Donatello sat in his office, unmoving; eyes still on the door she had shut behind her when she left him. Screen savers danced across his monitors before going black. The light changed with the hour, but he remained in his chair. He did not rise to turn on the lights, not even when the sky began to darken, with gray clouds crowding over the city skyline. Donatello sat unmoving in his computer chair, waiting for the door to open.
After they moved in together he had made a habit of waiting for her. He had spent so many nights waiting for her at the kitchen table, with a cup of coffee he had microwaved more times than he cared to recall. One night her phone died. He didn't know. The night became the morning, and with every call that went straight to voicemail, his heart beat a little faster as he convinced himself she was never coming home.
When she opened the door, he wrapped his arms around her so tightly she laughed beneath her winter coat, and all her scarves, making a joke about how he was going to crack a rib. Her lips were still cold on his cheek. When he didn't let go, she said his name again and again, told him everything was alright. And it was. But he still waited for the door to open, no matter when she left.
The turtle blinked. His cell was ringing.
He lurched forward, scrambling for the phone as it vibrated on his desk. He groped for the phone, and it slipped between his hands. Swearing under his breath, he yanked it towards his face, mashing his fingers over the buttons to catch the call in time.
"April?" He asked, trying not to exhale too hard as he spoke her name, hoping he sounded halfway composed. Though he mostly just hoped that it might be her.
"No, genius!" A brusque voice snapped from the other line. "Gimme a god damn break."
Donatello's heart sank. It wasn't her. He heard another voice, nervous, and muffled; further away from the mouthpiece. "Did he pick up?"
"Yes, finally." The first voice grumbled. "Genius can't even use the damn caller ID!" Donatello could almost hear him rolling his eyes.
"What do you want, Raphael?" He asked, without malice, or guile, or any feeling at all. He blankly stared into the endless gray outside his office window, wondering where she was. Was she still on campus? In her office? Had she gone to her father's apartment, above the secondhand store with the boarded up windows and a heater that hardly worked?
"Don. We've gotta problem."
The truth was, Casey Jones had looked worse. He had had broken noses. He had had eyes that stayed black for weeks afterwards. He had suffered cracked ribs, and wet, wheezing breaths. Bloody teeth soaking in bowls of milk. Fingers bent in ways that they most certainly should not be. Once his entire face became that rotten shade of yellow bruises became once they turned. Donatello had seen it all.
The turtle knew that their friendly neighborhood vigilante had had far worse beatings; he had been witness to some of them. After the Foot had withdrawn from New York City, leaving a gaping power vacuum in their wake, Casey had had his fair share of run ins with the Purple Dragons. The Dragons were too ambitious to pass up seizing their chance at power - real power, and most of the time Casey and Raphael were too young and stupid to wait for the rest of their brothers when the sirens sounded.
Donatello had spent many early mornings sewing up stitches, and gluing bits of Raphael's shell back into place. And then there was that Valentine's Day when Casey had too many mickeys and decided it would be a good idea to take on a garbage truck.
There was something almost comforting about a bloody, bruised, groaning Casey Jones splayed out on the couch in the lair. Just like old times. Donatello gave his patient a once over. Severe bruising had turned Casey's face a slew of deep purples and tender pinks. A deep gash shot from his ear over his eyebrow. The wound was new, but not fresh; it was black with dried blood. Donatello frowned. Whoever, or whatever, had attacked Casey had just barely missed his eye.
Casey's chest rose and fell. Donatello nodded somberly. At least his lungs didn't seem to have collapsed. Though there was no way to tell he had suffered any internal bleeding without an x-ray. They should have taken him to a hospital, but instead, he was below the ground.
The turtle swallowed hard. He had told her the truth when he said he did not know where Casey went the night before, but he should have anticipated that this is how Casey's night would end. Maybe he knew, and he just didn't care. He wanted Casey to suffer like he had suffered, didn't he?
He knew Casey Jones, and he knew confronting him could have only ended two ways; a binge, or a brawl. He had told her Casey could take care of himself. He was wrong. And Donatello was not accustomed to being wrong. As his eyes fell across Casey's bruised, contorted face, guilt gripped Donatello. The only way he could have felt worse was if he had done this to Casey himself. But he had, in a way, hadn't he?
"How long has he been like this?"
"Don't know," Raphael's mouth was a hard line across his face. "He called. We came."
"Michelangelo. Where's the first aid kit?" Donatello asked. It was in his hands in an instant. He wet a swab with antiseptic solution and knelt next to the couch. "Casey," the turtle said. "Casey. Can you hear me?"
Casey Jones' chest rose and fell. His breath was labored, but it was still steady. The battered man blinked up at him with blackened eyes. "Fugg off, Don," he slurred.
"Seems fine to me," Raphael smirked, draping himself over the back of the couch. The gesture failed to convince Donatello of his feigned lack of concern.
Donatello glowered up at his brother. He couldn't tell what Raphael was reveling in more; what a mess Casey had made of himself, or Donatello getting exactly what he deserved. He had neglected to listen to him, after all.
Raphael just shrugged. "I'm sure he'll be right as rain in no time."
"Not if he doesn't let me clean this wound." The turtle in purple's brow furrowed. "He's lucky to still have his eye, but if this gets infected, he can kiss it goodbye."
The smirk dissolved from Raphael's face. "Casey," the turtle squeezed his friend's shoulder gently. "Donnie's gonna stitch you up now, ok?" Casey exhaled a groan in response, and Raphael left Donatello to his work.
Donatello stood alone above Casey Jones. He wet the swab again. He pressed it to Casey's brow, dutifully avoiding the wound, but the young man winced. His swollen face twisted under the blood, and the bruises. Casey rolled onto his side, attempting to avoid being disturbed any further.
"I need to be able to see your face to fix it," Donatello sighed irritably. He gently pulled Casey's shoulder, trying to turn his patient back towards him. "Come on, Casey."
"Said fugg off Don!" Casey's hand flailed upward and caught Don across the cheek.
He didn't hit him hard enough for it to hurt. Not really. But it stung, and it surprised him enough to make his cheeks flush. Donatello pinched the swab between his fingers. "You don't want my help?" The turtle fumed. "FINE!"
Donatello stormed into the kitchen. Michelangelo tended to a pot of tea over the stove. Raphael hunched over the table. When he noticed his brother he straightened up. Despite himself, the turtle in red smiled a lopsided, hopeful smile. "I mean, I knew you were fast, but -"
"He doesn't want my help, Raph," Don replied flatly.
Raphael's face fell. "Well, can ya blame 'im?" he asked sourly.
Donatello shot a needling glare at his brother. "Then why the hell did you even bring me here, Raphael?" He yanked a chair away from the table, taking a seat and crossing his arms over his plastron. "I'm sure you could have stitched him up yourself," he finished acerbically. "It's not like it's hard."
"He doesn't just need stitches, asshole," Raphael's fierce green eyes narrowed. "Somethin's wrong with his shoulder." He sniffed. "Think it's dislocated."
Donatello's face settled into a scowl. Raphael was perfectly capable of stitching up a wound. His work was crude, but he was perfectly capable. Hell, Donatello was sure his brother had even relocated his own shoulder on more than one occasion.
Years of acting as Hamato Clan medic had left Donatello with quick, deft fingers. His stitches left smaller scars. But he doubted that was why Raphael had called him. Raphael still cared. Raphael wanted the best care possible for Casey. Donatello swallowed. But Raphael had never stopped caring about Casey. Not really. He had just stopped trusting him. Donatello's heart sank. Even if April still loved him, would she ever trust him again?
"Earth to Donatello!"
The turtle in purple blinked.
"I don't know what happened between you and Casey. I don't want to take sides, but obviously somethin's gone down." Michelangelo was staring at him with kind blue eyes. "Donnie, you're my brother and I love you. You know I love you. And I know Casey isn't your favorite person right now, but he needs your help. So get it together." He smiled gently. "I know you can."
The kettle rattled on the stovetop, and Michelangelo turned to pull it off the burner. He plucked the lid from Splinter's black iron teapot and poured the scalding water over the tea. Steam and the scent of smoky green tea filled the kitchen. Donatello closed his eyes.
"Donatello." His father's voice seemed very far away. "Open your eyes."
"I can't," his small voice stammered.
"Yes. You can." Splinter said, simply. "And you will."
His father set his tea down on the table beside the tatami mat where Leonardo laid, his face twisting up under his mask. Donatello wrung his hands in his lap. He was seven years old. He looked up at his father; his sensei. There was less silver in his fur then. But his eyes - his eyes were the same.
"I want you to set your brother's arm."
There had been an accident, down in the tunnels. Raphael had dragged Leonardo back home. When Donatello saw his bone, white, and red, and wet, sticking up out of his skin, he felt dizzy. He felt sick. Michelangelo was crying in the next room.
"I can't," he repeated in his small voice.
"You can. And you will." Splinter said, gently. Firmly.
"B-but Otousan. Can't you fix it?" Donatello insisted, not looking at Leonardo.
He had watched his father bandage countless cuts and scrapes; soothe sprains; clean and suture wounds. Raphael had been merciless with the bokken. Donatello still bore the mark of his brother's temper; a small white line across his arm. He had watched his father stitch his skin back together, where his brother had broken it with the bokken. He had craning his neck over his shoulder, and watched as his father pulled the thread through his skin. When Splinter was done, he told Donatello not to touch it. But Donatello did not want to touch it. He wanted to know how to do it.
But now that Leo was lying on the floor, groaning, bleeding, with his bone jutting out of his arm like a knife, Donatello was terrified. "Can't you fix it?" he asked again, eyes wide.
"Yes, I can," his father nodded. "But I want you to do it, my son."
"But why?" Donatello choked back tears, trying to suppress his sniffling. It was ok for Mikey to cry; Mikey was the youngest. But he wasn't Mikey.
"I won't always be with you, Donatello." He unrolled a set of tools before his son. "I want you to be able to care for yourself, and your brothers." He smiled. "I know you can."
He handed Donatello a piece of cloth.
"Fine," Donatello rubbed his eyes. "Fine fine fine."
Donatello was still in the lair, but he was no longer seven years old. It had been years since his father had handed him a compress and shown him how to set an open fracture. Twenty years since the first time he had blood on his hands. Casey didn't have to like it. Donatello was going to fix his goddamn eye. It was what he was trained to do.
It hardly mattered whether they liked one another anymore. It hardly mattered if they had ever liked each other. They were family.
The turtle hunched over his friend; his foe; his imagined adversary for her heart. He spoke softly. "Casey, I know I'm not your favorite person right now…" he paused. Took a breath. "But you need my help. So let me help you." Michelangelo's words made it a little easier.
Casey Jones groaned. Donatello wet another swab, and gently began to clean the skin around the wound that nearly split his patient's face in two. The gash over his eye was crusted with dried blood and something else. Donatello's brow ridge quirked. "Dirt?"
"Yeah," Raphael sniffed. He was skulking behind his armchair. "We found 'im in a dumpster."
"How apropos." Donatello murmured. "Hand me the tweezers."
"Heard that," Casey Jones gurgled.
"Shut up, Casey." Raphael handed his brother the tweezers.
Donatello refrained from further comment. He went to work, using the tweezers to pick the debris out of the wound. When he was done, he slowly poured water over Casey's face, letting it run over the gash. Donatello patted it dry, then tenderly applied an antibiotic ointment. Casey winced, and Donatello sighed. "I'm going to start stitching you up now."
"I'll, uh, leave you to it," Raphael muttered. Donatello saw Casey's eye watch him go.
Casey's face twisted up in an expression of agony as Donatello pulled the needle through the wound across his brow, cinching his skin back together. The wound was deep but clean, clearly the work of a sharp, well-made blade. A hamadashi, or a tanto, perhaps. Anything longer or larger and Casey certainly would have lost his eye. The turtle's face settled into a frown. Who would be using those sorts of blades on the streets with the Foot gone?
Donatello's patient sucked in a hissing breath. "Fuck."
The turtle bit his lip. Casey Jones needed a distraction. "Do you remember how you got here, Casey?" Donatello asked, pulling the thread through his skin again.
"Yeah," the battered man began to nod, then winced. "They attacked me. I fell." He gritted his teeth. Donatello continued to suture. "Called Raph."
"Do you remember who attacked you?" Donatello asked as calmly as he could, trying to keep his hand steady.
"The Foot," Casey Jones grumbled.
Donatello almost paused mid stitch. His breath caught in his throat, and he forced himself to swallow. "That's not possible."
"...you think I did this to my fuckin self?"
The turtle swallowed. It wasn't possible. The Shredder was dead. The Foot had disbanded. Purple Dragons, he could have believed. There were still a few smaller factions of the street gang lurking in the neighborhoods that hadn't quite gentrified yet. Raphael didn't even really need the police scanner to find them anymore. He didn't seem to mind, though. Raph didn't always need a challenge to get his rocks off. Donatello suspected that sometimes it just felt good to beat the shit out of something.
It had to have been the Purple Dragons. The alternative was...Donatello frowned. There was no alternative. They had come too far, sacrificed too much for the Foot to return. "Hit your head on the way down, Jones?" Donatello asked, forcing himself to smirk; smothering the fear with a joke.
If Casey Jones could maneuver his face into actual expressions, he might have glared at Donatello. Instead, he closed the one eye that hadn't already swollen shut. "She's pissed at you, isn't she." Casey made a sound that might have been a chuckle, but he mostly just gurgled. "That's why you're here, isn't it?"
Donatello's brow knitted together in concentration. He yanked the suture harder than he should have, and Casey inhaled sharply. The turtle felt a smug smile tug at the edges of his mouth, if only for a moment.
The turtle decisively clipped off the rest of the suture with a pair of old operating scissors, refusing to acknowledge Casey Jones' bloody, swollen smile. "I'm here because Raph called me." The turtle exhaled a sigh of exasperation. "But you really should have just gone to a hospital."
"If I knew Raph was gonna call you I might've," Donatello's patient grunted. "Thought he was gonna stitch me up 'imself. S' not like he hasn't done it before."
"Yeah, well, sorry to disappoint you." Donatello patted a dressing into place over Casey's eyebrow. "Maybe Raph'll change your bandage for you later, if you ask nicely."
He thought he saw Casey's cheeks flare red, then. But his face was so discolored from the bruises blossoming around his eyes that it was impossible to tell. Casey stopped smiling. "It ain't like that, asshole."
Not anymore, Donatello thought, slathering his hands with antibacterial gel. He took a deep breath, and the unnaturally clean smell burned the back of his nostrils. April was right. He didn't have anyone else. All he had was her. Just her. Donatello looked away, casting his gaze to the floor.
"I'm sorry, Casey" Donatello conceded, his mouth awkwardly forming the words, forcing them out. He had said them so quietly he wasn't even sure that Casey heard them. Donatello almost hoped he hadn't.
The turtle stood over the battered, bruised man that laid immobilized on the couch they had spent so many awkward teenage nights on, fighting over the last slice of pizza and falling asleep to Space Heroes. It seemed like a lifetime ago, now. Donatello suddenly felt very old, and very tired. Maybe it was the regret. Or the lack of sleep. Or the way she had looked at him, before she closed the door behind her.
"This is my fault," said Donatello.
"Maybe," Casey tried to shrug his shoulders and flinched. "Maybe not."
In that sliver of a second, he would have given anything to go back. To go back to being his awkward, gangly sixteen year old self, blushing every time she reached over him and across the couch for the remote control. Unrequited love was so much easier than remorse.
"We still need to relocate your shoulder," Donatello said quickly, in an attempt to evade the awkward silence, to not have to acknowledge what could have been Casey Jones' only indication of forgiveness for his transgressions. He wished April was there. April would know what to say. Donatello just swallowed a little too loudly. "You want me to get Raphael?"
Casey shook his head with a slow, deliberate motion . "Just get it over with already. Christ." He might have rolled his eyes, if he could.
"Alright, Jones." Donatello gently shifted Casey onto his side. "You ready?"
Casey Jones was silent. He did not nod. He did not say yes. And when Donatello shoved his shoulder back into place, he didn't even scream.
Casey Jones' ragged breaths became quiet after that. His breath became almost rhythmic as he slipped out of consciousness. The turtle listened, waiting for a hitch, for anything anomalous - anything that might indicate his lungs were collapsing. Casey gave a gurgling cough, but his breathing remained steady. He breathed in. He breathed out. It was soothing, almost. The turtle closed his eyes and sighed in relief. Casey was in shit shape, but he would recover. He always did. Donatello turned off the lamp beside the couch, and sunk to the floor.
It couldn't have been Foot. It was impossible. They had cut the last of the Foot soldiers down, without mercy or hesitation. To protect Splinter. And Karai. Donatello had never seen Leonardo more determined, or dedicated. But still. The Purple Dragons used their fists, not edged weapons.
For the second time that day, Donatello's phone buzzed. The vibration cut the silence, and he reached for it as it buzzed on his belt. There was still blood on his hands. And he still hoped it would be her.
Donatello frowned. It was only an e-mail. And it was late; much later than he thought it would be. Perhaps it had taken longer than usual to stitch Casey up. It had been so long since he had had to play medic. Doctor Don is getting rusty...he thought, a little sadly.
He closed his eyes again, listening to Casey's breathing. He tried to clear his mind; focus on his own breath. But every time he thought me might be coming close to some semblance of a meditational state, there she was, staring back at him with her red, wet eyes.
"How's he doin?" Asked a gravelly voice.
Raphael slouched over the back of the couch. Though his words were meant for his brother, his eyes were on Casey Jones.
Donatello stood, slowly, and gingerly pressed the back of his hand to Casey's forehead. Seemingly satisfied, he nodded. "You know the drill," Donatello said quietly. "Just change his bandage until the swelling goes down and he should be fine. His sutures will have to come out, but it's not like he hasn't cut his own stitches out a hundred times before."
They all had.
Raphael nodded curtly, but his eyes were still lingering on Casey's face. Casey's hairline, normally hidden by his bandana, was crusted with dried blood. His hair was receding (just a little). Anyone who hadn't known him before never would have noticed. It didn't even occur to Donatello. But Raphael knew.
"He said it was the Foot, Raphael."
The turtle in red's eyes narrowed behind his mask. "That's not possible."
"That's what I said," Donatello dropped his surgical scissors back in the first aid kit. "But he seems...convinced."
"Yeah, well, Casey Jones used to be convinced that when he came it was his dick sneezing."
Donatello chuckled, smiling despite himself. "I never would have guessed," he wiped Casey Jones' blood from the tweezers.
His brother crossed his arms over his plastron. "Guessed what?"
"That you still loved him." Donatello shut the first aid kit.
Raphael's emerald green eyes hardened in the low light. Found out, he slipped off the couch and began to disappear from view. Donatello watched his brother recede into shadow. He had forgotten how dark it was, below. Years of living topside had left his eyes unaccustomed to the darkness of the lair. One of the lamps in the living room flickered in the corner of his eye.
"Yeah, well, you need more than love," Raphael said bitterly from somewhere Donatello could not see. "The Beatles were full of shit."
Donatello sat in silence, waiting for his brother to return from the shadows. But he didn't. So Donatello sat alone beside the unconscious Casey Jones on the carpet that still smelled like old pizza. The night seemed so much longer, down below. At least topside the sun rose when everything was said and done. Down below, all there was was the dark.
A/N: Thanks for all the reviews and feedback on the last chapter; I so appreciate it. It's always such a treat to discover one in my inbox. I'm really intrigued by the response to Donatello's plight. I'm glad I've been able to write him in such a way that readers sympathize with him (even though he's brought so much of this drama on himself). Donnie and April have both made mistakes, but they love each other. I guess you'll just have to stay tuned to see if love will be enough.
