Back from the End - Chapter 2 - Jay_Bird23 (2024)

Chapter Text

“And I’m telling you, if we make the prosthetics out of carbon fiber, it would meet all of the specifications you’ve listed, be easier to customize when one of you inevitably want to do so, and it would be easier to manufacture,” Donnie argues, slapping the whiteboard behind him for added emphasis and offering a quick apology when Donatello flinches at the sound. “It’s basic logic! One would imagine you of all people would appreciate the simplicity and logicality of it all!”

Donatello recovers from the flinch quickly and folds his arms, sitting back in his chair and observing his younger counterpart casually. They’ve been at it for at least two hours in Donnie’s lab, circling the same issues and cycling through the same arguments about materials they should use to finally start creating new prosthetics for himself and his twin. Of course, the older turtles have only been around for about a month now, but that’s a fairly long time to be down a limb when materials are so readily available. Much of that time has been spent adjusting for and treating everyone’s concoction of mental illnesses and physical injuries. Which was unavoidable for obvious reasons. But now that a majority of that is being dealt with—not fully mastered, but in a weird, limbo state between managed and not—everyone has more free time to do what they want.

Or what has to be done. Like building prosthetics.

“I understand what you’re saying,” Donatello says. “But it’s not durable enough for my preferences.” His tone is level but not condescending as he watches his younger self pace around the whiteboard and stim away his growing frustration with the conversation. It’s understandable since Donatello himself is starting to feel the tedious back and forth start to wear on his nerves. But he knows if he starts displaying the same frustration as Donnie, they’ll both get too agitated to continue the conversation and progress will stall. Which isn’t optimal since Donatello and his brothers are starting to grow antsy about their lack of preparation.

If something were to happen and a fight were to break out, they’d be down at least a fighter and a half. Donatello can’t support his weight on one leg and fight at the same time, and while his twin is still insanely capable of fighting with one arm, it still leaves an entire side of his body a massive target. Raphael has his size to rely on, but his right eye isn’t fully healed and he still gets startled and fighty when someone moves on that side without warning. (That last point has been largely negated since Duck has been hanging out on that shoulder for a majority of their time together. But it still rears its head whenever he gets distracted.) And Michelangelo, while arguably the strongest and most prepared in terms of combat ability at the moment, has been having trouble with his mystics. An expected outcome since he did tear multiple holes in time, but it does mean that until he’s got a better handle on managing the damage, he’s basically benched.

Ok. Now that he thinks about it like that, Donatello realizes that in a fight, Raphael is probably the best of them and they’d be largely relying on their younger selves to handle the brunt of the work. And that just won’t do.

A heavy sigh falls from Donnie’s mouth and he runs both hands down his face. “It’s durable enough for everything!” he argues. “Cars, human prosthetics, sporting goods—”

“And most of those things are designed to crumble and take damage should something go wrong,” Donatello interrupts. “But I need ours to be able to withstand damage in a fight and not just crumble under the pressure. We—”

“Have us to back you up! It’s literally why we’re here! You gave us back-up with Casey Jr., and you’re staying here because. . . Well, there’s not many places for you to go, but that’s not the point here. If we happen to get into a fight and your prosthetics happen to fail, my brothers and I will pick up the slack and we’ll rebuild!”

“But how many resources will we waste when we could just build one made to last and just allot for repairs?”

“I—” Donnie’s jaw snaps shut and he stops pacing, turning to stare at Donatello flatly. His mind is working, that much is clear, trying to formulate an answer that gets his point across without upsetting the person he’s talking to. Which is mildly unsettling since, while he’s fairly uncomfortable with casual eye contact, he stares directly at the subject while he thinks. Donatello has been told he does the same thing, so he can’t get too upset since it was bound to happen.

That being said, Donatello has to set his jaw to keep himself steady under the heavy scrutiny. Like Donnie, he’s still very uncomfortable with long eye contact without warning.

Thankfully, Donnie averts his gaze and redirects it to the whiteboard, snatching a marker to fiddle with as he rereads the colorful words and charts they’ve made in their time together. “We can build a battle-ready prosthetic out of steel and other metals,” he relents carefully. “It’s always safe to have back-ups.”

Donatello raises an eyebrow, ever grateful for Donnie continuously supplying him spare bandanas and markers to be able to do so, and tilts his head. “But?”

Donnie inhales. “But we are not in wartime anymore,” he huffs. “The Foot have gone quiet and I’m actively monitoring for any signs of them resurfacing. All of our mutant opponents have also seemed to have temporarily refocused their efforts in rebuilding from the avoided invasion and staying out of the public eye for now. There is a new organization that has potential to be an issue, the EPF, but again, I am monitoring and documenting any major movements they’re making. So far, all is quiet, and the only thing we need to do is keep an eye on the looting and other minor troublemakers.”

He spins the marker between his fingers. “We can have it on hand, but we don’t need to plan for it being the only model we can build. We have resources to build multiple for multiple purposes. We aren’t limited and we are. . . safe.”

He’s right. Of course he is. Donnie has had much longer to worry about the world after the apocalypse and plan for it accordingly. Donatello’s seen the security measures he’s taken and plans on taking once he gets an opportunity. He’s read the notes and seen the articles Donnie’s printed and flipped through the catalogue of the named and potential threats that might rear their heads in an ugly way. Donnie knows.

And as much as he hates to admit it, despite the fact that he’s older and has more tech knowledge than he knows what to do with, he’s a fish out of water. He doesn’t know how to cope without fighting every day of his life. He can’t figure out how to spend his time when he’s not plotting how to keep an entire base of survivors alive another day. More importantly, he doesn’t know the threats in this new, surviving world. It drives him up a wall and makes him more than uncomfortable, but at least Donnie allows him unimpeded access to the notes and he can make his own edits if and when he finds new information about anything.

All he needs to do is get his own computer array operating to start hacking into systems of these noted threats and he’ll feel a helluva lot better.

Speaking of checking systems. . .

Donatello glances down at the old tech gauntlet Donnie loaned him and taps to awaken the screen. The system is outdated, there’s a few seconds of lag before the system gets up and running, and the band itself was too small for his arm and needed modifications to get it adjusted comfortably, but it accomplishes what he needs it to. Once the system loads, he can see his dots. Two blue, two orange, two red, a gray, a yellow, and a green, all in a loose cluster around the lair. The yellow and two oranges hang out in one room, the blues, reds, and green in another, and the gray in a third. All safe.

Well. . .

“Hey, Shelldon?” he calls. “Where’s Duckling?”

Shelldon sighs as he rises from his charging port on the table across the room. “Probably the same place they were when you asked thirty minutes ago,” he says when he gets eye level with Donatello. “They’re doing Big Mikey’s hair with April and Little Mikey. That takes time.”

Donatello waits. . .

And Shelldon sighs as he turns and heads out the lab. “Don’t lose your mind if they went to pee or something.”

“Thank you, Shelldon,” Donatello mutters, then returns his attention to the whiteboard.

Yes, he understands why the drone is so annoyed with the request. Donatello has been asking for check-ins every half hour or so on the same schedule he checks on the trackers. It’s a force of habit he developed over the course of the apocalypse, constantly monitoring his brothers even when times were calmer than usual. If they weren’t in his immediate line of sight, which was almost always given how much time he had to spend in the lab making sure everything ran smoothly, they were on his screen. Sometimes checking the trackers became the only interatction he’d have with his brothers for days. It was isolating. It was necessary. It became a habit.

“I’ll agree to the carbon fiber framework,” he starts. “But the bones, for lack of a better term, must be made from stainless steel.”

Donnie stares for a moment longer before blinking out of the conversational whiplash and nodding. “Of course,” he says, folding his arms over his chest and tapping his foot to rid himself of the excess energy from the suddenly cut argument. “It’s the most durable material and it needs to support a lot of weight. Especially when looking at your leg. Plus it just needs to withstand constant strain and overuse.”

Donatello raises an eyebrow. “Overuse?”

Donnie mimics the expression but remains silent.

After a moment, Donatello’s eyebrow lowers and he snatches a notebook and pencil from the desk to start sketching. “I’ve made at least seventeen prosthetics in the apocalypse,” he says casually. “I just need materials at this point.”

“And we should probably rebuild Leonardo’s attachment port.”

The pencil stops and Donatello looks up, watching as Donnie scribbles more shorthand on the board without turning to face him.

“It’s become partially detached and it’s clearly too small for a turtle of his size. Probably implanted before he hit his final growth spurt, I assume. The amount of wear and damage indicates he had either opted or had to wear the prosthetic for long periods of time without break.” He recaps the marker and taps the end to his chin, pointedly not looking at his older self as he reads over the calculations. “Since you all have time to relax, I think some basic maintenance is in order.”

Again, Donnie is right on all fronts. His twin’s arm was removed before they knew they were getting bigger, and limited access to parts and materials meant they didn’t exactly think about replacing the port. It just became something they had to work around with each replacement and they managed the discomfort as best they could. He can’t remember the last time Leonardo complained about it. If he ever complained at all.

“That’s going to require a bit more planning,” Donatello mumbles. “But I agree. Leonardo’s port needs maintenance.”

Donnie’s shoulders relax and he finally turns to look at Donatello. “I don’t have experience with that sort of medical procedures, but I’m glad to learn.”

“And I’m glad you only have to learn.” He returns his attention to his notebook and continues his sketch. “None of us had experience with it either until it was too late.” A faint smile flicks across his face. “I’m actually really, really glad that you two don’t have to fumble through the learning process like we did.”

There’s no possible way either of the softshells can continue the conversation without stepping on any emotional landmines, so the duo work in silence until Shelldon’s rotors break it.

“As I suspected,” the drone starts, tone dripping with exhausted annoyance as he lazily circles the room. “Little guy’s still braiding hair. Same as the last three times you asked me to check. Still there.”

“And they’re safe,” Donnie interjects firmly. “That’s the important part. We know they’re safe.”

Shelldon rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue further, silently moving toward his charging port and reclaiming his spot. “They’re happy,” he adds petulantly. “They’re adding beads or something.”

“Beads and clips.”

Donatello’s shoulders slump as Duck appears in the door, watching as the youngest stretches their arms over their shoulders and loiter in the entrance. After a moment, Donnie waves without looking and Duck steps inside, eyes darting over the whiteboard and the sketchbook in one quick glance Donatello would have missed had he not be hyperaware of their being here. He also notices the way they rub their hands and constantly flex their fingers to relieve some tension and flash him a greeting smile before making their way over and claiming a place on his lap.

“Michelangelo likes drama,” they explain as they lean back against Donatello’s plastron. “We’re taking a break though because he has a lot of hair and we’ve been working for a while.”

All of that is fair and true. Michelangelo’s hair, when managed and allowed to grow, can easily reach his waist in a matter of months. Since it became horrendously difficult to maintain hair in the wastelands of the world, he often opted to hack it off and mourn the loss. Now that he’s able to relax more, April promised to help braid his hair when he had more energy since they have the same texture. Now that Michelangelo is starting to navigate the lair on his own strength and April has a day off, they decided today would be the best time and they’ve been working for about four hours now. Normally it would take longer to do box braids with how much hair he has (it grew back with the time f*ckery), but April taught Duck and they’ve been working together and knocked it out in about half the time.

Once Donatello secures Duck in his hold, they shrug. “And I figured Shelldon was getting tired of playing message boy and decided to say hi myself. I don’t think I caught up with you today since you guy’s’ve been playing evil genius all day.”

“We’ve been playing surgeon,” Donnie corrects. “Finally getting around to replacing everyone’s prosthetics since not everyone can grow back limbs like you.”

Duck flashes him a grin and wink combo that reminds both Donnies of their Leos so much they can’t but roll their eyes.

“And we ought to start thinking about getting Duckling chipped,” Donatello notes lazily. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and I think we should do it while we’re in the medical mindset.”

There’s a brief beat of silence before Duck tilts their head back to look at Donatello. “I’m not chipped?” Donatello shrugs, so they drop their attention back to Donnie. “I’ve been a stray this whole time?” They scoff and fold their arms like a petulant child. “What’s the point of being called family if I’m not chipped like family?”

“To be fair,” Donnie starts, “I’ve been busy, and you didn’t really give much warning before you decided to play Lewis and Clark.”

“Lewis and Clark wish they went half the places I’ve been.”

“True.”

The young pair bump fists and Donnie returns to the whiteboard, allowing both Duck and Donatello to watch and listen as he starts planning the materials gathering phases of the prosthetic process. Donatello is contented to just let him go since his younger self knows where to find everything they’re going to need and the optimal time to do so. Pretty much, Donnie is using the other two as rubber ducks as he plots, and both are happy to fall into the role.

Michelangelo smiles brightly as he watches his younger self start to levitate. “There ya go, big man,” he says happily. “You got it.”

Mikey hums distractedly as a thread of concentration pulls through his brow.

The pair have been at it for a few days now, trying to focus Mikey’s mystics and prevent the cracks on his arms from spreading. They’ve been meeting up for at least an hour every day since Michelangelo gained his strength back, and paired with the twice weekly lessons from Draxum, Mikey’s gotten a better hold on using his mystics without damage. Now that he’s gotten used to managing his energy, he can start getting into the nitty gritty of becoming a badass mystic warrior.

Right now, they’re still working on the basics of actual mystics; hence the magical act of meditation and levitation.

Mikey keeps his focus for a long moment as he rises almost two feet in the air and Michelangelo watches with a smile, carefully eyeing the soft orange glow that emanates from his core and lines his whole body. But his smile falters when the glow starts focusing on his arms and the cracks on his fingers light up under the bandages.

“Hey,” Michelangelo says gently, “time to come down.”

“Hm?” Mikey’s concentration breaks and so does the levitation, sending the younger mystic crashing to the floor with a yelp. Well, he would have had Michelangelo’s own mystics not kicked in and caught him a few inches from the ground. He still yelps though.

Once everyone is settled safely back on the floor, Mikey hisses and glances down at his arms as the orange glow fades. Michelangelo is at his side in an instant, using his own mystics to soothe the ache and drain the excess just as Draxum taught him. Mikey sighs in relief. Thankfully it was only a glow and a sting and nothing is bleeding this time, so the two share a quiet laugh as Mikey shakes out his arms.

“I thought I had that taken care of,” Mikey says through a huff. “Damn.”

Michelangelo scoffs dismissively and rubs a hand on Mikey’s head. “Don’t worry about that, big guy,” he says proudly. “Trust me when I say it takes years for this sh*t to go away. And even then. . .” He holds out his own bandaged arms, smiling through a wince as he exposes his blood dotted bandages. Unlike Mikey’s (thankfully), his bandages wrap all the way up to his shoulders and around his chest and upper back. “It still happens whenever sh*t gets. . . Tricky.”

Mikey winces sympathetically and pulls his own hands back to his chest, causing Michelangelo to swear in his head at the flash of shame that crosses the younger turtle’s face. “Sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t—”

“No need for that.” Michelangelo gently takes hold of Mikey’s hands and presses them together, careful not to apply too much pressure as he cups his hands around the smaller pair. There’s not much difference between them, but he does his best to make it count. “You’re still young and learning,” he explains. “Some days are going to be harder than other, but you’ve already made fantastic strides in managing and mastering your powers! Hell, you’re already leagues beyond where I was when I was your age!”

A mild distance fills Mikey’s eyes as he nods along. “Well. . . To be fair, I had a hint.”

Michelangelo blows a loud raspberry and Mikey laughs at the volume. “Hint or not, you’re killin’ it! And, more importantly, you’re not killin’ yourself!” He squeezes once more before releasing to throw his arms up enthusiastically. “A win is a win, right!?”

Mikey laughs again and nods, this one looser and more joyful than the previous distracted placations. “A win is a win,” he concedes.

“Here.” Michelangelo stands from the floor and stretches dramatically, ignoring the tightness across his shoulders when the skin on the back of his neck tugs and smiling when he drops his arms to slap his thighs. “It’s about dinner, yeah? How bout we start cooking?”

“Yeah!” Mikey leaps to his feet and bounces a bit at the suggestion. “What are we making?”

That’s a great question. “What do we have?”

It’s been great getting back into cooking again, and having the options, time, energy, and safe location to do so were things Michelangelo didn’t realize he missed. Well, that’s a lie. He knew he missed cooking. He just didn’t realize how much he missed the reactions of the people he cooked for.

Cooking has always been his preferred way of bonding with people. Even when things were bleak during the Kraang invasion, Michelangelo did his damnedest to make the best meals he could with what they had on hand. Mostly leaves and rats, but the warmth was always the most important aspect anyway. The love he infused into his dishes usually made the horrid concoctions he had to come up with on the fly easier to stomach. The attempt at replicating dishes from his childhood and the stories he’d tell while doing so brought the survivors together.

But as the invasion dragged on and their numbers dwindled, so did Michelangelo’s ability to cook. His mystics have always been strained since Draxum died before their lessons could go deeper than basic focus and control. Much of what Michelangelo does is made up of decades of trial and error and years of pain, confusion, anger, and impulse. His powers flared with his emotions, usually in the heat of battle when he had to move and react on instinct, and he did his best to recreate the mindset later in a more controlled setting with Donatello’s help.

These tests, controlled or otherwise, took a massive toll on his physical appearance, and on top of rapidly aging him after mystic use became a daily thing, the cracks on his arms stopped closing. They never bled as badly as the first time he had a massive outburst, but they never healed. And cleanliness was an issue near the end, so he constantly had to keep them covered to prevent infection from setting in too bad for Leonardo to fix. And with these open wounds came the trembling and pain that made cooking impossible and closed off one of the few joys he was able to salvage from the invasion.

Even though this most recent display of power undid much of the mystic aging, the cracks on his arms remain prominent. Painless, thankfully, but he still occasionally has issues holding and manipulating things.

He’s so glad Mikey doesn’t have to put himself through that.

“You alright?”

Michelangelo blinks from his impromptu trip down memory lane and finds himself in the kitchen. Mikey’s brow is tight with concern as he watches the older turtle scan their surroundings and shake his head to clear the fog. When was the last time he zoned out so hard he lost time?

“Michelangelo?”

“Hm?” Michelangelo shakes his head firmer and forces a smile. “Oh, yeah. Just thinking about some things.”

“I can see that.”

There’s a hint of Dr. Feelings creeping around the edges of his tone in a way that makes Michelangelo uncomfortable. Upon a lot of reflection and conversations with his family, he knows how bad his desire to fix everyone’s problems can be. He knows this very intimately because it nearly killed him.

The combined strain of keeping himself and his brothers alive, the drain of his mystics, and being a higher-ranking member of the resistance merged with the innate desire to make sure everyone was keeping a decent enough grip on their mental health in a way that made him forget about his own wellbeing. It all came to an ugly head when his mystics flared up in nasty way and almost burned him alive from the inside. Mercifully, he wasn’t awake for most of the containment or healing process, but he couldn’t talk for a month from the burns and scarring in his throat. He still tastes blood whenever he raises his voice in anger.

After that little mishap, he and his brothers had a long, emotionally grueling, heartbreaking, frustrating, tearful conversation about everyone’s mental and emotional states, and they buckled down on making sure everyone knew that they’re all they had at the time. That meant they needed to be able to rely on each other if they were going to make it. A conversation that ended in Leonardo and Donatello getting into a physical fight, Raphael screaming in actual anger for the first time in what felt like years, and Michelangelo pushing through his pain to sob and finally break down with the weight of everything he’s been carrying.

It took them a few days to stabilize after the fallout, but blessedly, the conversation had the intended effect and everyone grew closer and more vulnerable with each other.

So after all that, seeing his younger self keeping up the persona of therapist hurts.

He’s so young.

Michelangelo’s forced smile softens with his sadness and he steps forward, carefully wrapping his arms around Mikey’s shoulders and holding him close. Even though he’ll never be taller than his older brothers, he is taller than Mikey, so he’s able bend slightly and rest his cheek on the top of his head. Mikey stiffens for a moment before melting into the embrace and sighing against his plastron.

“I’m fine,” Michelangelo promises. “You don’t have to worry about it.”

“But—”

“If there was an issue, I’d talk to someone about it.” He tightens his hold ever so slightly and ignores the faint sting of his scars pulling on his arms. “You don’t have to worry about me.” He allows a beat of silence to pass between them before slumping slightly. “You don’t have to take care of everything on your own.”

The tension returns and Mikey fumbles for a response.

“I know,” Michelangelo says with a nod. “Trust me. But the faster you learn that, the easier things will be.” He withdraws slightly and holds Mikey by the shoulders. “And when you start trusting your brothers more with your feelings, then they’ll start trusting you more with theirs. No more bulldozing through emotional walls. They’ll just. . . Come to you.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in before a dangerous, watery shine fills Mikey’s eyes and he quickly swipes it away with the back of his hand. “Sorry,” he says shakily. “That. . .”

Michelangelo nods and pulls him back in. “I know. You guy’s’ll be ok. Trust me.”

Mikey nods and exhales slowly. “I do,” he says. “Don’t worry.”

“I should be saying that to you, big guy.” Michelangelo rubs his shell for a few more seconds before pulling away and smiling. “Now come on. We better get cracking on dinner before the biggest guys start getting hungry.”

A light laugh bubbles from Mikey’s core as he nods and wipes away the last of his tears. “I’m not worried about them. It’s Dad I’m concerned about.”

“Damn right.”

The duo share a shudder and a laugh, then they turn and make their way to the cabinets and fridge to start cooking. It would be easiest to make spaghetti since all of the ingredients are ready and available; boxed noodles, jarred sauce, etc. So they settle on spaghetti, but with the added caveat of making everything from scratch.

What can he say? Michelangelo hasn’t had an opportunity to fully express himself with food since the invasion began. What’s a better time to do so when a perfect combination of opportunity, availability, and energy finally came together and laid itself out perfectly for his consumption? Plus, for the first time in a while, Michelangelo’s hands aren’t in an obscene amount of pain, so all he needs to do is slap on a pair of gloves to cover his bandages and he’s good to work.

The box turtles fall into happy chatter as they work, laughing boisterously as they tell stories about their brothers from times long forgotten and times that aren’t to come. They excitedly work the dough into fun pasta shapes and compliment each other on their various sauces they come up with (they decided to make a regular marinara sauce, and an alfredo sauce since they couldn’t settle on one in their eagerness to make food) and even debate making homemade garlic bread before they’re stopped in their tracks by the telltale click of a cell phone camera going off.

Michelangelo’s instincts kick into gear first and he whips around, mystics flaring to life and manifesting as burning orange chains that form a protective barrier between the new arrival and Mikey behind him. His startle turns to embarrassment and a hint of shame as Leonardo freezes with his cellphone in hand, and he’s quick to suppress everything when he realizes who he’s looking at.

“Sorry,” he and his older brother say at the same time.

“Nope,” Leonardo dismisses as he pockets his phone. “I startled you. I’m apologizing. You’re shutting the hell up and accepting it.”

“I—”

“Shutting up.”

“Bu—”

“Shuuuuttttiinng uuuuupp.” To emphasize his point, Leonardo crosses the floor and drags his youngest brother under his arm, leaning down to rub the side of his face against the top of Michelangelo’s head since he can’t give him a proper noogie. “I’m pulling the big brother card and telling you to shut up, and you’re going to listen!”

Michelangelo laughs and attempts to pull free from his brother’s hold, but it’s surprisingly difficult to do so. Not that he’s trying too hard to get away, but one would imagine it’d be easier to free themself from a one-armed turtle. He can’t help but laugh at the antics.

“Alright! Alright!” Michelangelo relents through his joy. “I’m not gonna apologize! Now let go! I gotta finish cooking!”

Leonardo releases as soon as the words hit the air and they take a moment to hold onto each other and laugh, basking in the joy of the moment and sighing happily as they wipe away their tears when they finally gather themselves. Michelangelo can’t remember the last time he and Leonardo laughed like that, as joy became as scarce as recourses nearing the end of the invasion. It took a long time to start smiling again after Dad and Draxum died, and even longer than that when they started losing brothers. By the time the final base was destroyed and Leonardo made the call to send Casey Jr. back, it felt like nothing would get them to smile again. The only reason they did in the end was to reassure CJ and give him a better memory to hang on to than the ones he’s had before. Being back here is doing wonders for them, barring any complications from the varying issues they’ve brought back.

“What’re you making?” Leonardo asks, stepping back to rest against the island as Michelangelo returns to the stove with Mikey. “Smells divine.”

“We made spaghetti!” Mikey cheers. “Homemade and everything!”

Leonardo gives a low, slow whistle of amazement as he watches the duo shuffle near the stove, checking and rechecking everything they have on burners and easily moving between and around each other as if they’re a well-oiled machine. “Homemade pasta? When was the last time we had that?”

“I don’t wanna think about it.” Michelangelo flicks his eyes over to Leonardo, an unspoken caution on his face that is mostly hidden by his contented smile. Thankfully his brother takes the hint and nods subtly. “I just wanna think about how good this food is gonna be!”

“I can get behind that. How much longer?”

"Not too long. The pasta doesn’t take too long to cook.”

“Hell yeah.”

Mikey tilts his head. “Weren’t we gonna make garlic bread?”

“Right, we were talking—”

Their conversation falls silent as Leonardo’s stomach growls loudly from his place at the island, and he pointedly directs his attention to one of the drawings on the wall. “I. . . Miiight have. . .forgotten to eat. . . All. . . day.”

Two heavy presences fill the room and Leonardo slowly sinks into his shell as Dr. Delicate Touch rears two heads. “Hamato Leonardo.”

“How the f*ck did you forget to eat all day!?”

Leonardo lifts his hand in surrender as his youngest brother levitates to meet his eyes and his younger counter taps his foot impatiently. “I’ve been busy! The nerds started on the prosthetics this morning, then Dad wanted to talk for a while, then I got caught watching wrestling with the Raphs! I didn’t even realize I was hungry until I came to be nosey!”

Michelangelo points firmly at the cabinets. “Get a snack,” he says stiffly. “Now.”

Properly scolded, Leonardo doesn’t argue as he eases his way between the “doctors” and snags a couple cereal bars from the cabinet he was directed to. After he finishes one, Michelangelo nods and lowers himself back to the ground, watching carefully as he starts on the second.

“So you just came to be nosey?”

Leonardo hums around his most recent bite before swallowing to answer. “I got bored watching wrestling and I was going to see if I could rope Littlest into doing something, but they came in and got too close to Raphael and now they’re playing stuffed animal. Then I thought about bothering the Donnies, but that just sounded like a bad idea all around and decided to just come here instead.”

A pretty solid explanation given everything. Leonardo started having problems with being alone after they lost Raphael. He wouldn’t go into any specific details about the issues even after their massive heart to heart, but Michelangelo and Donatello understood that sometimes their brother would silently show up and linger in whatever room they were in and wouldn’t say anything for hours. Especially after missions. Not that being alone was ideal for anyone as time went on, but it was particularly difficult for Leonardo.

Michelangelo nods in understanding and Leonardo offers a small, grateful smile at the gesture.

“Where’s Leo?” Mikey asks as he starts dropping noodles into a pot of boiling water. “Have you tried talking to him?”

If Michelangelo weren’t so in tune with his older brothers’ emotions, he would have missed the flinch. But since he is ever the face man, Leonardo covers it by shrugging lazily and flashing a charming smile. “He was reading. New JJ comic came out earlier this week and I don’t wanna bother him. I wanna read it soon, but I’m letting him have his moment.”

Michelangelo files the information away in the “we’re going to have a conversation about that later” category and shoots his brother a look that says the same, earning another subtle flinch as they shift their attention back to the food.

“Here,” he says to Leonardo. “Can you start getting dishes out? It’ll make everything easier if this are ready to grab and go when it’s time to eat.”

Leonardo salutes and moves to the cabinet with the dishes. “On it, boss!”

The trio slip back into idle chatter as the final preparations are made for dinner; plates and cutlery are arranged, pasta is finished, sauces are tested and approved. Once the assembly line is prepped, Mikey, Michelangelo, and Leonardo nod in satisfaction at the sight before turning and calling for dinner, happy to reap the emotional fruits of their labors.

Raphael knows he’s hitting the bag too hard. He knows that Donnie just got around to making fabric that was sturdy enough to handle teenage Raph’s punches and it’s definitely not going to withstand the force behind adult Raphael’s hits. But he needs this. He’s been still for too long, no longer needing to constantly fight for his life or the lives of those around him. Even the resident baddies of the week seemed to have taken a break while the state recovers from—

He hits again. Harder, feeling the fabric begin to split under his knuckles. It doesn’t burst, though, not fully, but the give is obvious. Of course it is. Raphael is ten feet of muscle and force, built for battle and hardened under the vilest conditions imaginable. He’s made to hit hard and drop whatever he targets with efficiency. If he missed or didn’t kill with each blow, his family would—

The bag groans ominously as he hits it again, and a deep growl pushes from the back of his throat. He shouldn’t think about that stuff anymore. He should be able to put everything behind him, right? They’re safe. His family is safe. His brothers are alive, and so are all of the younger versions. Hell, the younger versions didn’t even lose Duck like they did. So not only did they succeed where he and his brothers failed, they did it twice.

His anger simmers in his chest as he finally delivers the blow that breaks the bag. They shouldn’t have had to pick up the piece of the world he and his brothers broke. They’re so young.

“You know. . .”

Raphael’s mystics flare with his startle and he whips around, world going red as a protective projection encases his body and shields him from the new threat. His arm raises in a fist and he bares his teeth as his eyes lock on the new form in the doorway.

Leonardo stands completely impassive at his oldest brother’s display, only a mild shade of caution tightening his brow as he watches the gears turn in Raphael’s mind. Of course it’s Leonardo. Raphael knew that. He recognized his voice as soon as it hit his ear and he still reacted like he was an enemy. His own brother. The one he died to protect.

“I was thinking,” Leonardo goes on, completely unaffected by the danger he was just in now. “You need a break. It’s time to get you out of the lair, big guy. And I know exactly how to do that.”

It takes an uncomfortably long time for Raphael to dispel his projection, and that only happens when Duck pokes their head over Leonardo’s shoulder. There’s a brief look of confusion on Duck’s face with it first appears, but it’s quickly wiped by complete and utter awe as they watch the red fade.

“Holy sh*t,” they whisper. Based on the volume they use, Raphael isn’t sure if he was supposed to hear it, but as always, it seems their emotions aren’t as easily as suppressed as they think and their whisper to become a dramatic wheeze rather than a secretive hum. “Can I do that?”

“I don’t think so, Littlest,” Leonardo says, mimicking their own dramatics to frown deeply and shake his head. “Sadly our oldest brother is the only one who can be that awesome.”

“f*ck.”

Despite the tension still hanging off his shoulders, Raphael laughs at their antics; mostly his brother’s since Duck’s emotions are genuine while Leonardo is mostly poking fun. It’s clear they’re both happy, though, relaxed and enjoying the ability to cling to one another without care. Raphael knows he himself is guilty of clinging to the youngest family member whenever he gets a chance. He lost them before. He doesn’t want to do that again. Based on how much time his brothers spend looking for or holding onto the littlest, they feel the same. No one talks about it.

“Anyway,” Leonardo says, planting his hand on his hip as Duck rests their chin on his other shoulder. “Littlest, Raph, and I are going to the Hidden City. Wanna come?”

The thought of any of his family members leaving the safety of the lair sends a shiver through his shell, but he suppresses it with a deep inhale. “Sure,” he says casually. “Lemme clean up and I’ll be ready in a bit.”

There’s no way Leonardo missed the crack in his composure, but he politely ignores it in front of Duck and salutes. “Got it, Cap! We’ll be in the living room.”

“But we’re not going to start a show or movie,” Duck instructs as Leonardo turns and starts to the main living area. “We’re not going to get too distracted and not go out. Again.”

“Damn. Foiled.”

Again, Raphael chuckles as he listens to the pair bicker down the hall. It’s almost hilarious how easily they slipped back into their past relationship of constant physical contact mixed with easy banter and offhanded jokes, especially considering how much Leonardo changed over time. At first Raphael didn’t notice it since he was with his brother almost every day for his entire life. It’s hard to see change with you’re shifting with it. But when placed directly beside his younger self, it’s fairly easy to see how much Leonardo matured and grew and, ironically, softened during the apocalypse. Leonardo long since dropped the walls Leo still carries and shields himself with.

Raphael can’t help but wonder when he’s going to lower them now that the world isn’t ending.

He sighs and runs a hand down his face, wincing ever so slightly when his palm runs across the tender scar tissue around his right eye. At this point, Raphael should be used to how it feels, and he is for the most part. But something about being dragged back has made it sore all over again. Maybe he’ll talk to Leonardo about getting another eye patch. That managed light sensitivity and kept it safe from accidental touches. He wonders if the youngers even have one on hand since—

“Need help?”

Raphael’s startle this time isn’t as violent as the previous, only causing him to snap his attention over and raise an arm to defend rather than create a full body projection. He has to stop reacting violently to being startled. There are other people in the house. People are going to come in with varying levels of warning. He can’t hit them because that would likely kill them. He’d rather die again than end up injuring one of his family members.

Like Leonardo before, Raph stands unaffected in the doorway, smiling faintly as he watches Raphael sigh in relief and lower his arm. “Sorry,” he says softly as he enters the dojo. “I thought I walked louder. Everyone says I’m heavy footed.”

“All of us are heavy footed,” Raphael replies. “Even Mikey.” He shakes his head. “Sorry. Michelangelo. Once you get over six feet, I guess your footsteps just get heavy.”

“That makes sense.” Raph laughs lightly. “I keep getting Leonardo, Donatello, and Michelangelo confused when they walk because I’m not used to Mikey being. . .tall.”

Raphael laughs and nods in agreement.

“I mean, I don’t think anything is ‘tall’ for you,” Raph goes on. “But I can look him in the eye now. It’s weird.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Raphael says through his mirth. “You’re about to hit your next growth spurt. It won’t be that way too long.” He sighs in content. “Again, kinda forgot how small everyone used to be. Looking at the Mikeys made me realize that Mikey—your Mikey—really just cleared five feet for a long time.”

“When does he start growing?”

“Not too long from now.” Raphael reaches over and places a fond hand on Raph’s head, rubbing slightly and smiling as the younger leans into the touch. “Don’t worry. You’ll always be their big brother.”

Raph exhales. “Clearly.”

The pair laugh as Raphael drags Raph against his chest and hugs him close. Even though he’s at least twenty years older than Raph, it’s always a surprise for him to realize how young and small he was when everything started. Taller and bigger than the rest of the family, but too small to have faced the end. He hugs tighter, and again, Raph leans into it.

Raphael remembers how sad he was when he realized he could no longer be held by his dad and brothers like he could hold them, unable to be fully engulfed in the warmth and love he knew they meant to put behind the embrace like he could. Of course, the issue remedied itself when he learned to control his mystics, but before then, hugging was a semi-isolating experience. Now that he’s here, he’ll do his best to hug his younger self like he’s always wanted to be hugged while making sure he learns to manage his size sooner than he did.

Everyone deserves an engulfing hug.

Raph’s next laugh breaks the contentment in the air and shakes his head ever so slightly. “You ever think about Duck getting tall?”

A prickle of cold settles in Raphael’s chest, and if he didn’t already have a death grip on his composure, he would have tensed. Instead, he forces a laugh and shakes his head. “That’d be a sight,” he says. “I’d pay money to see the day they break five feet.” (He’d give a lot more than that, but Raph doesn’t need to know that.)

“We’ll have to start keeping track,” Raph goes on, unaware of the sliver of agony he slipped between Raphael’s ribs. “If everyone else isn’t already.”

“Yeah.” Raphael’s throat is tight, but he swallows to keep it in check. “Here. We oughta start cleaning up. Leonardo’s caught the habit of leaving without warning when he’s on to something.”

Raph laughs and nods as the duo finally break apart their embrace. “He always seemed close to that edge anyway. When did he finally take the plunge?”

“Nineteen. But I’m pretty sure we started noticing him getting antsy when Duck really started going.”

“Damn. And here I thought we were being overprotective. . . But. . .wandering in the apocalypse?”

Raphael laughs (grateful for the action to keep his voice from shaking) and nods. “I don’t know how, but he managed. One time. . .”

He’s grateful for the distraction, he is. But he can’t keep his mind off how he never got to see if Duck finally grew to stand over five feet because he lost them. The world went to sh*t and they were the first casualty. Hell, they couldn’t even confirm if that was even true since everything got really, really bad really fast and they couldn’t search for them. What made matters worse is Donnie never chipped Duck like he did with his other family members.

Is he chipped now? He makes a note to ask the Donnies later.

“And,” Raph starts, pulling Raphael from his reverie and back to the present, “done!”

Right. They were cleaning. And now they’re done, the broken bag replaced and the sand swept from the floor underneath. At least he didn’t startle since Raphael definitely started down a slow spiral and wasn’t really paying attention to what he said or did while he was thinking.

Maybe he needs to schedule an appointment with Dr. Feelings to get that under control.

“You oughta shower,” Raph goes on. “You kinda got a bit of Thinkin’ Stink goin’ on.”

Now Raphael laughs for real, and he clamps a hand down on Raph’s shoulder. “We agreed not to talk about my stinks.”

Raph grins and playfully shakes free of the hold. “We’ll renegotiate when we get back. Right now, I’m gonna check on Leonardo and Duck. Make sure they’re still there.”

Another sliver hits Raphael in the ribs, but he smiles through it. “That’s a good idea,” he says as he motions for his younger self to lead the way. “Here, we’ll go together.”

Sometimes he forgets how perceptive the children are, because he knows Raph picked up on the undercurrent of worry that threaded through his tone and frowns at it. But he also forgot how bad at talking about their issues they are at this stage, so Raph simply notes it and smiles as if he didn’t. Part of Raphael is grateful for that since they are children and they shouldn’t have to deal with the emotional baggage of someone two decades their senior. But on the other hand, he wants to bundle him up again and tell him to ‘TALK ABOUT YOUR FEELINGS, DAMN IT! IT MAKES LIFE EASIER!’

That conversation will probably happen soon. He can feel it. The universe will find a way to make it happen. Hell, the world ended before Raphael and his brothers had a good sit down, so a close call would probably do the same, right? He’s seen the way the children have been dancing around some issues. There’s no way any Mikey he knows would allow that to linger for much longer.

“Look, I’m saying is you’re never going to make any progress if you keep throwing bitch punches like that.”

The tone Leonardo uses makes Raphael raise a metaphorical eyebrow, but he keeps his curiosity in check until he can confirm what’s going on.

He can’t help but smile at the antics in the living room when he gets there, all curiosity melting to a fond exasperation as he watches the scene unfold. Based on the brief glance about, Leonardo and Duck must have started an impromptu sparring match or something else of the sort. Which isn’t uncommon since Duck has been interested in training for a while; a sentiment that only grew since they’ve been going out of New York more and more often.

He also remembers them talking to Donnie about something for protection back in the day, but he never recalls the outcome of those conversations. He should probably follow up on that.

Later. Right now, he’s busy laughing as Duck squirms helplessly under Leonardo’s shell as the latter reclines carelessly across the former’s stomach. Hilariously, despite Duck’s efforts, Leonardo hardly shifts under their movements, only really shifting on his own volition to twist his head and look at them.

“You’re going to wear yourself out,” he says casually. “You need to focus your efforts.”

“I’m going to punch you in the face!” Duck says through their teeth. “Get off, you old lump!”

Leonardo clicks his tongue in disappointment. “You’ll end up breaking your own hand if you focus on head and face shots. And there’s a risk you’ll miss and end up getting too close to do anything. You really oughta focus your efforts on diaphragm shots. Those’ll get you more bang for your buck.” He hisses in faux disappointment. “Sadly, you won’t get very far with those on me cause. . .” He pauses to knock on his plastron and shrugs. “Armored.”

“Get! Off! Of! Meee!” Duck says. Their tone ends in a laugh, though, when Leonardo flicks them between the eyes. “Leonardo! You’re too old for this! Get up before you throw your back out!”

“Your concern is noted, but unneeded! Behold!” He shifts his weight again to allow them to see more of his shell and the various patches and old cracks that litter it. “Armored!”

Duck grunts and wheezes as Leonardo’s weight compresses their stomach, and they tilt their head back to look down the hall. “Tello! Come get your twin! He’s bothering me!”

This time Raph’s laughter draws both sets of eyes in their direction and he shakes his head. “He’s working on something with Donnie,” he explains as he and his older make their way down the stairs. “You’d have better luck calling a Mikey or Leo.”

“Leo’s with Casey Jr. and April doing something,” Leonardo reminds. “And the Mikeys caught the art bug, so who knows when we’ll see anyone else again.”

“Dinner,” Raphael says as he crosses to them. “They’ll never let a dinner go by without cooking and making everyone eat, so we’ll see them then.”

Leonardo shoots him a finger gun. “You’re right.”

“Of course I am. Anway, what’s happening here?”

Duck huffs again as Leonardo returns to his normal recline, still failing to remove himself from their gut, though. “Your middle brother is trying to kill me,” they huff. They attempt to shove their way out from under Leonardo again, but again, it doesn’t do much. “Do something!”

Raphael laughs and takes a step forward. “Leo—”

But he stops when Leonardo holds his hand in his direction. “You can’t keep bailing them out, big guy,” he says. There’s a surprising amount of seriousness underlining the blasé tone he uses and a hidden steel in his eyes, both only noticed by Raphael since he’s heard it so much over the years. “This is training. They need to learn how to use their own strengths and abilities to get themself out of situations. We aren’t always going to be there.”

The last statement wasn’t meant to be a jab, so Raphael doesn’t take it like one. It does hurt, though. Because it’s true. He lost Duck. He doesn’t know—

“Holy sh*t!”

Raphael is brought from his spiral by Leonardo flailing slightly as he starts floating off the ground, doing his best to balance as the only thing keeping him stable becomes Duck. They seem incredibly proud of the action and beams brightly as, once they get high enough to do so, they push off the ground, use the momentum to flip so that Leonardo is under them, then lets the levitation end. They only fall about two feet, but Leonardo grunts like he’s been slammed by Kraang hound.

It’s not a sound Raphael likes hearing, and he nearly leaps into action to save him, but of course the logical part of his brain keeps him still since Leonardo is very clearly ok. There’s no blood, no wounds, no threats around. Just one of his little brothers being overly dramatic as always.

Duck whoops a cheer as they scramble to sit upright on Leonardo’s shell, careful to avoid a majority of the cracks and tender spots as they wiggle and grin in their triumph. “Holy sh*t!” they say happily, throwing their hands in the air victoriously as Leonardo tilts his head to look at them over his shoulder. “You’re so heavy! Why are you like this!”

“Seven five of pure muscle and war memories.” He grunts lazily as he reaches behind himself and grabs Duck’s leg, then moves to a kneel, lifting the smaller mutant just in time to keep them from falling as he rises. Duck yelps and Leonardo yawns as he stands, holding Duck upside down by the ankle in front of him and smiling proudly as they blink to reorient themself. “Great job, Littlest,” he says as if they’re discussing the weather. “That’s the kind of innovation I was looking for.”

“Bullsh*t,” Duck scoffs. “You just proved that twenty years does nothing to make you less of a pain in the ass!”

Donatello’s laugh draws their attention to the top of the stairs as he and Donnie make their way down. They don’t move as slow as Raphael would like since Donatello still doesn’t have a prosthetic, but that’s never stopped him from moving before. Even though seeing him navigating the stairs with one hand on his crutch and the other on the rail and only half of his attention does make the oldest turtle nervous, he knows bringing attention to it won’t help. He just watches and makes plans to move if the need arises. Based on the way Leonardo gets quieter, so does he.

Of course, Donatello has no issues navigating the stairs and soon he and Donnie are taking seats at the bottom and relaxing.

“Thanks for confirming something I’ve been trying to say this whole time,” he says through a smile. “I was starting to believe everyone else was losing it.”

“What’s going on, guys?” Leonardo says, casually swinging Duck to hang over his shoulder and huffing a laugh at the yelp they give at the movement. “Break time?”

“Break time.”

“Aren’t you all supposed to be running Duck’s errands?” Donnie asks. “It’s getting late.”

Duck grunts as they sit up to see the Donnies around Leonardo’s arm. “I’m going,” they assure through the strain. “Whether or not I have company while doing so is up for debate.”

Leonardo jostles them and they fall back to lying on his shell. “We’re going,” he agrees. “We just asked Raphael to join us and we’re waiting for him to get ready.”

“Is that so?” Donatello slides his eyes over to Raphael’s. “We’re finally getting some sunlight?”

AKA: Are you really letting these guys out of the lair?

Raphael smiles. “Better than nothing.”

AKA: I’ll keep them safe.

Donatello shrugs. “If you say so. Anyway, I heard my name earlier?”

“I called for help!” Duck sits up again and points at the one-legged turtle. “Two minutes ago! And you didn’t do sh*t!”

“I was busy.”

Donnie nods. “We’re multitasking,” he explains, “working on Foundling’s GPS tracker and the various prosthetics that are needed for our drop ins. We were in the process of finishing the wiring in one of Leonardo’s fingers and we couldn’t leave until that was done.”

Donatello hums. “That’s pretty much it. Sorry, Duckling.”

Duck grunts as they lean back for the final time. “I would’ve liked to know that,” they grumble. “You guys just leave me alone with a known menace and—”

Leonardo rolls his eyes and jostles them again. “Yeah, yeah, I’m a pain, we get it.” He turns to Raphael and nods. “Go get ready. I don’t think Littlest here is gonna wait too much longer.”

“He has a point,” Duck says. “I am leaving soon.”

“See. Impatient child.”

Raphael nods and waves them down. “Lemme shower and we can go.”

Duck hums. “I have a weird question about that.”

Leonardo raises an eyebrow, but Donatello intercepts before he can say anything. “Raphael can control his size at will. His natural size is still ten feet tall, yes. But he doesn’t remain that way when he needs to function in a smaller environment.”

Just like always when they get new information, Duck’s eyes shine excitedly and snap their attention to Raphael. “What?”

A mildly smug smile twitches on the corners of Raphael’s mouth and he nods in confirmation before focusing and losing three feet of height. “It’s pretty convenient,” he says, fighting back laughter as Duck scrambles out of Leonardo’s hold and onto his shoulder. “Especially when life isn’t exactly built for mutants my size.”

“Holy sh*t.” Between one word and the next, Duck launches themself from Leonardo’s shoulder and lands on the ground in front of Raphael, causing the oldest turtle to laugh as they examine him closely. “Holy sh*t! How—”

Raphael drops another few feet and levels off with Duck, then ends up blinking in shock as he takes in his new perspective. He totally misses the shocked choking yelp they give as a response and the laughter from the remaining turtles. “Holy sh*t indeed,” he says. “Is this really how you go through life? sh*t, man, you’re really small. This feels dangerous.”

This is how small they were when they went missing in the apocalypse. But Raphael does his best not to think about that.

“This is really weird,” Leonardo agrees. “I never thought I’d see the day Raph would be smaller than us.”

“It was bound to happen,” Donatello notes. “Experimentation and all that.”

“Still. It’s weird.”

“It really is.”

Raphael snorts. “If you think that’s weird, you should see things from down here.” He finally looks back at Duck and finds them motioning for Donnie to take pictures and waving frantically when they receive a thumbs up as reply. “I’ll be done in a bit,” he assures, causing them to jump to attention and whirl on him. “Then we’ll go.”

“Alright,” Leonardo says, reaching down and scooping Duck once again since they’re too stunned to properly respond. “We’ll hold you to that.”

“Great.” Raphael adds more height back to his stature to level with his brother and smiles at Duck’s excited gasp. “Ten minutes.”

“Take fifteen. The geek squad is here. We’ll keep ourselves entertained.”

“Thanks.” He reaches over to rub Duck’s head briefly before patting the rest of the family members on the shell, shoulders, and head as he passes before disappearing down the hall. He can’t help but laugh at the excited whispering behind him.

[Infant: Awake?]

Of course Leo’s awake. It’s only one in the morning, and any hopes of getting to sleep before three without medical interference is all but quashed. The last time he managed that was after the invasion, and that’s only because he was so hurt and his adrenaline crashed so bad he literally couldn’t keep himself upright. That was also the first time he managed to get more than ten hours of sleep in one go, but the last two were riddled with so many nightmares he hesitates to count them.

Still, eight hours in one go is great for him.

[Me: Let yourself in]

There’s a three-minute wait before Leo glances up as the door to his train car opens and Duck steps in. Two things stand out immediately as they carefully slide the door shut. One, their exhaustion hanging off them like a weighted blanket. And two, they slump immediately when they turn and make eye contact with Leo.

The slider sits up immediately but hesitates when Duck holds a hand up to stop him from going any further. “Slow your roll there, brother mine,” they say as they make their way over. “I’m just tired. We’re all good.”

“Is that why you slumped like you got hit?” Leo says, opening his arms as Duck gets closer and enclosing them in a hug when they step into his embrace. “Hm? Or was that just drama? Because I thought we agreed I’m the dramatic one, right?”

Duck huffs a laugh and pulls away, only to readjust to sprawl across Leo’s bed and rest their head on his lap. “I’m not being dramatic,” they mumble. “I’m being tired.”

“You? Tired? At one in the morning?” He places the back of his hand on Duck’s forehead and smiles at Duck’s light laughter at his action. “Are you feeling ok? Did you catch something in the market? I’d hate to tell Draxum your immune system’s been compromised.”

“My immune system is fine. Don’t be a dick. I’m tired, not sick.”

They’re right because of course they are. They might not be that old, but they do know what their standard health is, and they don’t feel hot or sweaty like they normally would if they got sick. And Leo can’t exactly blame them for being tired. Today was a market day, and despite the fact that they’ve been going to the Hidden City market for at least a year and half with varying degrees of company, they always need a few hours to recover from all the activity. Under normal circ*mstances, they would chill out in Donnie’s room or lab, sitting quietly in one corner while Donnie talks at them about what he’s doing or blatantly ignoring them while he works. It’s something of a ritual whenever they hang out in the lair since Donnie understands the most about market overload.

But that routine was wrecked pretty heavily since the arrival of the future turtles since Donnie couldn’t unwind with Duck working on the prosthetics and tracker with Donatello. Not to mention how none of the other olders want to let them out of their sight, even going so far as to dragging them into their turtle piles at night and keeping a hold on them throughout. It’s honestly a miracle they’ve put up with it for so long since Leo can’t remember the last time they had a moment to themself.

They basically bounce between all the other pairs of turtles and the only alone time they get is when they go to the bathroom or take a shower. He can’t even remember if they’ve been over to Draxum’s since they’ve been back, which has to be sad since they love their stand-in father. They just can’t get away from the older turtles long enough to do so, and every time they try to leave, they either get an escort or distracted long enough for them to not go.

Part of Leo can’t blame them for their actions. Like, don’t get him wrong, he tries not to openly display his clingier behaviors. Once he found out how close they were to losing Duck, he also felt reluctant to leave them alone. Which didn’t really help when he realized they were already out and about in the world. But he had to play face and got them to rush home on their own instead of immediately portalling them home like he wanted. Still, being the first one to see them and confirm their safety helped a lot.

The other part is annoyed since Duck can take care of themself, and even if they can’t he and his own brothers can. They’re not going to lose Duck again. Leo won’t allow it. He’s also not going to baby them and act like they’re going to die as soon as they walk out the door. Duck might not be the best at self-defense (hell, they’re barely good at it), but he knows Donnie built them at least two gadgets that can more than make up for where they fault and he himself has been on the receiving end of one of their better kicks. And who knows all the sh*t Draxum probably taught them since they’ve lived with him for more than two years at this point. They’ll be fine.

All that’s to say, he’s happy to finally get some down time with his youngest family member, even though they’re probably going to fall asleep soon. He can’t remember the last time he’s had a second with them beyond being the first to see them get home safe.

A finger appears in his face and he’s poked on the nose, jarring him from his budding frustration as he snags the hand and holds it still.

“Your thinking is putting me to sleep,” Duck grumbles. “I didn’t come here to sleep yet. I came to talk.”

Leo snorts and drops the hand. “You’re not doing much for someone who wants to talk,” he jokes as he rests his arm across their face. “Looks to me like you came to play manifest destiny with my bed and clock out.”

Duck snorts and shoves Leo’s arm away. “It’s barely one,” they remind. “I’m not going down for a while.”

“Then sit the f*ck up, you’re taking up space.”

“Shut the hell up. You said—”

And the two are off, bickering and snickering and trying their best to keep themselves quiet as they try to push each other off the bed and claim it for themself. Eventually, though, the pair end up as they always do when Duck ends up in Leo’s room; the latter lying on his plastron with a pillow tucked under his chest and the former lying on their stomach on his shell. Leo’s phone is precariously propped on a well crumbled blanket as a seven-hour video essay plays on the screen. It’s highly unlikely either of them will make it through the entire video since they’re both comfortable and finally feeling the draw of sleep settle over them like the blanket they lie under.

“Ya’thin’tha pe’pl wh’worked on thi’show hate tha fac’th’re only gonna be known fer workin’on thi’show?” Duck slurs, head already buried in their arms and eyes fully off the screen. They even took off one of their hearing aids and their goggles to make themself as comfortable as possible while still being able to ‘pay attention’ to the video. “Cuz tha’d suck.”

Leo feels a faint smile creep on his face and he nods, he too teetering on the edge of sleep but fighting it off until this next section ends. He isn’t sure he’s going to win the battle, but he’ll be damned if he goes down without a fight. “Prob’ly,” he replies from his own arm nest. “No. . . Def’nitly. Buncha act’rs came out and said they were.”

Duck hums a low, thoughtful note and nods slowly against his shell. “I di’nt know that.”

“Do you not pay attention to the media?”

“Pff. No?”

“God, I wish that were me.”

The duo break into a fit of exhausted, hysterical giggles, wiggling and slapping palms on the mattress in an attempt to keep themselves from bubbling over. It’s always nice when they have moments like this, slap happy from sleep deprivation and careless in spreading their joy between each other. Usually they’re calmer than they are now, but that’s because they’ve spent all day f*cking around with each other and wearing each other out.

They ended up losing much of that luxury since the future gang dropped in.

Leo sighs and lets his head fall back into his arms and he hums lazily as he feels Duck peter out and do the same.

“I missed you,” Duck admits, tone clearer but still heavy with exhaustion. “It feels like I haven’t seen you in weeks.”

He can’t exactly say he doesn’t feel the same, but Leo isn’t going to admit that. That’d likely pave the way for Duck to ask why he’s being so distant, and that’s not a conversation he wants to have. Not with Duck. Not at two in the morning when they’re about to fall asleep. Which is hilarious because he can’t help but feel that that’s the exact reason why Duck brought it up. Both of them are tired, but neither of them are stupid. They both know the game.

“You saw me the first night you got back,” Leo reminds. It’s a neat dodge, but it’s a dodge nonetheless. “Besides, you know I’m always here at night.” Ok, that was him being petty.

Duck knows it too, and like Leo’s neat dodge before, they offer a lazy hum as a reply and let it settle. Leo knows Duck’s been pretty stuck with the older turtles, barely having a chance to breathe around the younger boys before at least one of them joins in. It’s gotten pretty annoying, but that’s just Leo. He knows there’s a crushing amount of guilt surrounding them since their version of their youngest likely died alone in the post-apocalyptic wasteland and they’ll never know that, so he won’t say anything until Duck decides they’ve had enough of it.

But that doesn’t mean Leo has to watch it. So he finds neat and tidy little excuses to avoid spending an excess amount of time in the lair. Not avoiding anything. Keeping his peace. Especially when he notices Leonardo looking at him. And he has a habit of staring. It digs under his skin as if the older him is trying to flay him alive and figure out what makes him tick. Which is not only annoying, but strange since he is him, and he should know how he works. There’s no need to be weird.

Duck taps his shell and mumbles something about skipping the ad. Damn. Leo’s been so spaced out he forgot to pay attention to the video. Maybe he is more tired than he thought. The combination of the warmth of the bed and blanket, the softness of his mattress, the low drone of the video essay (as interesting as it is), and Duck’s weight on his shell is dragging his consciousness away. It’s been a while since he went to sleep this early, but he might give up soon and actually submit, video section be damned.

His hand moves on autopilot as he locks the screen and sets the phone on his nightstand, then holds a hand up to wait for Duck to give him their final hearing aid. It’s become a familiar habit for them recently since the youngest missed the stand too many times and Donnie’s started complaining about the dings and scratches that have start to accumulate.

But Duck doesn’t move. Well, they don’t move to remove their hearing aid, but Leo does feel when they move to rest their chin on their arms. “Do you hate me?”

The question causes Leo to stiffen and push himself upright, causing the youngest to stifle a yelp as they have to keep themself from toppling under the sudden movement. Luckily despite the dim lighting, the blindness, and the suddenness of everyone moving, no one falls. Leo isn’t sure he’d be able to handle an influx of worried siblings on top of handling whatever’s going on with Duck.

Once he gets his bearings back, Leo spins on the bed to face Duck and takes a firm hold on their shoulders. He knows they can’t see him without his goggles and it’s probably for the best. There’s no way he can excuse and dodge his way out of the obvious worry on his face.

“What the f*ck?” he starts. There’s a mild franticness to his tone that he can’t shake, but he presses on anyway. “Why? Who said I did?” He scoffs a laugh and shakes his head. “For the record, the answer is no, obviously. But what’s with the question?”

So much for trying to play it cool. What can he say, the invasion ruined his ability to mask. Or at least damaged it. It’s fairly difficult to maintain the cool, aloof persona when everyone watched you charge at the enemy in a manic rage after you had a panic attack after watching your brother sacrifice himself to save you. He’ll work on rebuilding it later. Right now, he needs to know why his babiest brother thinks he hates them.

Duck angles their head away to avoid eye contact and shrugs. “It feels like you’re avoiding me,” they admit carefully. “Like. . . Whenever I’m in a room, you leave. And I wasn’t joking when I said it felt like weeks since we’ve spent time together. You didn’t even want to go to market day with us.”

Leo’s first instinct is to blink as he tries to process what they’re saying. The next, and one that he follows without thinking, is to drag them into a hug, one arm secured around their shoulders as the other holds the back of their head. They exhale slowly and they press their face into his shoulder as their arms lift to wrap around his shell.

“It’s not you,” he assures, tightening his hold. “It’s not. I don’t hate you. I promise.”

Duck nods against his arm and seems to sag in relief with the sentiment, sending a sharp thorn of remorse into Leo’s chest.

After a minute, Leo pulls back slightly to look Duck in the eye but keeps them encircled in his hold. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I swear I don’t hate you. I’ve just. . .” He fumbles slightly. If he dodges or avoids an explanation, Duck might take it personally, and that’s not what he’s trying to do. Especially since they’ve already started taking his behavior personally. “I’m just not feeling really social,” he offers. “I. . .”

Since they are so close, Leo can just about see one of Duck’s eye ridges rise skeptically.

“Ok, that’s not exactly true. . .”

“Really?” Duck says sarcastically. “I couldn’t tell.”

Leo snorts and leans forward to bump their forehead with his. “f*ck off. I’m thinking.”

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

Again, Leo leans forward to bump their foreheads together, this time with more force to get them to shut up. Of course, the action backfires since headbutting doesn’t just hurt the one receiving, but they’re both laughing which is great because that’s what Leo was going for.

After the fit passes and the duo get over their shared headaches, they shuffle positions so that they’re sitting against the wall with their legs splayed in front of them. Duck is tucked securely under Leo’s arm as usual. Leo doesn’t know if he’s tired anymore, but regardless of how awake he is, he’s not willing to go to bed with this hanging over his head. It’s impossible.

“I don’t hate you,” he repeats. “I swear.”

“You’ve said.”

“It’s true. It’s not you I. . .” He groans in annoyance. “I don’t hate anyone. It’s just. . . There’s a lot of people in the lair and I’m adjusting.”

Duck remains quiet. Assessing. If he had to guess, they’re wearing their same overly analytical expression that crosses their face every once in a while. He’s not going to confirm it though since it’s dark and he already sees it so clearly in his head. It almost reminds him of the look Donnie gets when he’s silently working through a puzzle in his head, except Duck doesn’t mouth his thoughts or gesticulate as much as Donnie when he’s focused. They just stare.

Leo sighs. “Look, there’s a lot of things that need to be processed and adjusted for,” he relents. “I’m just trying to get through everything.”

“So you don’t like the future turtles?”

The sudden admission causes Leo to stiffen again and he snaps his attention down. Duck is much more casual when they angle their head up to meet his eyes, and even though they can’t exactly see him, Leo can feel the open curiosity in their expression.

“It’s either me or them,” they press. “And you just said it’s not me.”

A beat of silence fills the air between them and Leo chews the inside of his cheek. It’s easy to forget how observant Duck can be sometimes. Always learning by watching, taking in more information than anyone realizes until they act on it. There has been more than one occasion where Leo or his brothers would catch Duck staring for overlong periods of time. It’d almost be hilarious if it weren’t so damn creepy.

So he knows there’s no point in trying to dodge. Who knows how long Duck’s been watching to form that opinion. They normally don’t ask questions unless they think they have the answer.

It’s so much like Donnie he could bang his head on a wall.

Leo slumps with a sigh, moving his other arm to secure it around Duck and squeezing them tightly. So tight that it pushes a squeaking grunt from the axolotl as he rubs the side of his face on the top of their head.

“Pain in the ass,” he grumbles though his teeth. “Stop saying sh*t.”

Despite the tone of the conversation, Duck breaks into another fit of giggles at the pressure and starts to wiggle to get free. “You’re going to break my ribs.”

“I’m not gonna break your ribs,” he says, though he does loosen his hold. Then he laughs at the overly dramatic huff Duck gives in reply. They share another sigh before Leo leans to rest his head on theirs again.

“Look,” he starts over. “It’s not that I don’t like them. It’s just really, really hard seeing an idolized version of myself on a regular basis.”

“So you’re comparing yourself to Leonardo?”

Both Duck and Leo yelp at the new voice in the doorway, Leo tightening his grip again and causing Duck to grunt at the sudden re-increase of pressure. Donnie rolls his eyes as he steps in through the curtain without asking, but he does take a second to poke his head out to see if anyone else heard. He nods in satisfaction when he’s met with silence.

“I’ve also noticed you’ve been weird lately and came to talk about it,” Donnie admits as he pulls the train door closed. “Turns out Foundling is here to do the dirty work for me. Which I’m not complaining about. We all know I’m not the best with emotional conversations. Also, move your legs, I’m going to sit.”

It takes the first pair a second to reclaim their composure and soon all three teens are arranged in a triangle on the bed.

“I will admit, it’s a bit disconcerting interacting with the older versions of ourselves on a daily basis,” he goes on. “And you are the most obvious about your discomfort about the situation, bu—”

Leo’s brow ridge pulls together and he waves a hand. “Whoa, whoa, I am not the most obvious about the situation.”

Even in the dimness of Leo’s room, Donnie’s rising eyebrow is a thing of glory. “Really? That’s the line you’re going with?”

“Yeah, Lee,” Duck says with a nod. “That’s pretty weak. Especially for you.”

Leo scoffs and places a hand on his plastron, the perfect picture of dramatically offended as he drops his jaw and looks between both of his siblings and the flat looks they level on him. “You bitches!”

Donnie rolls his eyes and Duck snorts, both losing a battle to the smiles they turn away to try and hide. Leo also smiles at the victory and allows himself to bask in the mild warmth of their reluctant entertainment before lifting a hand.

“Look,” he says now that the mood is lighter. “I don’t compare myself to Leonardo. I just don’t like seeing my older self become super lame. It’s embarrassing.”

Not exactly a lie, but not the whole truth. He admits, it’s not exactly one of his cleanest dodges, but it’s one clothed in a truth, so it’s fine. Leonardo got a bit lame! It’s sad to see! Besides, it’s not like any of them have the brain power to totally unpack all his thoughts and feelings at almost two in the morning without sleep.

Well, maybe Donnie does; but Donnie is distinctly an outlier in all situations regarding brain power, so Leo doesn’t count him.

The light mood sinks slightly when they start staring at him again. But it’s fine. Leo is used to being watched and being stared at. It comes with the title of Face Man after all. He demands and keeps attention and knows how to use it to his advantage.

However, it’s really unsettling when the two people staring are actively trying to break through the “Face Man” image and hit the truth underneath. What’s worse is knowing they can actually do it.

Before they do, however, Leonardo sees them dart a glance to each other, which is impressive since both are blind and cast in shadow, before shrugging.

“Alright,” Donnie relents. Too easy. It makes Leo’s stomach turn. “If you say so.”

“Can we do this more then?” Duck asks. “Sit in your room at night and just. . .”

Leo swallows in attempt to unwind the knot in his stomach and smiles. “Duh? I literally sleep here every night. You’re the one with the rotating sleep schedule.”

Duck inhales as if they want to argue, an action that’s immediately aborted with a defeated huff and a few jerky nods. “Yeah, ok, fine, that’s fair.”

“Exactly.”

Donnie claps his hands in the universal sign for finalization and rubs his hands together. “Well, glad that that’s out of the way. I’d call this a victory. Foundling?”

Duck shrugs. “Ten out of ten, I’d say. I’d call us good.”

It’s not. Leo knows it’s not. It’s only a brief relenting to keep the peace and they’re not actually going to let the issue go just yet. In fact, Leo’s really, really, really grateful for the fact that it’s only Donnie and Duck leading the conversation and not Mikey. These two know when to back off or risk a blow up or shut down. Or they just feel like they’ve reached the extent of their emotional rope and can’t handle the conversation anymore, Leo’s never really sure.

Either way, the main issue has been dealt with and Duck doesn’t seem like they’re going to implode anymore, so he’ll call it a win and smiles.

“Sounds like it’s time to get some sleep,” he announces. “Come on, we can all fit here, can’t we?”

Donnie recoils slightly. “Ew, Nardo.”

“Aw, come on, Donnie!”

“Yeah,” Duck says, leaning over and pressing all their weight against his arm. “Come on, Donnie. I haven’t seen you a lot either.”

Leo points. “Neither have I. You and Big Nerd have been holed up for weeks! I only see you during breakfast now!”

“Same!”

“Turtle pile!”

“Turtle pile!”

The two chant quietly for twenty seconds before Donnie groans in annoyance and bats Duck away like an annoyed cat. “First of all, Foundling isn’t a turtle, so it wouldn’t be a turtle pile.”

Duck’s spine straightens with offense. “I’m a turtle in spirit.”

Leo nods in agreement.

Donnie gives a full-bodied eye roll as a reply, then quickly follows it up with something about imprinting and psychological studies before shaking his head. “Defeated sigh. I’ll leave that alone for my own mental health. Anyway, fine. I will relent this one time.”

Duck and Leo whisper their cheers and throw themselves at the softshell, wrapping their arms around him and each other and shaking excitedly. Donnie groans in further disgust, but he does allow the contact for a full ten seconds before squirming to get away.

“Alright, alright, that’s more than enough of that. Now come on. I’m actively attempting to fix my sleep schedule, and this is not exactly helping that.”

“Ppppfffttt, who needs a sleep schedule,” Leo jokes with a dismissive hand wave. “Sleep is for the weak.”

“Exactly,” Duck agrees.

Leo frowns. “No, no, not for you.”

“What!?”

“Your sleep is atrocious, even by my standards. You need a sleep schedule.”

“Leo!?”

Donnie hums thoughtfully. “I agree with Leo.”

“Donnie!?”

Leo tuts in disapproval before starting the shuffling process. “Don’t take that tone, Infant, you know we’re right.”

“When was the last time you got more than five hours of sleep a night?” Donnie adds.

Duck scoffs repeatedly as they’re guided through the lying down process without making any moves to stop it. “You hypocritical motherf*ckers.”

The trio argues about the logistics and hypocrisy of getting set on a proper sleep schedule while adjusting for bed. Leo and Duck reclaim their previous resting position, this time with the added bonus of Donnie lying plastron down on Duck’s back. The arguments peter out as the comfort sets in and soon Leo listens to his twin and babiest sibling soundly sleeping on his shell. He smiles lazily and closes his own eyes, hoping the combination of their weights and breathing would lull him to sleep soon.

He does, thankfully. But not before he circles back to the issue of his older self and the apparent obvious discomfort about him. He really needs to get his emotions back under control, it’s getting embarrassing.