A/N: Another quick character study that ate my brain. Casey Jones is the worst (and best) in any universe. This story follows "Unity", chronologically, but can be read on its own.

In the past week, Casey Jones has been arrested, shot at, exploded, knocked unconscious, crashed his car, held at gunpoint by New York's finest, and helped stop an actual alien invasion. And that doesn't include "fighting ninjas in an alley", or "I nearly got my ass beat by a talking rhino and warthog".

Correction! says Donnie's voice brightly, in the back of his head. You did get your ass beat by a talking rhino and warthog. Come on, Jones, be accurate.

Casey sighs and sinks a little lower in his chair. Once he's comfortable, he gives Donnie a mental finger — then adds the second for good measure. Donnie likes to play up the wholeWho, me? I'm just a nerd thing, but he is clearly the biggest little shit out of all the turtles.

Which, considering who Casey's keeping company tonight, is really saying something.

"I don't see why we're the only ones cleanin' up," Raph grouses, for the third time in fifteen minutes. He jabs his broom bristles-first into the floor, and levels a glare in Casey's direction. "Leo and Donnie busted in the front door, so why're we the ones on broom duty?"

Casey summons up the best shit-eating grin he can, and pops a cashew into his mouth. "If I recall correctly," he says as he chews, "they busted in the front window, and that was so they could save your big green asses. Punishment's gotta fit the crime."

"So that's why they're at home cleaning?" Mikey tosses his broom in the air. It misses a fluorescent light by a bare inch, then lands in Mikey's open hand with a solid thwak. "Uh, doesn't Sensei know cleaning's like…Leo's thing? Hey Raph, you remember that time Sensei told him to clean the bathroom and Leo was like, of course, Sensei, right away, and then he like cleaned the entire lair instead?"

Raph grunts, and goes back to sweeping glass from under some detective's desk. "Leo's funny in the head," he mutters.

It's only been a week since Casey acquired, in no particular order, a girlfriend, four younger brothers, and about ten concussions, but some things have been obvious from the first second the turtles dropped into this life. One of those things is that Leo is the biggest goddamn hall monitor Casey's ever met. Fearless probably thinks skipping his multivitamins is an act of teenage rebellion.

So, Leo and Donnie got exempted from the Great Police HQ Clean-Up. Casey has a feeling that Raph's not quite as pissed about the whole clean-up-your-mess deal as he wants to seem — Raph plays the tough guy, and yeah he pretty much is as tough as he wants people to think, but he's a good guy under all the muscles and seatbelts. This mess bugged him as much as it bugged Leo.

But like Casey said, the punishment's got to fit the crime, so Sensei added a little extra to the whole clean-up thing: a letter of apology that Raph and Mikey had to hand-deliver to Chief Vincent.

(Dear Chief Vincent,

We're sorry for breaking into Police HQ. We're sorry for breaking your windows. We're sorry for destroying your filing system. We're sorry for straining your marriage. We're sorry for…

"Is this…blood?" Chief Vincent asked, picking at a stain next to Mikey's signature.

"Oh, whoops, nope, just pizza sauce," Mikey replied, after sniffing the paper. "My bad."

Chief Vincent blinked very slowly. "Oh. Excellent.")

Once mail call was over, all that was left was handing Raph and Mikey a pair of brooms and pointing them toward the worst of the broken glass — well, that, and sending half the force on some training exercise on the other side of the city to make sure the press were distracted. Better safe than sorry, right?

"So what're you doin' here, Jones?" Raph asks. He gives Casey a sidelong, sullen look, and it's so obvious that he's angling for a fight that Casey almost gives in out of pity.

But April was pretty clear about how Casey was supposed to behave tonight ("If you mess with them, you'll never see your car again. And I'll sell your season tickets to the Rangers on eBay."), so Casey just tosses another handful of cashews into his mouth, chews slowly, then takes a long pull of his beer.

Raph's lip curls in a silent snarl.

Casey grins at him around the mouth of his bottle. "I'm supervising," he says. "You missed a spot over there, Big Red."

Raph's hands tighten around his broomstick until the wood cracks.

"Dude," whispers Mikey, nudging Raph back toward the glass-filled corner. "C'mon, we're almost done, Donnie's recording the game, and April's bringing down Krispy Kreme —"

"Doughnuts?" Casey says. "Oh, nice. You guys had better get crackin', then. Don't wanna miss out on Krispy Kreme, do you?"

There's half a second when Casey thinks Raph's going to snap. He rocks back in his chair, imagining the coroner slapping "multiple stab wounds by hyper-masculine mutant turtle" in the cause section on his death certificate, and smiles a little wider. For the past week, Raph's been mouthing New Guy: 0 at him whenever no one else is looking, and Casey Jones always gets his revenge.

His anger-management counselor says he should work on forgiveness and letting go, but Casey would bet his counselor never had to deal with four teenage brothers with superhero complexes, a battle truck, and an incurable need to shit all over the new guy. Casey's not forgiving any time soon.

Besides, it's easier to give the turtles shit than it is to think about how he's never going to make detective, or how about ten good guys got smeared all over two miles of highway. Casey nearly throws his bottle at the wall as a red, poisonous rage fills his head — but that'd just make more work for the turtles. Casey Jones can hold a grudge till it dies of old age, but he's not a dick.

"You heard Mikey," he says, once the worst of the anger fades. "Chop, chop, Raphie."

Well. Mostly not a dick.

Raph gives him a look of pure disgust — the look he usually saves for when Leo gets his Hero Speech on — then turns back to sweeping, shaking his head and muttering to himself.

The rest of the clean-up takes about fifteen minutes. Chief Vincent gives the floor a once-over, nodding to herself and trying to hide a yawn. She's got dark circles under her eyes no make-up can hide and she looks about five years older than she did when Casey met her last week, but he figures mass murderers and alien invasions will do that to a person.

"Well," she says, clapping her hands and turning to the turtles. "It looks like you're all through here. Thank you. I appreciate the help." She holds out her hand to shake, and Casey feels a warm little glow of satisfaction when she doesn't flinch away from the brothers. Chief Vincent's a hardass, but she's good people. Maybe in a year or so, he can talk to her about the exam. If the turtles don't break into HQ again.

"Good night ma'am!" Mikey yells after Chief Vincent's retreating back. "Sleep tight! Don't let —"

"Shut up, numbnuts." Raph grabs him by the mask tails and hauls him toward the exit in the parking garage. Casey follows a few paces behind, shutting off the lights as they go. He dumps his bottle in the recycling and the empty bag of cashews in the trash, then turns back one last time to look at the silent office.

A year. He can wait that long. And he's got an in now, right? They can't say no to someone who helped saved the city.

His phone beeps with the new-email alert. Keeping one eye on the shells in front of him, Casey thumbs the display, scans his inbox, then stops dead.

Sender: Department of Corrections Human Resources
Subject: Confirmation of Payroll Reactivation.

It takes a few seconds to make sense. First, he thinks, great, just rubbing it in, but the word "reactivation" jumps out at him, over and over. "Reactivation" is a good thing. "Reactivation" means the opposite of you're on leave, without pay.

"Holy shit," Casey whispers.

Another beep, another email.

Sender: Chief Vincent
Subject: First steps.

The email itself is just one sentence: Don't make me regret this.

Casey barks a laugh, staring down at his phone and rubbing his hand over his hair.

"Yo, Jones!" Raph hollers from the end of the hallway. "Get the lead out, we got a game to see!"

"Yeah, yeah, like basketball's a real sport," Casey mutters. He stuffs his phone back into this pocket — he'll read the emails back at the lair, as many times as it takes for them to sink in — and jogs after the turtles.

They make it down to the parking garage, where Casey's rental van — a van, he's never going to get over driving a van — is parked. Traffic'll be light this late. In twenty minutes, they'll be in the lair, eating doughnuts and watching the game, and Casey can relax a little.

Sure, the turtles are shitballs — but they're his shitballs now.

"I call shotgun!" Mikey shouts, running for the van. He pulls up short when a horn blast fills the garage, and a set of lights bear down on them.

Casey jumps out of the way as Donnie's totally ridiculous garbage truck comes slamming down the incline, and Donnie's totally ridiculous face peers out the side window.

"Figured we'd come get you guys in style!" he yells over the truck's engine, beaming. "Forget the van, come on!"

Raph and Mikey sprint toward the back of the truck, but Casey makes his way to the passenger side. April leans out the window and smiles down at him.

"How'd it go?" she asks, almost close enough to kiss. She smells like pizza and cinnamon gum.

"Not so bad." Casey swings himself up when she opens the door. Donnie built the seats for turtle asses, so Casey squeezes in next to April and throws an arm around her shoulders. Behind them, Leo's telling Mikey to slow down and use his words, and Raph's telling Leo shut up and turn on the game. "Heard you brought doughnuts."

"The operative word there is brought," says Donnie, revving the engine and throwing the truck into reverse. "They're all gone now. You snooze, you lose, Jones."

Casey opens his mouth, ready to tell Donnie where he can shove his cool catchphrases, but April shakes her head, and pulls a napkin-wrapped lump out of her jacket pocket.

"Oh man." Casey unwraps the lump, and grins at the smashed doughnut inside. "You rule, O'Neil."

"I have my moments." She leans into his side, grinning too, as Donnie drives the truck into the night.