A/N: This Interlude chapter, and the one following, take place two weeks after the events of Slant, Slip, Slope, and bridge the time between Slant and the full Walking Wounded arc.

"I can walk," April says, too loudly, as Casey rolls her past the nurses' station. "I don't need a wheelchair."

"Sure, honey," says the most long-suffering nurse in the history of nurses. "Sure." Casey tips her a wink and a grin over April's head, and the nurse smiles back. He keeps pushing April down the hall, trying not to laugh as people duck into empty rooms to get away from the furious redhead.

"They're just tryin' to help, Ape," he says, on purpose, and all her anger gets focused on him instead of innocent bystanders. She rolls her wheelchair back onto his foot.

"Don't call me that," she snaps.

April glowers the whole trip down the hallway, into the elevator, and into the parking lot. It's her death-glower, the one that even makes Splinter take a step or two back, but Casey's dealt with it for years. In fact, he was the reason why the death-glower came into being. Now, ten years on, it barely fazes him.

"Okay, up you go," he says, pulling her out of the wheelchair with an arm around her waist. "Easy, easy."

"Casey, come on, move it, I just want to get home," April bites out, pale and sweating after just two steps. An orderly whisks the wheelchair away, with a harried look at April, but she's too focused on keeping her balance to notice. Casey waits until she gives up and leans on him, and holds her steady as her legs shake.

"It's okay," he says. "It's okay, April. We're goin' home."

She nods, chewing her lip, and lets him lead her toward the van. It's maybe thirty feet to where his van is parked, but he's already wishing April hadn't bitched so much about the wheelchair. She sags against his side, breathing shallow and weak, and he can't even carry her because he might pull out bandages or stitches.

Goddammit, Ape, he thinks when she stumbles, and immediately hates himself for the frustration prickling the back of his neck. She's Irish-stubborn, same as him, but he'd have stuck with the wheelchair.

Of course, he's not the one who got kicked off a roof and nearly bled out, so he can't really say what he'd do, can he?

"Almost there," he says. "Almost home."

He parked his van in a shaded corner of the lot, where the asphalt is mainly worn to gravel and most of the ice is melted. It's a walk, and a slow, dark one in the twilight; April's biting back groans by the time they make it, but he had a good reason for parking so far away. When the door opens and two long green arms reach out for her, the look on April's face is worth every glare, every glower.

Casey eases her into Mikey's waiting arms, and shuts the door as the brothers curl around her. After he climbs into the driver's seat, Casey checks the review mirror: Leo's put his back to the door, Raph's lifted April's legs onto his own, and Mikey has settled April's head against his chest.

It's weird to watch from the outside, because none of them are particularly cuddly (except Mikey, who will cling to anything warm and soft), but Casey understands it: this is their way - his way too, because he's part of it - of reasserting normalcy. Well, what passes for it in their world. April's back, April's safe. They've done this for Mikey, for Raph, even Casey's gotten his turn.

Only one brother is missing, and Casey watches April's mouth twist downward as she searches the corners of the van.

Donnie, you jerkwad, Casey thinks, already exhausted by the thought of April's quiet disappointment and Donnie's ongoing erosion, and revs the engine. He catches Raph's gaze and they shrug in unison - they'll talk on patrol. For now, he just wants to get April home.

Dealing with Donnie - that can wait.

"Anyone want some music?" he yells, knowing no one except Raph's paying attention to him. "Awesome, great, thanks."

He flicks on the CD player - someday he'll find the iPod April gave him - and Oasis pours out, loud and brash. Another turn of his wrist sends the volume sky-high to chase away Donnie's heavy absence, and he sings along as he drives. Whenever he glances back, April's watching him, and smiling.

Thank you, she mouths, and Casey waggles his eyebrows until she rolls her eyes, still smiling.

Casey spends the rest of the drive singing at the top of his lungs, and planning what he's going to say to Donnie the next time he sees him. When that'll be is anyone's guess, because Donnie's nowhere to be found more often than not these days.

Hope he's got a good reason for not showin'.

He ends up sending a text that says not cool, dude, and he's not surprised at all when Donnie doesn't reply.

Donnie watches the van disappear down the street, hidden under the same water tower he huddled beneath almost two weeks ago. Once it's out of sight, aimed for the warmth of April's apartment, he slips out into the night.

He's going back to the docks. Something's there, some clue he missed, and he's not going home till he finds it.

The storm is getting closer. He can't afford to fail again.