She could feel everything vividly — the grime and dust under her bare feet, the sweat still clinging to her skin, the calloused hands gripping her throat and pulling her head back by her loose knot of hair. But everything in her — every fiber of her being — was focused on Don rather than herself.

She had to help him.

That monster had dragged him to the middle of the concrete floor, and forced him back on his shell. His arms and legs lay limply, still barely even able to twitch. And Racer was crouching over him, a savage smile on his thin face. Suddenly he had a switchblade in his hand, the blade gleaming in the faint light as he moved it to the green skin of Don's throat. She saw his muscles tense, heard the rough catch of his breath as he felt the knife brush against his jugular.

"Please, don't…" she whispered. "Don't do this…"

Don's dark eyes turned towards her, and the look was there again — aching, unblinking, alight with hopeless love for her. He was straining as far as his paralyzed body would allow, and she saw his lips form her name.

"You had your fun with her, freak. But now you're just dead weight," Racer hissed. He raised the switchblade above his head, and plunged it down —

April woke with a strangled cry on her lips. Her fingers dug fiercely into the mattress, and her heart battered against her ribs like a fist trying to break free.

For a moment all she could see in the darkness that surrounded her was a splash of blood red, and Don lying there, the light fading from his eyes. But slowly the vision faded, and there was nothing left but blackness on every side of her, broken only by the green numbers of her clock. She was in her bedroom in the lair. Nowhere near the Purple Dragons. Safe.

She slowly sat up, and fumbled for the light switch. When warm light flowed from her lamp, she huddled down under her blankets and wrapped her arms around herself. Her face was wet, though she didn't remember crying. And a deep, penetrating shiver was running through her limbs, making her tremble as she tried to quiet herself.

Don. She had to see Don.

She knew rationally that Don was all right. Now that the dream had faded some from her conscious mind, she remembered that he had gone to sleep late that afternoon and slept through the evening. He was in his room, in the secret lair, safe and untouched by their enemies. But some part of her refused to believe it, unable to move past the image of him lying in his own blood, his dark eyes dull and faded. Dead. Lost. Gone forever.

She swung her legs out of bed and padded quietly to the doors, which she had pulled shut before going to bed. They rolled open with a gentle push of her hand, and she stepped out into the darkness of the lair, surrounded by a flood of lamplight.

April could hear the other Turtles as she tiptoed past their rooms — Raph was snoring like a chainsaw, Mikey was mumbling to himself — but all her attention was focused on Don's room. She slowed as she came to his bedroom door, and began moving through the pitch-blackness, her hands outstretched to feel whatever obstacles might lie in front of her. The rigid edge of a desk. The balls of crumpled paper on the floor. And finally, the thin regular shape of a ladder stretching up into the dark above her. She fumbled for the switch of a desk lamp, casting a pale glow through the room.

She could hear Don's slow, regular breathing above her as she climbed, finally reaching the loft bed where he slept. He was curled up on his plastron, his head resting on a battered pillow and his legs drawn up to his stomach. Alive. Still breathing.

Then his eyes opened, dark and surprisingly aware. April winced, realizing that as a ninja, he probably could tell when someone entered his room.

"April?" he whispered.

She touched his cheek, stroked it with her thumb. "Come to bed with me," she whispered, hearing tears choking her voice.

Don didn't need to be told twice. He slid down from the loft as April climbed back down the ladder, and easily descended to join her. Then he let her take his hand and pull him out into the cool darkness of the lair, following her obediently as she moved back to her bedroom. She could feel his fingers gripping hers tightly.

Her bedroom was still awash in warm, dim lamplight, and somehow the sight of Don in that light was reassuring; it caught on his olive skin and made his body seem to glow from behind. As he stood beside the bed, April pressed her hands to his plastron, gently pushing him down to the mattress, until his shell touched the sheets and his hands slipped up to touch her back. He looked up at her with warm, bright eyes, but the light in them seemed to flicker out as he saw something in her face.

"What's wrong?" he whispered.

April stretched over him, pressing her face against his shoulder and curving her body around his more armored one. "I had a dream," she murmured, suddenly aware of how silly it sounded.

His strong arm slipped around her, and cradled her closer. "Tell me about it."

"We were back in the cell, Don. Only… your brothers and Casey hadn't come to save us… and Racer was there. He had gotten tired of torturing you, and he… he…" Her voice broke. "He murdered you — I couldn't do anything. He cut your throat." Her fingers tightened around his shoulder, and she pressed herself closer against him.

Suddenly the dream came flooding back into her mind — the blood spurting from his throat, the life fading in his eyes, and the horrifying darkness erupting inside her chest as she saw him die. But Don was here with her, solid and alive and clutching her close to him. She closed her eyes and leaned towards him, soaking in every touch of his cool skin against hers.

"I'm right here," Don murmured. "It didn't happen." He raised one of her hands to his throat, and ran her fingers over his flesh to show that there were no gashes, no scars.

"It could have happened," April said, her fingers slipping from his throat. "If they hadn't come for us, Racer would have killed you. I would have lost you forever… and I would never have even known how you felt."

Don held her tighter in reply, his face resting against her unbound red hair. She closed her eyes and concentrated on his soft breaths rushing over her neck, trying to forget the sight of him stained with his own blood, staring up with lifeless eyes.

"I've been in life-threatening danger before, April," he said softly. "When we first fought the Foot Clan… the mutants in the underground… when Shredder blew up your shop… in the Triceraton arena… when Bishop captured us…"

"I know. I know," April groaned. "But this was different somehow. You didn't have your brothers with you this time, and — and you couldn't fight back when they hurt you."

She saw Don's eyes cloud over at the memory, felt his hands spasm slightly as he pulled her closer, and slid around her body. "It's because you saw everything, isn't it?" he murmured.

"And because you were so — hurt afterwards. I've never seen any of you like that before — and I hope I never do again." She kissed him softly, letting the touch of his lips and tongue wash away her nightmares. When their mouths parted, she said breathlessly, "I never want to see you like that again, Don."

"He's gone," Don said, resting his forehead against hers. "He's dead." But there was a tremor in his voice as he spoke.

April closed her eyes and nuzzled closer to him, letting her hand stray from the rougher scutes of his shell to the smoothness of his face. The memory of her dream had begun to fade slightly, but she still wanted him beside her — wanted to be sure that he was safe and whole and alive, even when she was asleep. She sighed.

"I shouldn't have woken you up," she whispered. "I was just trying to make sure you were all right."

"It's okay," Don replied. "It's better for you to wake me up than to lie here worrying." He smiled gently. "I can just sleep here. With you."

"I'd like that," April said, kissing him again.

She settled deeper into his arms as he sank down among the pillows and blankets on her bed, and she watched as his eyes slowly drifted shut, and his breathing slowed into soft regularity. April gently stroked her hand along the side of his face, trying to soothe him back into slumber, even as she felt her strained nerves beginning to settle.

In a strange way, she felt as though his presence would keep the nightmares at bay, as if having him beside her would be something she would sense even in her dreams. And some part of her hoped that, in return, Don wouldn't dream of Racer when he was beside her — that his subconscious would remember that he had her, and their child, and dream of that instead.

"Good night, Don," she murmured, pressing her lips to his.

He didn't answer; his chest was rising and falling with deep, slow breaths, and his face was relaxed. She curled up against him and closed her own eyes.