He finds you in the quiet corner of the lair, shoulders trembling ever so slightly, your face turned just enough that he sees the glint of tears on your cheeks.
Raph freezes. At first, he just watches, heart thudding hard in his chest, caught off-guard by the raw sight of you crying. Then the adrenaline kicks in.
“Who did it?” he asks, voice low and already dangerous, fists clenched at his sides like he’s about to throw hands with the air itself. “Who the hell made ya cry like this?”
You scramble to wipe your face, laughing all awkwardly to calm the situation. “It’s nothing,” you sniff, waving him off. “I just… got some dirt in my eye.”
Raph narrows his eyes like he’s just been told the most insulting lie in the history of lies.
“Some dirt my ass.”
He spins on his heel like a bloodhound catching a scent, already storming around the lair like a security system just got triggered. “Was it Mikey? I swear if he made another dumb joke — no, no wait, was it that punk Vern? Did he say something to you again? ‘Cause I got no problem payin’ him a little visit-”
“Raph..! Raph, stop!” You grab the back of his shell before he can stomp up the ladder. He turns to look at you, scowl softened just enough to reveal the worry etched behind it.
“Yer seriously gonna tell me a buncha ‘dirt’ made ya look like that?” he mutters. “Come on. Ya don’t gotta lie to me.”
His voice is quieter now. Frustrated, yeah, but protective. That hard shell of his cracking just a little for you.
You shake your head and give him a small smile. “I just needed a moment. But I’m okay now. Promise.”
He doesn’t believe you. Not really. But he huffs and folds his arms, settling beside you like a bulldog on high alert.
“Fine. Ya don’t wanna talk? Cool. But I ain’t movin’.”
(｡· v ·｡) ?
You glance at him.
“I’m stayin’ right here. Just in case the ‘dirt’ comes back.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’m gonna protect you with every damn heartbeat I’ve got.”
People always mistake Raphael for simple — a man of impulse, rage, muscle. But there is nothing simple about the way he feels things.
And when it comes to you?
It’s even more complicated.
Because you’re blind.
And that changes everything for him in ways he never expected.
You terrify him.
Not because of your blindness — no.
But because he has never met someone who moves through the world with so much trust.
You don’t flinch when he approaches.
You don’t step back when his shadow covers you.
You don’t hesitate when he offers you his arm, even if your hand trembles just a little before finding him.
You don’t see him the way he sees himself.
You don’t see a monster.
You don’t see the bulk, the scars, the shell, the weight of everything he hates about himself.
You see Raph.
And that is the most frightening, disarming thing that has ever happened to him.
He doesn’t know how to act around you.
Raphael is used to being loud, taking up space, announcing himself with brute force.
But with you?
He becomes careful.
He becomes quiet.
He becomes . . . calm, in a way he didn’t know he was capable of.
Not because he thinks you’re fragile.
No, he respects you far too much for that.
But because he’s terrified of startling you, hurting you, doing the wrong thing.
He announces himself before coming near you:
“Yo, it’s me. I’m comin’ up on your right. Don’t freak out.”
His voice lowers without him meaning to.
His steps soften even though he weighs half a ton.
He hovers near you like a storm cloud learning to be soft rain.
He positions himself between you and every piece of furniture, every wall, every brother, every possible hazard in the lair.
He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it at first.
It’s instinct.
Like breathing.
He becomes hyperaware of you.
If you shift your weight, he notices.
If you reach a hand out to find your bearings, he’s already placing his arm beneath your fingers.
If you stand up, even slowly, he’s instantly alert:
“Where ya goin’? Ya need some help? Just tell me what ya need.”
And God help him — he tries so hard to pretend he’s calm.
But his whole body is on alert, ready to catch you, ready to protect you, ready to throw the entire lair into the Hudson River if you so much as stumble.
He resents the world for not being built for you.
He hates stairs.
He hates clutter.
He hates uneven floors.
He hates anything that could hurt you without warning.
And he fixes what he can.
Silently.
Always at night, when he thinks you won’t notice.
But you do — because the next morning the place is mysteriously safer, clearer, organized in all the ways you needed but never asked for. Though, you pretend not to know.
He watches your hands more than your face.
It’s not pity — it’s reverence.
Your hands tell him everything your eyes can’t.
How you feel your way through the lair.
How you explore the edges of his shell with soft, curious fingertips.
How you trace the outlines of his face, kneading his cheeks as though they were dough (though he 'hates' when you do this).
Every time you touch him, his breath catches.
Because you don’t react with fear.
You don’t recoil from what you 'see'.
You don’t hesitate like he expects everyone else in the world to.
Your touch is deliberate.
Gentle.
Confident in its own way.
And Raphael melts inside like he’s never melted for anyone ever before.
He thinks he doesn’t deserve you.
This is the part he’d never say out loud.
Not to Leo.
Not to Mikey.
Not even to Donnie, who already suspects everything anyway.
Raph genuinely cannot understand why you trust him.
Why you reach for him.
Why you smile in his direction when you can’t even see him.
Because in his mind, you deserve someone better.
Someone human.
Someone gentle.
Someone who doesn’t break things when they get angry.
Someone who won’t scare you with a single raised voice.
He worries — constantly — that he’s too much.
Too loud.
Too big.
Too volatile.
Too dangerous.
He’s terrified that one day you’ll realize what he is.
Or worse — that he’ll screw up in a moment of anger and you’ll hear something in his tone, some sharp edge that wasn’t meant for you, and it’ll shatter everything.
That fear keeps him awake more nights than he’ll ever admit.
But god, does he care.
Raphael doesn’t understand softness.
Not really.
Not when it comes to himself.
But with you?
He finds himself learning.
He starts narrating the world around you even when you don’t ask:
“There’s a step comin’ up. Yeah, that one’s stupid high. Who designs this stuff anyway?”
“Mikey’s walkin’ over — ignore him, he’s eatin’ cereal.”
“Donnie’s makin’ that face again. Means he’s annoyed.”
He becomes your eyes not because he pities you — but because he loves being the one you trust to guide you.
He learns how to describe sunsets, colors, expressions.
He tries — though awkwardly — to paint you pictures with words he never knew he had.
He never touches you first.
Not because he doesn’t want to — he aches to.
He wants to hold your hand, guide your steps, feel your fingers curl into his.
He wants to pull you close, rest your head on his chest, let you feel the steady beat of a heart that rarely calms for anyone.
But he doesn’t assume.
He waits.
He lets you reach for him.
Lets you decide when you want closeness.
Lets you define what trust looks like.
And when your hand finally finds his arm, or his shell, or his chest—
He feels something warm and terrifying bloom inside him.
Something that feels like hope.
Something he’s not sure he deserves.
Something he’ll guard with his life.
For the first time ever, he wants to be gentle enough for someone.
Good enough for someone.
Soft enough for someone.
And even if he never says it out loud — even if he hides it behind gruff muttering, behind awkward offers of help, behind hovering footsteps and protective actions —
There’s one truth that sits deep in his chest:
He would walk through fire before he lets you fall.
He would burn the world before he lets it hurt you.
