A/N: Merry Christmas, everyone! …Okay, maybe we're not quite there, yet, but we're oh-so-close. =D I decided to post this Christmas fic now as an early present. ;) There are just a few things I wanted to note briefly.

First, I don't really like death fics. Second, I need happy endings. Therefore, if you have any doubts or premonitions on how this will turn out, I strongly encourage you all to read until the end before you hunt me down and kill me. (Though, it's Christmastime, right? Ya know…peace and good will? Please don't kill me. I like life.) This will have two chapters, too. Just a heads up. =)

Furthermore, for all intensive purposes, this fic is set after the 2007 TMNT movie. Please note the rating. There is a little bit of bad language in here.

And last, but not least, (Oh, look, Joy! A coordinating conjunction at the beginning of a sentence! ) I want to send out a big thank you to my beta reader and fellow patriotism-loving-grammar-obsessing-Jesus-freaking Tolkienite, TapTim! Give her a hand, folks! Take a bow, Joy! =D

As always, I don't own the Turtles. Just ask Raph.

Okay, without further ado, on with the show! ^^

It was late Christmas Eve, 11:50 p.m., and the streets of New York City were still throbbing with the bustle of traffic and the piercing wail of distant sirens. Snuggly-dressed pedestrians, gawking in admiration at the ornate holiday window displays, hummed with excited chatter as they ambled down the congested sidewalks. Even during the holidays—especially during the holidays—the city never slept.

To the delight of all, this night in particular was graced by a brisk, biting wind that nipped at the passer-bys' rosy cheeks and murmured rumors of snow. As if to validate these whispers, the sky hung low with dark clouds seeming to burst with the anticipation of bestowing a white Christmas on the eager masses that looked expectantly heavenward.

Yet, even amidst the inclement weather and active buzz of the urban hive, there were pockets of quiet solitude; one such pocket was a small, run-down slum nestled in the center of the metropolis, in one of the city's oldest neglected sectors. This particular night, all of the buildings in the humble neighborhood—save for a hand-full of apartments whose feebly-lit windows glinted forlornly in the pressing shadows—were dark and securely locked. The district's scant inhabitants had settled in early for the night. Casting a pale light, a lone streetlamp illuminated the facade of a long-abandoned warehouse on the street corner as it peered out blankly through its boarded windows upon the desolate scene.

Although all appeared peaceful and still, unbeknownst to the little borough, a troubled soul—plagued by grief—quietly suffered in a narrow alley across the street, invisible to the callous vigil of the empty warehouse. Wracked by suppressed sobs, the miserable creature in question knelt numbly on the cold concrete floor, his knees coated with the city's filth. Before him lay a prone figure warped by evident pain; with each shallow breath, the physically-tortured frame would involuntarily tremble.

"Mikey…please, bro, don't do this. Stay with me. Let me protect you," Donatello softly moaned in despair, his purple mask stained with dark streaks from his silent tears. As he spoke, he leaned forward, placing a constant pressure on a wad of clothe torn off of his jacket that he pressed to his brother's profusely bleeding side. Both of the jacket's sleeves had already been soaked through while serving the same purpose, but the wound continued to seep steadily.

"P-protect m-me? Y-you already have, D-d-dude." His face an ashen-gray, Michelangelo shakily gestured to the dozen-or-so fallen Foot ninja littering the alley and chuckled weakly, immediately regretting the action as a fit of coughing seized him, ripping open his chest with a burning ache.

Don's own chest constricted painfully as he listened to the hoarse, choking sounds. "Relax, bro, relax! Take deep breaths—just like sensei taught us. Slow, steady breaths." He firmly pressed down on his convulsing brother's plastron, gently easing Mikey's head into his lap and absently stroking his brother's clammy cheek with one hand. "I'm going to get you home; the guys will be here any minute. You're gonna be alright, so just stay with me."

Mikey nodded weakly, forcing himself to employ the deep-breathing exercises that he had recently practiced with Leo. As the seconds grated by, his fit gradually ended, and his breathing leveled out.

Don sighed in momentary relief. "Good job, bro. Leo'd be proud."

Mikey flashed a feeble smile, and Donny returned it half-heartedly.

Far from comforted by the small victory, though, Donatello glanced about desperately, averting his gaze from Michelangelo's to hide his own worry and doubt from those frightened, piercing-blue eyes. The truth was, the two turtles were at least a thirty-minute drive from the Lair—holiday traffic taken into account—and they had called their brothers for back-up five minutes ago. In that short time alone, his little brother's vitals had rapidly degenerated into critical levels; Mikey just didn't have thirty minutes.

Briefly surveying the weak, shivering figure before him, Don gently pulled Mikey's coat up further and tucked it snugly under his brother's chin. He had hated to remove the coat in the face of the freezing temperature and wind chill, but he had no choice; he had to stop the bleeding, and the bulky jacket was a hindrance, proving to be a difficult obstacle to navigate as he tended to the wound. For now, the jacket could only be used as an inefficient blanket, and the sharp cold was already beginning to take its toll on Mikey's condition.

Don partially lifted the jacket, shielding his work from Mikey's sight. "You're doing great, Mike. I even think the bleeding's slowing up," Donatello lied, reluctantly studying the wound for any signs of improvement, but with no luck.

Increasing his pressure on the obstinate gash with one hand while soothingly caressing Mike's temple with the other, Don mentally cursed the Foot with every swear word and insult that his mind could conjure up. What kind of sick, twisted people would murder on Christmas Eve? Don shook his head. No, not murder—his brother was still here; he was still fighting. They both were.

Mikey hissed out a small whimper of pain, and Don growled low in his throat, turning his helpless wrath upon himself. Forget the Foot, how could he let this happen? He should have been the one to take the thrust from that katana. After all, it was his fault their path had even crossed with the patrolling band of ninjas in the first place. He was the one who had allowed Mikey to tag along on a last-minute garbage-run. He was the one who had put off making his Christmas presents until the last possible second, therefore necessitating the need for spare parts on this night. Any way Don looked at it, he had been the one responsible, and now his little brother was suffering for his mistakes.

Suddenly, Donatello's brooding thoughts were interrupted as Mike's chest heaved from another coughing spell. The orange-clad turtle leaned over, spitting up a red-tinged globule of phlegm, and Don's heart nearly stopped; coughing up blood was often the sign of a punctured lung.

No…NO! Donny's mind screamed in panic, but he took care to hide the revelation behind a stoic mask for his brother's sake.

Don never did have a good poker-face.

"I-I-It's b-bad, isn't it, D-Donny?" Mikey's face was distorted by a wrinkled grimace as he studied his older brother's pained expression.

"Shhhh." Don leaned down and softly kissed the ailing turtle's sweaty forehead. "Don't talk, little brother. Save your strength," he mumbled tenderly into Mike's trembling skin, "You'll be okay. You're not leaving me; I'll keep you safe." Don reluctantly raised his head and cast about once more for the familiar flutter of mask tales or flash of green skin. He felt a cold hand tightly grasp his own.

"I-It's ok-k-kay, D-Don. I-I-It's not your f-fault," Mikey hoarsely stuttered.

Don withdrew his hand from the contact as if it burned him. "How can you say that?" he whispered, fighting to master the irksome tears welling in his eyes, "How can you possibly justify my errors? That katana was meant for me, but you willingly took it instead. This fate was meant for me—a punishment for my stupidity and negligence in battle—but you stole it from me. Considering that I was the one who lead us out here, who lead us straight into an ambush, how can you possibly tell me with such earnest conviction that it's not my fault?"

His head still lying in Don's lap, Mike's blue eyes gazed up warmly into his brother's wet chocolate ones, and he whispered huskily, "B-becau-ause it's n-not."

Mikey opened his mouth to continue, but his eyes widened as he began choking on a mixture of his own blood and spit. His face shivered and tensed, and his body flew into spasmodic seizures as he wheezed out strangled gasps, turning his head to the side and coughing violently.

"Oh, Shell, Mikey! I'm sorry! Th-That's it, just keep coughing. Clear your lungs." His face clouded with apprehension, Donny placed a gentle hand on his brother's forehead once again and stroked it comfortingly with his thumb. Losing any hope of sealing the wound, Don released the wet strip of cloth in his panic—staunching the blood flow forgotten—and reached down, tightly squeezing Mikey's twitching fingers and pulling him close.

Mikey's fingers weakly closed over Don's hand in return, involuntarily trembling as he suffered another round of coughing. The orange-clad turtle's blue eyes grew distant as he continued to convulse.

Don felt helpless—utterly and completely helpless.

His baby brother was dying, and there was nothing he could do but watch and wait.

"Hold on. Please, hold on." Don sobbed openly, unable to suppress his anguish any longer. "I'm here. I won't leave. Please, don't you leave me…"

Shaking slightly, Donny withdrew his hand from the damp forehead, and, cupping Mikey's chin, turned his younger brother's face towards his own; Mike's usually bright, laughing eyes were clouded and dulled by pain.

"Look at me, Mikey. Focus on your big brother."

At the sound of the pleading voice calling to him, Mikey's eyes cleared. In that moment, he looked up into Donny's face and smiled shakily, mumbling something incoherent.

"What's that, bro?" Don leaned next to Mikey's mouth, straining to catch the hoarse whisper.

"Lo-ove you, D-Don-ny."

A short, forced laugh escaped Don, and he fondly squeezed the sweaty hand lying in his own. "I-I love you too, Mike. More than you'll ever know."

Fighting the pain that the movement evoked, Mikey nodded slowly, and with one final, blue-eyed glance of affection, he closed his eyes in resignation and sighed deeply, going limp in Don's lap.

A dark, icy shadow appeared to descend over the alley in that instant, and the abandoned warehouse from across the street watched the scene indifferently—a cold witness in a cold night.

No… Don felt himself turn numb, but not from the winter chill on his bare skin. He hastily released the rigid hand that he still urgently gripped and felt for a pulse at Mikey's neck. No.

Slowly withdrawing his two fingers, Donny removed his other hand from Mike's still-moist forehead and placed his hands on top of one another, resting them over his little brother's diaphragm. He feverishly flew into chest compressions.

No, Mikey. This isn't right. It's Christmas. You're supposed to open the first present tomorrow morning. You've always been the first; it's a tradition, and you always open my present first. You're gonna love the new game system that I designed for you. I've been working on it all year, but it was worth it! You'll love it, but you have to wake up…

Donny repeatedly thrust his weight into each compression with all the driven intensity of desperation. Mikey wasn't dead…he couldn't be. Still thrusting his arms rhythmically against his brother's chest, Donny looked up to the night sky, searching for answers, guidance…anything! "Please!" he cried out, his voice cracking, "Please, don't take him from us—from me! I-I know I sound selfish, but I…" Don ducked his head in misery and mumbled, "I need him."

After several more minutes of CPR, Donny heard a soft whimper, followed by a strangled sob. He looked down hopefully, but it took him several seconds to realize that the noises weren't coming from Mikey; they were coming from himself. His gut clenching, he glanced haggardly to the side at his brother's serene expression, and in that moment, something clicked into place.

Slamming his fists down on the pavement in anguish, Don let loose a low moan and threw himself onto his brother's chest, burying his face in his arms. Oddly, he didn't cry. As much as he desired, even willed, the tears to come, there was nothing left. Nothing. Just an empty numbness.

Don lay in the alley for who knows how long. What did it matter? He was numb. Cold. Until now, he hadn't fully realized that Mikey was his warmth—his source of light. Without his little brother, everything seemed gray. Christmas? What did it matter? Without Mikey, it would be just another day of the year. Another day of exile in the sewers. Another day of waking to concrete walls and limited prospects. Another day of grim reality without Mikey's cheer to brighten Don's perspective. Another day numb.

As Donatello continued to mourn for his extinguished light, he was unaware of a new radiance that filled the alley. At the resounding creak of a door behind him, Don instinctively lifted his head, turning it slightly and blinking as his eyes adjusted to the sudden glow illuminating the darkness.

He stared long enough for his vision to clear and focus on the dark silhouette of a man standing in contrast to the light pouring through the doorway—just inside his peripheral vision. Pausing for only a moment, Don briefly considered concealing himself amidst the shadows, or at the very least sliding into a defensive crouch and drawing his Bo.

What does it matter? He thought dejectedly.

Thrusting aside all of his natural premonitions, Don bowed his head again, carelessly tossing away Mikey's coat and placing a soft hand on his brother's cold plastron. Without sparing the man a second glance, he whispered hoarsely, "Please. Just leave me alone…"

The man was silent for a moment, as if he were considering Don's request. Then, with slow, deliberate steps, he walked up behind the turtle and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You suffer, friend, and on Christmas of all days."

Don stiffened. Just what kind of game was this guy playing at? Couldn't he recognize a freak when he saw one?

Donatello reluctantly tore his gaze from Mikey's face and looked over his shoulder at the figure. "What do you want with me? Why can't you just leave me alone?"

The man smiled, though his eyes were traced with sorrow. "I just want to know why you're feeling such pain during a season of joy."

Don snorted, gesturing at Mikey's body, refusing to look at his brother's face again for fear of losing his fragile composure. "I thought it was obvious." Shell. He was talking to the guy, now? Yet, what did it matter, after all?

The man's eyes flicked from Don to the still form in sympathy, and he slowly approached Michelangelo's body.

Startled and infuriated, Donny immediately lashed out, grabbing the man's wrist with unnecessary force. "Don't touch him," he growled, giving a warning squeeze.

The man calmly regarded Donatello with a thoughtful expression. "I'm sorry. May I?"

A long moment of tension passed, and ultimately, to his utter disbelief, Don found himself relinquishing his grip. Had he completely cast aside all caution and sanity with Michelangelo's death? … Yes… He must have. Otherwise, he wouldn't have let Mr. Friendly here within one hundred feet of his brother.

The man boldly met Don's eyes and nodded, kneeling by Michelangelo and resting a gentle hand on the orange-clad turtle's forehead. The man's brow wrinkled in deep concentration, and then he shifted his gaze to Donatello, smiling—his eyes betraying hope. "He's not dead, but asleep."

His gaze snapping up to meet the man's, Don's heart skipped hopefully at the words, but he immediately tensed. His rational mind shoved away such foolish desires with contempt, and his eyes hardened into a glare. The punk was just toying with his emotions, now, and Don hated him for it.

"You bastard!" Don spat, "He's dead! I confirmed it myself!" His voice cracked on the last word, and he quickly caught and composed himself, using his anger as a crutch. "You lying bastard! He's…" Donny looked about heatedly, unable to find more eloquent words to express his point, and eventually settled for thrusting a finger at Michelangelo and shouting with finality, "He's dead!"

Throughout Don's tirade, the man remained impassive, patiently listening. When the infuriated turtle had finished, the stranger simply reached up and took the quivering green hand, placing it on the side of Mikey's neck.

"What are you—?" Don froze, the world tilting once again. A light pulse beat beneath his fingers. He withdrew his hand, flexed his fingers uncertainly, and felt for the pulse a second time. Beyond a doubt, there was a faint, rhythmical flutter against his touch. Don gasped; he hadn't imagined it—there was a pulse.

At a loss of words, Donatello could only croak out his brother's name, his voice catching as his throat constricted with an emotion that he couldn't quite place. "Mikey!" He tentatively touched Mike's arm, suddenly feeling a forgotten warmth surge through his core with the contact. "How…?" Don trailed off, his wide eyes flickering to the man's face incredulously.

The stranger smiled. "Come. He's cold, and the weather will only worsen his condition." The man tucked his hands under Mikey's limp arms, firmly gripping him by the triceps and hefting the heavy turtle up with a grunt. "Help me carry him inside. All are welcome in my house."

Still in shock from the sudden turn in events, Donny hesitated only a moment before gripping Mikey's legs and hoisting them up, nodding in agreement, but keeping a suspicious eye on the stranger. Right now, his little brother needed him. He would have time to make sense of everything later.

Together, the two carried their load inside, Donny backing in first. As Don's host followed, he glanced briefly over his shoulder at the fallen Foot soldiers still lying in the alley, and shook his head sadly. Crossing the threshold, he clicked the door shut with his foot, and the prone bodies were shrouded in the shadows of the night once more.