A/N: This story is set in the TMNT 2007 universe (a personal fave of mine).

When Casey's cell rang, he checked the Caller I.D. warily—then flipped the phone open right away and put it to his ear.

"Hey, Mike," he greeted, hoping he didn't sound too suspicious. "What's up?"

It wasn't often his green buddies called anymore. They always answered when Casey and April rang them up, the lair was always open to their two human friends whenever they came by to visit, but there was a lacking to their home and their family that didn't used to be there.

Donnie was wrapped up in work, Raph was—well, Casey knew what Raph was up to. Splinter was showing his age, something sad and weary in his beady black eyes, something that got heavier every day his oldest son was still gone.

Then why the hell did you make him leave? Casey wanted to ask. He wouldn't, no one would talk to the wise old rat like that, but some days…

"Is April there?" was Mikey's reply, and Casey sat upright immediately. Something in the kid's voice was off.

"Nah, she went home a few hours ago." He was already moving, climbing off the couch and headed toward the window. The fire escape was where the guys usually parked it until they were sure of their welcome, and he usually kept it unlocked for that reason; but there were no bright eyes waiting for him there in the looming dark, no shelled shape crouched on the metal stairs. "Mike?"

"'m on the roof. I'll be down in a minute."

And that was normally ninja-speak for anywhere from five to twelve seconds. Tonight, it was definitely closer to two minutes than one, and Casey's nerves were shot by the time Mikey swung into view. He dropped clumsily onto the landing by Casey's window, and wobbled, and Casey reached out with both arms to catch him before—well, they were on the seventh floor, and mutagen-reinforced keratin or not, his shell wouldn't survive that kind of fall.

He ended up taking most of Mikey's weight on their way across the small living room, back to the couch. Once they made it, Mikey sank against the cushions with a grateful sigh, and Casey's hands came away from him bloody.

"Mikey, what the fuck."

"S'just a flesh wound," the blue-eyed turtle managed around half a smile. Casey opted to ignore him, not exactly finding any humor in their situation, and leaned over to turn on the lamp—and then it was pretty obvious right away where the blood came from.

"You got shot," Casey accused hotly, panic swelling at the hole in his friend's thigh. "That sure don't looklike a flesh wound, Mike."

It looked pretty clean, and when Casey bent his leg at the knee and eased up slowly, he found an exit wound. Okay, it was an in-and-out, there was that at least. But the wound on the back of Mikey's thigh was a lot bigger, maybe worthy of stitches. Which took this straight out of his hands. Keep leg elevated, stop the bleeding, call Donnie. And get an answer out of Mike while you're at it. "What the hell have you been doing?"

His laundry basket was sitting in the armchair; he reached over without moving and fished out a clean towel, folding it into a makeshift compress. He pushed down against the wound, and it was either because of shock or blood loss, but Mikey barely reacted.

"My van broke down again," he muttered, deflated at Casey's sharp tone. "Had to hoof it back from Port Morris. Woulda been fine, but—there were these guys, a bunch of 'em, and they were followin' a few kids home from a bar, and—I couldn't just let it happen, Case. I know 'm not supposed to fight anymore, I didn't even have my 'chucks on me, but I couldn't just—"

"Hey, it's okay," Casey said, reaching over to nudge Mikey's chin back up. "You did good, buddy. Sorry I bit your head off. D'you think you can hold this down for me? I'm gonna call Don, just—"

"No!" Mikey's eyes flew wide, pupils shrinking. "Don't call Don!"

"Holy shit," Casey said eloquently, heart leaping in his chest in surprise. "Jesus, why?"

"Don't call him, Casey, please. Don't—he's always so busy, I don't want to bother him."

"What are you—wait, is that why you came here, instead of home? You thought you'd bother him? Mikey, you got shot."

"Leo's gone," the kid said, so frankly it took Casey by surprise. "Raph's never around. All that's left is Donnie, and if I…. I don't want to mess it up, I don't want to make him leave, too. Please don't call him. I need him to stay."

And—okay. Okay, maybe Casey would have to have words with Splinter, after all. Because his favorite family of mutants was fracturing, folding right down the middle, and this wide-eyed kid Casey loved like a brother was bleeding all over his couch, trying to convince Casey it made sense not to call his doctor, because his doctor wouldn't want to be bothered. There was a hole in his leg and he had to be hurting, he dragged himself all the way to Casey's apartment from the Bronx and god only knew how he managed it, and he was watching Casey with painful, backwards hope in every inch of his freckled face.

"Mike," he said, quietly, "I gotta call Don. I can't—you probably need stitches, or staples, and I can't do that here. And he'll have somethin' to give you for the pain." Mikey's face crumpled, and Casey felt like a heel. "He's not—Mike, I don't know why you think he's gonna be pissed, but he won't be, I promise."

And he wasn't.

And two hours after Mikey showed up in the first place, Casey could hear them talking in the living room all the way from his bedroom, low and soft and just-for-each-other.

"Why on earth didn't you come to me?" Donnie was saying. "What if it had been worse? What if you bled out before I could get here? Mikey," his voice almost broke, "I can't do this without you. I need you to stay."

And he sounded every bit like Mike had earlier, when Mike had said just about the same thing; right down to the fear, and the hurt, and the love that must have felt like the weight of the world on his back.