Archive of Our Own

Your bandana-wearing, shell-having friends normally knock on a window and wait for you to get to them before peering in or opening the glass pane themselves. They’re polite like that and after one incident involving a nude back and cheeky underwear, it's become a rigidly cemented routine. They knock. 

So, when you hear the window in your kitchen lift and the unmistakable sounds of someone clumsily clambering their way through, you spring into action and reach for the hammer leaning by your bedroom door. 

You just set up a new Ikea shelf earlier in the night, your last humbling endeavour for the week—just one last thing you had to check off your to-do list. It was somehow more rewarding than digging your way out of administrative chasms (covered in spikes and lit on fire), a refreshing enough paper-related task and about all you could handle right now, if you were being honest.

Despite having recycled all the packaging, the one thing you couldn’t be assed to do was put away your tools. And a good thing too. New York City, man.

You tip-toe into the living area, snaking along the walls and finally peering around the corner when you spot it. Something in the dark, crumpled in a heap on your floor by the open window.

Well, at least they didn’t break the glass. You didn't have it in you to digest any more crises and, honestly, you feared pure rage alone might have driven you to ferociously tear out the limbs of this person with your bare hands. (What you ended up doing instead was, admittedly, a little less valiant.)

Spooking them is the way to go, apparently. You flick on the light quickly, holding your hammer out in what you hope is a threatening enough stance.

“Whaddya wanna do with that?!” Leo cries out.

“I don’t know! Why are you breaking and entering?!” you shriek, just as if not more frazzled. 

You’re caught somewhere between relief and crescendoing agitation, and a moment passes before you really see him.

He’s on his knees, arm wrapped protectively around his midsection. Flashes of red burn your stare. Your tool-come-weapon drops to the ground with a loud thud as you rush over to him; wrecked breathing is about all the indication you need to know things are not good. 

Lifting two hundred pounds of humanoid turtle is about as difficult as it sounds, so you do your best to let him use you as a crutch and shuffle him over to your couch. He collapses onto it, wincing but grinning all the same.

“What did you expect to do holding a hammer like that?”

“Can we please assess my defensive strategies another time, you clown? What the hell happened to you?”

“Aw, you know. Ninja business. Admirable hero stuff, really.”

His nonchalance brings your blood to a boil. “I am so serious right now, Leo.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just came over to say hi. See how the cat’s doing. You have a cat right?” His voice is unmistakably strained, even through the jesting. He knows you don’t have a cat.

It takes everything in you not to wring his neck—and only because he’s injured. “You’re gonna have to lie better than that.”

“And now I’m being accused of perjury. And bad perjury? You wound me.” 

In the time that you take one flimsy step closer, mumbling something about Oh I’ll wound you alright, he coughs dryly. 

And then he grins at you again while you make a move to inspect what he’s trying so desperately to keep covered.

“You look really cute in that by the way."

You spare half a glance down at yourself uninterestedly. “...In a hoodie?”

“Yeah. I never get to see you in comfy clothes.”

"Mm, now I know you’re delirious." 

He captures your arm before you can even get your phone out. “No! No. Don’t do that. I wasn’t supposed to go at it alone.”

“Even more reason to call.” 

“Snitch,” he wheezes, pained.

“What was that, asshat? Should I get Splints in here too?”

“Okay, okay!” Leo would shout if he could. “‘M sorry, just…” His voice catches and you realize all of a sudden that it probably hurts to talk.

Your own voice is hurried and tattered, even to yourself. “What do you need?” 

“You got a first aid kit?”

“Leo, I’m not a doctor.”

“I’ll walk you through it."

You consider it for one small moment. You don’t exactly have the luxury to be deliberating over what the best course of action is here, unless you’re looking to add crimson embellishments to your newish cream-coloured couch—which you are not, thank you very much—so you race off to find the kit under your bathroom sink.

Your hands are only a little shaky when you return, light and speedy on your toes, and you sink to a kneel in front of him so you're better level with his laceration.

At the sight of your dampened rag, Leo hesitantly lifts his hands away. The sight makes you sick but you swallow it down and focus on soaking up as much as you can because that feels like the right first step. And then he has you grab the antiseptic. 

He hisses and shivers through it, but it only lasts a few dizzying seconds before you’re brutally reminded that, oh, actually, you don’t know the first thing about plastron care. It doesn’t seem like a bandaid will cut it and you can’t very well stitch thread through something you could probably play the xylophone on. (Can you?) 

“Okay,” he says lightly. “You got any padded bandages in there?”

You rummage around and hold one up. He nods. 

You’ve always done things meticulously and patching up your terrapin friend is no different. He watches you work quietly, snipping from medical tape and pressing down firmly, putting pressure where he tells you to. 

Whether this is supposed to prevent the gash from bleeding again, you’re not convinced, but you put your head down and do as he says. He rewards you with praise like “yeah, exactly” and “you’re doing great, Y/N”—because of course he does. Leo needs to be told when he’s doing a good job and he passes on this compulsion (or maybe just a love language) to everyone else in his life. 

You’ll likely never tell him but the encouragement helps a lot, and it isn’t long before he’s chirping a hollow “good as new!”

You don't miss the tremor in those words as he makes a frankly sad attempt at a smile.

There’s something he isn’t—

And then you see it. Right over the curve of his shoulder. 

“Leo…” Your voice wavers worse than his.

It’s like you’ve seen a ghost or worse—Splinter in his birthday suit. Leo wants to share the joke and maybe he would've if he didn’t feel like he was suffocating under your gaze.

You rise on unsteady feet, trembling fingers reaching out instinctively. He intercepts your wrist reluctantly just before it makes contact with his shell. He won’t meet your eyes.

You blink yourself out of it. “Does... it hurt?”

“A little,” he lies.

“Let me call for help. You can’t stay like this.”

“No—no. Y/N—we're not doing this again," he pleads.

“Do you think they're not going to see that either way?” you squawk, throwing an arm out in the direction of the large cleft rimming the top of his carapace. Stress squeezes the sides of your chest, crinkling you like a soda can.

“I got it skateboarding,” he votes.

“You think they’re gonna buy that?”

“Parkour on the roofs,” he tries again.

Your hands come up to your chest to knead some of the Leo-sized tension of out it.

“It’s gonna heal, Y/N. It’s like a broken arm. Don’t worry so much.”

“Don’t—Leo! Dude, seriously, what is going on with you?”

“Not a whole lot. I managed to eat three whole pizzas by myself this afternoon, so that was kind of—“

“Shut up—shut up—just shut up for like five fucking seconds. God.” You rub at your eyes, so, so exhausted. He’s so self-destructive, it kills you from the inside out.

You collapse down on the couch next to him and have to angle your whole body away just to figure out what it is you’re going to say next. 

“Do you know how awful it is for me to see you like this? I’m not trying to be a nag, but Jesus. I can’t keep doing this.”

He’s quiet for a moment, breathing fast and even. 

“Doing what?” he asks finally. He sounds stoic. Angry.

“The black eyes! The swollen limbs. The cuts and bruises and busted lips and bloody knuckles! I can’t...”

“That’s so crazy, when'd you start going out on the field?” he says, tone clipped and sharp.

You meet his eye for one terribly tense moment. You never fight with Leo. He’s not a very easy person to fight with in the first place. He almost always deescalates arguments with humour and you’re not one to get heated over things in the first place.

As soon as he turns away, though, you catch it; he chews the inside of his cheek. It’s a familiar tell: he regrets those words but he won’t apologize for them—you’re certain of that much. So you sit in silence for a bit. 

“What if it were me?” you wager finally in the mildest timbre you can muster. Despite your efforts, the question is still too loud as it cuts the air. “If I was the one fighting—if I came to you the way you are now?”

He shakes his head like he doesn’t want to answer—like this is a stupid, pointless conversation.

“No, seriously,” you insist. “You’d give me hell, right? And then you'd probably go out looking for the guy.”

Leo huffs air out his nose, a warning for you to stop. 

"Well, I don’t get to do that. Your family might try—ah, but you wouldn’t let them anyway. We just have to sit there and—and stew in our worry, and hope you’ll be okay.” 

You cross your fingers sarcastically, pressing your lips together to keep them from quivering.

You can’t say you don’t expect the way he explodes; can’t say you didn’t push him there. 

“So what am I supposed to do? Stay in the sewer all day? Never fight again because Little Miss Thinks-She-Knows-It-All decided Nope! No bueno! Well, sorry Y/N—super sorry to fucking break it to you—but the bad guys don’t go 'hm, you know what we should do tonight? Come to our senses! Give up our delinquent lives of crime! Hold hands and sing kumbaya! Come on, it’ll be FUN!'"  

You wish you could say he sounds like himself. You wish you could say this whole act where he puts on a funny voice and makes stupid faces is for your amusement and that this has all turned into one giant bit.

It has not.

“You think I break ribs for fun, or what?” he spits, low and cold. “Black eyes are for shits and giggles, I guess."

Your blood simmers—you're so far past the boiling point. 

“Oh fuck off, Leo. You’re such a piece of shit.”

Leo doesn’t hesitate. Which is weird because you’ve never called him that before. It’s always “asshole” or “asshat” or maybe “jackass” and always lovingly. Always with that tiny smirk etched into the corner of your lips. Never…

Never like this.

“No! No—you tell me what I’m supposed to do then!” He’s yelling. It’s the first time you’ve heard it. “We stay in the sewers? Let the city go to shit? Come up to the surface in disguises for some ice cream at the dock? You tell me."

You clench and unclench your fists, heaving a breath, reigning in what you can. 

"That’s not what I’m asking and you know it.” 

There are so many more names you want to call him, so many more searing insults you want to throw around, so many more semi-coherent arguments you want to bellow at him.

But there’s something that’s been plaguing you since earlier:

“Why’d you go alone?”

You wait. It takes a while and you almost think you may not get an answer at all. 

But then:

“‘Cause then I put them in danger, Y/N. Every mission… If something goes wrong—” His voice catches. "And after—and after...” He stutters and croaks but the words never come. They’re not needed anyway, you know what he’s talking about. “Do you know that Raph’s eye never fully healed? He’s partially blind now and Donnie’s not a miracle worker. Shit, I just, I can’t… I can’t do that to them anymore.”

He sags back down into the corner of your sofa, and you recognize the flight risk of buckling knees all too well. 

You watch him carefully; his gaze boring into your coffee table, tears threatening to spill over. 

“The thing about that is…” you start gently, unevenly. Your heart is in your throat. “—that one's yours to keep. That weight. It's not going anywhere."

He glances at you, surprised. It’s not exactly the most comforting response.

You mirror his body language, facing him head-on, itching to reach for his hand. You don’t. 

“You gotta keep that one, Leo. ‘Cause the rest of us need you. And, y'know, in one piece would be nice too.” 

His stare is void, so far from what you’ve come to expect from the boy with the quick wits and cocky smiles.

The irony of your situations is not lost on you. You’re worried about him; he’s worried about his brothers. He tells you not to worry; you tell him to live with the same worry. You’re both hypocrites.

When he meets your gaze again, though, his eyes are watery and he nods sort of culpably, like he understands now, he does.

You get up to fetch two glasses of water, draping a lingering hand on his shoulder as you pass behind him. 

It’s difficult to ignore the state of his shell when it’s up close like this, but you remind yourself the importance of tackling one thing at a time. (And, truthfully, his twin might be a little more equipped to handle turtle body reparations. You don’t know jack about the Red Eared Slider’s healing process.)

By the time you’re putting water in front of him, it appears all the fight has left his body. 

He droops forward a little, taking both glasses from your clutch and sliding them forward on the table as soon as he comes into contact with them.

What you’re not expecting is the way he falls into you, dragging you down to the cushions, burying his head in the crook of your shoulder and letting his weight push you back toward the arm of the couch. 

Ah. This, you can do. 

You like no walls. 

Your arms come up around him, bridging together at the back of his neck to secure him close. 

If it weren’t for the drops rolling down the slope of your neck, pooling in the basin of your collarbone and drying up on your hoodie, you wouldn’t even know it was happening. 

You’ve only ever seen it a handful of times in your life and only from these experiences do you know he’s always, always silent. The signs are there: shivering, light sniffles, a general bearing of despair mucking up his aura. But never sounds. Never sobs or whimpers—not from the Leader in Blue.

You sort of surmised it was a survival thing. An if-they-can’t-hear-it-maybe-they-won’t-know line of thinking. And you’ll bet it’s served him well in the past.

Even before a certain level of composure was expected of him, Leo’s always been the comedic relief, the chillaxed guy, the joke man. The Joke Man doesn’t cry.

(And the Leader always keeps his cool.)

You drag your fingertips up and down his back, letting him do what he has to. He’s safe here.

He grips you a little tighter at the feel of your soothing petting, almost like he’s torn between asking you to stop out of sheer self-loathing and utter humiliation, but like he needs you to continue if he’s going to see tomorrow.

You want to tell him that it’s okay, that he’s okay. That it’s okay to be loud about his anguish—that he doesn’t have to be so self-contained all the time. That it’s okay he messed up all those years ago and in the years since, and that it’s okay to feel the harbour of shame he's continually stuffed down, down—farther and bigger with every slipup. And the grief… Oh, it’s heavy from self-sacrifice and a forgotten life from a timeline lost. The kind of grief bound to cling tightly to those mourning the person they used to be. 

That’s okay too. 

But he’s very clearly not okay and you don’t want to step on that. It’s okay that he’s not okay—that’s true too, isn’t it? And so you say nothing.

In the end, it’s he who volunteers something feeble and untaxing: “How was your week?”

Air comes out your nose. “Yeah, um, fine. It was long.”

“So not fine then.”

“I suppose not, no.”

“Wanna tell me about it?” 

Your first inclination is to deny this. He’s got enough on his plate—he doesn’t need to hear about the vexing mundanities of your job and friends and Ikea shelf. But Leo never inquires about things out of mindless decorum, so you figure this is more to divert his attention than anything and oblige, recounting some of the more dynamic events from your hellish week.

All the while, your hands continue their idle trail over his shell. Without warning, he jumps a little in your arms and right away you know you’ve accidentally grazed the chink there. Your chest feels tight again and you stutter your words, losing your place in your story. It’s so impossible to concentrate on anything else but this broken boy.

You’re not done your Tale of the Lost Customer Copy but it’s not very interesting and you’re tired of reliving it so you derail to the thought at the forefront of your mind:

“Do you want to shower?”

It’s a weird thing to say, but you’re not sure how else to put it. 

Leo, at least, takes it in stride. “Is that your roundabout way of telling me I smell?”

“Yes. No, I just thought you might want to wash up—wash it off, you know? Showers always help me…”

You stop yourself, though there’s more you want to add, sinking your teeth into the inside of your bottom lip as a means to distract yourself from how doubtful you are that he’ll understand what you’re getting at.

“Will you come with me?” he murmurs.

He must grasp the suggestiveness of this request, or perhaps just that he should clarify what he’s asking because he verbally trips over himself to reason, “You could put on a swimsuit or something. And I guess I’m always sort of naked so it doesn’t really matter. Unless you think it does. Um.”

This request is how you discover things are even worse than he’s letting on. For one, his alter ego, Mr. Smooth McSweet Talker, has apparently fled the country sometime between the start of your odd little cuddle session and now. And, for another, Leo doesn’t ask for things. He's reliant on others for laughs and indulgence, sure, but is perfectly independent otherwise. (When’s the last time he volunteered meaningful information about himself that didn’t come in the form of a quip? You can’t remember.)

You have to wonder if maybe you’ve just been reading him wrong this whole time. Maybe he’s always been asking—been needing. You swallow remorsefully.

“My hair could use a wash,” you conclude.

He peels himself off of your body slowly, not one wince in his expression but you’re not fooled. There’s a reason his movements are (forgive the comparison) turtle-like. 

“Why don’t you run the water and I’ll scrounge for a bathing suit.” 

His hands are clasped in front of him—probably to forbid them from shaking, you recognize with alarm—and he’s never looked quite so small before, not even in the aftermath of the apocalypse. 

He nods.

In haste to rectify such behaviour, you bend for the closed pizza box on your floor, displaying it open for him. It’s his favourite too. 

By the time you join him, Leo’s already under the water. You leave the bathroom door open a crack so that maybe the steam will feel a little less suffocating for him, before turning off the harsher overhead lighting—and, by extension, the fan—leaving only the spotlight above your sink and the wall fixture flickering intermittently in the dimness.

“Y/N?” Leo calls from behind the frosted glass. He sounds nervous. It’s so unlike him and your heart shatters right there in your chest, slicing up surrounding tissues and organs. 

You step in next to him. “I’m here. Do you want the light back on?”

He shakes his head as though he’s all at once understood why you shut it. The dark makes for something safe and serene.

His arms are wrapped around his midsection when he checks, “Is the water okay?”

It is. It’s perfectly hot for you but you have to wonder if it isn’t scalding for his cold-blooded body. You ask him as much.

He shrugs. “It’s okay."

And then you idle in front of him, lost about what to do now. This might be the first time you’ve seen him like this. Not without his mask—that’s at least a little familiar—but without any of his gear. Just… full turtle body. You try not to stare.

There were lovers in the past but none who ever made it between your shower walls. This is new.

You want to ask more things, like if his bandages will be okay under the water. If the bruise steadily forming on the stripe of his cheekbone doesn’t hurt to the touch. If the stream beating down on his damaged shell doesn’t sting like a motherfucker. Instead, you take the moment to study him.

Where it appears that he’s looking at you, closer, you realize that his gaze is locked somewhere lower, like your nose or possibly your mouth or the tiles behind you. And the tears are starting again.

You watch as they well in his eyes; catch the flair of his nostrils and the twitch of his chin.

All at once, you wrap him up into you with a soft “Oh, Leo…"

His head falls to your shoulder and it could be the roar of the water but for the first time ever you hear them. The mewls and sputters and the heaving and raucous sobs. 

“I’m sorry,” he chokes through it. 

You clutch at his shaking shoulders as though you might be able to put him back together if only you hug tight enough.

“Don’t be sorry.”

“N-no. I’m sorry for going off on my own and coming here and making you—“

You can see where this is going so you shush him gently. “I know. It’s okay. Leo, it’s okay.”

“I’m sorry for yelling at you."

His gaze stays downcast even as your hands find the sides of his face and cradle him with all the love you can muster. “And I’m sorry for calling you…” You don’t want to repeat it. “I’m sorry too."

Barely a beat passes before more vulnerabilities are spilling from your traitorous lips:

"I love you, you know that?” 

You’re not sure what possesses you to say these words, or even exactly how you mean them.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever told you,” you continue, "but I do."

Leo doesn’t affirm either way. Just: “I know.”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t fight with people you don’t care about.”

He lifts his head and meets your eyes, tear-stained and wobbly, but also tender and renewed.

You hold his gaze for a steam-clouded moment, feeling too warm suddenly. And then you whirl around to busy yourself with the shower rack. “Alright, Nardo, vanilla or coconut-scented body wash?” 

“Vanilla,” he says instantly and it’s how you know he’s doing better. He has opinions again.

You reach for your shampoo and his arm holding the body wash goes limp. 

“Can… I?” He nods at your bottle.

“Uh... yeah. Totally.” You swap bottles with him and shelve the former, trying not to reflect too deeply about this. “You ever wash hair before?”

Leo grimaces and blows out a patient breath, pouring shampoo into his hand. “Why do you ask questions like that?”

You grin. “I derive great amusement from patronizing your ostracization from society."

"Mean," he scolds and smacks a fat glob of shampoo on the top of your head, effectively shutting you up. You go rigid, jaw dropping open before the both of you burst into uncontrolled wheezing laughter.

The scalp massage is nice, you’ll concede, and Leo does a thorough job, likely more for himself than for you. It gives him something to envelop his focus with and he gets to marvel as your eyes fall shut in complete and utter repose. Rarely do you come undone like this.

As you’re rinsing out, you ask him if he’ll let you do his shell. He freezes. You promise you’ll be careful and he nods slowly.

You grab the soap bar instead of something overly scented and drag it lightly around the base and centre where you don’t have to worry about injuries—at least you pray you don’t.

“You’ll tell me if it hurts, right?”

He nods again.

The soap pills over the rough surface so you lather it between your hands instead and smooth them up his carapace, careful to evade the thin fissure running down from the top. It freaks you out, honestly, but you keep your mouth clamped shut. He doesn't have to know that.

You're rubbing along the ridges of his lower shell when something flapping about in the stream below catches your eye.

You’d never paid much attention to his tail before—come to think of it, you’re not even all that sure you were aware he had one. Either way, it’s… wagging.

At the speed of light or almost, Leo is spinning back around to face you, letting the water wash over his shell in the process. “Aaand, that’s enough of that."

You’re positive the look on your face is nothing short of flabbergasted. “Enjoy that, did you?"

“Yeah, yeah, tease all you want but I know you liked that head massage.”

You beam, throwing your hands up on his shoulders impulsively, perhaps to steady yourself a little. “I did and I am not ashamed to admit it.”

“Good. Then I also thought the shell rubs were… nice.”

“I know you did,” you agree amiably. 

And then Leo’s leaning down to kiss you and you’re not pulling away.

It’s slow and chaste, a small press to your mouth. He’d almost have you thinking it was platonic if you were just a little more clueless. 

He drops his forehead to yours, inhaling audibly.

“I don’t know if I should have done that,” he confesses.

“Let’s figure it out some other day,” you say and turn off the water.

Leo dries himself off a lot faster than you do (wet bathing suits are certainly a hassle, wet hair even more) and when you emerge from your bathroom, you find him in your room, clad in the hoodie and basketball shorts he leaves at your place for nights like these. Well, not like these exactly—tonight is somewhat unprecedented—but just nights in general really. There are a pair of his joggers somewhere in your drawer too and it takes a healthy measure of self-control to refrain from tugging them on. Men's clothes are always more comfortable—it makes you sick. 

You forage around for your favourite large night tee, then throw on your own shorts from before.

“Nice shelf,” he tells you once you’re dressed.

“Thanks. Built it myself.”

“I can tell.”

You narrow your eyes. “What do you mean you can tell?”

He grabs for your body so he can maneuver you just in front of him at the right angle. He holds out his fingers parallel with the shelf. “Do you see how it’s just, like, the slightest bit off-centre?”

You fold.

Just, like, crumple to the floor.

Leo’s down beside you in an instant, pitch a few notes higher than you’re used to. “Hey. Hey, it’s cool. I’ll help you fix it tomorrow.”

You’re close to tears which is so embarrassing for no reason. (Didn’t Leo just cry his guts out in the shower with you?!) “No, you don’t understand. This was, like, the one good thing I had going for me this week. The one thing I was proud of myself for and now it’s… crooked.”

Leo carries you to bed. “I take it back. I like it better a few millimetres to the left anyway."

You hit him lightly as he crawls in with you. “Don’t patronize me.”

“No, that’s your job, remember?” he chaffs, biting back a smile at your reaction. (They're never not funny. And the quirk of your lips betrays the sincerity of your umbrage anyway.) 

And then:

“Who cares about a crooked shelf, Y/N? Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

“You think I’m pretty?” You bat your eyelashes at him for the fun of it but he doesn’t even hesitate.

“Of course I do."

And then you’re actually crying. Very cool. Leo gives a light cluck of his tongue and hauls you in close the same way you did for him, alloting you the time you need to bawl. “Don’t say things like that,” you wail.

It’s been a long week. For both of you.

You wipe at your eyes and sniffle back snot while he rubs a pacific palm up and down your shoulder. (Hopefully he still thinks you’re pretty.)

“I don’t know how to say this,” he prompts softly once you’ve calmed down, evidently having had the time to think about it while you were otherwise occupied. “But I feel like you’re my thread.”

“What?” you mutter through a stuffed nose.

“You know when people say ‘I’m hanging on by a thread’? I feel like you’re my thread."

You have to cover your face. “Are you trying to make me cry again? I’ll fucking do it, Leo.”

He chuckles. “It’s just… My head is so loud… all the time, you know? But it feels a little quieter around you. And, I guess... thanks for that.”

The candour of this sentiment has you flushing all kinds. “Don’t make me say it again.”

“What?”

“That I love you… Don’t make me humiliate myself like this.”

“Okay, then how about I say it? I love you.”

It’s so much. You feel so much. 

His cold hand tugs at your wrist and you half expect to hear sizzling from the way your skin is burning. He envelops your palm in both of his, squeezing lightly. 

“Leo…”

“Yes, angel?"

You roll into him, breathe in his scent, plant a kiss to his neck. His arms come up around you and he pulls the covers a little higher around you so he can keep you all to himself.

“Mm… Nothing at all,” you sigh, content down to your bones. “I’m glad you came to see me."

“In my time of despair?” Leo kids, voice down to a whisper. 

“I’d prefer you not be in despair but beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose.”

“I hear you, Y/N.” The words are casual but the way he speaks them are not. There is gravity here. “I’m with you."

This has you settling in a little closer until you feel one of his legs kick. You pull away immediately. “Did I just squish a broken rib?”

“Don’t worry about it," he strains out.

“We are going to see Donnie first thing tomorrow,” you declare, inner mom punching her way to the surface.

“Yeah, okay. I can see I won’t be getting out of this one."

“Not a chance, Blue.”

You rise up a little to shut off the light on your nightstand and shift away from him.

“Come baaaack,” he whines immediately.

“Stop being broken and I'll consider it."

Even in the darkness, you can see the way he pouts. It tugs at your heartstrings, no matter how playful its intention, so you readjust to snuggle up into his side without laying on him so much.

Leo’s arm comes back up around you to drag lazily over your side, a gesture that has you sleepy in mere seconds. You might attribute the disconcerting speed at which you become so debilitated to the long hours of overtime and the depletion of being so emotionally available for everyone all the time, but you’d only be lying to yourself. Leo is too comforting for his own good.

He’s your safe haven.

(And, just maybe, you’re his too.)

“Thanks for trusting me,” you mumble just shy of incomprehensible before drifting off. You’re not confident the attempt actually reached your vocal cords but you’re out cold before the concern even takes shape.

Leo glances down, utterly bewildered at just how quickly you managed to leave him. Even so, the words travel right to his heart, swelling in his chest. You will surely be the death of him one of these days but, for tonight, he’s all jubilant smiles and hushed reverence.

“Thanks for putting me back together."

***