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At first, Casey had grumbled and whined. He’d snapped and pushed the now-little turtle away. “Look, kid, I don’t know what your problem is, but you need to get the hell off of me!”
All that did was get him in trouble.
“He cried all night, Casey,” Leo had sighed, exhaustion tugging at his voice. “I know you don’t care about him, but if you could just- I don’t know, be a little nicer? For the rest of us? He’s five, Casey. Please. Cut him some slack.”
So he tried. But the little freak didn’t go up to him anymore. As a matter of fact, he hid whenever he so much as laid eyes on the vigilante.
And, as much as Casey would rather die than babysit, that started to piss him off. No one hid from Casey Jones , not even a pint-sized mutant who was supposedly his ex-rival. So he went back to complaining. Again.
“He won’t even look at me! How petty is that?”
The others got sick of that. Very quickly.
“He likes building, Casey,” Mikey had offered desperately. “Maybe get him some blocks or something. I know you don’t trust him, but maybe just,” shrug. “ Try to get along with him? Maybe you’ll find out if he’s real.”
He’d cornered the five year old in the kitchen, caging him in with crossed arms and a glare. ‘Donnie’ had pressed his shell against the cupboards, his bottom lip jutting out and wiggling just enough to reach that older brother instinct he’d buried after having to leave his sister for the farmhouse.
“You’re five, right?” he’d asked.
‘Donnie’ had nodded, clenching his hands up near his chin.
“Then you’re old enough to have a discussion. Sit at the table.”
They’d sat across from each other, ‘Donnie’ still fidgeting silently. He had looked seconds away from bursting into tears. Casey knew what little ‘Donnie’s’ crying looked like; silent and breathless, and he had not wanted to put him through that, imposter or not.
“I know you don’t talk, so I have a different way to communicate,” he’d explained. A box of Lego was slammed on the table. ‘Donnie’ had jumped. “The Millennium Falcon. It’s second hand, so it might be missing some pieces, but it should still work.”
‘Donnie’ had just stared at it, eyes wide and shining, unshed tears long forgotten. He’d leant up on the table, tail out and wagging vigorously while Casey dumped out the small, plastic blocks.
They’d worked together for hours, eventually even reaching the point that Casey had to hold the kid up so he could actually reach the stupid thing.
By the time they were done, it was way past Donnie’s bedtime, and he had slowly, reluctantly, nodded off… still on Casey’s lap.
So that was how Casey found himself leaning back in a chair at the kitchen table, a sleeping turtle in his arms, said turtle’s quiet breaths whistling through the tiny gap in his teeth.
And, Casey found, he didn’t really mind it.