Author's Note: How did I end up for three major characters hurt, I wonder? Anyways. I'm glad to inform you that Donatello is now wrapped in warm blankets, and… What is it? He's unconscious and very sick, so it doesn't count as a comforting scene? Aww.
Suspended Time
The guest room of Mr. O'Neil's apartment had never seen so many people at once. No less than three mutant turtles and two teenage humans were crammed into the room left around the double bed and the two shapes resting side by side on it.
Nobody was speaking. Stories had already been exchanged, for Raphael's sake who couldn't have known about the destruction of the lair. April's father hadn't even tried to protest against this invasion of his recently found again privacy - one look at his daughter's face and he had opened the doors of his home to her friends.
No, nobody was speaking - and still the air was heavy with all the words that needed to be said.
Donatello, at the center of everyone's attention, was the only one unaware of the tense atmosphere. Lost in a deep sleep, he couldn't feel the hand of his father stroking his head, nor the fingers of the usually so cheerful Michelangelo tightening around his arm - no more than the intense gazes of his two other brothers, the crumpled features of the girl he loved while she smoothed the blankets or the nervous shifting of his rival and friend, Casey Jones.
Mr. O'Neil had retreated to the kitchen, and was doing his best to prepare a meal for seven people, including five teenagers, although whether anybody was hungry was another matter entirely.
Now that Donatello wasn't moving, talking or smiling - with the little, weary smile of someone that was unwilling to give up, no matter the circumstances - it was plain obvious that he was completely worn out. His skin was too pale and too unhealthy, and his shape was so thin that he seemed tiny compared to Splinter, lying beside him on the bed.
And still nobody said a word, guilt and fear filling souls until it became too much, and one of the watchers snapped - but still, silently, because disturbing Donatello's rest would have been a sacrilege - and ran out of the room, closing the door behind him so delicately that it made no sound.
And Casey bit his lip and left after him, not sure of what he could do but certain that he had to try to do something, anything to help.
Raphael didn't stop until he was on the rooftop, his lungs filling up with the cold air of the late afternoon. The lights in the sky were gone - the storm from the Sun had ended, but the storm in his heart kept going.
Flashes of the recent events went through his mind. Donatello trying to reassure him when they had realized that he was carrying a bomb inside his body, Donatello insisting to keep playing Irma's game so he, Raphael, would stay safe, Donatello handing a solution on a plate and promising that he would be fine… Donatello somehow staying true to his word and saving Raphael's life, when all Raphael had managed to do was to be used like a pawn by the enemy… Donatello collapsing on the ground…
Donatello not waking up to his desperate shouts.
Donatello lying on a bed, eyes closed, and nobody could tell when he would open them again.
Not again. Not again.
Not again!
He was only half-conscious of the holes he was making in the cement while his sai attacked the roof, but his senses sharpened by years of ninjitsu didn't miss the approach of the teenage boy he called his friend.
"Go away, Casey," he croaked.
Casey Jones ignored the warning. "You're going to reopen your wound if you don't stop."
"Like I care." Raphael made a point to hit the roof harder, intensifying the twinge in his shoulder.
Casey watched him in silence for a while.
"He's tough. He'll make it."
Raphael glared at him, a desperate glare that was almost a plea. "Of course he will! Of course… He…Will…"
The twinge had become sharper, and it was actually painful now. With a frustrated cry, he let go of his sai and tried to catch his breath.
Casey shrugged. "Told you."
Raphael didn't answer, but he allowed his friend to come closer and take a look at the newly stained bandage.
"I'm going to crush her," he whispered, gazing into the distance. "I'm going to tear her apart, robot piece by robot piece."
"I'll be happy to help."
Raphael closed his eyes. "And then I'll crush him for not saying anything," he added, his voice so low and so plaintive that it was more of a prayer, really.
Leonardo hadn't moved an inch since he had helped to settle Donatello and Splinter as comfortably as possible, not even when Raphael had stormed off. He knew his brother needed some space, and he trusted Casey to keep an eye on him. He needed to sort out his own feelings before he could help anyone else.
How could so much go so wrong in so little time?
A few days ago, he was in his home, his brothers and father around him, and they were still celebrating their victory against the Kraang.
And now, their lair was ruined - by a bomb that had exploded in his absence - and Donatello, after days of shutting them out, was so sick and exhausted that he had passed out.
How his brothers had managed to endure seeing him unconscious for three whole months was beyond him. The last hour had seemed like an eternity to him, and he could still hold on to the hope that Donatello wasn't in a coma, that his body merely needed to recover enough energy to wake up.
And he knew that, of course, Donatello wasn't going to wake up right now - at the very least he would sleep for hours. Likewise, his brother wouldn't disappear if he tore his eyes off him - he should make himself useful and begin to plan their next move. They needed a new home, and Irma presented a threat that had to be dealt with.
But somehow, he couldn't bring himself to leave the room.
Michelangelo was focusing on the warmth of Donatello's body to remember that his brother was still there, next to him. He had closed his eyes to avoid seeing how sick and tired he looked.
It was so unfair. Was this their reward for saving New York and all its citizens? To be homeless again, to be waiting again for one of their own to come back - as if it hadn't been torture enough the first time?
He had known for a long time that life wasn't supposed to be fair, but it still hurt to witness how much destiny threw itself at them.
Why hadn't Donatello talked to him? He would have understood. He would have helped him - and no matter what his brothers said sometimes, Michelangelo knew in his heart that he was helpful more often than not.
But Donatello had chosen to shut up, and drink who-knew-what for their sake, until he was a shell of himself.
A shell that had still managed to save Raphael, because Donatello was there for them no matter what…
No matter what.
Splinter watched his family, and he knew that he had to talk. They needed reassurance that everything would be fine in the end, that Donatello would get back on his feet in no time - or in not too much time.
The only problem was that he had no idea if it was going to be the case.
His son, his precious son had shouldered alone a burden way too heavy for his years - right under his nose. What kind of a father was he? And what kind of a master, too, for not seeing the treachery of an enemy, a mistake that had costed them their home - again - and almost the lives of two of his children?
He hadn't been there for them, like he hadn't been there during most of the invasion. His sons had grown up so much during the last months, and he couldn't have been more proud of them - but he could also read the ghosts of their hardships in Michelangelo's and Leonardo's faces as they watched their unconscious brother.
He had failed them, like he had failed his daughter, all these years ago, and they had paid the price.
He couldn't even heal Donatello - his son's body was too weak to channel the mantras' power. He stroked his son's cheeks again, concentrating to prevent his hand from shaking. He desperately needed his rest, but he couldn't sleep - not when his son was between life and death. He would do what he could for him, as little as it was.
They needed Donatello more than ever - to save Donatello.
April was taking deep breathes, trying to focus on Donatello's spirit. He seemed to be there and not there, not as absent as Leonardo had been, when he was in a coma at the farm, but still not as close as he should have if he had been merely sleeping.
Come back, she was calling. Come back, Donnie. We're waiting for you.
Even if she had no idea whether Donatello could hear her or not, she wasn't going to give up.
She couldn't do anything for her mother, but she wasn't a helpless little girl anymore - she could fight, like she had fought for her father when he had been captured, and mutated, and mutated again, and she would. Whether it was with her alien powers, with the new moves she was learning as a kunoichi-in-training, or with her sheer determination didn't matter.
We're here, Donnie. Come back.
