Donatello stares at the small knife intensely.
It is an incredibly boring-looking one. Knowing as little as he does about culinary arts, he does not know the exact use of it, its size and shape giving him very little insight into its use in that environment. He is willing to make an educated guess and assume the blade itself is made of carbon steel, which is not exactly a strange choice for a knife in his opinion. It is not a combat or survival knife. It is hardly sturdy enough to last long in a combat setting. He is tempted to call Mikey to ask him to identify it for a second but thinks better of it.
After all, it fell out of your pocket. Questions would be asked.
He picks it up off the floor, weighing it in his hand. 'This is a kitchen knife, right?' He picks your jacket off the floor, folding it neatly and placing it on the back of a chair. 'Why would she carry around a kitchen knife?' He rests his head on his arms, holding the offending tool in front of his eyes, continuing to analyze it. 'To fight? She knows carrying around a knife like this with no combat experience is a bad idea, right? Don't people usually use pepper spray or something when they want to defend themselves?'
An image flashes into his head. You, standing alone in an alley, pointing this poor excuse of a weapon at a member of The Foot or the Purple Dragon. You, falling back and hitting your head and bleeding out with a knife sticking in your side because you fell on it wrong—'It's not even in a sheathe'—and trying to crawl back out into the street, begging to god not to—
He blinks, noticing his knuckles going pale around the handle, mouth weirdly dry.
He swallows. He forces his grip to loosen. 'That's dramatic.' He gets up, slipping the knife back into the pocket of your jacket, hoping he put it in the right one. 'She's fine. She's probably just scared after everything that's happened. It won't come to that.'
He sets back down, picking the last gas mask up and turning it over in his hands to give him something to do. He will not have time to properly test whether it works exactly as planned, but he is fairly certain that it and its brothers should allow them to breathe with little difficulty when they need to go into the TCRI building through the elevator shaft. If that is the plan they go with, anyways-- he had elected to stay out of the planning party, seeing as creating explosives strong enough to destroy the portal is enough of a challenge on its own, and he has faith in you and his eldest brother to come up with a good course of action. You guys always did. Bradford was dead after all, a fact that he had been informed made their lives considerably easier. In your words, "Mousers are the fucking worst, and if Bradford had gone off and recruited Stockman, we would have to deal with all of that way sooner." You had quickly admitted that you did not know how long the peace would last, but you seemed pretty satisfied by the way things were happening overall, despite his accidentally causing the power cell to be stolen—"We'll have the whole thing under control after this mission, don't you worry."
You had also claimed that you had the staking out of Shredder's lair under control, but that is neither here nor there.
The door to his lab slides open. "Donnie," you call, "we need to go over the game plan. How're the explosives coming?"
'Why is there a knife in your pocket instead of a taser?' "Theoretically? Well." He shrugs, getting to his feet. "I can't really test if they work, but they're good to go, probably."
You smile teasingly. "They're not gonna go off randomly?"
"Probably not."
"Probably?" Your smile widens.
"No promises."
"Well," you grin, "I sure hope they're good explosives in that case; wouldn't wanna almost bleed out again."
His stomach churns. "For sure," he agrees, crossing the room as you start to "walk" back to the war room/kitchen. "Have you guys decided on anything?"
"Well," you sigh, "Leo's bein' Leo if that's what you mean. I don't mind their plan, mind, but it seems a bit silly." You hold the door open for him. "After you."
"Dude, totally." Mikey nods eagerly in agreement to something someone said. "I can get him on board, on prob."
"Good." Leonardo taps his finger against the blueprint splayed across the counter. "Now all we need is a big enough box."
"There should be crates down by the docks." Raphael looks over at you. "Any stores up top sell 'em that big?"
"Probably." You lean against the doorway as Donnie steps past you. "You guys know we don't know what they're breathing, right?"
"Yeah. So?" The green-eyed brother gestures to him. "He can figure out letting us breathe."
"Can and did, but I'm not sure that's what she's talking about." The tall boy crosses his arms across his chest absentmindedly. "If the gases they're breathing are highly flammable—which, knowing the absurd biology of the Kraang, isn't out of the question—" You stifle a laugh, covering your mouth, "using explosives in there might blow the roof off the place."
"That's good, ain't it?"
"Not If you don't want to be pressure cooked, no."
"Is there some other way to destroy the portal?" Leonardo laced his fingers together, leaning his elbows on the worn island.
"Without knowing the metal they're using?" He shakes his head. "Even if we did, I'm not sure if I could safely create hydrochloric or nitric acid, especially on such short notice, let alone transport it."
"Then we're screwed." Raph looks off. "Perfect."
"Unless you feel confident in busting out of that building on a time crunch, we'd need someone to be close enough to the bomb to actually use the detonator. Seeing as we need all hands on deck, we really don't have anyone that could fit the bill." Even with his back to you, you notice his tension. "Unless you guys just want to crack a window or something, but that would kinda negate the point of doing the whole stealth thing, setting off an obvious alarm."
"That's not true." Mikey points out the obvious. "Y/N could do it."
"I'm down," you shrug, moving your hands to slide in your nonexistent pockets. "You'd need to let me know when to do it so I don't fry you guys, but I might as well add domestic terrorism to my non-existent rap sheet." You smile wryly at that.
You think you hear Donnie mutter something before speaking up. "I'm not sure there are any buildings high enough up or close enough to be an effective--"
"Sure there is." Mikey, again. "There's that apartment building across that alley. It's plenty tall."
"Oh yeah, huh?" Raph smiles sharply. "Even has a fire escape to climb."
The idea of climbing anything anywhere makes you want to vomit, but the idea of having to deal with whatever goes on with the saving of Leatherhead later is enough to ignore it. 'Stop being a pussy,' you reprimand yourself, feeling vertigo already. 'It's a fucking ladder. A twenty-story high ladder, yeah, but it's still just a ladder.'
"She can't use a ladder," the tallest brother protests. "She can't use one of her legs."
"Then she can take the stairs, or we can carry her there before we go." You take slow, deep, quiet breaths. "It's no big deal. I'm sure you wouldn't mind doing it, right?"
You are suddenly incredibly grateful that you are leaning against a doorframe. The idea of being carried over buildings, twenty stories into the air, makes the ground sway underneath you. You subtly dig your fingernails into the walls on impulse, trying to slowly relieve the pressure.
"It's not about—What are you even talking about?" You barely register his bashful embarrassment, swallowing thickly. "I'm just saying..."
You can barely hear them, shutting your eyes as you feel sticky, warm blood on your fingertips, dripping down in between your digits. You wipe the phantom liquid off on your jeans quickly, thoroughly, opening your eyes to see what you register as the other three ragging on Donnie about something you do not catch. You lock your knees to keep them from shaking as bad as your hands, ignoring the nausea and staring straight ahead. 'Your folks didn't raise a wuss. Your hands aren't wet. Snap out of it.'
You force yourself to focus on counting threads in your sleeves. You get to thirty-five before you feel someone shaking your shoulder.
"Dude, you alright?" Mikey was waving a hand in front of your face, having apparently crossed the room from his seat on the counter. "Hello?"
Your eyes snap up from your wrist to look at him. "Hm? Yeah, totally." You nod. "Just zoned out is all."
He put the back of his hand to your forehead as if he knew what he was looking for. "You sure? You look sick."
You nod again. "Just didn't sleep well last night. I'm fine."
"Do you plan on zoning out during the mission?" Raphael smirked. "Don—"
"No," you cut him off sharply. "I'll be fine. When are you guys going?"
"A couple of hours." Donnie is staring holes into you. "The hours listed online say actual people work until then, but the actual building is open for another few hours, so by the time we get far enough down to hopefully not feel the effects of the blast, we won't have to worry about witnesses or people getting caught up in it."
"Awesome." You start out the door, using the walls to limp back to the lab. "Meetcha back here in an hour."
He runs after you. "Need me to come with you? I can help pick a crate out." The way his words spill out is not lost on you. "O-or I could drive you there if you want—it's bad to walk around so much on your leg, especially at night."
"If you don't mind vomit in your party-wagon, sure." You slip through the gap in the door, grabbing your jacket and pulling it on. "Honestly, Donnie, I'm fine."
"But—"
"I walk home all the time." You use the chair to roll over to your walker, snapping it open and getting to your feet. "I'm just going to go to a hardware store, buy a couple of the largest boxes they have, grab some dinner, and come back. Besides, you have to worry about getting in, right? I'll be fine, really."
He wants to argue. He does not.
"Text me if you need anything while I'm out." You maneuver past him with a bit of difficulty. "Want me to pick up some pizza while I'm out?"
"... yeah." He nods, shaking off the feeling sinking into his gut with a bit of difficulty. "If you want some, you'll have to eat it on your own, though."
You smile back at him. "I'll get something else to eat," you roll your eyes, voice oozing with honey seemingly unintentionally. "Don't you worry too hard about me, now; your brothers give you a hard enough time as is."
"Don't get yourself killed and I'll think about it," he jokes, mostly serious.
You laugh. "I'll try, Dad."
He has never noticed how loud you walk until today. Maybe it is just that it is unusually loud in comparison to him and his brothers, or maybe it is the sound of it knocking around the concrete walls of the lair bouncing the sound off the walls, but he cannot help but notice it, how easily he can identify where you are just by listening. How has he never noticed that? 'You could hear her down the street, walking past. Anyone with ears could tell where she is, no problem.'
He feels himself grip onto the door to keep himself from running after you and insisting he come with you. 'If someone can hear her walking down the street, someone can hear her scream. They'll call someone. Who would leave a teenage girl to get attacked?' He does not answer his question.
He shuts the door. 'And she has a point. I still need to figure out how to get us into TCRI without the cameras catching us.' He sits back at his workstation to think. 'It doesn't have to be too advanced. A remote-controlled dolly wouldn't take much time to build, and I have the code already.'
It is not an effective distraction, but it is enough to preoccupy him for a solid half an hour.
--
You are back at the time you say you are going to be back. The trip did not take you long, although carrying the boxes and food was an unforeseen challenge, and you bought yourself a burrito and soda, so all is well. You and the guys eat in the kitchen, you do not have another episode and, all in all, you almost forget about the fact you will have to be carried up a twenty-story building.
Standing and staring up at the building they had ended up next to is an easy reminder.
You swallow your dinner back, mouth dry. 'Commit.' You fold your walker up, hiding it behind a dumpster and hooking your arms around Donnie's neck before you can chicken out, shutting your eyes tight, the humming of their van—you had walked—doing nothing to ease your nerves. You hear the others say something before the engine roars back to life, the tires squealing against the asphalt as they drive off.
"I'm not going to drop you," he promises, barely noticing the extra weight as he hooks one of his arms under your thigh to pull your body flush against his. Your legs immediately tighten into a vice-like grip around his middle, pulling him even closer.
"Fucking better not." He starts to scale the building with a bit of difficulty, with one arm otherwise preoccupied. "I'll haunt your ass."
He smiles at that. He jumps up, grabbing onto the railing of a fire escape and earning a squeak of terror and a quiet string of obscenities from you. He takes longer than usual out of necessity but finds a quiet joy in how hard you cling to him, swallowing laughs drawn out by your swears—his personal favorite is, "Oh fuck me Mother Mary!" which is a result of him overshooting the railing, resulting in both of you violently swinging back and forth for a time.
"Are we on solid ground?" Your voice is pleading.
"We're on the roof, yeah."
You let go, sliding down to your knees and lacing your fingers together behind your neck, breathing for the first time in the eternity—two minutes—it had taken to get there. You want to cry, your heart pounding out of your chest as you try to catch your breath.
"Are you okay?"
You nod once, shifting back and putting your head between your knees to regain your head.
'Did I do something wrong?' He crouched down in front of you, concerned. "You sure?"
You nod again.
"Are you being honest?"
"I will be in a sec," you snap shakily.
He backs off, staying in that position.
You give yourself a count of fifteen before looking back up at him. "I'm good." You take a deep breath, pulling yourself into him again. "Let's do this shit before I'm not."
The journey over is painfully silent, other than your guys' breathing. Balance is the only real problem throughout. Holding you and making sure not to crush you makes the normal measures he would normally use to soften his falls impossible, meaning his jumps cannot be as high or far as normal—the last thing you need on top of everything else is a concussion. The trip might have been rendered shorter had it not been for the need for the Kraang to know nothing of their whereabouts, but he does not think it is too long until he moves to let go of you.
You do not let go of him.
"Y/N?"
Nothing.
"Y/N," he says again, "we're here."
You do not move to let go of you, your heartbeat thundering against his chest.
"I'm going to set you down." He unhooks your legs, lowering himself and setting you on the floor. "See?" He unlatches your arms, gently pulling you away from him.
Your face is white as a sheet, mind only barely registering the fact you were on solid ground. He would be concerned you were dead had it not been your incredibly fast pulse. You stared straight ahead, eyes unfocused.
You blink, pushing the hair out of your face as you get to your feet. "Sorry," you mumble. "Zoned out. Tired."
He hesitantly gives you the detonator. "Alright," he relents. "You know the plan, right? You remember it still?"
"I'm scared, not dumb." Your face flushes. "Sorry. That was mean."
He blinks, confused. "It's fine," he shrugs. "Lack of sleep can cause irritability, especially in teenagers." His voice is soft despite his own anxiety about the whole plan. He hands you your phone. "I'll come back to pick you up. If I don't in two hours, text me. If I don't respond..." he trails off.
Your stomach drops. "You will," you assure him firmly. "I know you will."
"If I don't," he nods in agreement, if only for your sake, "hell will've frozen over anyway."
You chuckle nervously at that. You reach over, cupping his face in your hands. "Seriously, though," you make him look at you properly, "kick their asses for me."
He smiles, his face heating up under your hands. "You got it." He gets up. "See ya, then." He smiles tipsily, waves, and runs off.
You watch him bound rooftops, grateful he had seemingly not noticed the violent shaking of your hands as you set the electronics down. You swallow again, dragging yourself and leaning your back against the ledge, crossing your legs in front of you. You lean over, placing the detonator down next to you carefully and picking your phone up. You shakily input the passcode, turn the volume as low as it would go, and press the speaker to your ear, sinking into a song with a slow exhale of breath. While you had refused yourself any illicit substances for the same reason you had gotten rid of your sleeping pills, you saw no issue with relying on music for some stress relief, the familiarity of the slower song letting your heartbeat match its rhythm.
You reach down, pulling your pant leg up and carefully peeling the tape from your good leg, wrapping your fingers around the handle of the paring knife and holding it at your side. Sure, you know, logically, it would do little but hinder you in a fight, but you felt as though you needed something, anything to make you feel less weak. You already feel the embarrassment from clinging onto him so tightly, tears pricking at your eyes. "You're the literal definition of a damsel in distress," you mumble, scoffing at yourself. "A young, unmarried woman who is in distress. A crazy damsel in distress at that." You blink them away. "God, you're really fucking pathetic, huh?" You chuckle, swallowing again and pressing the phone closer to your ear. "You're almost a fucking adult and you're scared of a little height and a little blood. Perspective, Y/N."
It feels like an hour of sitting, knees now at your chest as you listen to music to take the edge off—'Like taking ibuprofen for an amputation.' Regardless of how effective it is, it does something, at least, and that is all you can ask for right now.
You jump out of your skin when your phone buzzes with a text. You fumble with it, pulling it to your face to read Casey asking if you were still free next Tuesday for his stupid fucking game. You text him back that, yes, you are, and hope he stubs his toe for the false alarm.
--
The text comes at eleven-o-three.
You almost drop the phone, the message "NOW" crossing your screen. You pick the device up carefully, craning your neck back to glance at the building across the street, feeling as though you missed something incredibly important despite knowing the contrary. You swallow one more time and slam your hand down on the button.
The sound of the explosion roars in your ears, your eyes widening at the light now illuminating the roof, images of that night burning in your head and squeezing your throat. You drop the detonator, covering your ears as the ground in front of you is seemingly set alight. It barely registers to you that it is a cold autumn night. Why would you care when all you can hear is screaming? Why bother when your heart is begging to be let out of your chest, when your blood is pooling under you and all your scars are open? All you can see as you shudder, shutting your eyes tightly, is that man's sides slashed with glass, warm red dripping out of him and onto the dashboard.
You look up, choking on your fear.
You remember what you forgot.
The walls of the top three floors of TCRI?
They are made entirely of the glass now showering down on you.