Chapter Text
Mrs. Morrison had never seen herself as the type of woman to become instant best friends with someone like Mrs. Jones. But the hospital had been a long, lonely place, as it was slowly confirmed over many appointments that she was indeed going blind. She’d been feeling sorry for herself because her kids had all grown and run as far away from her as they could get, while still coming every once in a while for visits. And her house—the one thing she’d always been proud of for paying off regularly—was falling into disrepair as she lost the ability to care for it and her job that kept it afloat.
Then, in a support group for widowers at the hospital, she’d met Mrs. Jones.
“I’m a blunt woman who had to learn early that I couldn’t rely on my husband—not because I didn’t want to, but because the damn fool died saving others. Now, I never blamed him. But sometimes, I wish he hadn’t been a hero. Hadn’t left me to raise my boy all by myself.”
Mrs. Morrison sympathized, though her own husband had died in a car accident. After the group, she’d let the other women lead her around like usual, because being half-blind was disorienting, and she never could tell another person ‘no thanks, I wanna do it myself.’ Mrs. Jones had been the only woman left that day and she hadn’t even offered. For a while, Mrs. Morrison sat, helpless and waiting for a nurse to come by.
“Why do you do that?” Mrs. Jones asked. “Why don’t ya try to get around yerself?”
Frustrated, Mrs. Morrison replied, “Are you as blind as me? I can’t see, and I can’t do anything myself! If they’re going to offer, why shouldn’t I take the help?”
“There’s a difference between accepting help and acting like your life is over because you’re losing your eyesight. You don’t have broken legs, and you’re never gonna learn if ya don’t try! So stand up and walk. I’ll tell ya when you’re about to run into something.”
She’d been offended at first, but Mrs. Jones was right. She’d been lost in self-doubt and helplessness, forgetting she was a born and bred ‘slums’ kid who’d worked too hard to give up now. Eventually, she, Mrs. Jones, and a few other ladies started the “Ye Olde Ladies Book Club,” choosing audiobooks or braille for herself, and discussing them at each other’s houses. It didn’t fix her house’s problems or her eyesight, but at least her children came around more often and Mrs. Jones became her best friend.
Recently, they’d been meeting at her house more often because of the blanket thief. It was odd—if the person had just asked, Mrs. Morrison would have given them extra blankets, especially the ones Mrs. Jones knitted. Not that she disliked them, but they were thick wool and very warm.
“It’s strange, whoever they are, I can hear them rustling where my clothesline is, and near my trash bin. I may not have much, but if they just said something, I’d at least feed them!”
“So why don’t ya set a trap? So we can tell ‘em we won’t hurt them and they can just ask for food and blankets?”
“I dunno, something sounds… off about them. I think they have good reason for hiding, not that I approve! And lately, they’ve been taking food for more than just themselves. I think they may have children.”
“Jeeze, then we gotta say something! How about we hang back, put out the best cookies we can make and a pile of the warmest blankets? Then, we hide and tell them from the doorway they can just ask for help.”
“That’s not a bad idea.”
So, that’s what they did. Mrs. Morrison made a big batch of homemade chicken noodle soup for the chill, and Mrs. Jones baked enough cookies to feed an army. They put a note on top of the cookies and soup, and piled the thickest blankets nearby, then waited. Mrs. Morrison, being blind, waited near the light.
“I can tell them I can’t see anything so they don’t need to be afraid I’ll sell them out to the cops or social services if I’m right about them having children.”
They hadn’t waited long before Mrs. Morrison heard someone poking around the front porch. They always moved quietly, but there was an odd whipping sound in the air and a smell she’d noticed—a hint of someone not bathing much. She heard them pick up the blankets, then pause. They must be reading the note!
“I…cannot thank you enough.” The English was slow, as if the speaker was just learning, but the voice sounded both very young and very old at the same time.
“Wait! I’m blind, so if you’re staying quiet because you don’t want me reporting you, it’s not a worry! Please… you sound so young! I’ve gotta know, how old are you?”
A long pause. “Old enough.”
Alarm bells started to ring. “Why are you taking blankets?”
“My…children…they are…getting sick with the cold…I…am…scared.”
“Wait… are you raising children as a homeless person? And a very young homeless person? Please, just let me know if you need anything else! I’ll leave it for you on the porch, you don’t need to steal it!”
“I…thank you…”
And as quickly as they came, they vanished like smoke. She turned to Mrs. Jones, “Did ya get a look at who’s been stealing from me?”
“Not a good look, no, but enough to know they’re as young as they sound. And… I think they’re different in more than just being an immigrant. ‘Cause I coulda sworn I saw a tail as they ran away.”
“Oh no! The poor thing! No wonder he was terrified! He must have had some sort of accident like in the movies! Must be terrified, a young immigrant with kids who isn’t human anymore! Poor kid!”
“Kid?”
“Yeah, couldn’t you tell? They couldn’t be much older than fifteen by the sound of their voice.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Not call the cops, that’s for sure! And let the others in the book club know if they catch sight of him to pretend they didn’t!”
“Oh, so you mean a sneaky sort of not-adoption? Yeah, I can get behind that! But if he’s hurt, or the kids are hurt, then all bets are off! I’m gonna help him whether he likes it or not!”
Two weeks. He’d had babies for two weeks. Strange looking babies the size of a four year old human child, but babies none the less and he was failing! What does he know about parenting? The sum total of nothing! The most he knew was from watching from Tang Shen’s lap as The Ancient One yelled at Mashimi and Yoshi as they went through ninja training. Before that, well he didn’t clearly remember much, only that like most ‘adult’ male rats he’d been ousted from his dams nest, and he’d spent a while as a wild rat in the walls of the Ancient Ones home, just watching the humans, as much watching as a rat could with his blurry eyesight.
The mutation had changed everything for him. Looking at those small faces, he’d instantly known he was a Father now, and with his more human eyesight and thinking, it became easier and harder to care for his babies. Easier because it had taken only two days to learn to walk like a human. Two more days taught him how to move through the forms he’d practiced a hundred times with Yoshi without tripping over his larger hind paws that he could now stand on without having to hold onto something and without tripping over his longer tail that sometimes seemed to have a mind of its own with how it whipped around. Ans slowly he’d learned what thes babies could eat.
As a rat, he could eat just about anything, but turtles? Human child sized turtles with human teeth needed different food. And then, the cold had started. New York winters could be brutal, this he’d learned in his first season of living in his Master’s apartment. But he had fur to keep him warm. The babies had nothing. And now…now the one he’d just named ‘Michelangelo’ after the book he’d found had been sleepy, slow to wake, and then…then the boy had curled up as close to his fur as possible, even shoving his brothers aside, but Splinter hadn’t minded because Michelangelo had been the smallest. And then the next morning, Michelangelo had been so still, so quiet, so unlike himself. He’d tried to gently shake Michelangelo awake, only to have the heart rending realization he never would wake again.
Michelangelo had not been breathing when Splinter checked. He’d been so cold to the touch, and Splinter knew that he’d lost the boy. He’d quietly tucked Michelangelo under his bedding, telling himself that he’d grieve later. That he’d have to wait until the spring thaw to bury…to bury his son. His beautiful, energetic, smallest son. Tears had streamed down his muzzle as he’d quietly arranged Michelangelo under the blankets they had. Then hed lied about how Michelangelo was ‘sleeping’ to the other babies. And it had worked, for two whole days, as the other turtles started getting more sleepy, and he worried because then it was Donatello who was starting to be sluggish. And that night, just like his brother, Donnie slipped away curled against his side.
He’d wanted to scream at the universe then. Why give him the gift of fatherhood, of love if only to rip it away so cruelly? But the other babies needed him to be strong, and so he’d laid Donatello next to Michelangelo and had told the other two that Donatello was merely sleeping with Michelangelo. He’d worried when Leonardo, usually the ‘mother hen’ of the children had nodded sleepily and said ‘sleep well.” Two days after Donatello, it had been his strong and fiery Raphael curled next to his chest. He could barely stand sleeping at all, knowing what would come and not being able to do a thing to stop it. It’d been so wrong, to feel Raphel's breaths dropping lower and lower until the breath stopped entirely. And this time he had let out a whimper as he laid Raphael to rest beside his brothers.
And now, now Leonardo, the last of his babies had stopped eating. Stopped moving as much, and he knew time was growing short. What else could he do but wrap Leonardo in the only remaining blanket, making a sling of sorts to keep Leonardo close to his chest, and go searching for more blankets? Surely if he could only get Leonardo warm, he could keep his last baby, right?
Hed gone to the alley he'd learned kept blankets unsecured on a laundry line, and also had the best 'pickings' for good food. But he'd been almost tempted to run back when he saw the note attached to the lid of the huge pot of warm soup:
"To whoever has been taking my blankets and food from my bin,
You just need to ask and I'll provide what I can. Enjoy the soup and the cookies, and let me know if you need anything at all for yourself or anyone else you may or may not be caring for."
And he'd been oddly touched, because this human, this kind human had offered without judgement, and he needed that so much right now. And then his ear twitched as he heard two human women shifting behind the doorway. They were watching! He had to go! Now! Before they screamed and brought other humans running! But...Leonardo needed the blankets and maybe the soup would warm him enough to keep him from slipping away too? So he didn't run.
"I...cannot thank you enough." He said slowly.
English was still very new, and speaking newer still, but he got by.
"Wait! I’m blind, so if you are staying quiet cause you don’t want me reporting you, it’s not a worry! Please…you sound so young! I’ve gotta know, how old are you?”
He paused, why did she need to know? But he supposed if she could not see him, and the other woman was in the dark too, it would not hurt to answer, at least carefully, "Old enough."
That part was true. He may be a very young rat, but he was an adult rat. Even if he was not an adult in human years, they didn't need to know that! He was risking enough just by sticking around!
"Why are you taking blankets anyhow?"
And for a moment, he considered not answering. But he was tired, and he owed this kind human the truth, even if not the full truth.
"My…children…they are…getting sick with the cold…I…am…scared.”
It is the first time he has admitted to himself that he is scared! He doesn't know what he will do if he cannot save Leonardo at least!
“Wait…are you raising children as a homeless person?! And a very young homeless person?! Please, just let me know if you need anything else! I’ll leave it for you on the porch, you don’t need to steal it!”
And what else could he say, but,
“I…thank you…"
And then he awkwardly threw the blankets over one shoulder while carrying the soup and cookies in his paws, careful not to jostle Leonardo too much as they made the slow journey back to his den. Only, Leonardo was far too quiet in the sling, and he knew, a part of him knew that Leonardo was just as dead as his brothers. But as he laid the soup to the side, carefully putting the plate of cookies with it, he had to check. Indeed, his trip to the surface had not mattered. Because Leonardo was cold in the sling. Cold and wrong, and just as still as his brothers.
And now, looking at the soup a nice human had made for him, looking at cookies the children would never eat, he does let out a howl of grief as he slowly unwrapped Leonardo and laid him beside his brothers. For a long moment, he didn’t know what to do with himself. Because he’d lived for his babies, they’d been his world and now they were gone just like his Master.
He’d stared at his sharper claws for a long time that night, just wondering if they’d be sharp enough for the job of Seppuku, for joining his sons in the afterlife. But…he couldn’t find the energy to do it, to do anything but lay Leonardo next to his brothers, he couldn't eat, couldn’t sleep, could do nothing but wrap himself in the blankets generously given and grieve.
And in three days, when the cold snapped and he’d heard a quiet chirp, he’d believed he’d died, as he’d wished, only just like his mutation, he was being poked by eight little hands from under the pile of blankets where he’d lain atop their shells so they wouldn’t freeze to the cold sewer floor. And if he’d joyously hugged them to his chest and kissed them on their heads, well no one was around to see or hear it.
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