Work Text:
"You don't gotta come get me y'know? I can just get an Uber or somthin', it’s cool.”
“Aw, c’mon, Case, I’m not dyin’. What, you think I can’t handle a drive down to Jersey now?”
Really, Casey just didn’t want too many people holding them up at the airport because Raph wouldn’t (couldn’t) take off his helmet. He’s been stuck in Montreal for three days because he forgot to renew his damn passport before he left and the team had to leave for home without him. He is now down almost a thousand dollars with the combined cost of a new passport and plane ticket. He’d gotten covered in bruises from the actual damn game and busted a blood vessel in his eye stressing about the whole fuckin’ thing so safe to say he both looks and feels like shit.
When the plane finally lands at JFK he actually claps along with all the white people because goddamn if those weren’t the longest six and a half hours of his life. He’s absolutely wiped and almost eats shit on the jet bridge because the carpet’s lifting up but thank god for small mercies because he gets to skip the hell that is baggage claim since he sent his gear with the team. It's a good thing he did, he thinks, trudging toward the exit, clinging to the strap of his trusty duffle, because Raph’s coming for him on his bike and just thinking about fitting the both of them, his duffle and fifty pounds of hockey shit on it is actively giving him a migraine.
The hum of the crowd waiting outside the terminal spills into the building every time someone passes through the sliding doors. Casey drags himself through them into the (fucking freezing) night, looking for his very short totally not suspicious ride.
And there he is, off in the corner near the street next to his bike, covered head to toe in black and still wearing his helmet like always.
Casey’s almost knocked flat by how much he’s missed him. The terrapin hasn’t seen him yet, shifting from foot to foot and scanning the crowd for his face, holding a piece of cardboard with ‘dumbass’ scribbled on it in chisel tip marker. It’s only been a week but he can’t wait to go home and eat greasy takeout with him and sleep for fifty years and wake up and watch him almost burn the eggs at breakfast like he always does and then watch that new slasher in their pjs while Raph catches him up on whatever mutant bullshittery happened while he was gone.
He grips his bag and starts sprinting full tilt down the sidewalk toward Raph, who’s finally seen him (some ninja) and is yelling something or other but Casey cant hear over the blood pounding in his ears and the stupid fucking cackle that's started up in this throat.
He jumps at him like some demented kangaroo and of course Raph catches him and they spin round and round in the cold on the sidewalk like idiots.
Casey slams his head into the visor of Raph’s helmet and listens to him laughing and grins so hard his face hurts.
“What the hell, dumbass, you tryin’ to kill me now?”
“Maybe. Ya miss me?”
“Fuck no.”
But there’s a smile tacked on to the end of it, and Casey knows he’s home.