Chapter Text
Before everything went wrong, the boys thought Gotham was just a loud, messy place full of lights and weird smells. Their apartment was small, cracked in the corners, but their mom filled it with warmth no heater could ever replace. Their dad filled it with laughter that rumbled through the kitchen walls. And Leonardo—only seven—thought the whole world made sense. That everything would stay that way, perfect and save. He used to sit on the fire escape with Raphael and Donattelo, pointing at the sky, telling them that Batman and Robin or Nightwing might fly by any second. Heroes were real. Heroes made things better. And Heroes would always be there if you needed them. That’s what he believed.
Then Michelangelo was born too early.
Everything after that felt like a nightmare that never ended. Leo remembered the day everything changed like it happened yesterday. The rushing, the shouting, the cold hospital hallway, Raph’s tiny hand crushing his, Donnie toddling around asking when Mommy was coming back. Their dad was crying in a chair, face buried in shaking hands. No one explained anything. Leo didn’t understand the words, but he understood the silence when a nurse came out with red-rimmed eyes.
They went home without their mom.
Little Michelangelo had to stay in an incubator for weeks, to small to face the word. He was still so small when they were finely allowed to take him home that Leo thought breathing too loud might hurt him. Raph hovered nearby when Leo held Mikey like something made of glass, fists clenched, five years old and already daring the world to try something. Donnie, just three years old, dragged blankets and toys around to “help,” even when the blankets weighed more than he did. Their dad tried for a while, he really did, but every time he looked at Mikey—those bright blue eyes, that soft curl in his hair—it twisted the knife. Mikey looked just like their mom. And somehow that made everything harder.
Their father drifted like a ghost through their apartment, always tired, always in pain, always somewhere else. Leo stepped up without thinking. He rocked Mikey to sleep every night, fed him bottles, soothed him through the wheezing fits his tiny lungs struggled with. He whispered, “I got you,” because someone had to. Raph tried to help but mostly glared at anyone who so much as looked at them wrong. Donnie tried to solve things with his small, serious logic, even when he didn’t understand what was broken. Mikey grew up thinking love sounded like Leo’s heartbeat and warmth felt like being in his brothers’ arms.
But even as he got older, Mikey noticed things. How their dad would smile at Leo, ruffle Raph’s hair, chuckle when Donnie babbled about gadgets… but hesitate when it came to him. Mikey never understood why. He didn’t remember their mom, didn’t understand grief or trauma or guilt. He just knew sometimes Dad looked at him like it hurt. And Mikey, tiny and confused, wondered in that quiet way children do if maybe… maybe he had done something wrong. Maybe he had taken something he wasn’t supposed to. Maybe he wasn’t enough.
As the years went on, the boys held onto what little hope they had by staring out the window at night, waiting for a hero to show up. Leo told Mikey that Batman protected people. Donnie said maybe Nightwing would pass by. Raph scoffed every time and muttered that heroes were not to be trusted to save you when it mattered. But Leo still hoped. He hoped when things got bad. He hoped when their dad stopped coming home some nights. He hoped when the bills piled up and the fridge got emptier. He hoped until the day hope stopped answering him back.
Because when their mom died, no hero came.
When their dad fell apart, no hero came.
When the nights got dangerous and their apartment creaked under the weight of fear, still no one came.
And then one night, Gotham took their dad too. A dispute, wrong alley, wrong time. Just another nameless death the cops didn’t bother caring about. The system moved fast after that because four boys, brothers from the age 5 to 12 where hard to keep together. A foster home took them in, a place with cold floors and colder voices. They yelled a lot. Grabbed arms too tightly. Told the boys they’d “do better apart.” Leo saw the way they whispered to social workers. Raph heard them talking about separating the boys. Donnie did the math—each of them had a higher chance of placement alone. Mikey felt the fear like a weight on his little chest.
So one night, Leo shook Raph awake. Raph shook Donnie. Donnie picked Mikey up, who blinked sleepily but didn’t question it. They climbed out the window, down the fire escape, and into Gotham’s freezing streets with nothing but a backpack and the clothes on their backs. No plan, no home, just each other.
It was then they learned the truth: heroes were for other people. People in tall buildings, people who lived above the cracks. Heroes saved the city, but not kids like them. Leo stopped looking for the bat symbol. Raph started hating it. Donnie tried to accept it logically. And Mikey… Mikey still looked up sometimes, still hoping, even if the hope was small and flickering.
And together they made the only promise that mattered anymore.
If no one was coming to save them, then they would save each other.
Always.