoulder at him. If she wanted to know why he was still up, she did not ask. She only stooped over her dresser, rifling through the drawers until she produced a mismatched pair of pajamas.
"Really, April?" Don raised a brow ridge. "Pajamas?"
April never wore pajamas.
She pulled the top over her head before shrugging noncommittally. This was her way of acknowledging things were different with him here - without actually acknowledging anything was different with him here. Donatello frowned. He didn't want things to be different; they were fine the way they were. They had a routine. They had their quirks. She knew his schedule like clockwork. He could predict her behavior on any given day of the week. Mondays and Wednesdays were rarely good, but that was only because she had office hours. Having Casey as their houseguest added too many new variables. It necessitated her wearing pajamas. And he did not like it.
April swung her legs over the bed and settled in next to Donatello with a book. It was one of her favorites; he could tell by the number of creases on the spine. The Music of Life: Biology Beyond Genes by Dennis Noble (an oldie but a goodie). It was lyrical. Thoughtful. A welcome change from the dry research paper findings sections she was usually immersed in. "Just some light reading before bed?" Donatello half-teased.
"I do love a good bedtime story," she murmured, not taking her eyes of the page.
Donatello laughed. She would refer to a tome on the nature of life itself as a bedtime story. "You're know that, right?"
"Takes one to know one." She gave him that cocky kunoichi smile.
That look. That damn look. Pajamas or not, that look lit a fire in him. He shifted his weight, leaning in to kiss her neck.
"Donatello," April hissed, playfully swatting him away. "He'll hear us."
"So?" The turtle shot her a petulant grin.
"It's so nice to see that Casey Jones still brings out the petty asshole in you." She shook her head, but she still smiled. "Nice to know some things never change. Real comforting."
He leaned in close. "I'll make it worth your while."
She let Donatello kiss her then, long and deep. Any hesitance that had been there before melted away as her body succumbed to his touch. His hands slid up under her top, and her book hit the floor with a thud. It fell away; forgotten.
When she fell asleep she wasn't wearing anything at all. Her long red hair, oddly crimped from being up in a bun all day, fell across her pillow, exposing her freckled shoulders. His eyes trailed down her curves and edges; the long, soft line of her spine. He could have spent all night tracing the faint lines of her shoulderblades, counting the freckles that dotted her shoulders and chest like stardust. But the digital clock on her nightstand was screaming the hour in the dark. The lime green reminder that he too should be be asleep was too loud to ignore.
Carefully, quietly, he peeled away the sheets. She stirred, slightly, and he stopped. After years of abductions, and midnight attacks, and kunoichi training, April slept lightly. But at least she could still sleep through the night.
Sex normally put Donatello right to rush of oxytocin and ebb of cortisol was just the right chemical cocktail to subdue the fervor of his thoughts and let him drift to sleep. But if sex wasn't going to do it, milk just might.
He didn't like milk. It was too thick. Too bland. But sometimes it helped him sleep. Warm milk was even more repulsive than cold milk, but it contained tryptophan. Sweet, sweet tryptophan. If he couldn't force his stress hormone levels to abate, the next best thing was to pump himself up with sleep-inducing melatonin. Donatello rubbed his eyes. He should have just said yes when April asked if she could pick him up some prescription sleep aids.
The turtle groped under the bed until he felt something fuzzy. Huge and purple, the bathrobe had been a gift from Michelangelo several Christmases ago. He didn't know what his brothers assumed his life above ground was like, but more often than not, it did not require a bathrobe. He wouldn't have even bothered with it if it wasn't for their houseguest. Donatello did not wear clothes. Not unless it was absolutely necessary. He found them awkward and cumbersome. He was convinced they emphasized his otherness more than they concealed it. But somehow, the notion of walking around his apartment in the middle of the night in front of Casey made him feel naked. So he put on the bathrobe.
Donatello padded across the apartment, mindful not to disturb their guest. Or tread on their cat. But the kitchen light was already on. And Casey Jones was at the kitchen table, consuming their last box of goldfish by the fistful.
"'Sup."
"I don't sleep well," Donatello replied absentmindedly.
Another mouthful of goldfish crunched beneath Casey's new pearly teeth. "Bummer."
The turtle continued to drag his feet across the kitchen. It seemed their guest was taking his invitation to make himself at home literally. Donatello tried not to begrudge him for it. Yet, some deep-seated part of him hoped Casey could smell her on him. If all of the stories he had regaled them all with holiday after holiday were true, Casey had to know the smell. That sweet, sticky, indelicate smell. Maybe that would shut him up. As he swung open a cupboard, her words echoed in his ears. So nice to see that Casey Jones still brings out the petty asshole in you. Donatello frowned.
Casey stopped chewing. "Is Red ok?" His eyes drifted from the box of crackers to his host. "You know - is she happy?"
By Darwin's Beard, Donatello resented that nickname. When they were young it was almost charming. Even sweet in its simplicity. But now she was months away from becoming April O'Neil, Ph.D. Doctor O'Neil. And Casey was still calling her something that reduced her to her appearance.
Too exhausted to feign politeness any longer, the turtle rolled his eyes. "Of course she's happy. She'll be defending her thesis soon. Once that's over, there will be a hundred big firms fighting tooth and claw to offer her a contract. Kirby is back on his meds." His brow ridge furrowed as he rifled through the cabinet for an adequately sized mug. "Why wouldn't she be happy?"
Casey shrugged. "Something just seems off 's all."
Donatello had never been known for his patience. "I can literally count the number of times you've seen April in the past five years on my fingers." The turtle wrenched the fridge door opened and yanked the milk out. "That hardly makes you an expert on her emotional state."
The microwave whirred to life, and Donatello slouched before it in his bathrobe. As the mug of milk made rotation after rotation, his lips pressed together. There's no need to be an asshole, Donatello. He reminded himself. You've got her. And he has nothing. The microwave dinged, and he exhaled a sigh of relief.
"Mmm, nope," Casey said resolutely, jarring Donatello from his reverie of a good night's sleep. "You've only got six fingers, and I've seen her seven times in the last five years."
The turtle blinked.
"Yeah, it's been seven times, for sure." He shoveled another handful of goldfish into his mouth.
How could that be? They only saw Casey at Christmas. Five years. Five Christmases. Five times. But it hadn't been five times. It had been seven.
If they had seen each other, April had never told him. But April told him everything. Donatello drew the mug of warm milk to his chest. And then a sound so small it was barely a word at all fell from his lips. "Oh."
The turtle wandered back to their room. He did not say goodnight. He did not say anything at all. The sound of Casey Jones chewing followed him down the hall, making Donatello's heart pick up speed. A gradual acceleration around the bend of sanity, spinning off into paranoia. The wheels in his head turned rapidly. His heart raced faster. Don't dwell, Donatello. He stifled a sigh. Nothing good ever comes from dwelling.
He closed the door as softly as he could, but she still stirred in bed. He held his breath, waiting to see if she would wake. His fingers clutched the mug just a little tighter. But she only turned over, taking the sheets with her. Donatello slumped in relief against the door.
Shrugging off his bathrobe, he slipped back into bed. The glow of New York City's eternal unnatural light seeped through the window, illuminating her freckled shoulders. Casey's nickname for her crawled up in the back of his mind. Red. Donatello turned onto his back. His shell sank into the mattress as he stared off into the muted darkness. Donatello closed his eyes, but Casey's words and all their implications were still there. Five years. Seven times.
By the time he remembered the mug of milk on the nightstand it had long gone cold.
A/N: My husband asked me if Donatello and Casey were April's little teen boy baby bonsai trees that she was shaping into good men - I said yes and regret nothing. April's far from perfect, but I think Donatello and Casey still put her up on a pedestal to a certain degree, and that was definitely percolating in the back of my mind as I wrote this chapter. I hope you're enjoying Donatello's spiral into the abyss of paranoia with me. Thanks for reading!