Communication Aides
EPIC SAGA - SCENE THIRTEEN
Raphael goes to extremes to make amends with his brother Donatello.
Naturally the communication aids had been Donatello's idea. Raph had scoffed inwardly at first, mostly at the sheer egg-headed bureaucracy of the suggestion, but he had been willing to give it a try. His brother had pointed out that too often they didn't understand why they had set one another off in the first place. Don thought that putting their grievances and points of view on paper could help them 'expedite conflict resolution'.
After just a few exchanges of these, Raph had to admit -- to himself, of course, not out loud -- the communication aids were effective. Their fights no longer resulted in lingering grudges. Violent actions and words spoken in anger no longer piled up on one another until the animosity was unbearable. It's also a lot easier to check off some boxes and apologize with a note on the door than to speak the words aloud to his brother's face. There is some shame in that -- it feels a bit cowardly, but it's the truth. With this method of Don's, he is more likely to actually follow through and apologize.
Raphael's own default memo is much less complex than Don's. The reasons he flies off the handle tend to be fairly straight-forward and predictable -- in his eyes, anyway. So far he has not seen a good need to alter it, but he thinks it is time to do so now.
Don didn't sleep AGAIN last night! And I know for a fact he didn't sleep the night before that, either. No wonder training wiped him out. I'm surprised he lasted as long as he did... Raphael carries the note back to his room with him, still looking it over as he gently shuts the door behind him.
Man... now that I think about it, I'm not sure he slept at all this weekend. That's too fucking long. Nobody would be stable on so little sleep.
The red-masked shinobi takes off the heavy gold pendant and tosses it carelessly onto the nearest surface, a particularly ugly dresser with chipping paint and warped wood that prevents the bottom drawer from shutting. He sits down in front of his badly neglected PC and begins the aggravating process of waiting for it to boot up. It's a piece of shit and always takes forever, but he doesn’t actually want Don to build him a better one. Even fast and cutting edge computers have the potential to aggravate him, and when that happens Raph doesn't trust himself not to snap and drive his sai into it. It's better for everyone if he sticks to computers that are at least a decade old.
Blackmail... Jesus, Raph broods over the letter while his computer screen continues to optimistically promise that Windows is loading his personal settings. I hadn't thought of it that way. Of course he never actually planned on running to Leo about the identity theft. If Don had been truthful -- and he had seemed very honest, in that moment -- then it sounded to him like a victimless crime, something done for the greater good of protecting the family from Karai. If anything, Raphael admired his genius brother for being so damned clever. Right under Leo’s beak, no less! The whole thing is kind of beautiful.
But at the same time, he had sensed an advantage -- and like any good scrapper, he had instinctively pressed it. Raphael had thought the smallness of what he had asked Don to do would have been obvious. He had thought it would be clear that he was letting Don off the hook easy, even offering him a bargain: his formal promise not to tell the real Hamato jonin, all for the very low cost of eating some goddamn breakfast before they train! He had thought it was a pretty good deal. Anyway, shouldn't his grin or his easy-going delivery have been a clue?
But Don could not have been sure about any of that. That's just how Donnie is. He combs through the pure data in front of him. He puts aside all the information which he has guessed and favors only what he can prove. While extremely perceptive overall, Don can't read people as easily as Mikey or Leo because of this.
If you just listen to the words you actually said, then... yeah. It sounds a whole lot like blackmail. Good one, asshole. Way to be a friend.
And that's the real crime, Raph realized as a shiver of discomfort crept over his skin. It's not even the blackmail. He has been so secretive lately with all of us, but he has finally been opening up to you. He has been trusting you with a lot of his secrets lately, and this morning was another one. It probably ain't an easy thing to confess, especially when he's been deliberately keeping this stuff from everyone and getting away with it for so long. You didn't respect any of that.
As he thinks back on the conversation with more consideration for Don’s perspective, Raph realizes that he must have hit upon the one big downside to his brother’s whole stock-market-via-identity-theft scheme: Leonardo eventually finding out. The chunin imagines the severity of their big brother's disappointment, and the inevitable confrontation that would follow -- one which Leonardo would only have to turn into a physical confrontation to win without question.
Jesus, Raph… You are the lowest kind of asshole. You not only blackmailed him, you probably threatened him with the very thing he fears the most!
He couldn't afford this. It was important to understand how he had wronged his brother, but he couldn't afford to let this melancholy creep over him, like it always does. He searches his heart, trying to chase after the hope he had felt when he initially looked over Donnie's communication aid. You two are gonna work this out, he tries to reassure himself. It was obvious from the boxes Don checked (including those he checked and then erased) just how badly his brother wanted for them to be cool again. He tried to focus on that. They had already begun to work it out, just by Don leaving him this letter. And now it's your turn.
Raphael looks up from his deep introspection to see that the desktop icons have loaded. He wonders how long he has been slumped on the ripped and duct-taped office chair in his room, staring at the letter, lost in his thoughts.
You and Don are gonna be fine, he tells himself again, with more conviction, if you can just figure out how to reply.
He opens up the document that contains the blank version of his letter, the one he has never bothered to alter before now. Like basically everything he has ever bothered to save on this computer, this document lives on the desktop. He knows it drives Don crazy to see so much digital clutter. His brother can't seem to help pointing out that all the stuff saved on his desktop is one of the reasons his computer boots up so slowly. But the truth is, Raph isn't sure he could ever find the files again if they were saved anywhere else. It is just one of the many things about computers that he knows he ought to understand by now, which means he is much too embarrassed to ask.
There are no fancy grids or plotted graphs on his memo, just a single column of boxes and text down the center of the page. It had taken him a while to figure out how to make a check box, and he no longer remembers how it was done. Instead of trying to figure it out all over again, he highlights one of the pre-existing ones and uses copy and paste to duplicate it. He puts the new line alongside the other violation about technobabble.
The new addition reads:
□ 48 HOURS WITHOUT SLEEP VIOLATION
It seems like a fair number. Nobody would be on top of their game after being awake for so long. It can't be good for him. How many of their fights have begun because Don was pissy from too little sleep? Probably a lot more often than Raph realized. He's only just starting to understand the full extent of Donatello’s insomnia.
He considers and quickly rejects the idea of adding a line about eating before training. He doesn't want to get into that again, not yet -- not after the first attempt to assert himself about this was botched so badly. Anyway, this beef he has about Don not sleeping is not a command from the temporary Jonin. It is something that he thinks could be damaging to their friendship and fraternity, so it belongs on the list.
Raphael doesn't own a printer. Print jobs from this computer are sent to Donnie's nerd nook downstairs. He pokes around the desk drawer where he keeps some pens and markers until he finds the red sharpie he usually uses, then leaves his room and jumps down from the upper balcony to retrieve the print out.
When he is finished filling out the appropriate check boxes on the front of the memo, he flips the document over and begins to write a longer note on the back. Once again he must use his left hand, which means writing the note takes forever. There is one benefit to this: it forces him to really think about everything before he writes it, because every word is such a time commitment. He doesn't want to have to reprint the damned thing and start over.
About two-thirds of the way through his note, it occurs to Raph that he could have just typed the letter. Even his one-fingered pecking would have been faster than this! But having written this much, he has already committed. Might as well see it through.
When he is finished with it, the communication aid he leaves on Donatello's door looks like this:
Raphael makes sure the hall lights are off before peeking his head into Donnie's bedroom to check on him. He moves at an ultra slow pace and sets his feet down with care as he creeps further into the room, employing all the best practices for stealth that have been drilled into him over the years, loathe to disturb his exhausted little brother if he is finally catching up on some much needed rest.
Once he is close enough, the turtle stands motionless, listening to the rhythm of his brother’s breathing, watching the familiar curve of his shell beneath the purple quilt for a gentle rise and fall. He will retreat as soon as he feels satisfied.
When the door had finally closed behind Raph, leaving Donatello in blissful darkness the turtle had shifted his position on the bed, tucking his knees up against his plastron to make himself seem as small as possible.
This morning had been an absolute fiasco. He had begun the day with such optimism, especially when he had decided to open up even more to Raph and let his brother know more of the secretive life that he had lead in solitude for so many years. All of that blew up in his face. Even if Raphael had not meant to slight him as he did, the fact remained that after Donatello took a risk to open up to his brother, he felt as though he had been completely invalidated and betrayed.
He knew that when Raphael received his communication aide that he would take the message of betrayal seriously and would likely work to try to repair any damages that were done by his actions. After all, Raphael was trying very hard to be there for him in a situation that had to be difficult, if not nearly impossible to bear witness to.
Donatello knew that he was sick. Both physically and mentally. It was becoming more obvious and more serious with every passing day that the genius was losing his grip. But everyday, without fail, Raphael was by his side through the madness.
He tossed and he turned for quite some time before he was able to even get remotely comfortable. His eyelids had only just begun to grow heavy when he heard the shift of air from his door and the almost silent padding of feet on his bedroom floor. The purple banded shinobi cracked open his eyes, finding the form of Raphael in the darkness. He slowly slid his blanket down off of his face and whispered, his voice cracking from having gone unused after having been sick.
“I-I’m sorry about training, Raph. I didn’t mean to mess up on the first one.”
The other turtle steps forward until he is beside the bed. He crouches down so as not to loom and matches his volume to Donnie’s whisper as he answers simply, “I know.”
He falls silent, feeling a million different things, unable to give voice to any of them.
Raphael is glad for the darkness. It makes it easier to follow through with what he had already decided to do if he found Don still awake in here. “Erased checkboxes count, just so you know,” he mumbles quietly as he eases his weight onto the edge of the mattress and gently nudges his brother’s blanketed form with one elbow. “Scoot the fuck over, man. Give a turtle some room.”
That's right, the new plan is to snuggle Don to sleep. And if it doesn't work, at least he’ll have gotten that hug out of the way.
Donatello’s eyes are trained on the hulking form of his older brother, even if all he can see in the dark room is the other turtle’s silhouette. The soft tone that comes out of his brother feels almost uncharacteristically gentle, but the genius turtle has come to know that the red clad shinobi may actually be the softest and most caring of his brothers beneath the hard exterior that he wore.
He scolded himself lightly when Raphael made mention of the erased check boxes. A part of him knew that once he checked a box and decided against actually revealing that much about what was going on that he should just print off a new sheet to give to Raph. But he was smart enough to recognize that there was a part of him that always wanted Raph to discover the very light traces of graphite that were left on the paper, the slight indent from his pen or even the traces that an eraser left on the page.
All of it was a test. He did not mean to be constantly testing Raphael, but it was almost compulsive at this point. A part of him felt that if his brother was not paying enough attention to the incredibly subtle clues he left for him, then he did not deserve to be there to help him.
It was unfair. And it was extremely passive aggressive. But that was Donatello’s nature.
Don scooched over in the bed until his carapace bumped against the wall, allowing Raph to get into a comfortable position on the bed before he lay his head on Raph’s chest, letting out a soft sigh as he pulled his thick down quilt over the both of them.
“I know they do…” he quietly replied in a soft and muffled voice once he had effectively hidden his face between the blanket and Raph’s plastron. After a few moments of silence the purple banded shinobi whispered, so low that he was uncertain that his brother would even catch it, “I’m a fucking wreck.”
Raph eases onto the bed and lay back on Don’s mattress. It's weirdly squishy at first, yet surprisingly comfortable once he settles back and it conforms to the weight of his shell. It’s that memory foam stuff, his brain supplies. He isn’t used to sleeping on beds, in general, but thinks he might actually be able to fall asleep on his back on a bed like this. Not that he could ever say so. Too long has he been a rabid defender of the superiority of hammocks.
The older brother’s massive arms settle around Donatello in a firm embrace. His hardened physique and bony plastron don’t make for the most comfortable cuddle in the world, but the feel of it beneath the cheek is cool and primordially familiar, recalling ancient and uncomplicated childhood nights in a tangled pile sharing a single blanket. These days there is nothing soft about any part of Raphael’s body -- not on the outside, anyway. Even so, his hug is very protective and secure.
When Donnie speaks, Raph can't be sure he heard the last bit correctly, but he thinks he did and decides to trust it. He has always been comfortable with relying on gut instincts.
“Maybe… but if you are, that's okay.” His hushed voice in the darkness is low and full of gravel, a string of comforts offered in an even cadence. “You don't gotta be a sensible, solid rock all the time. You are not a pure logic robot, Donnie, no matter how much you might wanna be sometimes. When terrible shit happens, it can fuck a person up for a while. It’s kinda supposed to. And when it does, it don’t make it that person’s fault. Master Splinter taught me that. Maybe not exactly in those words, heh. But that's what he meant. Had to hear that talk more than once, you know?”
Slowly his eyes are adjusting to the darkness. He can just barely make out the phosphorescent yellow-green glow of the plastic stars which have decorated the ceiling of his little brother’s bedroom for as far back as he can remember. His gaze roams over them for a few silent beats before he goes on.
“It sucks like hell to feel like you’re the unstable one on the team - believe me, I know. But it won't be that way forever. Anyway, that team is on a serious hiatus right now. Ain't nobody here you gotta keep up appearances for. We got nothing but time on our hands suddenly to regroup and make plans and do whatever it takes to turn this thing around.”
Donatello let out a chuckle. The noise was nowhere near anything comical or humorous, but rather it was a self deprecating and dismal sound. A scowl appeared on his face, but the grimace was masked by the darkness around them.
The purple banded shinobi had long since come to terms with the fact that his mental health was on the decline, with no end to the spiral in sight. Every day seemed to come with new challenges and while he may be extraordinarily brilliant he was very fast running out of methods to combat them.
It was as though he were drowning, caught by reeds in the bottom of some vast, deep and dark lake, but the more that he struggled, the more that he fought to get his head above water, the more ensnared that he became.
His every waking moment was dedicated to preventing a future which seemed to be coming at him unerringly. For all of his efforts, clues that it still lay in wait surfaced around him. Each omen mocked him, making him feel as though no matter how hard he fought against them that it was all for naught.
He pressed his beak more firmly against Raph’s plastron and replied in a voice full of self-loathing venom, “There is a difference between feeling like the most unstable one on the team and knowing beyond a doubt that it is true.”
“No,” Raph disagrees softly. “Not as much difference as you might think. In a family like ours, nobody's gonna punish you for an insecurity like that… mostly it'll just be you punishin’ yourself. The end result is still you bein’ down on yourself and constantly kickin’ yer own ass, whether or not it's justified. Either way, it don't help nothing. And when that's what's goin’ on, it can be real hard to tell the difference. There’s plenty of days where I feel like maybe I haven't changed at all. Like I just got everybody fooled, and all it’ll take is one more screw up for them to see the truth.”
Raphael sighs, unsure whether or not he is helping. He wants to reassure Donatello somehow, to ease his brother’s troubled, overactive mind, but words alone might not be enough to soothe him. Maybe Don won't be able to relax and truly heal until Raphael can serve him Karai’s head on a platter. Is that all it would take in order to free Don of this waking horror? Would his nightmares finally stop?
If it were that simple, he thinks, I would’a slaughtered that bitch months ago. Kill-free count be damned.
Many troubling questions weigh on his mind about the days to come and the impact of their actions, but now is not the right time to hash them out with Don. “Sorry…” he whispers with a fresh stab of humility. “Not just for keeping you awake, I’m sorry for all of it. Probably said it better in the thing I left on your door.” Beneath the blanket, his fingertips have landed on an interesting ridge on Donatello's carapace. He absently traces a path along the sharp edge as he admits, “I never know the right thing to say… or when to shut up, apparently. But I’m here."
The purple banded genius listened in silence to his brother’s spiel, carefully weighing each word against the negative thought processes which had begun to run rampant through his mind. He knew that he was in a downward decline of self-depreciating thoughts that were likely to get him spiraling into a panic attack rather quickly if he did not manage to pull himself out of it.
Right now Raphael was his only source of reason to combat the thought patterns which threatened him so he tried desperately to interpret the message that Raph was trying to give him into its most basic elements, trying to find comfort in his brother’s words.
You are likely not as fucked up as you think that you are.
You are your very worst critic.
Letting yourself spiral like this is not doing yourself, or our family, any favors.
You are not the only one with issues.
Donatello drew in a deep and steadying breath as he heard Raph apologize for the events of the day. He shifted his position enough to no longer be hiding his face in blankets and against his brother, looking up at the red banded shinobi, regardless of the darkness, “Thank you. For this. For everything… I may suck at showing it… but it means a lot and it does help.”
Raphael’s nod can be felt more than seen in the darkness. He grasps for some reply -- ‘you're welcome’ or ‘no problem’ -- but all of these seem grossly inadequate, the words too casual and dismissive of such a heavy and meaningful moment. Like so many other important exchanges before this one, he chokes and winds up saying nothing. Raph hopes that simply being here will be enough.
He knows that Mike and Don have slept together like this in the past, on very bad nights. They don't know that he knows, he's pretty sure. He had broken something once, many years ago -- he doesn't even remember what it was now, but it had seemed important at the time -- important enough to come barging into Don’s room at some crazy hour. There they had been, curled up together, fast asleep, looking far more peaceful than either had been earlier that day. He had backed out of the room quickly, embarrassed and not wishing to disturb them.
He had always assumed this tactile comfort was mostly for Mikey’s benefit, but now he is no longer sure.
Raphael is not, in fact, even slightly tired. The evening has only just begun, and it wasn't a tough workout as far as he was concerned. Unlike Don, he got plenty of rest the previous night. He's not at all used to physical contact with others while he is trying to sleep, not since he was a little kid. He doubts he will be able to drift off like this.
It is comfortable, though - and there is much to think about. He alternates between watching the stars and peeking down at his brother, whom he can just barely make out now that his pupils have fully expanded. He thinks of many things -- potential solutions, potential disasters. He wonders what Mike and Usagi are doing right now. He wonders if Leo’s stupid stone heart spell has worn off yet, and whether or not he feels any remorse. He wonders if the wheels in Don's head are still relentlessly turning. Do they ever stop, even when he is sleeping? Maybe not. Maybe that is partly why he is tormented so often with vivid and terrifying dreams.
Donatello let himself settle into the silence between he and Raphael. Even without any kind of verbal response from his brother he knew that his sentiment was well received and that the red clad shinobi simply did not know what to say. It was often that way when Don opened up and let himself be vulnerable.
It did not bother him, not anymore at least. When he had first begun to open up to Raph the silence had been almost maddening. He had often taken the lack of response as a lack of validation, understanding and caring. But through the use of the communication aides they had come to an understanding on this point and many others. His brother simply was not good with words and needed time to figure out how to say what he felt.
But for now, the comfortable silence and soothing contact was more than enough for Don. He nestled into the blankets and let out a soft sigh. It was the first time in days that his body was able to actually relax and while there was always a slight embarrassment caused by using his brothers as a crutch like this, like he used to do with Mikey and had begun using Raph, the comfort was undeniable.
Soon the purple clad shinobi had drifted into sleep, lulled by the soft and rhythmic rise and fall of Raph’s chest as he breathed as well as the gentle touch of the other shinobi on his shell. It was the first time he had slept since Leonardo and Michelangelo’s departure from their home and he desperately needed it, his body crashing hard the moment that his mind finally relaxed.
Regardless of the comfort he felt as he had given in to sleep, the shinobi’s dreams were tumultuous and full of memories of his past, which were also his future. It was not long before his body tensed against the horrific intrusions to his mind, whimpering pleas leaving his lips, begging his brothers not to die, not to leave him alone in that horrible place.
As Donatello finally falls asleep, Raphael winds up thinking some more about Karai. He figures they will still have to take her out at some point. It’s such an obvious solution that it doesn't make sense not to try it. Karai is central to all of the doom that awaits them in Don’s nightmare world. Without Karai’s dogged loyalty and unfulfilled vow to restore her “father” to power, Ch’rell would most likely remain trapped in his icy prison for the rest of their lives. But every time Raph tries to put his hope behind this straight-forward and attainable plan, doubt rises up to plague him.
What if they do vanquish the heir of Oroko Saki, only to have someone else within the Foot Clan rise up to take her place? Would he or she be an improvement over the power-mad kunoichi Don has seen filling giant video screens and preaching the Shredder’s doctrine in so many of his dark visions? What if the next leader to resume her quest for vengeance and domination was even worse somehow? What if the next in line to lead the Foot was smarter, better funded, or twice as cruel?
Could the future turn out even worse because of their interference? In Don’s visions, they are in their 40s when Oroku Karai and the Hamato clan finally destroy one another. Getting the jump on Karai long before she amasses insane amounts of money and power seems like a smart and obvious move. But what if all it does is move up the time-table for their ultimate destruction, and now they will die in their twenties or thirties instead? Raph pictures them being gunned down early by some unknown Foot protégé, some clever fucking asshole they did not even know about who also thirsts for vengeance -- not in the name of the original Shredder, but to avenge Karai herself! Of course some of the local Foot Clan will have even more cause to hate them after the unprovoked assassination of their Jonin.
Staring up at the faint glow of artificial stars, Raphael can picture it all too clearly now. Their pre-emptive strike, meant to prevent the nightmare future, could easily become the new reason for their downfall.
Already she was constantly surrounded by an upper echelon of hand-picked lieutenants. All of them were loyal to the death and extremely skilled -- not just as martial artists, but also in a variety of other ways. Raph had done some solo reconnaissance prior to his injury, and he has noticed that some wear advanced tech while others appear to have mystic ability. Then there are two who worry him in particular, because Karai seems to rely on them as tacticians.
He is trying to remember and memorize their faces when he feels his brother beginning to stir in his arms. The mumbled words are hard to understand, but he can hear the notes of anguish. It is very tempting to rouse his brother then and free him of the nightmare world, but he knows it is better to let Don catch up on badly needed rest.
Instead his arms tighten around Don ever so slightly, and then one large hand cups the back of his olive green head. “I’m here,” he promises in a whisper. “Raph’s gotcha. I ain't going anywhere, I promise.”
Karai beamed down from above him, her wicked smile only accentuated by the vicious, maniacal and cruel laugh that left her lips, the blood of his brothers still readily dripping from the katana in her hand as she towered over him.
He had failed. He had managed to stop Ch'rell, but at what cost? He had lost nearly everyone that he held dear and he knew that even April would not last long in this world when Karai’s legion rose up, seeking vengeance for their fallen leader. His brother’s bodies were not even cold and already the futility of their sacrifice was made abundantly clear.
All that he could do as he froze with the fear of that realization was cling to his brother’s bodies as Karai bore down upon him, a silent scream was caught in his throat as her katana hit home.
Then, as quickly as the horrific visions had appeared around him, those demons faded away. There was warmth and comfort and the gentle voice of his older brother, telling him that he was there and would not leave his side. Tears rolled down his cheeks, staining the cloth of his deep purple bandanna as he clung tighter to Raphael without waking.
The genius shinobi’s breathing began to even as his mind was filled, for the first time in far too long, with visions of he, his brothers, friends and father piled together on the couch, fighting over the last slice of pizza and happily heckling the movie that they had chosen together for their Saturday night, all thoughts of bloodshed and misery temporarily forgotten.
Raphael settles in to wait as long as necessary. There was a time he might not have been capable of this, but his patience has grown with maturity. A few times he wonders if he might be able to carefully slide out from under Donatello without rousing him, but the possibility of disrupting his brother’s badly needed sleep never seems worth the risk. Besides, what if he fell into another nightmare? Soothing Don was surprisingly effective, and he wants to be here if the dark visions return.
Well over an hour later, the turtle has managed to (very slowly and carefully) slide his shell cell free. His right arm remains curled around his sleeping sibling, but with his left he manages to manipulate the phone. He is careful not to let the light from the phone fall directly on his brother, keeping it near his body as he brings it closer to immediately silence it.
Should’a done that right away, he scolds himself at first, before realizing how stupid that is. Not that anyone else would call. Maybe Casey or April, but at eleven o'clock in the evening? Nah... Even so, he leaves it silenced and even dims the brightness as a further courtesy. After spending so long awake in the near total darkness, the light from the screen seems blinding even at the very dimmest setting.
It will have to do. By this point Raphael is desperate for an easier way to kill the time than tripping himself out about Karai.
He looks at the home screen on his phone. Icons stare back at him, some familiar and others a total mystery. Raph considers the browser button, his left thumb hovering while his fingers support the slight weight of the electronic device. He wishes it were bigger, honestly. He's always worried about breaking the damn thing, though it might be paranoia on his part. These days, Don makes their “field gear” pretty damned durable.
Finally he opens up the note program instead. Having Don cradled near and breathing evenly beneath his arm reminds him of another conversation they had recently when Donnie was teaching him new tricks with his phone. He thinks about the closed notes which he had learned must still exist, tucked away somewhere on the thing’s little hard drive or whatever. He had not just closed the note after all but shut down the whole program, and he had never pressed save or anything! Raph has always felt a compulsion to destroy his creative works upon completion -- a habit which his proud, pack rat of a father had always despised.
Apparently there is an auto-save on this thing. Well, Don wrote the code, so it figures.
Raphael considers the menus. Normally he avoids menus, if he can help it. He doesn't feel qualified to muck around in any settings. But now he considers the list of words and decides that LOAD probably might open a note.
It does. There they all are, untitled and numbered. His thumb stabs one of the documents at random, and he winds up opening ‘File17.txt’
people call this hood unfriendly and i think it must be true we are hardened here nobody stops to look beyond their business nobody is casting out eyes like fishing lines trying to see more sadness nobody can afford more trouble nobody gotta smile for a stranger you don't just give that shit away on these streets you gotta earn it
He reads it over slowly, remembering when it was written. Everything, from the play of shadows cast over the alley, the summer sun sliding through the rusty bars of the fire escape where he crouched, to his tumultuous frame of mind as sat fuming, until the heat baked into the metal began to seep pleasantly into his thighs and he began to people watch from his hidden perch -- and eventually, to write.
Would it be weird, he wonders, doing that kind of writing with some voice-to-text thing? Speaking such words aloud, Raph can see himself feeling a whole lot more self-conscious.
He spends some time after that, going through his old notes one after the other -- and for once, deleting none of them.
He could not really tell how long it was that he had been asleep, but it was quite obvious to him the very moment that he regained consciousness that Raphael had not moved from the spot he had settled into earlier. Donatello thought long and hard about remaining still and letting his brother believe him to still be sleeping in order to maintain this physical contact which he had so desperately needed since Leonardo and Michelangelo had left them.
But now that he was rested his old insecurities about physical proximity seemed to be a lot more active than they were a few hours ago and he slowly lifted himself off of his brother, grabbing his thick framed glasses and water bottle off of the small end table next to his bed. He glanced over at Raph after taking a small drink from the water and asked in an embarrassed and apologetic voice, “How long have you been stuck in here?”
“Dunno,” Raph admits truthfully with a one-shouldered shrug, casual and untroubled by any of the embarrassment Don seems to be feeling. He shuts his phone with a flick of his wrist -- the gesture not as mindless as it might have been with his right hand, but still pretty smooth -- and slides it back into the holster on his belt.
He hasn’t moved from where he reclines on Don’s unexpectedly comfy bed, other than to tuck his good hand behind his head. The turtle regards his anxious brother for a moment before he adds a lazy afterthought, with a brief grin and a twinkle in his eye. “Could’a been a dickwad, dumped you on your ass and got up to watch TV or somethin’. Guess that would’a been truer to form.”
Donatello gave a half hearted chuckle at the playful but self deprecating statement that came from his older brother. The genius lifted a hand up to subconsciously straighten the long tails of his mask and quietly responded, “No, it really wouldn’t be.” He glanced up at the other shinobi, his crimson eyes meeting the soft green of his brother and adding, “I do not think that you would ever dump any of us on our ass if we needed you. Not even back in the day when you were the hot head of the family.”
His words were spoken with genuine sincerity. Raphael may have a rough and tough exterior, but truthfully the red clad ninja had a heart of gold. Don believed with every fiber of his being that Raph would give anything and everything for his brothers, no matter the cost to him.
The purple banded turtle cleared his throat to try to dispel the awkwardness that he felt at having, once again, been so open with his brother - an awkwardness that he realized may very well only be felt on his end of this conversation. He lowered his eyes to the thin plastic bottle in his hands, watching it dutifully as he compulsively twisted the cap off and back on again, mumbling under his breath, “But thank you for staying.”
The cheeky grin slides off Raph’s face as the other turtle goes on to analyze and address his comment in a very serious and heartfelt manner -- more so than he had been prepared for. He drops his eyes and pushes himself into an upright position. Though he is gazing down at the purple quilt, it is obvious that he is listening intently. “You bet. Uh… anytime,” he promises in a mumble.
Okay, so maybe that awkwardness is now a shared situation. He knuckles briefly at his suddenly stinging eyes and laughs it off with, “Geez, Don... You really need to dust in here or something.” Oh yes. Dust is definitely the culprit here. Don’t question it.
Raphael doesn’t know how to come right out and say so, but he is so relieved. They will recover.
Maybe it's the recent blow-up with Leonardo (once so commonplace, but not lately!), or all the heavy shit Don confessed earlier this weekend (snatches of that haunted conversation have been spinning in his head ever since), or even that he was unable to prevent the ugly way that Mike was thrown out of their home (not that he and Mike were on very close terms even before he left for training)... Surely it's a combination of all of these. But right now, more than anything, Raph needs to know that his relationship with all three brothers is not completely fucked.
“You feeling any better?” he wonders as he shoves off the bed and gets to his feet. His injury, the weight of his shell, and the squishy nature of Don’s mattress combine to make this a less graceful maneuver than usual, but he manages. “Looks like you got some of your color back, anyway…”
Raphael stretches his shoulders as he starts to offer, “I’m gonna go nuke some hot pockets r’somethin, if you wanna…” Shit! Did he really just bring up the Food Issue, again?! So soon after they reconciled over that very thing? “Or, not! I was... just bein’...” An idiot. The world's biggest, seriously.
He coughs a short laugh that is completely self-directed, full of disbelief and giving up on himself as utterly hopeless. “You know what? Nevermind! In fact, stay the hell away from my hot pockets. Cuz they are pizza flavored and delicious, and they are mine.”
Donatello had remained seated on his bed as his older brother had clumsily lifted himself off of the memory foam mattress, the density of which often proved to be difficult for even the most skilled of shinobi to pry themselves from - let alone a ninja with an injury to his hand. The sight of the awkward ascent brought a small smile tugging at the edge of his lip, a smile which almost immediately faded when Raphael brought up the idea of eating once again.
The change in demeanour was not nearly the same kind of angry response that he had given his brother earlier, because it was not derived from the same emotions. Raphael had not commanded that he eat - he had simply offered. There was truly nothing offensive about that. Rather - Donatello seemed to pale a bit at the mention of the food because it simply made his gut wrench to think about putting anything onto his still upset stomach.
“It’s okay,” he assured his brother softly, “I am not really hungry though. I still feel a little nauseous…” After a moment he gave a soft chuckle and added, “But when I do eat, I will stay the hell away from your hot pockets.”
He finally followed Raph’s lead and pushed himself off of the bed, quickly moving to meticulously straighten the thick purple quilt, tucking it under the mattress to keep it secure before turning back to the red banded turtle and gesturing to the door, “I would not say no to a cup of coffee and a smoke though.”
Raphael watches Donnie fuss with his blanket with a feeling somewhere in between fondness and nostalgia. Standard military tuck. It's nice to see that some things never change.
Then Don is gesturing towards the door, and Raph feels a stab of childish alarm. He sort of wanted an excuse to get away, not wanting to be in the vicinity when Don took that piece of paper off his door. But it's cowardly, and he hates to feel that way, so he’s determined to act casual and not let his shyness about the communication aid show outwardly.
He also hates to feel like he is turning into Leo, so he refrains from saying the thought that pops immediately into his head: Yeah... because coffee is awesome for an upset stomach. But Don is an adult. Raph is not going to insert himself between Donnie and his favorite vices -- not without an active training session to give him some semblance of authority.
Raphael reaches into the hidden pocket sewn into his belt and takes out the smoke he confiscated from Don earlier. It's a little bit bent from being in his pocket, but otherwise none the worse for wear. He straightens it in his fingers before holding it out to his brother. “I believe this belongs to you? Tell ya what -- I nuke food, you make coffee, and I’ll meet ya in the lab. And whenever you’re feeling up for it, we can head out. I got a little trip planned.”
Donatello reaches out and gingerly takes the bent cigarette that Raph is holding out to him. He immediately remembered that his brother had plucked this very smoke out of his lips while they were training earlier. He was somewhat surprised to see that it had survived its time within Raph’s belt pocket, but the genius had to force a smile at the condition that it was returned to him in.
Logically he knew that the paper being wrinkled and bent did not affect the cigarette in any way, he knew that it would burn just as well as before. But he could not help but feel upset by the deformity in the usually smooth surface of the cylinder.
Not that this was anything that he was even remotely upset with Raph about, rather he just did not know if he could bring himself to actually smoke this particular cigarette.
The purple banded shinobi looked up at his brother with a soft smile and casually replied, “Sounds good.” And the moment that Raph had turned his back on him Donatello dropped the damaged smoke directly into his trash can. He would simply get a fresh one out of his pack in the lab.
He stepped outside the room, shutting the door behind him. Almost immediately the note which was secured to his door with a piece of uneven scotch tape caught his eye. Don took a moment to adjust his glasses, wiping the lenses on the end of his mask tail, but that was really just an excuse to let Raph gain a few paces ahead of him as he plucked the note from his door.
Crimson eyes scanned the document, a soft but impatient clicking sound leaving his mouth as he noted the new violation on the list. But he let it slide, knowing that it was a valid complaint. If he could list that Raph was eating cereal too violently or pointing at him too much, Raph could certainly bitch that he was taking insomnia to an unhealthy point.
He flipped the note around, quickly deciphering Raph’s untidy scrawl. A small smile tugged at his lips as realization dawned on him that Raphael was having just as hard of a time as he was, he was simply expressing it differently. And after everything that he had put his brother through this weekend, letting him simply “stop being leader” for a little while was the very least he could do.
Donatello turned on his heel and quickly made a pit stop in his lab, throwing open his desk drawer where a manila envelope of very similar (but ever evolving) communication aides rested. He stowed this one on the top of the stack and went to join Raphael in the kitchen, hoping that with the new found understanding he would still be able to turn this day around.
When he reached the kitchen Raph was already focused on his task - perhaps a bit more focused than he needed to be to simply nuke some hot pockets - but the perceptive shinobi understood that Raphael was always a bit bashful for a little while after the discovery of one of the aides. He did not want to make the air more awkward than it needed to be, but also wanted it to be known that he had read the note. So, after a moment or two of thought as he started the coffee pot he cleared his throat and asked, “So where is this safe spot?”
The hot pockets don’t actually need to be watched in order to cook, unfortunately. Raphael tears his eyes away from the hypnotic spin of the microwave tray, putting his shell to it and looking at his brother. “Shitty part of town, like all my hideouts. This one's in Harlem. But I’ve had it for ages... longer than all the others. Like I said, it’s real safe.”
Raph drops his eyes and shrugs. “Guess you could say it’s been my Fortress of Solitude.”
He glances back over his shoulder to check the timer. Forty-five seconds left.
Donatello knew that things were still tense and that Raphael was likely far more freaked out than he was letting on, but was content to let his brother pretend as though he was unbothered by the events of the morning. The genius terrapin pulled his favorite oversized mug from the cupboard above the old percolating coffee pot and set it on the counter while his drink finished brewing.
Turning back to his brother, he mimicked the older shinobi’s position, leaning against the country behind him, “It does not surprise me in the slightest that you have a little hiding spot in Harlem. But I think it is a good thing. Everyone needs their Fortress of Solitude.”
His sentiment was genuine. Donatello was unsure that he would have been able to cope with growing up around his family had he not had a little place to call his own… but recently that same safe space that he once treasured had become a grim reminder of how alone he felt, how isolated and estranged from his family he had become. No longer was his lab a place of creativity, exploration and rejuvenation, but rather it was where he retreated to indulge in maladaptive coping skills, vices and disassociation.
He physically shook his head to dispel the train of thought and looked up to Raph with a gap toothed grin that was forced onto his features. As the microwave dinged, he added in an equally forced optimistic tone, “It will be nice to get out of here for a night, anyway.”
“Hell yeah, it will,” Raphael grumps as he turns toward the microwave to deal with dinner, though he keeps one shoulder angled in Don's direction since most of his focus is still on their conversation. “I don't think I can handle another night glued to the couch, changin’ ice packs and surfin’ Netflix.”
The pair of hot pockets have exploded on one end, as they always do. Now he wishes he would have remembered to put them on a plate beforehand. He sets out a cheap ceramic plate from one of the overhead cupboards and gingerly tosses the food onto it one at a time, still in the crisping pockets. He briefly eyes the puddle of cheese left behind, wet and oozing in the middle, burnt crisp at the edges, and starts to shut the microwave door as he lazily tells himself: Leo will take care of it.
But… no. Actually, he won’t! Raph flushes and opens the microwave door wider. He gets a ratty sponge from the edge of the sink and wets it, then goes about mostly scrubbing away the mess.
It's not perfect. Perfection probably would have required some kind of soap or bleach cleaning spray or something, but that never occurs to Raph. It's still more effort than he would normally display, if only because he doesn't want to compel his other fastidious brother to nag or clean up after him. He tosses the sponge back into the sink basin when he's done with it -- rimshot, even left handed. “So…” Raph drawls, eyeing his dinner but pointedly leaving it alone. Clearly he is wise enough not to bite into it right away. By now they feel only slightly warm to the touch on the outside, but might as well be molten lava in the center. Such is the way of hot pockets. “It occurred to me. We, uh, probably shouldn't get shit-faced while your stomach is still all fucked up.” He puts his back against the counter again, his shell hitting the hard surface with a soft clack. “But I ain't really feeling sobriety tonight either. So... I was thinking we could bust into that treasure chest in Leo’s room. Help ourselves to whatever he might’a confiscated.” Raphael gives Don a surreptitious glance, watching his brother’s reaction to this suggestion.
Donatello remained positioned against the counter, listening to the familiar bubbling sound of the percolator behind him, but his eyes were trained on Raph as he went about his business grabbing a plate from the cupboard and removing his food from the microwave.
What his brother did next was truly horrifying to the young genius. Raphael picked up the rag which, he could only assume, the other shinobi had used to wash dishes the previous day and wiped up the mess from within the small appliance. The purple clad shinobi could almost see the bacteria on that washcloth spreading to every surface that it touched and had he not felt nauseous beforehand, he most certainly would now. He did not make mention of the abhorrent act to his brother, but rather resigned himself to add ‘sterilize the entire fucking kitchen and throw away that rag’ to his mental ‘to do’ list.
When Raph turned back towards him, Donatello was still looking at the rag in the sink, subconsciously scrutinizing the cloth as though it had personally insulted him. It was not until the suggestion that was tossed his way sank in that he lifted his russet gaze from the disgusting display in his kitchen sink.
“Hold on,” he said with a mischievous and disbelieving grin, “You are not only suggesting that we abandon our posts to go play in Harlem and get fucked up, but ALSO breaking into Leo’s personal quarters, into his belongings and stealing from him?”
Don turned and poured some of the coffee which had finally finished brewing into his chipped ceramic mug and added with an amused chuckle, “And here I was under the impression that you had become the good boy of the family. I guess that even I am wrong sometimes.”
He turned back to his brother with an incredibly smug smirk, “Not often, mind you. But sometimes.” Donatello took a large gulp of the steaming java, not minding in the slightest the burn that accompanied it, and finally added after he lowered his glass, “Fine. I am game. Not like there is much that Lame-o-nardo can do about it anyway.”
“Assuming he even gives a shit,” Raphael growls darkly. “He won’t, if he's doing that goddamn ‘stone heart’ spell of his...” The vague scowl he was giving the linoleum deepens as he confesses, “I hate it when he does that spell. So fuckin’ much. Can you believe, he whipped that shit out on me mid conversation the last time we spoke?” He pushes off the counter restlessly, getting out a tall glass and filling it with tap water from the sink. The glass has water spots, as do many of the others up there, because it was Raph’s turn to do dishes, and he doesn't see the point of drying glasses before putting them in cupboards when the air will eventually do it for him. “So, yeah. I been good lately. Thanks for noticin’!” Raph hefts his glass in a mock toast. “I been real fuckin' good, and he's still gonna pull that shit? What, he can't stand to feel around me now? Well, guess what? I am long overdue for a fuck-what-Leo-wants kinda night.” He knocks back half the water in a single chug before setting the glass down again. Large as their mouths are, and as health conscious as he is lately, Raphael doesn't have any trouble getting his eight full glasses a day.
Donatello gave a small sound of agreement before lifting his glass once again and draining his coffee much the same way that Raphael had just downed the majority of his water. He turned back to the coffee pot, refilling the glass.
He could not say that he truly blamed Leonardo for the use of his magic to shield his heart from emotion. If he had any real talent with that shinobi hocus pocus then he was sure that he would be doing the same thing. And in a way he had been doing it, to a certain extent, though the stone heart spell seemed to be far more effective than the drugs that he was consistently pumping into his body.
He turned back to his brother, the fresh cup of coffee steaming in his hands and a small smile tugging at his lips. With a chuckle he responded to Raphael’s blatant sarcasm with, “You’re welcome.” After a much more conservative drink of coffee he added, “And I do think that you have earned a bit of rebellion.”
“It ain't like I'm really stealing from him, if you think about it. I dunno if you have much personal experience with it or whatever, you sneaky motherfucker…” Raphael cants a grin in Donatello's direction here, to make plain his appreciation. “But that box I'm talkin’ about is his evidence locker. Which means it's mostly full of shit he ganked from me and Mike, for whatever reason. There is a really sweet knife of mine in there, and I want it back!”
Raphael picks up one of his hot pockets and tears into it with enthusiasm. It's still too hot in the middle, and he winds up puffing his cheeks in a semi-ludicrous attempt to blow air into his own mouth to cool the molten contents of his dinner.
He swallows with some difficulty before adding, “Maybe you got some ideas about how to take the box apart. Otherwise I'm just gonna fuck up the lock with a sledge hammer or some shit.”
The purple banded shinobi gave a shrug but he had a grin to match Raphael’s which he hid by finishing off the coffee in his mug. After his brother bit into the Hot Pocket to disastrous results and finished his thought, Donatello replied with a soft chuckle, “I cannot say that I have had much experience with having my things confiscated. Not since sensei would take away my books at night when we were kids, that is.”
Then the genius terrapin set his now empty coffee cup down on the counter, letting the drink settle on his still upset stomach before thinking about pouring another. He flashed his brother an almost offended look, “Who is it that you think is your partner in crime here? I doubt that Leo has anything more sophisticated than a simple tumbler lock on that thing. I can pick those in my sleep. The day that I cannot get past something so primitive is the day that I turn in my ninja card.”
Raphael’s temper had been on the rise just from thinking about his recent blow up with Leo, but this last bit of snark from Donatello effectively diffuses him. He seems surprised at the laugh that escapes his mouth without permission, clipping it short out of sheer stoic habit and looking over at Don. “Hey, I can pick locks too!” he insists, gruffly incredulous.
No, he can't. Which is to say, of course he can, because Splinter demanded they all learn this very basic and essential ninja skill. But mostly nobody in the Hamato clan asks him to, because he takes for-goddamned-ever compared to the rest of them. To someone as extremely proficient as Donatello, he must be truly painful to watch. But he's the go-to turtle if they need someone to kick the motherfucking door in, cannonball through a window, or maybe just rip out hinges with his bare hands. Raphael is mostly too impatient and self-conscious lately to pick locks in front of his brothers, and rarely bothers except during something like a B&E grocery run where senseless destruction of property is off the table for moral reasons. He’s actually become quite a bit worse at it these past few years -- not just from lack of practice, but because his fine motor skills have somewhat deteriorated. Raph has actually been hoping no one noticed. “I mean, ya got mad skills and should totally use them. Specially with my wrist busted. I'm just sayin, y’know, sometimes sledge hammers can be... whatchacallit.” The red-masked turtle uses the steaming hot pocket to make a circular gestures at Don, which is usually his cue that his smarter brother can jump in any time with his huge vocabulary and skills of deduction. But then the word he was looking for suddenly pops into his unreliable brain, and he blurts triumphantly, “Cathartic!" "God, but could you imagine if we really did have ninja ID badges, or business cards or some shit? What would they even say? Like... okay, yours would have to have really tiny font to be able to fit all the shit that you do for us Or some kind of microchip that you could scan to read all the data or whatever. And mine would just be like… Raph Hamato: Unstealthy Ninja. Professional Asskicker. Antihero.” He’s sort of laughing again, low key and under the breath as he concludes, “Protectin’ the innocent, callin’ your bullshit, and makin’ melodramatic exits since 2003.”
Donatello chuckled a bit and brought one large green hand up to his chin which he scratched thoughtfully for a few moments, pondering what it was that his ninjitsu business card would say. He finally settled on something, holding a single finger in the air and giving an enthusiastic, “Ah-ha!” He grinned widely, then waved his hand before him with dramatic flourish.
“Donatello - Does Machines and about a million other things! - Explosions? Covert Operations? Unlicensed and Unorthodox surgeries? Need someone bludgeoned with a stick!? Whatever the occasion for the midnight hour, Donnie does it!”
The purple clad genius dropped his hand and laughed far harder than he should have at his own joke, a habit he had never been able to break himself of on account of the fact that he thought he was pretty hilarious. After a few moments he wiped the slightest bit of moisture from beneath his thick framed glasses with his index finger, taking a deep and steadying breath.
“Heh-heh-heh. That one is almost as good as my other business card.” he brought his hand down to his belt pouch, pulling out a small card which he extended to Raph. The card was thick and white, a purple Hamato crest emblazoned on the front. In a delicate cursive font the words “Donatello Hamato” were printed across their Mon. In much smaller letters the phrase “Your friendly Technical Support Professional” as well as his personal extention went across the bottom of the card. At first glance the card seemed completely professional.
The back of the card, however, was a much different story. In bold letters it read:
“I do not get paid enough to deal with your bullshit. Before you pick up that phone make sure the fucking thing is plugged in, turned on and restart the fucking system at least once. I have more important shit to do than deal with your incompetent ass. Thank you and have a swell day.”
Don chuckled once more, deciding that he was fine to pour another cup of coffee which he proceeded to do and added to his brother, “I, of course, never intend to hand those out. The process of making them was purely-” he gave his brother a playful wink before saying with emphasis on each syllable, “cathartic.”
“Hahaha…” Raph doesn’t bite back his laugh this time. He had pinched the card between the bandaged fingers, but had to set the hot pocket back down in order to flip it around and read the reverse side of the card. Suffice to say, the hostile rant printed on the back met with his approval.
“And yet, you still carry one around…” he points out, flexing his own deductive skills without giving any thought to it. “Almost like ya just waiting for me or Leo or whoever to come bitch and moaning that something’s broke, when really we just gotta plug it back in.”
Raphael waves the cardstock rectangle at Don, mock reproachful as he accuses, “You were so gonna card me! Tell me I'm wrong. That, or ya just takin’ it out whenever you're clocked in and got some lazy asshole on the phone wastin’ your time, like... this guy, again? Calling me for more stupid shit? Yeah. Keep it up, motherfucker! One of these days I am gonna send you a sternly worded business card.”
He passes it back to Don with a grin. By now the hot pockets are cool enough to eat, and he polishes one off quickly. He's always had the bad habit of inhaling his food. It is something Leo hates because of manners or concern for his digestive health or some shit, while Mike hates it because he never seems to savor or even appreciate food that was so lovingly prepared for him. But, neither of them are here - and Don is in no position to lecture anyone about healthy eating practices lately.
Donatello chuckled along with Raph as the business card was passed back his way along with the accusation of his intentions with said card. As he tucked it back into his belt pouch the genius let out a scoff and a look of mock offense dominated his face.
The voice which he addressed Raphael in was syrup thick with sarcasm and jestful contempt, “You truly think that I would carry around an insulting business card for months in a premeditated plan to spring it upon one of my less than tech savvy brothers after they showed vulnerability and came to me with a plea for help in my area of expertise? I am wounded, Raphael. For shame, dear brother. I would have thought you knew me far better than that.”
The purple banded shinobi sniffed dramatically before picking up his coffee mug and casually heading towards the door, intending to go to his lab for a smoke. He paused at the door frame for a few moments looking back to his brother with a grin, “Honestly, I figured the one I would hand them to would be Mikey… Casey probably would have been a possibility if he and April didn't skip town.”
“Yeah… ‘cept, I don't think that bonehead actually owns too many things that can be rebooted,” Raphael points out, returning the grin. “He even opens cans with one of them old hand crank thingies… heh.” Damn. He misses that loser so much. “I’ll be there in just a sec,” he promises as his brother leaves.
The red-banded turtle drains the rest of the tap water in his cup and leaves it in the sink for somebody else to wash. Not his turn, sucka! Then he throws away the pair of greasy crisping sleeves and collects his second hot pocket, finishing it on his way up the stairs.
He starts to grab a mostly full pack of smokes from the pocket of a dark grey hoodie which is lying in a lump on the floor of his room, then changes his mind and shrugs into the jacket. They’ll be heading out soon, and anyway it will give him someplace to stash them while he is carrying the box.
Next stop is Leo’s room. Everything is orderly and minimal, and it's easy to spot the old steamer trunk he is looking for. Some candles have been set atop it, and he sweeps these onto the floor in a flash of lingering insult over his last conversation with Fearless. There is a hesitation as he decides how best to do this with his injured wrist. He notices handles on either side of the chest. Clearly it was meant to be carried by both of them, but he winds up hauling it off the ground by just one of the handles and lugging it back to Don’s lab one-handed. There is a muffled clatter of colliding objects as the contents within are dumped to one side. Hopefully nothing in there is particularly breakable.
He doesn't bother to knock since Don already knows he’s coming. Raph has to set the crate down to get the door open, and uses his shell to bump the door shut behind him. He scans the room for Donatello and moves to deposit the box triumphantly at his brother’s feet. Once again gravity causes the items inside to resettle with a clatter.
Donatello had lifted his hand once as he made his way to the lab, rather than acknowledging Raphael verbally. Once inside his Fortress of Solitude the terrapin flopped into his comfortable office chair, taking a second to flip on his overhead ventilation system before lighting one of his cigarettes. He savored the burn of mentholatum in his throat as he took a particularly deep drag.
Leaning back to look up at the ceiling, the genius allows his mind to wander a bit while he has a few moments to himself.
Today has been nothing short of disaster he thinks will a stab of contempt at himself. You have been careless and reckless, practically flaunting your coping mechanisms and lack of mental composure in Raph’s face.
After what you have put him through today you definitely owe him this night. He needs it far more than you do.
He was pulled out of his reflection by the sound of the heavy door being forced open and shut as well as the ungodly scraping sound that the trunk made as it was dragged across his floor. He cringed visibly as he thought of the unattractive scuff marks that were no doubt throughout the lair at this point, but as usual the purple clad shinobi did not say anything about it - merely resigned himself to do damage control later - picking up yet another little disaster that Raphael left for him.
He turned his attention to the trunk which now was situated at his feed. As he had guessed the lock on the trunk was beyond simple. It was not even built in. It was just a flimsy little padlock. He rolled his eyes at the lock which should not provide a challenge to even the least skilled of his clan, knowing now that Leonardo was so smug that he relied on the fear of someone crossing him to prevent them from breaking in that he did not even think that he had to upgrade his security. The thought of it made the shinobi furious with his Jonin. He was getting really sick of Leo’s constant fucking power trip.
He pulled out his travel set of lockpicks from the drawer on his desk, balanced his cigarette between his lips and within seconds had removed the lock and tossed it to the other end of the room, grinning triumphantly as it slid across the floor before he even needed to ash his smoke. He gestured to the trunk as he took a drag and said through an exhale of toxic smoke, “After you.”
Raphael is quiet throughout the lockpicking process, knowingsilence is required to hear the tumblers falling into place. His brother has it open in no time flat.
Damn, he really does have a knack for that. Makes it look so easy.
Once Don has finished with a flourish, Raph gets down on his knees in front of the trunk and tugs the lid back. The pungent smell of marijuana hits him as soon as it is open. Almost right away he spots his long lost knife and snatches it up triumphantly. “Ah ha! C’mere, baby…” Still clowning, he gives the flat of the wicked-looking blade a noisy kiss and then holds it out in front of him as he announces, “Daddy missed ya!”
Ignoring whatever snark this display of affection earns, Raphael stuffs the knife into his belt behind one of his sai and surveys the contents of the box. “Whups,” he comments, picking up a simple tea cup of glazed clay -- the biggest piece left of it, anyway. It looks handmade and Japanese, no handle or anything, and he can't imagine it being confiscated from any of them. “Hope that wasn't important,” he comments as he puts it back down, though he doesn't sound terribly repentant.
There is a particularly fat sack of weed in the box -- at least an ounce. Mike must have been rather sore about having that treasure taken away! It's not the only weed in the chest. There are plenty of smaller dime bags, as well as a glass piece and a couple one-hitters, blackened inside with regular use. These things were the goal, of course, but he ignores them for now. There is also a baggie which he completely fails to notice, one which contains four round, green pills stamped with the image of a crown.
There are more items inside which clearly belong to their oldest brother, completely blowing his earlier theory that this box was strictly used as an evidence locker. A few hand-written letters. A couple old toys that should have been discarded years ago. A pair of heavy duty steel cuffs, custom-forged and clearly large enough to fit their oversized wrists.
“Yikes!” Raph can’t help commenting on the restraints. It looks like something you might use to restrain a wild animal. His mind can’t help going kinky places as he looks at them with eyes that have jumped open wider. “D’ya think those belong to Mike or Leo? Wait. Actually, I don't wanna know…”
Raphael doesn't want to investigate these private belongings at close range, or even think too much about them. He wasn’t expecting all this personal crap in here. In spite of his ongoing grudge, it is making him feel the first twinges of guilt.
By now Raph has noticed the inside of the lid. He rocks back on his heels to take in the fact that it has been partially covered in black Japanese characters painted with Leonardo’s elegant brush strokes. The kneeling turtle studies it in silence for several moments before venturing uncertainly, “Uh… what does all that say?”
Donatello watched with his ever present curiosity as Raph opened the trunk to expose whatever goodies might be inside to the both of them. The contents inside are a jumbled mess, something that irritates Don far more than it should - also something that he expects is more to blame on the way that the trunk was carried to his lab rather than how Leonardo likely had these things originally stored. The purple clad shinobi slid off of his office chair, resting on his knee pads as he bent forward to observe the contents along with Raphael.
He keeps his own hands out of the trunk but instead watches as his brother snags his knife out of the mess, rolling his eyes at the dramatic display of affection that the other shinobi bestows upon the inanimate object in his hands. He eyes the other items curiously, the broken grey-ish black tea cup, the weed, pills, pipes, cuffs and letters. He knew that the majority of what was in there definitely was confiscated from their little brother, but his attention was peaked by Leonardo’s personal item within the previously locked chest.
The young genius was debating whether or not he would be chastised for picking up and reading one of the tantalizing letters when Raph pulled his attention to the kanji written on the lid of the chest. Crimson eyes quickly scan it, translating it in a mumbled
“The extreme attitude of love is a secret feeling of love. It is like this: I will love to death, with my inner thoughts never revealed; Let others know it by my death smoke.”
Well, he thought to himself, there are certainly a few ways that could be interpreted.
His mind briefly wandered to suspicions that he held for quite some time due to a few viruses he had cleared off of the jonin’s computer from some websites he is sure that Leo would never admit to visiting as well as a stash of many pictures of a smiling rabbit on Leo's shell cell that he happened upon while doing upgrades on the tech many years ago.
If his suspicions about this passage were correct it may very well explain why they had seen so little of the ronin recently.
Yet, however upset he may have been with their leader recently, Donatello has no desire to out his brother and thus kept his observations to himself, instead commenting “This is just a passage from Hagakure - one of the books of Bushido. Typically it refers to a samurai putting their Lord and duty above all else - including love. It is better for those a samurai loves to know of it after their life has ended and their vows of loyalty have been fulfilled. I guess this could be referring to his duties as a jonin?”
“Tchh,” Raph huffs his disapproval through his teeth. “Nobody asked him to do that! Nobody wants him to be miserable. That ain't part of the job description. If he was talkin’ to a girl, I’d be be nothin’ but happy for him! Unless…”
He shuts his eyes and groans toward the ceiling. “Nngh... you don't think he could still be hung up Karai, do ya? Because that would -- well, complicate my plans. But not change ‘em, necessarily. Maybe move up the time-table? Christ...”
Raphael pulls a smoke out from the pack in his pocket and uses a matchbook to light it while his thoughts turn over the implications. If this passage written on the inside of the chest IS about Karai, he can't say he disagrees with the sentiment. She probably should be given up for the sake of the clan.
He gets up and stalks over to the trash to throw out the spent match, but all the while wheels are turning in the turtle’s mind. If he takes matters into his own hands -- if he takes out Karai even knowing that Leo might be in love with her -- will their brother be able to forgive him? Could a permanent wedge be driven between he and Leo after all, in spite of all Donatello's efforts to prevent it?
The thought of Leonardo still being hung up on Karai had not even dawned on the young genius until his brother had stated it. After everything that their family had been through as the hands of The Foot he seriously doubted that it was true… But it did remain a possibility.
“No.” the answer was definitive, a knee jerk reaction to all that Raph had said. For a few moments afterward he remained silent, shaking his head soberly. When he some again his voice was quiet and he continued on, trying to comfort himself as well as his brother. “No. He couldn't be. Not after the Hell that she and The Foot put us through... Not after Splinter.”
Donatello took a long drag from his smoke, exhaling with a sigh. A shadow crossed his face as he set his jaw and gazed blankly into the contents of the chest. His voice was harsh, every syllable dripping with venom and malice, “Even if he was in love with her… that bitch needs to die.”
It would be hard for Mike or Leo to hear Donatello talk this way, but lately Raph is getting used to it. They are having trouble letting go of the peaceful idealistic brother who retreated with Splinter into the caves of Northampton and wept for days after taking that first human life. But they’ve all had to grow up a lot since those days.
He moves back to Donatello's side, dropping to crouch next to him. “Word,” he agrees around the filter of his smoke, sticking his unbandaged fist out to bump knuckles with his brother. He glances over to briefly lock their eyes, bobbing his head once and promising, “We’ll do whatever it takes. I'm with ya.”
Donatello’s gaze shifted over as Raph took the new spot directly by his side. He eyes the fist that was extended toward him for a few moments, letting his brother’s vow sink in and meeting Raphael’s pale emerald gaze before lifting his own fist and softly bumping it against the other turtle’s. He let it rest there for a second or two before pulling away, opening his hand and making a soft exploding sound out of the corner of his mouth.
“Thanks.” he mumbled, knowing that his brother's willingness to stand beside him on what could likely be a suicide mission was not something that he could take lightly. Whether he wanted it or not - Raph was in this with him. Until the very end.
Don reached into the chest in front of them, pulling out the large sack of weed and handed it to Raphael. He chose it not because it was the largest but rather because it looked the freshest. He also picked up the pipe, a small glass piece which was, unsurprisingly a garish shade of orange. He inspected the paraphernalia by holding it to the light and scrutinizing it with his crimson stare. It was absolutely filthy, coated with resin and Darwin knows what else. He looked over to his partner in crime and clicked his tongue in an irritated manner before stating, “I am going to sterilize this before we go. We have no idea what all Mikey smoked out of it or what contamination may have occurred in this chest.”
Raphael senses that it might be faster -- or at least wiser -- just to let Donatello do his fussy, germaphobe thing rather than argue the point or give him any shit about it. He just drops onto his ass and goes along with it. He’d had to switch to smoking with his injured hand in order to accept the ounce of pot, and pauses to takes a drag with it pinched awkwardly between gauze-cinched fingers. Smoke billows from his mouth as he wonders, “Heh, ya think he’s smokin’ pop rocks in there?” A gruff laugh follows. “Shit! I said it as a joke, but now I can almost picture it. Mike locked in his room, getting real fuckin’ baked and decidin’ that might be a good idea…”
The muscular turtle grins ruefully and shakes his head as if to clear away the vivid image. “Yeah, sterilize away. Whatever you think is best, man. Honestly, dunno the first thing about this stuff...” He turns the bag over in his hand, going quiet as he studies the contents.
The clumped green buds are covered with orange hairs. Once he notices this, Raph can't help wondering if they're supposed to be there. He’s come across weed before, of course -- mostly as he was rifling through the belongings of defeated thugs -- but he never gave it more than a cursory glance. It occurs to Raph that maybe this is some funky type of orange weed Mike requested specifically for that reason. The color red will always have a special place in my heart, but -- geezus, kid. That's takin’ it to the extreme.
Donatello quickly stood and moved to his desk where he set the glass down before moving about his lab to collect various items which he needed for his latest project - his Bunsen Burner, a small metal container of water, isopropyl and cotton swabs.
He say down at his desk, turning some music on at a low volume before getting into work mode. The turtle pulled off his thick frame glasses which he folded and set on his desk, tugged his purple mask off - letting it hang around his neck and strapped on his high tech work goggles before he turned his full attention to the task in front of him.
The whole ordeal took a total of thirty-five minutes, twenty-three cotton swabs, eight point six seven fluid ounces of isopropyl and seven cigarettes to accomplish. But when Donatello finally broke his long silence, pulling his goggles down, letting them join his mask and leaving him bare faced, the pipe looked as if it were brand new. He grinned widely and let out a triumphant “Ta-Da!” and held the pipe out in his palm.
Raphael spent the first five minutes or so merely observing in suspended disbelief, caught somewhere between amusement and annoyance as even more supplies come out -- the sheer lengths Don is going to in order to purify this goofy little pipe of Mike’s is astounding to him. Like maybe it's been drenched in some kind of toxic radiation or mutagen or somethin’... It all seems so unnecessary to him. Like any of this bullshit Don is doing to the pipe will cleanse what really feels dirty about this. He thinks of his sensei looking down on them from some foggy afterlife… pictures his worry and disapproval to see one son furiously chain smoking and the other holding a giant bag of weed.
He takes to ashing in the largest intact piece of the broken teacup. It's nearer than the petri dishes. Besides, those things are lousy as ash trays. He doesn’t trust the plastic not to melt if he wants to park his smoke. The broken side actually makes for a convenient place to do just that. He spends a few minutes picking out the two other pieces, seeing how they might fit back together. He starts making plans in his head to offer the repaired cup back to Leo as a peace offering. Already he realizes that he doesn't want to stay mad at Leo forever.
Raphael only smokes two cigarettes in the time it takes Don to smoke seven. So much for faster... By the ten minute mark he has settled in for what he knows might be a truly ridiculous wait. At first he wondered if this was a stalling tactic, and maybe Don just needed time to wake up or settle his stomach or gather his nerve or… or something!
But as Raph peeks back over at his brother, surrounded by gadgets and chemicals, humming along to his dark-themed techno at times or sticking the tip of his tongue out of the side of his mouth in an all too familiar picture of pure concentration, he decides this is just something that strange Einstein brain of his has got to do. Now that Don has started, he has to see it not just to completion -- but to utter perfection. It reminds Raph more than a little of Fearless, but he is wise enough to keep this thought -- all thoughts, really -- to himself and let his introverted brother enjoy a moment of peace.
At some point late in the pipe-cleansing process, Raphael has compared all the smaller baggies of weed to the first bag and determined that orange hairs must, in fact, be fairly typical. He’s peeked at Leo’s love letters and realized that they are all in Japanese. Translating them sounds like a pretty big pain in the butt, not to mention an invasion of privacy. He just wants to make sure they are not addressed to or from...her. But the letter is signed with the kanji character for… Tiger? He’s pretty sure that one means tiger. Don would know, but he already feels ashamed for snooping. Raphael puts the letters back quickly, vowing not to touch them again. Even so… he is relieved not to have seen her name.
That's when he notices the baggie of weird, bright green pills. He picks them up and turns them over in his hand in surprise. Mike had insisted to Raph that he just smoked weed. Granted, that conversation was… shit. Almost three years ago. He stares at the cheerful color, the little crown stamp, and feels fresh worry slithering in his gut. He stuffs them into the pocket of his hoodie and pulls out his shell cell. Stares at the blank box of a search engine before he clumsily stab-types the word ‘green crown pills’ and hits the go arrow. The first page of results give him his answer.
“Huh,” he mutters at his phone. MDMA. That means ecstasy. His pulse quickens as he spots an alarming search result four hits down -- a scary headline that reads, “Green Rolex: Fake ecstasy pills claim TWENTIETH victim”. It's so startling that he nearly calls out to Don, but then the page finishes loading and he sees the pill pictured in the article looks totally different. And the URL is British. So he backs up, tries some of the earlier results, and suddenly -- there it is! A three pointed crown, the same color green, the same crumbly and not-quite professional consistency. He's kind of shocked to have actually found it. Who knew people stored this kind of info on the web? Well, obviously Don does, his brain supplies a moment later.
He reads not one but multiple reviews of the drug in his pocket. This is nuts... The reviews are largely favorable. Testing kits were used, results were posted. Some knowledgeable drug user asserts that it is good MDMA cut with 2mg of xanax.
Raph snaps his phone shut in surprise at Donatello’s ‘Ta-da!” and looks up at his brother quickly. The pipe is… he wants to groan when he sees it. The thing is just insanely clean now. Total Marijuana Pipe Makeover, NYC Sewer Edition.
“I think you missed a spot,” he declares wryly, just to be a punk ass.
Donatello’s wide grin almost instantly faded when Raph commented that he had missed a spot while cleaning. He knew that his brother was joking around with him but he was unable to resist the sudden urge to reinspect the pipe. He quickly grabbed his glasses and shoved them back into his face and held the little piece of pale orange glass up to the light, his eyes boring into every tiny facet within it.
After about ten seconds he let his gaze drop back to Raph and flatly replied, “No. No I did not.”
He then put the item into his belt pocket and stood, moving to put away each of the items he had used into their proper places around his lab. He finished off the whole routine with a Clorox wipe for his desk where he had worked.
Don let out a satisfied sigh as he tossed the wipe into his rubbish bin and gave his work station a final visual sweep. The shinobi turned to his brother and said, “Well. I am ready whenever you are.”
Raphael just stands there, giving Donatello a look that is steadily incredulous. "Really? Are you sure, Don? Cuz I was ready forty goddamn minutes ago. I can't tell if yer testin' me right now, or ya’ just that oblivious to other people lately. But if you don't give me due credit for a truly remarkable show a’ goodwill and patience back there, I am gonna slug you into next week, I swear ta’ god..."
He doesn't make good on this empty threat, just hauls himself wearily to his feet The weed is stuffed into his pocket, as well as the now identified plastic baggie of pills. He even takes a moment to empty his pseudo-ashtray into the nearest waste bin in an extra effort to be respectful of Don’s personal space.
“There’s no place to park the lunch box, where we’re goin’,” Raphael informs his brother, like he takes no small amount of macho satisfaction in the fact. “And I'm the one who knows where we're goin’, so you get ta’ ride bitch.”
The genius gave his brother a soft smile and apologized, “I am sorry that I took so long. Once I got started I sort of lost track of time. Thank you for not giving me too much flack for it.”
After his apology Donatello grabbed his leather satchel from its customary hook on his wall slinging it over his shoulder and adding a few extra packs of smokes to its contents before turning on his heel, heading towards the door after Raphael.
