Chapter Text
Blame Kondescending Kitchen's ramen special episode, if anything.
Donnie certainly was—even before the kraangified nightmare lurched from the shadows to chew on his mystic-enforced pauldron, before the claw marks he'd discover later on his favorite battle shell, and those were never fun; before today's shell-aching weather, dry with a chance of murder.
"Anyway—are you sure all these toppings are necessary?" Donnie shrugged off his assailant savagely, shooting it between the eyes—twice for good measure—and watched it screech the twenty-foot drop distance into the valley below. A holographic ladder pulled him into the cockpit of his ship. "I'm aware there are five critical elements, but bean sprouts? What did the recipe say?"
Truthfully, Mikey did not know what the recipe said. Up until now, the recipe did not exist. Mikey eyeballed the whole thing from a memory as hazy as old glass. Easier to say it came from a cooking show. If Donnie knew Mikey was winging it, he never would've agreed to this side project.
Worse—he'd tell Leo.
And then they'd never get to leave the base, all of them pulled into the walking black hole that was their big brother, who enjoyed very little in life lately except for dooming them to practice their kata in the dojo for days and then some.
Half a desert apart, both their blood curdled at the thought.
"Just trust me," came the crackle of Mikey's voice from Donnie's communicators. Above all things, Mikey trusted the pull of his own gut—things he felt his older brother would never understand. "You, uhhh, here soon?"
Donnie sighed. "One getaway ride, coming in hot."
Not long after, Donnie was tilting the ship over the cluster of geodesic domes. Then he waited for the crash. Seconds later, Mikey's head was breaching the cockpit. Chains fading out like sparklers, he slammed into the passenger seat, gasping, eyes shot and arms tight around a heaving black bag.
"Took you long enough," Donnie said.
"Yeah," Mikey croaked.
“Everything alright?”
“Yeahp!”
No time to stall; they lifted into the troposphere. Only a stretch of infinite desert for miles. While they drifted in silence, a shroud began falling over the ship, settling over them like a black cloud. "Oh, Angelo," Donnie called, in his cheeriest customer service voice, "why is the entire Earth Protection Force after us?"
Mikey was still gaping at his hoard. He'd loosened the tether to stare at its contents like they were some sort of miracle. Soil stained his fingers, and he smelled like the market, like wet living earth, things that should not exist.
Donnie's silence turned fatal.
"Well, what're you waiting for?" Mikey cried when it hit him. "BOOK IT, SON."
So: murder then. Donnie was going to murder him.
He would, that was—if they didn't get murdered first.
Static jumped into the ship's comms, and then the Secretary of Earth Protection Force was speaking, her voice ringing crisp around the cockpit like a gunshot. "We wanted to give our trespassers the benefit of the doubt, but we'd know that unique mystic signature anywhere—"
"Aw, you think?" Mikey turned to Donnie. "Told you, Barry said the same thing!"
"Not the time," Donnie hissed.
"Is that Michaelangelo?"
"No—"
"Chelloooo."
Donnie pinched his nose. The landscape ahead was so searingly hot the air prismed the rock pillars into tilted shapes, and the squadron above their ship splintered their harsh shadows everywhere. Donnie cleared his throat: "Greetings, agent! Did not realize it was already time for our bi-monthly roundtable. To what do I owe the gift of your, ah, legendary presence?"
"Sweet talk me all you want, Hamato. You know I'm not here for a catch-up." Chipper, despite the occasion. Hopefully not a smokescreen. Both boys were grateful, at least, that it wasn't Bishop on the line; small miracles. "We've just had a classification level four security breach on a Sunday morning, and surprise surprise—it's your recon ship outside our territory. The tale gets stranger."
"Oh, do tell," Donnie said, looking right at Mikey.
"You'd think there'd be significant losses, but it seems none of our top assets have been compromised." A pause. "That we know of..."
Mikey shrugged as if to say, I don't know what that woman is talking about.
The agent continued, "—nothing out of place. Except for a few... interesting choices. Our root crops, for one, are missing. Among other things."
"Ah," Donnie said intelligently. He glanced sideways at Mikey, who was now hugging his potatoes. Dirty, pockmarked, unmodified potatoes.
Set a course, the dash map suggested in front of him. Exit routes blinked. Mikey made a bright happy sound. Leo would not be happy about this detour.
"Now, I'm sure you'd like to spend your morning elsewhere—like eliminating our alien colonizers, for one—but first, tell me, Donatello," the EPF agent said, "what vegetable could be so important for our top allies to be attempting unauthorized entry into one of the world's most highly guarded facilities—and in broad daylight?"
The look Donnie pitched at Mikey was a double-edged blade, equal parts betrayed and impressed, and when Mikey howled, "Well, PURE FLAVOR, BABY," Donnie could only lean back in his seat as the weeks finally caught up with him, he was so, so, terribly tired, and Mikey, unfortunately, still had enough faith for both of them.
If Mikey fished a miracle out of this, Donnie would take it.
So: "What he said," Donnie deadpanned, and hoped like hell by now his family knew how much he loved them; the things he put up with—
If anyone asked, Mikey didn't mean to do it.
The plan was simple: grab anything that grew off the side of The Gardens—the enclosed territory of the world's human elite who managed to subsist on the last 1% of the planet's wilting resources. Besides, none of them would miss their mushrooms. And Mikey was sick of the weird, dehydrated nutrient cubes Donnie had been beta testing, how they did nothing for his lonely taste buds and worse things to his spirit.
"Packed with essential vitamins and macronutrients!" Donnie shoved the tray under his nose.
"That's great, Dee," Mikey croaked, and later that night hid so he could have some of Casey's bugs instead.
Mikey loved his brother for trying, but he knew what they all needed; it was a little oomph, a little soul, some grease, or a lot of it; cheese, butter, sugar, bread. Nothing crazy. He'd been the unofficial family cook for sixteen years, and not even an apocalypse could scrub it out of him; Mikey wouldn't let it!
When Mikey told Raph the lie—a routine patrol around Sector V with Donnie—he was thinking of the sound Raph made when he bit into the birthday pizza Mikey baked him five years ago. Like a small part of him was reborn. Mikey thought of Donnie's face, experiencing his very first sweet potato pie, as he sidled past the fences. He held onto the memory. Wore it like mala beads, as he crossed the anti-Kraang barge, the sun beating down on his shell, as he finally phased through the walls of the first dome.
He'd suffer a migraine for that stunt later, and Draxum would strangle him if he knew Mikey just burned through the last of his mystic reserves, an internal tank that took him about three weeks of meditating to fill—two weeks and six days, to be specific—but who was counting, when just down the hall, past the floor-to-ceiling glass walls was the secret humankind had been hiding, all this time?
Unbidden, Mikey thought of Leo's bashful, deer-in-headlights look when Mikey caught him the other week, hovering over a bubbling pot. A wooden spoon in his patient hand. Dad's yukata was tied around his waist. For a moment, Mikey assumed he'd been cleaning his tantō blade, until he drew closer and saw the cutting board, the leeks—or at least what they should've been.
For Junior, Leo rushed to explain, face taut with embarrassment. But before Leo was the de facto leader of the resistance he was Mikey's big brother first.
That was miso soup he'd been trying to make. Bare-bones, watery, and disastrous already; they didn't have salt, or dashi, or heck, even miso—and Mikey's heart veered sharply off the road, flipped twice, and crashed on its belly.
The memories lighted on his shoulder, like birds on a wire: Splinter sliding a plate of onigiri on his desk, each ball shaped like a panda, because Mikey adored their spots, it reminded them of his own; omurice, golden eggs spilling like a dream, the ketchup smileys they traced on them; how Splinter prepared them orange slices, with the rind already cut from the peel, it was easier to eat that way—
If anyone asked, Mikey knew what they all needed. Because that was his love language, too. He'd inherited all his good qualities from his father. And his not-so-good ones, it seemed.
Obviously he broke into the greenhouse.
The jury was out on whether it was wise to 1) let the questioning happen while the world’s most dangerous squadron herded them to a shootout somewhere in the dunes, or to 2) just hit the gas, fuck the consequences, fuck the mutant-human alliance Raphael had worked so hard to establish, because Mikey was adamant on bringing home his organic spoils.
Spoils, Donnie argued, that would end up in bullet holes, if they so much as breathed wrong in the comms.
Luckily, it didn’t take much to break Donnie. “Flavorless juice?” Donnie asked in a small, hopeful voice. What Mikey would do to keep hearing that sound. Something stupid, probably. Some things were worth bending the rules for.
“Shucks, sorry, Dee.” Mikey squeezed his arm. “Nada.” But Donnie flicked the miraculous can of Spam peeking out the top of the bag (the one Mikey had nicked last minute from some military wife's stash), his mind already stretching ahead, updating his mental records on food storage and distribution and whatever else Donnie did to keep them all alive. Mikey shoved his head inside the bag. “But lemme see if I can throw somethin' together for you—!”
A fighter drone settled by their ship's ear. Its black wing cut into their peripheral.
“Hamato-san.” The agent was using her late-night DJ voice. “Still with us, I hope?”
“Apologies, I've been terribly scatterbrained as of late." Two could play at that game; Leo had taught Donnie a thing or two about winning negotiations. "Could you repeat that? Something about your scarce, heavily guarded resources?"
“—and omigosh, we can even have a fruit bowl!” Mikey whispered.
If only Mikey could get with the program.
"Yes, Donatello. Resources. Resources, it seems, that your brother is already enjoying. Any comment?”
“Hm.” Donnie typed a quick message to Raph. Be late. Interference. Don't tell Leo. “Not really.”
It was quiet for a while, long enough for Mikey to poke his head back out and listen for their fate. “Gentlemen, it seems we are not making ourselves very clear,” came the verdict. “How about we stop and talk about this matter at The Gardens?”
Donnie wrinkled his nose. “With all due respect, your ventilation system dries out my shell.”
“Let me rephrase. You are not leaving this sector, Hamato-san.”
Donnie snorted. Even Mikey knew that was bad manners. He'd poked the angry hive, sure, but Donnie seemed eager to drop-kick it into the distance.
“Does this amuse you, Hamato-san?"
Donnie waved his hand in the air. “I'm tickled, is all. You realize our networks travel underground; just because we're in your territory now doesn't mean we aren’t already seconds from home base. Just ask Bishop.” Donnie's eyes tracked the drone hovering by his side of the window, a grin at the edge of his mouth threatening to spill. “If I didn’t know any better, I think you are trying to threaten us.”
Mikey sat very very still.
A cloud drifted by. Then came the chuckle. “On the nose, as always. See, the only reason we haven't carpet-bombed you yet," the EPF agent began, "is because the world depends on our... unique partnership. You and your brothers have shown up exemplary in this fight, but you forget yourself. Your brother has just broken into one of our most safeguarded facilities; imagine the chaos this will create when news reaches our communities, if it hasn't already. We are already living in such dire times. I suggest your brother tread carefully. We are allies, yes. But once upon a time, we were happy to be on opposing sides."
Donnie kept the ship at a near-perfect constant, never slowing down or building speed, only cutting into the clear strip of sky ahead even as more drones crossed their path to snip away at their trail. Mikey watched each one leave a purple trail in the clouds.
Their very own ship left behind a similar shade; both models boasted the Genius Tech logo, after all.
"And let me remind you," Donnie said, his smile frosting over, "that the only reason you're still alive to speak to me today is because I'm allowing it." He'd kept a controlled veneer for the whole exchange, but now something dark and brittle with rage was shifting in his face, the way it did two weeks ago when the Kraang spoke about mutilating Mikey's body in front of him. "We are allies, yes, but I have no qualms about taking back what I've donated to your armies. Never forget; my tech is a gift. I giveth, I taketh away. I caution you against threatening my brother so glibly in front of me. You are lucky Raphael is in charge of our relations. I am not so agreeable.”
Then Donnie leaned back and let the silence hold. The message was clear: fuck around and find out.
“Sheesh,” Mikey murmured under his breath; and he thought Baxter Stockman was scary, siding with Kraang because a terraformed Earth was interesting.
Something like a laugh barbed the line.
"If all you wanted was some scallions, you could've just asked," the agent said. "Not that we'd give you any. Our stores are not exactly endlessly bountiful, as you've witnessed.”
"Perhaps a trade, then." Donnie drummed his fingers on the dash. "I'll divulge the code I'm developing for my nutrient cube line, and you asslickers can continue serving the millionaires you keep in your anti-Kraang shelters, or whatever lie you like to tell them so they can sleep at night." A considering pause. "That, and Mikey here gets free access to your greenhouse."
And oven, Mikey mouthed.
"And oven," Donnie added.
"Don't push it," the agent said, but called for her squadron to fall back. "There are other facilities in the alliance, aside from ours. I suppose this is not new information to you."
"It isn't," Donnie agreed.
"They will not be as kind.”
“Guns,” Donnie reminded her. "Glad for your concern, but I believe we have things covered. Don't we, Michael?"
Mikey nodded gravely. "Lots of guns."
A long-suffering sigh. "I'll see you in our next call, Hamato. Be ready with your proposal for the next fighter tech line. And your... food cubes, I suppose."
"Still working on that trademark application."
"Of course you are. You and Michelangelo be careful now. And condolences,” she added.
Donnie’s hands curled on the controls. "I—yes."
Mikey did not hear that last sentiment—his mind had zoomed ahead into full meal prep mode, planning breakfast spreads and midnight snacks, treats for the orphans, for April, his brothers, oh god, his poor brothers. Years without anything deep-fried. Mikey would make this right.
“Dee,” Mikey said later, after tackling his brother in a victory hug, “we still need flour."
Their ship descended into the hangar, and somewhere there was Leo, probably pissed as hell, en route to get them to do a one hour plank for tardiness. Donnie was still letting the hug happen, which was as good a sign as any. Two eventual pats on Mikey's shell. Blearily, Donnie spoke: “You wouldn't have any tequila in that bag, would you?”
Most days it was about ramen.
Broth. Tare. Noodles. Toppings. Oil. All the key elements to a good bowl—at least, from what Mikey managed to gather. He hoarded the memory of that night like the last Dr. Pepper in the fridge of three older unruly brothers; Splinter gesturing at the bowl: if you ever want to feel closer to the family, my son, start here.
So Mikey started. Didn't really know how to finish. Was winging it, mostly. And when it wasn't about the ramen, it was about Leo.
Leo, who was trying so hard to occupy the shape Splinter left behind—even the dad-trauma, the dad-distance, and the dad-bod (coming soon to a resistance camp near you!)
How it started: one night in the lair, Splinter asked, bright-eyed, how about you boys hang out with your old pop? Donnie and Raph had been asleep. Leo clapped a hand over Mikey's mouth before the explosive YES could come ricocheting out of it. This was a rare moment, and one had to be strategic; some things brothers didn't have to share.
Splinter never learned to cook any dishes from home. His mother had been ripped away from him too soon, so he'd grown full of regrets, instead of full of soup, and that was double the tragedy. It didn't take them long to find the cure. Tucked between carts of chicken halal rice, tortillas, glazed waffle pops, the stall had only two chairs. Owner didn't care about Splinter's furred arms, his sons’ dubiously green skin. Only barked, hard or soft?
He means your noodles, Splinter explained at Leo's wide-eyed wonder; it was like magic to him. Mikey basked in the smells, the music of it. Three pork ramen bowls later, it was real love. Heart eyes, motherfucker. Whole new universes seemed to be churning in those bowls. And if Splinter didn't talk for the rest of the night, deep in a conversation with his spoon only he could hear, his sons didn't speak of it.
Mikey and Leo didn't tell their brothers about their dinner run. Raph would sulk, and Donnie would be furious (and he had enough daddy issues to last a lifetime). But Splinter was in the kitchen more often after that, bumping elbows with Mikey as they pored over recipes from a life that never was. Making up for lost time. There were Soba Sundays. Tamagoyaki Tuesdays. And each time, dessert: pancakes with sweet red bean paste in the middle, like how Mikey always thought a hug would taste. Splinter cooked when words were too large and difficult, when he didn't have the language to fully chart the size of his devotion.
And when the Kraang came, he did what any asian father would. He sliced them some fruit.
The cuts, as usual, free of pith. As if his sons didn't have crazy mutant turtle teeth that could cut through any fiber. In those days, Splinter had grown frail, but age expanded him somehow. He took his knives, handwritten recipes, yukatas, and handed them between his sons.
The rice cooker, however, went to Donnie.
"I will guard it with my life, father," Donnie said, humbled by this rare honor, and later designed a casing as indestructible as any bomb shelter. To this day, Leo joked Splinter's rice cooker would outlive them all.
But Mikey thought he understood Splinter the most at the very end; words were cheap, but you remembered the first bite of real food after the roof of your hideout was peeled back to the scorch of the sun. Mikey's memory would be riddled with holes, but he remembered the moments before the blast, hot debris bursting like a wild rafflesia bloom, before Leo's big, heaving cries and Mikey had never seen his brother break like this, clutching Raph's botched shoulder as the Kraang took a part of him in its beak; before Donnie towed them all to safety on the back of his ship, holding Mikey close and chanting, "Don't look, Mikey. Don't look," but Mikey was still hovering in that moment, skipping down the stairs because Splinter just called them out for dinner, Splinter's hands covered in nicks and bandages, on the cutting board, stacking their plates with bright, steaming cups of rice.
An ocean away, their new base. Fatherless, Mikey watched the water that fringed them glint like a knife's dulled edge, and he knew, immediately, that it was a place gone from him forever. A house with its windows shuttered. You need to eat, Donnie said, so Mikey nodded, turned around. A crash. Someone was yelling in the background. The rasp of it a claw down his shell. Humans in resistance gear jogged past him, carrying a stretcher. There were two voices now, both familiar, one a snarl of fury that nothing could snuff out.
Mikey thought maybe he should be crying, too. But then he realized he didn't know how to get to it anymore—that aching, bundle of bees in his chest, it was too far away—so he walked and walked around the wide enclosure instead, past the huddled mass on the floor, barefoot women and children, until his feet took him somewhere it recognized.
His hands still knew what to do. Somewhere, a scream. There were no walls here, only stacks of boxes fringing each section. He pulled out a pot from its hook. Someone hold him down! Water that came from a potable tank. Not a lot in the cupboard, but enough. More footsteps thundered past him. Another crash. Let me go, Raph, let me—! A choked sob. Something sharp clattering to the floor. Silence. The water under the lid filmed over with bubbles. Mikey watched each one pop.
A few moments later, April was peeling the spoon from Mikey's hand. There was something in her face, just out of Mikey's reach, but slowly she put the spoon to her lips and the fog cleared, just for a moment. Mikey's hands glided over his tools like braille; he could do this in his sleep, with his eyes closed, at the end of the world. Every pot he prepared was emptied and passed around. People piled into the wide kitchen, ratty cloaks thrown on their backs; even Donnie, who let his battle shell thunk to the ground as he slumped in the corner and did not move for a very long time, until April gently pried open his jaw to feed him soup and Donnie shifted—something small unfolding in the tight knot of him. Light coming through. And then the window opened:
Mikey could glimpse it again, the room from a lifetime ago: pizza sleepovers, Jupiter Jim movie nights with sour cream popcorn and sodium-sticky fingers, his brothers wrestling over candy wrappers with cherry soda cans crunching underfoot; he was a kid standing under the eaves of that ramen stall, Splinter saying, “One day you will convince yourself you are tired of your life; when that happens, have a bowl of this." And Mikey wanted it; all of life’s delicious things. He knelt by a group of ashen faces, mustered a smile to ask, "hey, what else do you feel like having today?" and put on his cloak to forage for whatever they asked—out into the Kraang-razed world where the sun dripped like wax and stars warbled off-key, and hoped along the way to find somewhere private to bleed.