Kintsugi (fluff/angst)
❤️ 2003 Raphael/Fem!Reader/Dark Raphael ❤️
A/N: This is a commission I’ve done for @greaser-wolf ❤️🐢
Enjoy!! 😊
CWs: Fluff, angst, references to past abuse and trauma, mention of starvation and food scarcity, jealousy, rivalry, injuries, identity issues/existential angst, themes of unworthiness, mutual pining, territorial behavior, and a happy ending. All characters are aged-up.
Four figures, near-perfect replicas of your best friends, occupy the penthouse’s guest wing.
You learned the truth from Cody a few days ago. The ‘Dark’ Turtles weren’t just created; they were abused. Darius starved them to sharpen their aggression and punished them for any perceived failures. He saw them only as disposable tools to accomplish his evil goals.
Since that revelation, a deep, aching empathy has taken root in your chest.
You push the door open with your hip, a loaded tray balanced in your hands. On it is a large tureen of chicken broth, filled with tender noodles and vegetables, flanked by thick slices of real bread. In a separate container, there are medical supplies: high-grade antiseptic, dermal bonders, and soothing salves.
Four sets of wary eyes snap to you as you enter. Dark Leo, propped up on the couch, merely watches you, his expression a carefully constructed mask of neutrality. Dark Donnie, curled in an oversized armchair, flinches almost imperceptibly. Dark Mikey, for a moment, attempts to grin. But it falters, looking more like a grimace.
Your focus, however, lands on Dark Raph. He’s isolated himself from the others, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, one leg stretched out stiffly. He glares at the ground, refusing to meet your gaze.
“I thought you might be hungry,” you say, your voice purposefully soft and gentle. You place the tray on the table in the center and begin ladling the steaming soup into four bowls. “I made enough for everyone. Seconds, too.” You look up, meeting each of their gazes. “You don’t have to fight over it.”
You know from Cody that they were often forced to fight for scraps and rarely shared.
A flicker of something—surprise? confusion?—crosses Dark Leo’s face. Slowly, he stands and takes a bowl. The others follow suit, their movements still laced with tense uncertainty. You kneel in front of Dark Raph, opening the first aid kit.
“Your leg looks like it hurts,” you murmur, not as a question, but as a statement of fact. “Let me help.”
He grunts a protest but doesn’t pull away as you gently clean the wound. His skin is cool to the touch, and you can feel the tightly coiled muscle beneath your fingers. He’s all rigid defiance. But as you work, carefully stitching the gash closed with a dermal bonder, you feel the slightest tremor run through him.
“You’re … not bad at this,” he mutters, his voice a gravelly echo of the Raph you know, yet different. Lower, rougher.
“I’ve had a lot of practice,” you reply with a small smile, thinking of all the times you’ve patched up the original turtles. You glance up and meet his gaze. In them, you see a raw vulnerability that he tries so desperately to hide.
Not unlike your own Raph.
Dark Raph holds your gaze for a lingering moment. You expect him to look away, to scowl or scoff, but he doesn’t. His eyes narrow, not in anger, but in thought. You can see the gears grinding behind them, years of conditioning clashing with something unfamiliar: kindness without a price.
He finally looks down. “Don’t think this makes us friends,” he mumbles.
You nod. “Didn’t expect it to. Just don’t want you bleeding all over the floor.”
That earns the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Dark Raph takes the bowl you hand him without another word, his fingers brushing yours for the briefest second. And yet even that tiny contact seems to rattle him. He retreats to his spot by the window, eyes focused on the soup like it might vanish if he looks away.
The others eat in silence, each one stealing glances at you when they think you’re not looking.
As you pack away the medical kit, Dark Donnie clears his throat. “Why are you doing this?” Suspicion tinges his voice.
You meet his eyes. He looks like he wants to shrink into the chair but won’t let himself. He needs your answer; they all do.
“Because no one ever did it for you,” you say simply. “And someone should have.”
Dark Mikey stops mid-slurp, eyes flicking toward you. Dark Leo watches, impassive as ever, but you catch the subtle tightening of his jaw. Dark Donnie doesn’t reply. He just nods once and sets his empty bowl on the tray.
This becomes your routine. You bring them food, you tend to their healing injuries. You fight for them, arguing with Donnie and Cody about their living conditions.
“They need sunlight,” you insist one afternoon in the main lab. “Their bodies are still based on turtles. A complete lack of UV is unhealthy.”
“The data from their creation suggests high-intensity UV could accelerate cellular decay,” Donnie argues, scrolling through holographic charts.
“Then control it!” you counter, your voice rising. “Filter it. Give them an hour a day in the solarium with the UV shields at fifty percent. You can’t just keep them entirely in the dark. They’ve had enough of that.”
Donnie sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Cody shifts awkwardly beside him, tapping something into his tablet, but his eyes flicker up toward you with growing concern.
“They’re dangerous,” he says softly. “They’ve only known violence. You’re treating them like … like they’re your friends.”
“They could be,” you say, voice quieter now, but no less fierce. “If we let them.”
That silences the room for a moment. You take a breath and push forward.
“They weren’t born this way. Every time we treat them like monsters, we reinforce exactly what Darius taught them to believe—that they’re worthless. That kindness is a lie. That family is a joke.” You look at Donnie now. “We’re better than that.”
There’s a few beats of silence before Donnie exhales. “I’ll adjust the solarium’s UV settings,” he mutters. “Fifty percent. One hour daily.”
You nod, grateful. “It’s a start.”
Then they open the solarium to the Dark Turtles for short, controlled periods. The first time they step into the filtered, warm light, they stand frozen. Almost as if they’re unsure how to process the sensation of sun on their skin without it hurting them.
You watch from the doorway, and Dark Raph catches your eye. He gives you a curt, almost imperceptible nod. Dark Leo’s stoic facade softens just a fraction; Dark Mikey blinks rapidly, his eyes wide like a child. Dark Donnie tentatively stretches a hand out, letting the filtered rays slide across his fingers, testing the feel.
Dark Raph remains apart from the group at first, leaning against the wall, muscles tense. But slowly, he shifts his weight toward the sunbeam, as if drawn by an instinct buried beneath years of neglect and abuse.
You step closer. “It’s okay. You’re safe here.”
Dark Raph’s eyes flick to you, then away again. “Safe … huh,” he mutters, voice rough. “Never been safe before.”
You kneel at the edge of the solarium. “Then let’s start now.”
For a few minutes, no one says anything. The only sounds are the faint hum of the UV filters and the distant city noises beyond the glass. Then, without warning, Dark Mikey lets out a small laugh—half surprise, half disbelief—as the light warms his body. His shoulders relax, and he reaches out, touching the plants nearby.
Dark Donnie steps forward, joining him. “It’s not so bad, is it?”
Dark Leo watches from the corner, expression unreadable, but you catch the barest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Maybe even a shadow of a smile.
Dark Raph’s gaze lingers on the sunlight, then finally, he takes a hesitant step forward, then another.
You rise and stand beside him. “One step at a time.”
You spend more and more time with them, carving out moments in the day that belong only to the five of you. You find that behind their harsh exteriors, they are just as distinct as the originals. But it’s Dark Raph you connect with most. Which, in hindsight, shouldn’t be much of a surprise.
You talk to him while you play games on a datapad, or while you both sit in the solarium, soaking up the warmth. He listens when you talk about your life back in the 21st century, about your family, about stupid things like your favorite movies. He just … absorbs it all.
You are, you realize, the first ever to treat him like a person.
Of course, someone else notices.
You’re on your way to the guest wing with a stack of old comics you thought the clones might like when Raph’s voice stops you.
“You’re spending a lot of time with them.”
He’s leaning against the training room door, arms crossed over his plastron, his eyes narrowed. Your heart does a familiar little flutter. Your crush on Raph is long-standing and well-tended, a secret you guard closely.
“They need a friend,” you state calmly.
After a tense beat, he exhales sharply and pushes off the wall. “Yeah, maybe. But they’re still dangerous. You’ve seen how quick they are to snap.”
You meet his gaze steadily. “That’s why they need someone to show them there’s more than anger. That kindness isn’t a weakness.”
“You’re playing a risky game. What if they hurt you? What if they never change?”
“Then I’ll be the one who gets hurt.” You smile softly, stepping closer. “I’ll take the risk.”
His eyes darken, a flicker of something fierce and protective burning beneath the surface. “That’s exactly what scares me,” he says as he closes the distance between you. “Those guys—they’re not like us. They don’t play by our rules. You don’t know exactly what they’re capable of.”
You hold his gaze. “I see what they’ve been through. The way Darius twisted them, broke them down. They’re scared, hurt … lost. Just like anyone would be after that kind of abuse.”
He shakes his head. “That doesn’t change what they are. I’ve seen it—how violent they get when things don’t go their way. And I know how stubborn you can be. I know you won’t listen when I tell you to back off.”
Your heart tightens at his words. “I don’t want to hide from it, Raph. I don’t want to pretend it’s easy or safe. But I can’t turn my back on them. Not when they need someone to show them there’s something better.”
“The last thing I want is to see you hurt.” He looks down, jaw clenched, then back up at you.
A blush creeps up your neck, and your breath catches. “I’ll be careful,” you say, taking his hand, squeezing it gently. “I promise.”
His grip tightens on you for a moment. “Damn it,” he mutters, “you’ve got a heart too big for your own good.”
“Maybe.” You can’t help but smile, warmth spreading through your chest.
He snorts and finally lets go. “Just … don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I won’t. But I’m not alone in this.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “We’ll be watching your back. Always.”
As you head down the hall toward the guest wing, your mind drifts back to the Dark Turtles waiting inside. They might be shadows of the originals, but you’re seeing the flickers of light beneath all that darkness. And with Raph—and maybe even the others—by your side, maybe that light could grow.
The tension thickens over the next few days.
You notice the subtle shifts first: the way Raph’s eyes narrow just a little too sharply when you laugh at something Dark Raph says during your visits. The way his jaw tightens every time you stay a moment longer in the guest wing. When you offer Dark Raph the first slice of pizza, Raph’s hand clenches into a fist. The clone feels it, too; he withdraws again.
During movie night—a tradition you’ve been trying to establish with everyone—the Dark Turtles finally agree to join in. You open the box of hot, greasy pizza: a rare treat Cody had synthesized from 21st-century recipes. As you always do now, you offer the first slice to Dark Raph.
Before he can take it, Raph’s hand shoots out, snatching the slice from your grasp. “Thanks,” he says, his voice tight. “Been lookin’ forward to this.” He takes a huge bite, his eyes locked on his clone in a blatant challenge.
The room goes silent. Dark Mikey freezes mid-reach for his own slice. Dark Leo’s eyes narrow. Dark Raph’s expression shutters, the fragile openness you’d cultivated vanishing behind a mask of cold fury. He stands up.
“Not hungry,” he grunts, and turns to leave.
“What’s the matter?” Raph taunts around his mouthful of pizza. “Don’t like sharing?”
You place a hand on Dark Raph’s arm, stopping him. You look directly at Raph, your disappointment palpable. “There’s enough for everyone, Raph. You know that.” You then take the next slice and hold it out to Dark Raph, your gaze never leaving his. “Here.”
He hesitates for a long second before he finally takes the slice from you. He doesn’t retreat to the guest wing. Instead, he sits back down, a little closer to you than before, and eats his pizza in silence.
Later, you find Dark Raph staring at his reflection in the darkened window of the guest wing.
“What’s wrong?” you ask, coming up beside him.
“He hates me,” Dark Raph says. He doesn’t have to say who.
“He doesn’t hate you. He’s just …” You trail off, unsure how to explain Raph’s territorial jealousy without revealing your mutual feelings.
“He’s the real one,” Dark Raph continues, his reflection staring back at him. “I’m just the copy. The cheap knock-off. Why would you waste your time with me when the real thing is right there?” His insecurity is a raw, open wound, far deeper than any gash you could stitch.
You kneel beside him again, your voice gentle. “Because you’re not a knock-off. You’re you.”
He shakes his head. “I’m a mistake. Darius said so.”
“No,” you say firmly. “You were abused by him, but you’re not defined by him. You have a chance to choose who you want to be.” You reach out, hesitating only a moment before placing your hand over his much larger one.
He looks at you, eyes searching, desperate for something to cling to. “Why would you even care?”
“Because everyone deserves someone who cares,” you answer.
His jaw tightens, but slowly his fingers curl around yours. The tension in his shoulders eases just a fraction. Just then, the door creaks open behind you, and Raph steps inside. His arms remain crossed, but there’s an extra edge to his posture.
“Donnie wants to talk to you,” Raph says. “Some science-y stuff. Said it’s important.”
You glance over your shoulder, catching the unmistakable flicker of something—jealousy?—in Raph’s eyes. His gaze lands on you and Dark Raph sitting close together, hands touching, and you see his jaw clench. Dark Raph’s eyes meet Raph’s for a moment.
Then Raph exhales sharply and turns away. “Don’t keep Donnie waiting.”
You stand reluctantly, releasing Dark Raph’s hand. “I’ll be back soon,” you say, giving him a reassuring nod before stepping out of the room.
The simmering rivalry finally boils over in the training room.
You walk in to find them sparring, the air crackling with aggression. Raph is faster, more fluid, his movements honed by a lifetime of training with his family. But Dark Raph is stronger, more brutal, fighting with a desperate ferocity.
“What’s the matter, copy?” Raph snarls, dodging his clone’s swipe. “Can’t keep up?”
“Shut up!” Dark Raph roars, swinging his weapon.
“She’s never gonna look at you the way she looks at me!” Raph taunts. “You’re just a broken toy she’s trying to fix!”
Dark Raph freezes, his chest heaving. That momentary hesitation is all the opening Raph needs. He sweeps his clone’s legs, sending him crashing to the mat. Before he can press the advantage, he sees you standing in the doorway, your face a mask of shock and disappointment.
Both of them still as their eyes lock onto you. Raph, panting, looks guilty and defiant all at once. Dark Raph, lying on the mat, just looks broken, the fight draining out of him, replaced by heart-wrenching shame. You take a slow, steady breath, pushing down the swirl of emotions threatening to spill out.
“Enough,” you say quietly but firmly, stepping into the room and closing the door behind you.
Both Raphs stare at you, the tension thick enough to cut with a blade. You take a few measured steps forward, looking first at Raph, then at his dark counterpart.
“Fighting like this just drives a deeper wedge between you two,” you say, voice calm with an edge that brooks no argument. “It tears apart whatever fragile trust we’ve been building.”
Raph’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t interrupt. Dark Raph remains on the floor, eyes fixed on the floorboards, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
You kneel beside Dark Raph, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’re not broken,” you whisper. “You’re not a toy to be fixed or discarded.”
He looks up, the vulnerability in his eyes raw and unguarded.
You glance over at Raph again, meeting his gaze head-on. “Neither of you is just some ‘original’ or ‘copy.’ You’re both real. You both matter. And I care about both of you.”
Raph’s expression flickers—conflicted, maybe even hurt—but he stays silent.
Dark Raph’s breathing slows. He pushes himself up off the mat, wincing but steady. “Why would you even say that? After everything …”
“Because,” you reply, voice steady, “sometimes the people who need kindness the most are the ones who don’t believe they deserve it. And I’m not going anywhere.” You place a hand on Dark Raph’s shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”
Dark Raph allows you to lead him out of the training room, leaving the original Raph standing alone in the middle of his hollow victory.
Back in the guest wing, you guide Dark Raph to the couch. The others watch you, their expressions a mixture of concern and their ever-present wariness. Dark Leo gives a quick nod, a silent question. You shake your head slightly, letting him know it’s handled. They give you space.
You retrieve the first-aid kit again. There’s a new scrape on Dark Raph’s cheek and what looks like the beginning of a nasty bruise forming on his ribs. As you gently clean the cut on his face with an antiseptic wipe, he keeps his gaze fixed on the floor.
“He was right,” he finally mutters. “You feel sorry for me.”
Your hand stills. “No,” you say, your voice fierce and low. “He was wrong. And he was cruel. Don’t you dare give his jealousy that much power.”
His eyes search yours, looking for the lie, for the pity. “Jealousy? He’s … him. What could he be jealous of?”
“You,” you say simply. “He’s jealous of the time I spend with you.”
A harsh, disbelieving laugh escapes him. “That’s insane.”
“Is it?” you counter, dabbing a soothing salve on the cut. “What he said came from a place of anger and insecurity, not truth. That you exist challenges him. That I see you—not as a copy, but as you—threatens him.”
He falls silent, processing your words. “I don’t know how to be anything else,” he confesses. “Every time I look in the mirror, I see him. Every time I fight, I’m compared to him. How can I ever be ‘me’ when he’s the original?”
After putting the supplies down, you place your hands over his larger one. “Stop comparing yourself to the blueprint,” you say softly.
His eyes flicker up, meeting yours with a hesitant spark. “You really think there’s room for me?”
“I don’t just think it,” you say firmly. “I know it. You don’t have to live in his shadow, and neither of you needs to compete for a place here. There’s space for both of you.”
A slow breath escapes him, as if he’s been holding it for years. “Maybe …” he murmurs.
Later, you find Raph in the main living area, staring out at the glittering expanse of New New York City. He’s been waiting for you. He turns as you enter; his expression is a mix of defensiveness and guilt.
“We need to talk,” you say, crossing your arms.
“Look, I was out of line,” he starts. “I just … I saw red, okay? You see the way he looks at you, the way you’re always with him …”
“And you decided the best way to handle that was to use his deepest insecurities as a weapon?” you cut in. “You deliberately tried to hurt him in the cruelest way possible, Raph. You used his trauma against him.”
“He’s not the only one who’s hurt!” he explodes, taking a step toward you. “Do you have any idea what it’s like? Watching you patch him up, bring him food, smile at him? It drives me crazy because I … I like you, alright? A lot.”
The confession hangs in the air between you, raw and angry and exactly what you’ve secretly wanted to hear for years. But it’s tainted, coated in the cruelty you witnessed today. Your heart aches with a terrible, conflicting pang of joy and sorrow.
You let out a slow breath. “I like you, too, Raph,” you admit, and you see a flicker of relief in his eyes. “I have for a very long time.”
His expression softens, and he takes another step, ready to close the distance between you. But you hold up a hand, stopping him.
“But I did not like the person you were today. I didn’t even recognize him. That person was cruel and petty, and he let his jealousy make him a bully.”
The hope on his face crumbles.
“What you feel for me doesn’t give you a free pass to hurt other people,” you continue, your voice softening slightly with the pain of it all. “Especially not him.”
You leave him standing there, silenced and conflicted.
You walk back toward your room, your own heart a battlefield. You have feelings for the hotheaded, passionate, protective Raph you’ve always known. But you also have a deep, fierce, and growing bond with his dark, wounded counterpart, who needs you in a way Raph never has.
The rivalry is no longer just between them.
Now, it’s inside you, too.
Over the next week, the friction in the penthouse intensifies.
Raph throws himself into training with a punishing fury, his movements more violent than usual. During meals, he sits at the far end of the table, his eyes fixed on his plate, radiating a palpable aura of hurt pride. He avoids you, yet you feel his gaze on you constantly—especially when you are anywhere near the guest wing.
It’s a heavy, accusing stare you refuse to acknowledge.
You double down, spending even more time with the clones. Your presence has become a comfort to them, a stabilizing force in their new lives. But you mostly spend your time with Dark Raph, who’s changing for the better.
He’s started talking more, opening up again. He watches old black-and-white movies with you. One afternoon, while you’re sitting in the solarium, he wordlessly hands you a perfectly ripe nectarine from the fruit tree. He’s learning to be his own person.
But something shatters the fragile peace without warning.
You’re in the guest wing with Dark Raph, showing him how to play a ridiculously complicated board game from your time. He’s actually smiling—when a deafening explosion rips through the penthouse. The entire building shudders, throwing you both to the floor as alarms blare.
Through the window, you see them: sleek, black security droids, the same kind Darius uses. One of them smashes through the reinforced glass of the living area.
“They found us,” Dark Raph snarls, the soft man from a moment ago gone, replaced by a warrior. He’s on his feet instantly, pulling you up behind him. “Stay back.”
The other turtles, originals and clones, converge in the main room, weapons drawn—and the fight begins. Raph fights with a savage grace, a whirlwind of green and red. But his eyes keep darting towards you and his clone, his focus dangerously split.
A powerful plasma blast hits a support column near you, sending a shower of debris raining down. You cry out as a heavy chunk of concrete pins your leg to the floor. The pain is a sharp, white-hot shock.
Dark Raph sees you first. His entire being narrows to a single point of focus: you. He abandons his fight with a droid, ignoring the plasma bolt that sears the air next to his head, and charges toward you with a guttural roar.
At the same time, Raph dispatches his opponent with brutal efficiency and spins around, his face a mask of terror. He sees you trapped. He sees his clone racing to your side. For a heart-stopping second, you see the flash of rivalry in his eyes, the possessive urge to be the one to save you.
But there’s no time. A hulking, four-legged mech stomps between them and you, its weapon pods glowing, ready to fire.
“Raph!” Dark Raph shouts. “Left!”
Something shifts in Raph’s eyes, the jealousy overridden by a deeper, more urgent imperative.
They become a terrifying symphony of destruction. Raph finds the weak spots in the mech’s armor; he’s the distraction, drawing its fire. Dark Raph follows in his original’s wake, using his strength to tear at the gaps Raph creates, ripping plating away with his bare hands. They move around each other in a deadly dance, one’s finesse creating an opening for the other’s force.
The mech crumbles under their combined assault. The second it goes down, Dark Raph is at your side. His powerful hands grip the heavy slab pinning your leg. With a roar of effort, he heaves the concrete aside.
He gently, carefully, helps you up, his hands surprisingly tender as he steadies you. “Are you hurt?” he asks, scanning you for injuries, his voice rough with concern. “Can you stand?”
“I think so,” you pant, leaning against his solid frame, your adrenaline-soaked mind trying to catch up.
You look past his shoulder. Raph is standing a few feet away, panting. He’s watching you, watching Dark Raph’s hands holding you steady. The jealousy is still there, but it’s mixed with something you’ve never seen him direct at his clone before.
Grudging respect.
He just saw his copy—his rival—fight as an equal. Saw him protect you with a single-minded ferocity that matched his own. The line between them, once so clear in his mind, has just become irrevocably blurred.
You stand there, supported by one Raph, watched by the other. Both stare at you as if you are the only thing that matters in the world.
After you’re settled into the med bay, the two of them remain by your side. Raph sits in a chair by your bed, his gaze drifting to his clone.
“He got to you first,” he says, his voice low. “Good thing he did. That mech would’ve …” He trails off, unable to finish the thought.
It’s not an apology, not quite. But it is an admission. A concession. It’s him acknowledging that in the moment that mattered most, his double acted with a clarity and speed that he, for all his bravado, did not at first.
Dark Raph crosses his arms over his chest, his posture a mirror of his original’s, but his energy is entirely different. “I did what needed to be done.” The words are flat, devoid of ego. He’s not looking for praise; he’s stating a fact. He protected you. That was the only thing on his mind.
“Look,” Raph continues, finally turning his gaze to you. His usual bluster is gone, replaced by vulnerability. “About what I said in the dojo… I was a jerk. A jealous, stupid jerk. There’s no excuse.”
This is it. The apology you deserved, the one you demanded with your silence. And hearing it now, after he fought alongside his clone and looked at you with such undisguised terror when something hurt you, you feel its profound weight.
“Thank you for saying that, Raph,” you say softly. “Now apologize to him, too.”
Raph stiffens. His eyes flick toward Dark Raph, then back to you. A muscle in his jaw jumps.
You raise an eyebrow. “If you meant what you just said, then prove it.”
The silence stretches. But finally, Raph exhales, dragging a hand down his face before he turns to his clone. “I said things that were outta line. I was pissed off, and I let it get the better of me. You didn’t deserve that.”
Dark Raph watches him warily, arms still crossed. “You meant every word.”
“Yeah,” Raph admits, voice gruff. “At the time, I did. But I was wrong.” He glances down, then meets his counterpart’s eyes again. “You fought like hell today. You kept her safe. And that counts for more than any grudge I’ve got.”
Dark Raph doesn’t respond right away. You see a flicker of disbelief cross his features, followed by uncertainty. Like no one’s ever apologized to him before, not really. Then, after a beat, he nods. “We both fought. You didn’t have to cover me when the mech turned. But you did.”
“I guess we both did what mattered,” Raph mutters.
They hold each other’s gaze for a long moment. It’s not friendly, not yet. But it’s not hostile either. There’s a grudging recognition between them now, forged not just through rivalry, but through shared purpose.
You breathe out slowly, tension leaving your shoulders. “That’s a start.”
Dark Raph shifts, glancing at you. “You should rest,” he says, more gently now. “I’ll stay here and watch over you.”
“I’ll stay too,” Raph says immediately.
You blink. “Both of you?”
They glance at each other.
“You got a problem with that, copy?” Raph asks, one brow arching, but there’s no heat in his words this time.
“Only if you snore,” Dark Raph mutters, settling into the chair on your other side.
You stifle a laugh. “Fine. But no fighting. I mean it.”
Raph leans back in his chair. “We’ll behave.”
“For now,” Dark Raph adds, with a trace of humor in his voice.
You close your eyes, nestled between two warriors who once saw each other as enemies—but who now, in the glow of something real and hard-won, are becoming something more.
Not friends. Not yet. But maybe, just maybe, brothers.
And you? You’re no longer caught between them.
You’re the bridge.
And you’re not walking away.
