Archive of Our Own

It had recently occurred to his friends that, in Leo’s words, Casey’s hair was a ‘violation of some godly right’. Mikey swore vehemently that something crawled across his hand when he tried to bury his fingers in the boy’s hair the night before. Shamefully, Casey had admitted to the lot of him that it had been some time since the teen had given himself a good wash. Sure, he’d dunked his head beneath the sink every other week to be sparing with the water bill, but…well…evidently whatever he was doing was wrong.

Donnie had made it an active point to supply Casey’s bathroom with a frankly overwhelming amount of hygiene products. Though blessedly there had been a note left to explain everything, right down to soap scents. The sentiment was appreciated after Casey’s rather foolish display of panic at the sheer amount of products given to him. It had taken a considerable amount of effort at first to relinquish his prosthetics, but Donnie had specified rather pointedly that he didn’t want them getting wet without further testing. The one interwoven across his hand was left on a washcloth with no small amount of discomfort as he flexed his still sore fingers. It made him feel strangely exposed as his breath caught when he began to remove the one winding across his spine. The wound left behind was ugly and raw from the way it had been carved into his skin like stone. However, the exposed skin needed a good clean anyway as his nose wrinkled at the smell and sweat left behind.

The showerhead above beat against Casey’s exposed back with a shocking burst of hot water. The spray of boiling water and steam fogged up the bathroom glass as the boy ran a cautionary hand through his muddied hair. Encrusted filth, twigs, and remnants of the now absent future tangled themselves into his hair before they spilled out into the drain below. His shower water was turned into a murky shade of deep brown and rust red as years of build-up and blood washed away with a considerable amount of elbow grease. He scrubbed at his skin until an assortment of once lost razor-thin scars from years of battle emerged from his tanned skin. Where dirt had once concealed many of his sunkissed freckles and mottled moles, fresh skin was now able to breathe. The perpetual layer of grease that once turned his hair into a caked rats’ nest was washed away, and for the first time, Casey could run a hand through his hair with no difficulty.

Barely ten minutes into the shower and Casey’s hand was instinctively hovering over the knobs to turn it off. He couldn’t justify taking this long–he shouldn't—he could. Mikey had been stubborn enough to pull the dirtied teen aside and explained in great detail that Casey ought to take at least a half hour with his shower. The whole lot of them seemed aware of the boy’s tendencies to say the least. He was used to frigid hose-downs in derelict tombs to those less fortunate. Clean water had been a luxury when Master Donatello was still around but after he…after everything…everyone had to get crafty. It felt wrong in some fashion to enjoy himself as he tipped his head back into the spray.

He took his time with the soaps, sitting in a corner outside of the suddenly all too overwhelming downpour to assess the assortment of perfumed products he’d been given. He both relished the broad array of choices and froze at the indecision he felt. He didn’t look at the brand he picked, only briefly pausing to enjoy the strangely sweet smell of vanilla and honeycomb before he promptly got the damned stuff into his eyes. It was far from his most graceful of moments as he scrubbed his eyes furiously free of suds.

The heat of the water and the burn of soap in his eyes drew Casey into a brief flicker of disillusion. He couldn’t pinpoint the memory, only reel back from the painful echo of what felt like fire on his hands. He snapped himself with a sudden jolt out of the downward spiral he’d send himself into with a gasp.

He was fine. He was fine.

He could be okay.

When Casey emerged from the shower, he almost didn’t recognize himself. He knew that was his face, but he supposed he just hadn’t seen it clean in far too long. He spent an embarrassingly long time re-learning each dappled bit of freckled skin and every scar he’d forgotten along the way. Many were minor scrapes that never healed right, and others were jagged chunks torn from his body by the ruins of his past. It made him feel strangely incomplete as his burnt-off fingertips brushed across a particularly nasty remnant that tore itself across his belly. Shockingly, this one hadn’t been from the Krang. He had gutted himself on rebar during a scouting mission, though he didn’t remember a whole lot after the blood spurting onto the ground. Now more than ever Casey was realizing that there were just…gaps.

He didn’t know how else to put it, only that there were now foggy patches across his psyche that intruded upon his past. He knew the feelings associated with such lost memories, but no matter how hard he reached for the fleeting song…it would fall right through his hands. He hadn’t wanted to approach the turtles about it, though he suspected they already knew. They’d asked him something so trivial, so easy, and he couldn’t recall the details.

Master Don–Donnie had insisted upon an assortment of additions to his supposedly improved prosthesis. The biggest change was the padding Donnie applied to the outermost arms of his spinal augmentation, and the ones that cushioned his fingers. He felt a little silly trying to apply them, and get the machinery itself to attach all in the same go. He had been doing fine beforehand, and a small part of him still leered away from whatever other ‘improvements’ the technological turtle wanted to add. They were for the best- Casey knew that. He just…he felt like the changes were some small betrayal to his late Master’s memory. Still, he could appreciate the relieved sigh he gave when the attachments were all said and done. They flexed with ease, and no longer was his ribcage decorated in blooming bruises from the cutting edge of pilfered Krang technology. It was the little things, as Mikey would say.

It was better to let the skin breathe, so to speak, as Casey discarded the wadded-up shirt he’d thrown to the corner in favor of some knock-off pajama pants that mysteriously appeared within his laundry a week ago. He wasn’t stupid, contrary to what some might think, he knew this was the same size Leo wore…and no one but the slider would ever wear something so gaudy. Except for Casey that was.

Everyone had come together and gifted Casey a set of fuzzy slippers done in the likeness of a rabbit. They were nice, and they kept his feet from getting cold. A necessity after the soles of his neon-green sneakers had finally given out. They were currently sitting in Donnie’s lab undergoing repairs after Mikey discovered, rather unceremoniously, that Casey’s shoes had been built by the late tech whiz to have knives in the heel. The whole lot of them were still fussing over whatever other weird tech Casey had stored away.

The whole lot of them were out for the day. Donnie had been the least enthusiastic of them all as April hauled him through the halls on their trek to some ‘Witch Town’. Of course, Leo had cornered Casey earlier in the day with the insistent offer of attendance. The thought was…it was nice, honestly. Casey was ready to fight any monster or tackle any height, but he supposed he wasn’t prepared for all of that just yet. A part of him was still reeling at the slightest shadow mimicking the Croc he fought just a few weeks prior. He’d only been off bedrest half as long, and that was after quite literally wrestling with Leo and Raph for the right.

Still, he couldn’t just ignore the brief flash of disappointment in Leo’s eyes when Casey waved a dismissive hand and flashed his old Master’s signature ‘everything’s fine’ grin. It wasn’t, but it never had been with Master Leonardo earlier, they were both just excellent actors at the end of the day.

In some ways, Casey felt he owed it to them to try his best while they were out and about. Hell, they’d even managed to pry Splinter from the bed with what looked to be a tire iron and April’s elbow grease. To Casey’s constant surprise there was always something more to learn about the Rat- he’d thought he’d heard every story after all. It seemed his previous masters had elected to ignore some of these tales, or perhaps they hadn’t gotten the chance to know them before everything. He didn’t honestly want to know the answer either as the teen lazily made his way through the converted sewer system.

He supposed he could make lunch. He’d cooked rats well enough, and the occasional carrot bunch that spilled from broken cans. The scope of just how truly out of his element he was came when he squeakily rounded the corner into the shared kitchen space. This was ordinarily sacred domain shared between Mikey and Leo, who swore up and down that their skills were god-given from mutagen alone, and not at all attributed to the look of mocking betrayal that filled their father’s face. Raph was still banned after a fire began right before Casey’s own eyes- and he still hadn’t the faintest clue how the snapper had even managed that. The stove was off when it happened after all.

Donnie was an infrequent cook, but he always offered whatever meal he’d scrounged together to Casey when the two inevitably crossed paths late at night. It wasn’t as extravagant as the over-the-top nature of his brothers, but Casey appreciated the simplicity in apple slices and peanut butter.

There hadn’t been much time to cook properly when Casey was growing up, but he remembered his Master’s doing what they could. When it was missions with just them- no commanding officers or other refugees- Casey would watch them scrounge together all sorts of oddities to have dinner shared over a meager fire. He wished he’d learned when they were all still together because such events were few and far between when Casey was old enough to be trusted alone with the fire. By then, it seemed as though there were too great of damage done to laugh like they once did.

Casey wanted to do better.

He briefly skimmed through several dogeared cookbooks before the sheer number of options became overwhelming. At that point, he had at least four spread out around him, with sprawling recipe cards stained in suspiciously colored sauces drawn in a semicircle. He found himself with his hands knotted in still-damp hair as he fussed over the sheer amount of recipes. He didn’t know which would be better for a lunch, or–or if this were some holiday meal like jams, and—and nothing.

Nothing at all.

He was delicate when he put all the books away and rearranged the notecards in alphabetical order since they had been a mess when Casey first tipped the tin out. He could probably make a sandwich if he really tried, but that wouldn’t last throughout the day. Or at the very least Casey knew for a fact that Donnie would have several pointed objections to soggy meat bread.

As he raided through the fridge for any further ideas, Casey pulled out a skewered carton of eggs that Mikey had obviously taped back together with the remnants of egg yolk plastered onto the carton’s once soggy bottom. He could work with this. How hard could eggs be? He’d watched Leo cook them plenty of times for late breakfasts done together with burnt hash browns. It was something that couldn’t get uncomfortably soggy or stale- he was fairly certain at least.

The turtles had gotten Casey a phone, an actual one, and not just a burner with Master Donatello on speed dial. Admittedly, Casey had yet to use it for much beyond responding to various cats April sends him on her jogs. He used it to pull up the first scrambled egg recipe that came up in his feed. He didn’t even want to begin understanding what a poached egg could be, but a platter of eggs would be easier. Propping his phone up on the counter with a book, Casey set about collecting an array of spices from Mikey’s many-sorted drawers. They had all been labeled in neat glass jars gifted as a Christmas present. Apparently, the last set that April thrifted for the box turtle broke, though this was long before Casey’s time with the turtles of this timeline.

It didn’t take long for Casey to have a plethora of eggs simmering in a pan. He’d spent an embarrassingly long time picking out eggshells after he accidentally cracked an egg in his palm. He was still getting used to the wiring in his augmentation, and it was unsettlingly easy to break things if he wasn’t being careful. Luckily, he was pretty damn sure he’d gotten most of the eggshells out. If he tossed together enough paprika, salt and pepper…hopefully any unwanted crunching could be excused.

He’d even put on some music Mikey recommended in the background. It was some psychedelic beat that filled the kitchen with a thrumming base. He didn’t know the band name, only that Mikey had been playing one of their songs on loop for the last few days. He seemed to cycle his music every so often, but ordinarily, the whole sewer system would be hearing the repetitive beat during training for at least 72 hours. No one seemed to mind, though Casey had caught Raph fiddling with the speakers for his own playlists twice before.

Casey should have been paying closer attention, he knew that.

He could smell something in the air, like a passing wisp of some long discarded memory. There were things Casey fought to remember and longed to regain, and others that he so stubbornly pushed aside. Embracing the hurt wasn’t safe for him to do, ever, so he didn’t. But the smell haunted him like rancid flesh to a candle flame. The sizzling pop of skin and the squeal of steaming sweat.

And Casey couldn’t move.

“I can’t do it,” Casey had sobbed as he shook before the heat of the incendiary shaft. Despite the chill outside, there was sweat stinging his eyes as the boy whipped around to face his master with a pleading expression.

“Casey I know–” Master Donatello had to know things should be different, that in some better world he would not be asking Casey to climb up the devil’s burning throat. “I know you’re scared,” he said instead, “but I need you to be brave for me.”

The boy didn’t feel very brave as he shook like a leaf before the burning iron of his heated tomb. It was a reconnaissance mission gone wrong. Master Donatello had luck hijacking minor Krang technology, and they thought it could be greater than pilfered drone feeds. They were right- beautifully so. Master Donatello had managed to not only successfully scramble the entirety of their network but to download a complete blueprint of the region onto a disk now tucked within Casey’s pocket. He had an idea of why his master had given it to him, but he didn’t dare say it aloud.

They’d triggered some sort of alarm when the gangrenous growth of Krang technology detached itself from the softshell. Master Donatello had reacted fast as a rabbit when he dragged Casey off his feet and down the hall. They hadn’t had time to collect the turtle’s artificial shell. They weren’t meant to engage if at all possible according to Master Leonardo. The place had been converted into a fortress, and stopping to fight would be as great a death sentence as staying still.

The incinerator walls should have been cold, they’d timed it so perfectly. The Krang burnt clothes here after all on schedule, so it didn’t make sense that it was this hot. It couldn’t, and yet this was their only way out.

“Climb, Casey,” Master Donatello urged him.

When he didn’t move, his teacher whipped around quick as a viper and began peeling off his gloves- an addition to his wardrobe won after a battle none of them liked to talk about. Touch was harder after that for the turtle, and yet he grabbed Casey’s arm with a fierceness. His touch was cold, despite the room, and no less firm as he forced the three-fingered gloves onto Casey’s hands. They didn’t fit and bunched against his joints like poorly fitted shoes.

“Up, up, up,” his Sensei said again, this time he truly did push Casey up into the shaft because it was better than what lay behind the dented door that kept them safe. Every few seconds they’d hear the shrill sound of claws on metal. The Krang wanted in, and eventually, they would.

When his fingers made contact with the stone, he hissed in a breath. Even through the padded leather, Casey could feel the scalding heat of the wall. Without such protection, his fingers would have already begun to blister and boil like a stuck pig. He was far from graceful in his uneven gait. He scrambled, cried, and clawed his way up the incinerator’s unforgiving walls like a spider that just refused to die.

Black air filled his lungs in an embrace- the cigarette smoke to an asthmatic’s loving lungs. He could feel the very moment his lungs caught, as though there were no more breaths to be had, and he felt himself slip. He didn’t fall- he couldn’t. He stuck to the walls of the shaft and kept climbing. He could feel the squeal of his rubber soles hiss against the brick walls like hot coals burning into his soles. They had melted through his shoe, he didn’t need a genius assessment to know that much. Casey quivered and choked as he kept climbing.

There was a flicker of light far bar above him like the heavens had reached down to give him this hope. A sky shot through with neon pink and green smog, but it was all the same.

Climb Casey. You’re so close.

He heard it echo in the back of his mind like a mantra, even now that the opening he’d been forced into was long out of sight, he still heard it.

He didn’t hear his teacher- his sensei- his friend. The one who led him here, who was supposed to be behind him with an unwavering sense of willpower. Nothing ever phased Master Donatello, and he should be behind Casey. He should have caught the boy when he began to falter, but he didn’t.

Because he wasn’t there.

He hadn’t thought about it at the time, just minutes before when Master Donatello gave him these gloves, the gloves he’d have needed to follow his student. The softshell never intended to leave. He didn’t intend to give the Krang a bloodied trail to follow like hounds.

The moment his gloves began to melt against his flesh with the pop of boiling blood and cooked skin, Casey felt himself cry. He felt himself begin to sob openly when he heard the door crash open far below him. They wouldn’t see Casey, because his teacher was all they’d find.

His teacher was hardly one to go down easy, and a part of Casey knew something wasn’t right when he didn’t hear a cacophony of sounds. There should have been something–anything–more than a crunch from far below. There wasn’t even a scream.

He kept climbing.

He didn’t let himself stop no matter the way he felt that he was being cooked in his own skin. He couldn’t pause to catch his breath for the way his lungs screamed against the sudden surge of smoke far below him.

Climb Casey.

But where would he go without his teacher? Master Leonardo would find Casey, alone, and he would have questions the boy couldn’t answer. Would his Sensei forgive Casey for the loss? Would he blame him?

He was so tired. His back ached. His hands and feet bled with burst pustules and blisters. His legs shook with the weight of the guilt that threatened to drag him back down into the embers below. Sweat stung against his eyes so much so that he struggled to see the growing light above him. He could so easily fall with the slick pressure of blood that ran down his hands.

He couldn’t. Master Donatello had given Casey a disk, and if he burnt then it would have all been for naught. This bloody mission and its hopeless goals would have been the death of both of them, and no one could forgive him for that failure. He couldn’t let everyone down again.

The scorching heat of the incendiary shaft draped itself across his back in a mock embrace. It beckoned him to stay and suffocate within the black air that felt thick enough to cut with a knife. He knew he had no more to give, that this was his limit. He’d reached that the moment his skin became melded against the well-loved gloves that had become bloodied smears beneath him.

There was wetness on his cheeks like the pitter patter of ice, and briefly, he wondered if he was crying again. If he even could after everything.

It was a hiss against the jet black stone as rain encased him from the sliver of sky that he’d fought so hard to see again. It was a blessing he didn’t dare dismiss as his broken hands caught the lip of the shaft. The end.

When he heaved himself onto the roof he was met with the steady beat of a downpour with no rhythm. It was weather, nothing more to anyone but Casey, who needed it to be a sign to keep going.

He didn’t remember hitting his emergency button, or how he even could with the way his cooked fingertips trembled. The hot iron of his prosthesis had scorched his fingertips in an echo of the skeletal frame beneath. He hurt, but still, he moved.

He didn’t even remember when Master Leonardo and Michelangelo found him, only the silence that hung between them. Once four, then three, now two.

There were hands on him this time, a tangible touch that felt almost unreal as Casey tiptoed across the line of reality and delusion. He could still smell the tang of blood squealing and popping against his scorched skin. He’d felt as though he’d been cooked alive, and still, it remained. The hands, the real ones, and not the burning touch of the incinerator that so wholly mimicked a too-warm embrace, pried him from the stove like a stubborn burr.

When he next looked down at his hands, while weathered and riddled with scars but still his own, he found the source of his agony. In his dazed state, he must have grabbed the hot iron handle of the pan. He–He hadn’t let it go. He didn’t even realize he was being burnt because he couldn’t feel it. Ever since the incendiary shaft and everything that came after there had been a dull hum of electricity beneath his fingertips, but nothing more. He could feel nothing when the red-hot iron blistered his skin, only smell the aftermath of it all like death itself.

Someone had found him like that then, comatose and burning the scorched remnants of his eggs and now bloodied hand.

“—Kid?” The voice was unfamiliar, and Casey didn’t do well with unfamiliar.

He wasn’t fully aware of himself and the way he reeled back like a feral cat until a crunch split his already bruised knuckles. He felt the owner of the now mangled nose pull away with an obvious sputter of distress.

The man before Casey had to have been a Yokai. He stood a head above the boy with ruddy pink skin and long hair pulled up into a bun. Much like Casey, the Yokai was sporting sweatpants with a band of elastic that looked to have been held together by an assortment of safety pins, and no small amount of prayers. A thin layer of sporadic tufts of fur speckled the stranger’s body. His calloused hands were currently clutching his flat, albeit bloody nose with a pained hiss at the blow he’d taken.

He was muttering something that Casey hadn’t quite caught. He was still floating between worlds with the acrid smell of something burning filling all of his senses.

“You hit me,” the man sounded more impressed than he did offended as he swept furiously at the blood steadily dribbling onto the ground in a splattered puddle.

“Who?” Casey rasped, entirely out of his head but still present enough to know when he wasn’t safe. He couldn’t be doing this in front of strangers.

“My name is Baron Draxum. You must be the–”

Casey went to swing at him again.

Whether or not it was Casey’s sloppy swing or the fact that the sheep was ready this time, the result was all the same. The hand that seized his wrists in one go was less kind than he had been when he first pried the teen away from the fire. Casey was just as unkind, if not downright feral with his reaction as his teeth snapped dangerously close to a fur-tipped ear.

“Be still, child! I am not going to hurt you just–shit–!”

Casey did manage to bite him then, with a thin line of blood smeared across his lips as he was manhandled onto the ground with what seemed to be herculean strength. He hated it, he hated the way he still couldn’t feel his fingertips even years after the injury, and he hated the way the ground was so cold against what little skin was exposed.

Somewhere in the scuffle, he’d lost one of his fuzzy shoes, and that more than anything juxtaposed with the heat of his blistered hand seemed to send Casey over the edge. He was too hot- like that of bodies burnt from the inside out and cold enough to remind him of his battered body laid bare upon a cell floor.

“I would admire your fighting spirit, but I don’t think you’re in the head for this talk.”

The man was still saying plenty of other things in a rather colorful tone, but Casey only seemed to be catching the bits and pieces as one arm came to encircle his chest and pull him back against his chest with a deceptive display of strength and speed. It wasn’t unkind, but the embrace was so wholly foreign and meant to restrain him that he freaked out. He couldn't not with the way his chest seemed to shake with the strain of breathing. He was floundering as his nails scratched weakly against the arm holding him. He knew he must have left it red and raw for the way bits of skin and fur caught beneath his jagged nails.

Only long after would Casey realize that the man had saved Casey from himself. In his frantic flailing, he’d knocked the both of them against the stove, and sent the pan and all its boiling grease just narrowly missing his back. The spray of popping oil didn’t escape him as several thorny vines, each the size of his forearm, came to block the acidic spray.

Casey didn’t exactly stop fighting, but he did freeze when the man lifted an arm to shield his eyes from a stray droplet of oil that burnt itself against his captor’s own exposed skin. They didn’t speak for several moments, and each time Casey shifted, he could feel Draxum tense as though ready for a fight. The heat of another body made Casey feel weak as when he was desperately clawing his way through a shaft hardly big enough for his skinny form. He’d nearly given up from the way the acrid smell of burnt flesh and skin sloughing off his body assaulted his senses. Much like his late sensei, touch became difficult after such experiences. It was easier with the turtles, who gave him no warmth, but this was a hellish embrace.

“You are not in danger, child.” It was something Casey knew the man couldn’t promise. It was one of those things that Master Donatello would always avoid like the plague. He’d explained it only once when Casey came crying late one night. He’d wanted the fleeting comfort his mother would give him when she told him of better days to come, but there were no better days.

Only the look of sadness in his sensei’s eyes as he held the boy late at night and explained to him that no one could ever say such things to the boy. Anyone who tried was a liar.

He didn’t beg to be let go, or fight any harder than he already had. There was blood beneath his nails already from where they’d sunk deep into the arm he was latched onto. He wanted to get away with a sense of stifling desperation, but he couldn’t get his legs to cooperate. He was simply frozen in place.

Eventually, the Yokai’s body moved away from him. Draxum’s arm slowly peeled itself away from where Casey had a deathly tight hold on it. He didn’t say anything else, or at least, Casey wasn’t listening as he was left sitting on the floor. A hand briefly came to pat his shoulder in some mocking show of sympathy, and Casey knew Draxum was talking now. He could see his lips moving, but nothing else seemed to click in place. Despite this, he could hear his labored breathing like a dying man’s rasping croak.

He saw Draxum leave from the corner of his eye, and even that felt dulled. He should have been relieved to see the man flee from Casey or even loss for the loneliness that welled inside his chest. He couldn’t reach the once overflowing well of emotions that lay deep within his chest. It was as though he were being held back- caught in a web of his own undoing. He couldn’t even hear the world around him beyond the faint static that told him he was still alive. Even if he didn’t feel like it, there had to be a beating heart in his chest because it filled his senses. The pitter-patter of his rabbit-fast heart was all he knew.

Time became a little fuzzy during this. He knew Draxum came and went several more times during Casey’s dissociative state. Once or twice the man paused and crouched beside Casey. He said many things, all of which fell on deaf ears as the boy stared mindlessly down at his blistered hand. It had turned an ugly shade of red in the seemingly endless space between moments. He knew the Yokai wanted to treat the pus-ridden wound before it got infected from grime and grease, but the first time Draxum tried he was met with bared teeth.

He tried three more times with the same result, one more even drew blood.

Though Draxum did not try to touch Casey again, he left offerings in a wobbly semicircle around the teen. A sealed water bottle, a granola bar, and a folded blanket were left beside the stock still teen.

“He’s been like this for a few hours now,” was the first thing that Casey truly heard in his non-existence. “I don’t know how to help him, Purple. I believe I may have scared him when I grabbed the boy, but I cannot draw him out of his shell so to speak.”

“It’s Donnie, actually, not Purple,” a familiar voice responded without missing a beat, “and let me try.”

Casey was expecting Donnie then as he lifted his head to face the softshell now standing in the doorway. His neck ached from however long he’d been sitting in such an uncomfortable position, but he didn't care. He couldn’t take his eyes off Donnie, as though still anticipating a threat. Unlike Mikey and even Raph, Donnie did not try to appear smaller than he was. Mikey had a knack for shrinking himself down into something more approachable, or at least less threatening when he wanted something. Raph tried his best to be softer, to be gentle, and it surprisingly worked for anyone and everyone but Casey. The teen knew better than to be relieved by the size of someone pretending to be anything but titanic in proportions.

Leo was…different. He never tried to seem gentle, but nor did he make an effort to seem a threat. Of everyone, he had always been the middle ground between the two with an effortless charm that enchanted panicked civilians. Though ever since the Kraang attack there had been the slightest shift. Most might not notice it, but Casey did. He walked with the same gait that his old sensei once did, as though the world were a burden upon his shoulders and not the gift he’d been promised.

Donnie was none of these things. There was no effortless grace to the way he held himself, nor was there a sense of deception in the way he cocked his head to the boy in vague interest. While by no means as openly expressive as his brothers, he made no effort to conceal those that did cross his face. It may have been uncomfortable to anyone not used to the frequent staring before a question, but Casey had years of practice to understand these things. It was the late Donatello to explain much of the world to Casey through a lens he could understand.

He didn’t feel safe, not with the way he could still remember the crunch from far beneath the incinerator walls. The knowledge of what must have happened even if he didn’t see it himself. It haunted him and looking at Donnie’s face, so unburdened by the guilt Casey felt was…difficult.

“Talk?” Donnie signed in lieu of conversation. It was an offer to Casey if he wanted to do this aloud or not.

He’d been filling in the gaps of Casey’s ASL with surprising ease. Master Donatello had made it a point to teach most recruits basic sign language for reconnaissance missions, and it became an easy language to pick up for Casey early on. He didn’t want to talk aloud after those first few nights without the Kraang. He didn’t know how to express himself, and he’d fallen silent even to master Leonardo’s gentle probes.

Master Donatello was…easiest to converse with in this way and eventually goaded the boy back into speech, though they always fell back into the swing of things with ease.

Still, Casey shook his head. He didn’t think he could talk right now even if he wanted to.

He saw Donnie nod in understanding as he fully entered the kitchen and sat a few feet away from Casey. He gave the boy enough room to breathe while still being close enough to touch if the boy truly wanted to. The softshell crossed his legs and folded his arms across his chest with a vague gesture around them.

Donnie lifted both hands in the sign for ‘burn’ as he then pointed at Casey’s mangled hand. “You burned yourself, Draxum told me.” Never a question unless the turtle explicitly said so, always a statement of fact.

When Casey didn’t respond, Donnie took that as an initiative to keep talking.

“I am not a medic. That would be ‘Nardo, but it needs to be treated soon. I won’t touch you until you give me verbal or non-verbal consent. That being said, it’s either you let me do it now, or have to explain to Leo what happened when he gets home.”

The whole while Donnie talked, he was also signing more directly just in case Casey still wasn’t all there. He appreciated the sentiment as his dark eyes followed the softshell’s hand gestures with a sense of fixation. It was easy to focus like this when he only had one thing to worry about.

Though the mention of having to show Leo his burns and be confronted with the inevitable questioning he’d receive from the rest of them had a chill running up his back. It was an ultimatum that Donnie knew he’d win with, he hardly ever played games he knew he couldn’t statistically beat.

With this in mind, Casey slowly unfolded himself from where he’d been glued to the closed oven with an overwhelming sense of unease. He offered his hand with a quaking sense of fear for the way Donnie took his hand without a second to pause. He didn’t want Casey to change his mind, but the both of them knew which hound the teen would rather face. Donnie could be unkind, but he would not pry without cause. It wasn’t as though his brothers would ask questions to force them from Casey's heart like a blade, but their kindness could be overwhelming. He felt a sense of unease for the way they so effortlessly offered him into their lives, despite everything that came with the boy. The baggage alone felt enough to crush any bone, yet still, they let him stay.

True to his thoughts, Donnie said nothing once he got Casey’s hand positioned atop a knee. The human wasn’t entirely sure where the softshell had been storing a first aid kit, but he had one nonetheless as it unfolded out to reveal a fully stocked kit. The ordeal was blessedly silent save for Casey’s labored breathing and a very audible hiss as he winced back from the burn of alcohol upon his hand. The bandaging was gentle but brisk, as though Donnie could sense Casey’s growing anxiety. The work would need to be re-done later and a new gauze strip applied, but it would do for now.

The moment the turtle lifted his hands away from Casey the boy was jerking his own hand back and cradling it close to his chest. His heartbeat spiked for that brief second, but otherwise, he remained settled on the floor.

“I bit him,” Casey said at last. He hadn’t realized he was speaking until he felt his ears burn with a sheepish sense of shame. He’d done worse than that.

“I saw,” Donnie replied as he reached over to pick up the discarded water bottle. He examined it momentarily before holding it out to Casey. “Drink.”

Orders were easier to follow as Casey mechanically unscrewed the cap and nearly drained the bottle in one go.

“I am going to get you another bottle. I hate the tap, and you would get tap if ‘Nardo was here, but he is not.” Donnie was always rather blunt with the way he spoke to Casey. It was the same with his brothers on days where an upbeat mask seemed far too tiring to manage if it could be called such. True to his word another bottle of water was offered to Casey within moments, one that he took with an appreciative smile.

“Do I have to be sorry for hurting him?” Casey asked cautiously. He’d known that there was a Yokai who frequented the sewers as he’d been moving stuff in from a dingy apartment for the last week and a half. Somehow, Casey had managed to avoid the man the whole while. He supposed they’d just had different schedules up until now.

“Are you?” Donnie asked instead. There was no accusation in his tone as he uncapped his own water bottle. His was an aluminum gift from Raph that had been decorated in an assortment of math-related stickers.

Casey had to think about that for what felt like too long as he finally shook his head. “No,” he began in a whisper, “I don’t think I am.”

Donnie nodded for him to continue as he began to pack away the first aid kit now that Casey’s hand wasn’t falling apart…again.

“Is—Is he a good person?” Casey blurted out with a sense of urgency. “I don’t know if I should be sorry or not because Mikey likes him, but I never got to meet him and–and I don’t know-” his voice caught in his throat as he let out a strangled sound to convey his frustration.

“I think I know what you mean,” Donnie said instead. “He’s not a good person, at least I don’t think so. That doesn’t mean he’s a bad person either, but he used to be.”

“I know that part,” Casey whispered with an air of insecurity. “I just—I never met him in my time. He died years before I made it into the picture. No one liked to…to talk about the ones we lost.”

When Casey next looked up, he saw Donnie watching him with an inquisitive expression, as though sensing his friend’s growing anxieties he gestured for the teen to continue. It was a rare occurrence for Casey to so openly talk about his world. He was oftentimes guarded on the subject or downright avoidant when confronted.

“He dropped Leo off of a building, both yours and mine. Good people don’t do that, and I don’t understand why he’s here if he did bad things,” Casey seemed frustrated with the concept as he scrubbed his face with a furious sigh. “They said he died doing something good, but they told me about Shredder too and–and Shredder hurt everyone! He could have hurt everyone!”

“So,” Donnie began, “you think he’s a bad person because he made bad choices?”

Casey nodded.

“How do you measure what’s good and bad?” Donnie continued as he pillowed his head in one three-fingered hand. “If you make one poor decision, does that define the rest of your life no matter the good you do?”

“I–”

“Are you less deserving of redemption because of your past?”

The smell of a burning shell wafted up from the shaft of the incinerator that billowed out black smog as a show to all who defied the Krang. The rain felt nearly acidic as Casey sobbed into the storm. He’d done this! It was his fault! It was—

“I agree with you,” was what stopped Casey in his tracks as he jerked his head towards the turtle in alarm. “I find it difficult to rationalize being a good person after hurting another, human or not. I find Baron Draxum’s past actions illogical and therefore inferior. It is…hard to break that chain of thought. I’ve seen him do good things, and he’s put in the effort with Mikey, Leo, and Raph. He and my dad have rekindled something good, but it is always a thought in the back of my mind. I trust him not because I think he is good, but because I have faith in my brother’s judgment…even if it seems illogical.”

“I trust you,” Casey rasped. His mouth felt dry as he said it

“No, you don’t,” Donnie shot back, “you don’t know how to trust me.”

It had been a while since he’d endured the brutal honesty of his soft-shelled friend. It seemed that such a quirk transcended time and trauma because the way Donnie looked at him now was a replica of the way Donatello spoke to Casey all those years ago.

“I want to trust you,” he said, at last, his voice cracking on a dry sob. “Mikey told me I don’t know how to be okay, and he was right! I have no idea what I’m doing, but everyone has been so nice to me and I want to trust you…you’ve been so understanding I just–” he hated himself for the way he finally felt burning tears race down his cheeks.

“You’ve never had anyone take care of you before, correct?” Donnie asked with a quirked brow. He already knew the answer, the question was just meant for good showmanship.

“I had you in the future,” Casey defended weakly.

“You had four teenagers presumably learning along the way in a post-apocalyptic world. Whatever support you got from them was not enough,” Donnie was not cruel when he spoke, but his words were no less barbed as he sat up a little straighter.

Casey didn’t answer this time as he clenched his hands into useless fists. He squeezed hard enough that blood dribbled out of his freshly scabbed hands.

“I’m not going to ask you to trust us because you trusted the versions of us you knew, okay? That would be stupid. We are not them. I am asking you to trust us because we aren’t going to let you fall. Listen, I trust my brothers…even when I know their actions are illogical, I trust them because I care about them. I know you care about us, Casey. Let us take care of you.”

He felt at a loss as Donnie offered him a pinky, never a full hand unless absolutely necessary.

“I don’t know how to…do that,” Casey admitted rather mournfully. Still, he took Donnie’s offered comfort.

Before he knew it, Donnie was clasping his hand and pulling Casey into a gentle hug. The both of them were entirely too graceless as Casey hesitantly wrapped the arm not currently held by Donnie around his friend’s shoulders. It wasn’t often that Donnie gave hugs, and Casey couldn’t remember a time that Master Donatello had ever bent down on his level for a hug. Donnie was holding Casey’s bandaged hand to his plastron with a surprising amount of care. His other arm was loosely wrapped around Casey’s back with enough wiggle room for the both of them to slip away should the contact grow to be too much.

It didn’t.

Instead, Casey felt himself sag into the touch with a muffled sob. His hand scratched weakly at Donnie’s shell. He had no intention of hurting his friend, only to get closer so that he knew he wasn’t alone. He desperately didn’t want to be alone right now. True to the future version they never let come around, Donnie didn’t tell Casey that it was okay. He did not have Mikey’s pinpoint tact for comfort, or Raph’s unyielding pillar of support, and certainly not Leo’s effortless optimism which he used as a rallying cry. But that was okay because Casey needed none of those things right now. He was simply content existing at the moment as his head dropped upon Donnie’s shoulder.

They sat like that for what may have been a lifetime. It wasn’t a bad out-of-body experience this time, because he was grounded against someone who had no intention of holding Casey down, however unintentionally the gesture may seem. Donnie did not squeeze the boy to remind him of his friend’s presence, but he stayed regardless. Eventually, Casey lifted his head enough so that only his forehead touched Donnie’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry I got snot on your shell,” he said at last. It had neither tact nor any sense of decorum.

That seemed to punch a barking laugh from his friend as Donnie finally pulled away, “I know. I have disinfectant.”

True to his word, Donnie did materialize a set of disinfectant wipes and a spray. Both of these were applied to the spots where Casey evidently spread his ‘very germy human bacteria’. The sentiment of the whole ordeal was not wasted on the boy as it spoke volumes about Donnie’s stubbornness. Whatever he saw in Casey, he felt that it was worth it.

He didn’t know how to trust people, not truly, but Donnie trusted him enough to hold…that had to be enough for something.

“How…how did you know about that stuff?” Casey asked with an air of hesitance in the way his breath caught. He felt foolish for asking.

“About?”

“That I didn’t trust you,” Casey winced even as he said it, as though it coming from him gave it far more validity.

“Oh, I am not good with people when it comes to talking, but that doesn’t mean I don’t watch what goes on around me. I didn’t know what to do with the information I had, but April got me enrolled in a few abnormal psychology classes to help,” Donnie replied, as though that made everything make sense.

“Classes? I thought you couldn’t go to school.”

“I could probably fake it if I put in the effort, but we do online courses to keep up with everyone our age. Fake papers and everything,” Donnie said this with a loose shrug that made Casey feel almost silly. He’d heard them bickering once or twice about missing assignments, and Splinter had even made the effort to add notes on the fridge's whiteboard about due dates.

“How do…how do you get enrolled?” he asked as though treading on thin ice for a subject that had always felt just barely out of reach.

“Are you interested?” Donnie asked with a sudden perk of intrigue.

“I–Um—I’m sorry I don’t trust everyone like you want me to,” Casey said instead as he leaned back against the cupboards. He didn’t yet know what he wanted, but the offer was nonetheless appealing. He didn’t have the brainpower though or headspace to even begin opening that can of worms.

“I don’t need an apology, Casey, nor do I want one. I didn’t trust you for a while because I didn’t understand you. I understand some, but not everything. I don’t like not understanding, but we’re patient. We don’t need a crisis or force to have you trust us, just patience.”

The way Donnie spoke was the same way he played most games. An inevitability of yielding. Donnie always played to win against his brothers, and as per usual, he hardly put in the effort if he didn’t already know the outcome. He saw Casey’s eventual trust, no matter how far the goal may be, and that was enough for the mutant.

“Do you want to talk to Draxum with everything you know about now?” Donnie eventually continued. He never seemed to be one for pleasantries as he ripped the bandaid off in one clean go.

“No, but I should.”

“Yes, you probably should.”

While Donnie helped Casey up and off the floor, only after collecting Casey’s slippers, he didn’t let Casey weasel his way out of the conversation. Whatever reservations his friend had about the Yokai were lost as he beckoned Casey towards the living room. He felt strangely like the damned lumbering their way towards the gallows as he rounded the corner to find Baron Draxum, entirely unbothered and far too relaxed juxtaposed to Casey’s pounding heart.

The man was draped across the couch reading a magazine with a cracked pair of reading glasses. A small fold-out desk had been pulled beside him with a patchwork mug surely made by Mikey’s shaking hands. It had the sharpie prints to prove it after all. Sure enough, evidence of his excursion with Casey could be seen mottling Draxum’s arms. The patch where the grease had boiled against Draxum’s skin was held together with a glittery bandaid, but his opposite arm looked as though he’d grazed it against a meat grinder for the ways Casey’ had clawed at him. He hadn’t been thinking clearly at the time and thought only of escaping whatever held him so tightly. A part of Casey felt bad for the scabbed-over wounds that he’d left behind. He knew he still had bits of pink fur and blood caught beneath his nailbed.

“I will leave you two be unless something happens, then I will come,” Donnie said this with a languid stretch to give a great show of disinterest. “Please do not kill each other or Mikey will be very upset.” With that, the turtle took his leave with a dismissive wave.

Casey knew deep down that he could turn tail and flee if it became too much. No one would judge him for it, and that alone felt reason enough to stay. Though, the moment Baron Draxum folded the magazine and sat upright to face the human…he nearly whipped right back around to chase after Donnie.

It was with herculean strength that he stood in the center of the living room with shaking shoulders and a fixated stare on the Yokai’s bloodied arm.

“Child?”

Casey didn’t answer, he could only focus on the bloodied arm that his nails had torn into.

“Casey Jones?”

It was only when the man stood up that Casey reacted with the same skittishness that he had before. He spun back on his heel from the outstretched hand with more fear than he had fury left to give.

“I will not hurt you,” Draxum reassured the boy, and for showmanship, he held both hands out for Casey to see clearly that he couldn’t hurt the boy. While the teen didn’t miss the shape of such claws, the effort was of some comfort as he found himself able to suck in a deep breath.

“I’m sorry for hurting you,” Casey breached the topic with little decorum as he averted his gaze with a frown.

He was surprised to hear the Baron snort in amusement. When he next looked at the Yokai he found him giving the boy a dismissive wave behind a softened expression.

“Will you sit with me, little one?” he said instead, defying all thoughts of the right the man had to be angry with Casey. Instead, he offered the boy a place beside him without judgment or cause.

Casey couldn’t refuse. He didn’t trust this man, but he wanted to trust Donnie.

He took a seat.

“I am not angry with you. I admire your fighting spirit, and I should have realized you were having a panic attack before grabbing you the way I did. However, I cannot be sorry for making sure you did not get hurt worse.” Drax was blunt as Donnie with the way he spoke, though Casey suspected any animosity the man may have had would be worn plain for all to see. He seemed so unlike that of anyone Casey had met thus far…that hadn’t been trying to kill him, to begin with.

Slowly, Casey pulled his feet off the floor and pulled his knees tight against his chest. It was hard to talk sometimes, and while he may not want to talk for days after this whole ordeal, he could still manage it for now.

“I never met you in my world,” Casey said at last. “I thought you were a bad person.”

“I was,” Draxum responded without missing a beat. There was no guilt in his voice, but much like Donnie, it was a statement of fact alone. “I did not believe humans worth saving, and I could not find cause for my sons to defend them. I campaigned against them and hurt them to satisfy my own grievances with mankind. I have seen many bad things that people do when they’re afraid, but I have helped others too now thanks my littlest one.”

He spoke of the turtles with a sense of reverent fondness. It was not dissimilar to the way Splinter looked at his sons when he thought no one was watching. It was a reflection of one another in this fashion, and Casey hadn’t the mind to read into whatever bad blood they’d cleaned between the two of them. It couldn’t all be gone at least, but whatever effort they’d made was enough for the time being.

“I heard about that,” Casey said with a shiver. “I thought that because you did that…you were a bad person. You um–You died in my world before I came into the picture. I asked about one of Master Leonardo’s scars, and I thought that because you gave it to him when he was younger that you had to be bad. My,” Casey’s mouth was dry as a desert as he tried to continue, “my old Kraang keeper gave me scars like that when I was in the labor camp. I didn’t know you could be different than that. It's hard to think about.”

“I don’t blame you for your hatred either, child. You had cause not to trust me as I would once not have trusted you. I would have seen you as lesser because you were human, and you saw me as a threat because I restrained you.”

“I’m actually sorry about that,” Casey was surprised to say that he meant it.

“Thank you,” Draxum said with a gentle smile. Slowly, as to not spook Casey, the Yokai offered him an arm. “I am still learning to be a parent. There is something new every day, and no book Donatello gives me can prepare me for all the challenges I am given. You are not a challenge to me, Casey. I think you are a child who needs a place to feel safe.”

When Casey leaned into the hug, it was not with the same air of awkwardness that any embrace with Donnie gave him. Instead, he found himself propped up against Draxum’s side with a sense of hesitance. He didn’t know when the next shoe would fall, or when the man would decide he’d had enough with Casey's reluctance. He didn’t push the boy away or attempt to bring him closer and smother him. They sat like that until Casey grew more relaxed to continue their conversation.

“I don’t think Master Leonardo wanted to be a dad,” Casey whispered this like a secret he’d never thought would be said aloud.

“In the future, he was only your teacher, correct?” Draxum asked with an encouraging gesture for Casey to continue. He knew Splinter and Mikey would have filled the Yokai in one everything. To Casey’s understanding, he’d been on a school trip during the Kraang Invasion. There had been…a lot to catch him up on, to say the least.

“He was more than that, but I don’t think any of the turtles expected to be. I lost my mom, Cassandra, to a labor camp when I was little. I’d heard about them, but she kept me away from the fray when I was that small. I didn’t get a choice in joining the effort, and I got people hurt because I didn’t understand the world. I spent so long under the Krang, and then the turtles…they came to save me because they thought I was my mother. They didn’t even know she’d had me.” For some reason, saying all this aloud brought about a plethora of emotions he’d buried deep down in his chest over the years.

He had to suck in a sharp breath before he could continue- a sniffle before the storm. “They loved me despite everything. I know that reality is gone, but it was my life. For everyone else, it was some bad dream that never came to pass, but I suffered! All of Earth suffered! Everyone died fighting the Kraang, and I know that. I don’t know why I miss shitty plumbing and short showers where Master Donatello would rig up something for hot water, or—or anyone. I miss them, but they were long gone even in my timeline.”

“You did suffer, Casey,” Draxum did pull Casey closer as he said this. His touch was firm for just a beat to tuck the boy in the crook of his arm. Like this, he felt almost safe. It was an improbable state of being that he’d feel safe in the hold of one who could so easily hurt him.

“But we stopped it from happening. I did my job, and I don’t know what to do from here,” Casey didn’t outright sob, but there were stray tears that dampened Draxum’s stained shirt.

“That doesn’t erase what happened to you, kid. It hurts when the people you love leave you, and I won’t diminish the impact their deaths had on you. I can’t fix that all in one day, nor can I do it alone. That’s the thing though, Casey, You’re not alone here.”

Sniffling, Casey fully laid himself against the man as though the last dregs of strength had left him with this admission. “Can we, um, can we talk about something else? I don’t know how to think about everything. I need time.”

“Sure thing, kid,” Draxum replied as he wrapped his arm better around the boy to keep him sheltered from the woes of the world. “You said your mother was Cassandra Jones?”

“Yeah, she was,” Casey replied, uncertain of where the man was going with this.

“One moment,” Draxum replied as he shifted to pull something off the fold-out desk beside them. Within a beat, he’d propped Casey up enough to scroll through the gallery of Draxum’s phone. It was full of mementos and memories that varied in their contents. The particular album Casey was directed to was brimming with pictures that made his heart weep. He saw selfies with his mother and Draxum, even some posed with April. He’d seen her picture once before on his friend’s phone, but ever since then, he’d sworn off her visage. She looked so much like the woman he once knew, yet still unburdened by the cost of war.

“Why are you showing me this?” he asked at last as he paused on a picture of her alone. It had been taken at just the right moment- when the light caught on the feral shine of mischief that glowed across her expression. The gesture she made toward the camera was downright obscene, but she looked happy.

“You said you were uncertain of me, but I know your mother still, and we talk frequently. Did you know she was Foot Clan before she was a friend of my sons?”

Casey felt his jaw drop to the cushions below at the revelation. His mother had always been a source of silence, and in his childhood, he’d never pried further than the free pictures Commander O’Neil kept of her in the woman’s office. They were his stolen treasure for many years, and he still had at least one of them. It had been tucked into his armor the day he was sent back, and he hadn’t the heart to show anyone else what war had turned them into.

“From your expression, I’m guessing no one ever told you that particular detail of your mother’s double life. Yes, she was raised in the Foot Clan. I’d never met a more energetic and devoted spitfire than that woman- and god help the man she loved in that case- but she struggled with what you’re going through as well. While she helped me in my goals, and eventually Shredder’s…I don’t believe she was ever bad. I think she was a child born into the wrong place, and she reacted to the world in the only ways she knew how.”

“What did she struggle with?” Casey asked, unable to restrain himself from such open curiosity. He wanted to know everything she never told him. He’d never truly known his mother beyond the woman who held him close when he had a nightmare, and who tried to crack his little bones in an effort to spare him from the Kraang. She died with that goal in mind, and Casey could never bear to think of her after that.

“Her place in the world, mostly. She could no longer be a member of the Foot Clan, even after they reformed. She felt she had no purpose, and she didn’t know how to exist like that. I believe April helped her better than I could because I am no parent to her. She did not want one, but she did want a friend. She and April share an apartment I believe. They send enough pictures to think as much.”

“Does she…does she know?’ Casey didn’t need to say the full question aloud for the man to understand.

“Yes. She knows,” Draxum said at last. It was something that filled Casey with a sense of both overwhelming dread and elation. The thought that she was so close to him kept him awake some nights, and on others, it was the nightmare that nipped at his heels. “She would like to meet you, I know that much. Though she would not do it unless it were on your terms. Casey.”

“Can you tell me more about her?” Casey asked sheepishly as he nestled himself contently in this pocket of the world. He was safe here, for the time being, no matter the way he kicked and clawed against a threat that had come and passed…he was safe in this tiny little space.

“Of course, Casey. Next time, I can also teach you to cook eggs sans the fire.”

That earned the man a choked laugh as sparse tears stained the boy’s cheeks.

“Thank–Thank you.”