Donatello is having a bad day.

According to your phone, you are in New Jersey. According to the now mostly dead Foot Soldier, you are in New York. He did not know how to efficiently get to New Jersey via sewers, so they— he and the rest of his family— had gone off to Shredder's lair where, according to him, you had been killed. This, understandably, was not welcome news.

He had almost passed out.

They had gotten their asses handed to them by various soldiers and Shredder himself. They had been forced to run away, beaten bloody, praying that he would not tail them, all the while reveling in the reality that you were gone, that because they were— he was— unable to find you, you had likely been squeezed of any info you had before being killed by the likes of Oroku Karai.

When he gets home, his first instinct is to sleep. Every muscle screams for rest; he can not remember ever being this tired. But there were his siblings and father to care for, so he hobbles into his lab, pulling gauze and painkillers and antiseptics— not disinfectants— he swallows thickly, ignoring the memory— from various drawers and patching everyone up the best he can with how hard his hands are shaking.

They have the decency not to make small talk at least. Even Mikey is quiet for once, staring off into nowhere as he fiddles with his hands.

When they all limp off to their rooms, a conversation is promised silently. A discussion needs to be had, he knows, about what to do going forward, but right now, he is too tired to care.

You are gone. He has considered the possibility before, of you, dying, but it felt odd now that it was happening. He is not nearly as sad as he thought he would be. It just feels... weird. Empty. Not a pain so much as an absence of something fundamental mixed with dread.
If Shredder sends the body back, or the head, he wants to have a funeral. He has no idea how he could do that, what that would even entail, but he wants to. You deserve a proper send-off. White roses, and he might be able to make a coffin out of a junked car, or maybe he could steal some wood and build you one properly. Dark wood, if that's the case, a classic look based on the movies he had seen.

He walks into his room. Clothes fall off him as if of their own volition, and he does not bother with the lights, because why would he? He would just be sleeping anyhow. When he lies down, sees you, it does not register as a reality. You look like a corpse anyway; why would that be real? It is just an excessively cruel hallucination, surely. Surely you are not a real thing.

When you open your eyes, he falls out of bed.

Undeterred by his obvious fear, you sit up, making no move to cover yourself as you try to focus on him. "You're... back already?" You feel heavy. "Thought you said... a while."
He stares up at you.

You smile barely as if it hurts to. "You look better," you mumble, laying back down. "You lost my jacket?"

He does not respond, slowly getting off of the floor.

You close your eyes. "That's alright. It wasn't a good jacket anyways. Are you okay?"

You look awful.

"Donnie?"

He steps towards the bed, cupping your face in his hands. "What happened to you?"

You blink. "You're bleeding."

He repeats the question, more urgent this time, vomit rising in his throat.

"Are you hurt?" You reach up, gently touching his arm wrapped in gauze.

"Where were you?"

Your brow furrows. "You've not been gone long. How'd you get yourself so banged up?"

"Shredder. Why are you so thin?"

"Shredder?" Your eyes widen as you sit up properly. "I— what day is it?"

His eyes hurt. "Please, listen to what I'm saying for a second." He tilts your head so you are staring at him straight on. "Where were you?"

"I don't know." The answer moves sluggishly from your mouth. "I didn't look, and I can't remember, and my head hurts."

He swallows. "What did they do?"

You think, trying to answer. "Dark room," you decide. "They just stuck me in a room.."

"How long?"

"Dunno." You do not move the hair out of your face. "Are you alright? Here, I'll scooch over."
He does not let go. "Did they hurt you?"
You move to shake your head, but his holding you makes that futile. "Just left me there."

"How did you get out?"

"Karai?"

He stiffens. "Why are you naked?"

"You washed me." He notices, now, how your hair stands up, its slight dampness. "Thank you, by the way; I'm sorry I smelled."

"I didn't."

You stick your tongue out for seemingly no reason. "I'm not that loopy," you insist. "You looked weird, but you were definitely you. Say, did I ever tell you about the Mad Max thing?"

"When was the last time you ate?"

"Do fries count?"

"No."

You have to think. "A while ago. Couldn't tell you for sure; hard to tell time when it's always dark." You can feel him staring. Your eyes fall to the side. "I didn't tell them anything," you mumble. "I said a lot, but not about anything useful. Mostly just waxed philosophical and lonely to hallucinations and occasionally Karai." You smile weakly. "But I'm choosing to believe that this is real because you are very solid this time and aren't dying."

His hands slowly fall from your face. "Shredder said you were dead."

"Did he?" You move closer to him, grabbing his hands again. "Well, he doesn't need to know I'm not, right?"

He nods slowly. His voice is fragile. "We... I didn't... we tried to find you." He sinks to his knees in front of you, staring down at your fingers. "I'm so sorry for letting this happen to you."

"I was the one stupid enough to walk around New York on my own." Your lips crack as you smile, and you instinctively lick away the blood. "Fool me twice, shame on me, right?"
It is an effort not to explode. "But I should have been able to at least figure out what state you were in."

"And I shouldn't have gotten myself kidnapped and gotten you hurt."

"It's nothing." He had forgotten his body. "We're alright; nothing permanent. Nothing anti-inflammatories, sleep, and compression won't fix."

"You don't see yourself," you say. "You look awful."

He laughs, a bit hysterical. "You're one to talk."

You can not help but join in, blinking away the tears in your eyes. "This really fucking sucks," you declare. "We've both seen better days, huh?"

"I'll say." He wraps his arms around your waist, hugging you tightly. "You should see the others; they look like they got thrown in a blender."

"That's a very mean thing to say about your family."

"It is very true. We all look awful."

You nod. "Fucking Orokus."

"Fucking Orokus," he agrees. "Can't speak for you, but they've basically fucked with everything and everyone I've ever cared for."

"As your girlfriend, that is upsetting." You huff. "Bastards, fucking with you. I can't really do much about it, but I can still be upset."
You can hear him smile. "I didn't sleep. I missed you."

"Donnie," you sigh, "that was very stupid of you. Get up and come to bed, then."

"I'm a bit scared to let you go." He sniffs, chuckling wetly. "Also, my legs aren't working."

You purse your lips. "I can't exactly carry you." You think for a second. "Wanna just sleep on the floor, then? I can grab the blankets and such from here."

He nods slowly. "Yes. Let's do that."

The two of you make quick work of dismantling the bed. The floor is not nearly as uncomfortable as the one back in the dark room; you are not cold, for one, and you feel less gross. Though for once, there is enough room for the both of you, it does not take long for the two of you to tangle your limbs together. If either of you mind, it is not a mentioned discomfort.

"Should I make a turkey?"

He opens his eyes gently. "Hm?"

"My mother made the best turkeys." You tuck your head further into his chest. "She taught me how. That and mashed potatoes; do you guys do Thanksgiving?"

There is a pause. "That's an actual holiday?"
You snort. "Is it an actual holiday?"

"I only ever saw it in movies," he protests. "I thought it might not be real."

"Macy's Day Parade?" He can hear your smile. "The biggest parade in the world? What, did you think they did it just 'cause?"
"What's the—"

"You know what?" You look up at him. "We're going to see it together. At least on TV. I've never seen it, but it's supposed to be really cool."

"If you manage not to get yourself killed or kidnapped until then, we'll watch it." His fingers find your hair again. His tone implies that this is an actual requirement, less a joke, and more an actual concern. It reminds you of a parent offering up ice cream in exchange for chores with a bit more gravity. "Or put in a coma. Just try not to get hurt until then."
You smile. "I can last a few days, I think. I'll live until tomorrow, anyways; I've got enough calories in me for that, I think."

"I'm sorry I don't have food on me."

"It's alright. I'm not hungry."

He pulls you a bit closer. "That's not a good sign, you know."

"Isn't it?"

He shakes his head. "I'd bring you food, but I'm not sure what I can give you safely, what you need to be eating. I'll need to do a proper examination later to see what vitamins you're deficient in. Really, you should go to a hospital."

"Can't." Your eyes slide shut. "Too tired." Your main concern later will be that going to a hospital as a teenage girl suffering from intense malnutrition and dehydration comes with certain implications, and the last thing you need is to be committed, kept in one place out in the open and away from any relationships you have. "Can't think right anyways."

"Okay."

There is a pause.

"Do you want to break up?"

You go cold. "What?"

"You were right about the danger thing." He is staring at the side of the bed. "I didn't... you're only alive because Karai brought you back."
Your stomach churns. "Would you like to?"
He pulls you even closer. "Not particularly, no. But maybe associating with us at all is not a great idea."

"Donatello Hamato," you say, "I am not going to bail because of this. I care for you and your family a great deal, and even if I didn't, I literally have nowhere else to go."

"Casey Jones."

You blink. "You remembered?"

"I don't exactly have a ton of names to memorize," he shrugs. "Especially not human ones, civilian ones with seemingly little association with ninjas."

"What does that matter now?" You swallow, fighting down an odd sort of panic. "I'm already in it. And didn't you argue the whole thing about us at least trying?"

He takes a second to articulate. "I'm not... I want this to work," he tries, "but I don't want to forcefully keep you. I did bad by you." He rests his head on top of yours. "I want to give you an out.

You shut your eyes tightly, slowing your breathing. You do not want to start crying. "I don't want one."

He does not respond.

You fall asleep before he does, as usual. He had made you upset, he knew, had felt your heartbeat speed up, but he can hardly regret asking. You deserve an opportunity to leave, even if he rather you did not. It would be selfish not to offer. It is hard not to think so, looking at you. He had not noticed before how far up the scars go; in the colder months, you wear very few things that would show that much skin, and though he had seen your bare legs before, he had not fully understood how covered you were with cuts until now. Your hands caught him off guard especially, how loose the skin had been on them. All of that because you shoved a man off a roof, a man you would not have even met if you did not know them, if you had just stayed out of it.

The worst of it is that he cannot find it in himself to be sorry to have met you. The worst of it is that he felt so happy that you were still in his life, like this is not all their fault. The worst of it is that you still trust him enough to share a blanket with him.

His body feels heavy. He wants to pace around, sort through his thoughts, but he can hardly speak properly, let alone stand to pace. It would hardly be right for him either to wake you up. So he sticks to fiddling with your hair, tying the strands into little knots and untying them again. As his body finally lets the wave of sleep wash over him, one thing is made clear.

You deserve security, and he will try his best to give that to you.