Summary: Funny how your past always comes back to bite you in the…An OC is pulled back into the fray between the turtles and the Foot and struggles to remain neutral.
Disclaimer: There's bad language (I think..). And a character I made up. I've never posted fanfiction in my life. But if I didn't write this, I'd never be able to focus on grad school, which is much more important. Hopefully there will be more chapters. Character of Raphael does not belong to me.
The crystal of her watch face scraped against the concrete wall that ran around the perimeter of the roof, cooling the skin of her forearms as she braced herself against it. She drew in a deep breath and stretched forward for a moment, standing on her toes, to look straight down the drop to the pavement below. Her breath came out in a long sigh and was followed by a massive loogie aimed out over the street. She settled back on her feet and put her cigarette to her lips, drawing in smoke. She had to swallow hard and place a shaking hand on her forehead, elbow resting on the concrete, as she let the smoke stream from her nose. The physicality of that smoke, of that concrete, of her sneakers planted firmly on the roof, were the only sensations she could make real to herself; the sound of car horns, sirens, and the drone of the air conditioner, the faint smells of burnt tar and trash from the piles of garbage bags stacked on the sidewalk below, even the transient light from television screens through windows across the alley – these things existed on the periphery of her consciousness as they had for the past four nights.
She tapped the ashes from her cigarette over the side of the roof and shifted her weight to the right. But tonight the real world was slowly creeping back into focus, aided mainly by the fact that she hadn't sat down at her desk even once in those four nights and more than one deadline had already been missed. How she was supposed to worry about a publisher's demands whilst grappling with what she knew were much more monumental issues, was something she had yet
to pin down.
She held the cigarette between her lips and dropped her left hand down to her side. Her fingers prodded tentatively at the soft spot just below her ribs. A habit that had gotten her in trouble more times than once in her past – the compulsion to constantly test injuries for any change in soreness and pain. Her eyebrows drew together and she couldn't stop the slight grunt of pain as her fingers ran over the bandage concealed beneath her shirt. This bastard was still live.
Her eyes began to water and she squeezed them shut. She didn't want to let herself cry, she hadn't cried about it yet. Though she, with the help of a high priced therapist, had slowly learned to accept her feelings and let them exist peacefully – something that would have never been tolerated in her near-militant upbringing – the encounter of four nights ago had seemed to undo any and all progress she had made over the years. The tears that were threatening to fall, withdrew.
Soft footsteps, however, did fall behind her, and another reminder of what had recently transpired – the painful injury at her side and the rebottling of her emotions – dropped, seemingly, from the overcast night sky.
She held her cigarette between her fingers and braced both hands against the wall's edge, shifting her weight back to center and dropping her head to stare at the seam where wall met roof. "Y'all don't seem to understand the meaning of 'Stay the fuck out of my life,' I'm guessing…"
The figure's reply started from a low growl, "If it were up to me I'd never set foot on this roof again, but our sensei, he worries – didn't even think it was safe, you coming back here."
She raised her head and stared at the wall across the alley, murmuring to herself, "They won't be back." She pushed away from the wall, concealing a wince of pain in the process, and turned around to level a stare at the turtle, crossing her arms over her chest and puffing on her cigarette with a 'what of it?' raise of an eyebrow. He mimicked her posture and dropped his chin to glare back at her.
Her shoulders dropped a centimeter, her eyes moved off to the side. She took her cigarette from her mouth and pushed her other hand into the front pocket of her sweatshirt. Still avoiding his eyes she said quietly, "Well I'm still here..still in one piece. That it?" Looking back at him, "Mind leaving my roof, now?"
He cleared his throat and nodded his head towards her, "How's your side?"
"Fine," she replied, too quickly. Her hand came out of her pocket and unconsciously placed itself over her bandaged midsection.
"Really. Just fine, huh?" He raised an eyebrow, "Pardon me if I don't necessarily believe that. Don promised hell to pay if I didn't check on his handiwork."
Her eyes widened for just a second before narrowing. She flicked her cigarette onto the ground and took the only step backward she could before running into the wall. She rested her hand on its edge to try and make it seem as if that's what she had intended. "If you think you're gonna be puttin your paws on me you gotta 'nother thing comin, kid." She tried to make it sound casually threatening, hoping he understood that "'nother thing comin" would be a quick kick to the balls, that is, if she could find them under all that plate armor.
He shook his head once and grinned slowly, cracking his knuckles against his right palm, "Trust me, princess, if I had it my way these 'paws' would be puttin' you in your place, not playin' doctor. I don't know what kind of story you sold to Splinter," he closed the distance between them and leaned in, "but I'm still convinced you're tryin' to pull a fast one on all of us."
She braced her other hand behind her and turned her head to the side, biting at her lip and feeling her eyes become hot and wet again. Had she really been so wide-eyed to think any kind of fate or god or whatever-the-hell would let her live this down? That she'd be able to just blend in with the rest of mindless civilization and chalk the first eighteen years of her life up to 'bad circumstance'? She wanted to scream, but smiled emotionlessly instead. She looked back at him and tilted her head to the side slightly, her voice growing stronger, "You know what, Raphael, I don't give two shits whether any of you 'buy' my story or not. I'm still takin' crap for what I've done, some of which you yourself were lucky enough to witness, and I don't necessarily feel the need to explain myself, to anyone. Now your presence, is really starting to irritate me, so just back, the fuck, off!"
The last word was punctuated by putting all her weight into shoving both hands against the turtle's chest. He kept his balance easily, having a good seventy pounds on her, and he felt himself start to laugh, until she cried out once and doubled over.
She had stretched her stitches too hard and the pain was intense. She wrapped her arms around her stomach and leaned back against the wall, sinking to the ground. She shut her eyes and was breathing heavily to try and control the pain. "Fuck…" she breathed, wincing again.
He sighed and looked down at her with his arms crossed over his chest. He tried to make his voice mocking but it came out quietly reprimanding instead, "Now that was just stupid," he said. He remembered how she had looked four nights ago: fighting with bulldog determination against his and Leo's restraining arms even while she bled from the wound in her side, her face growing pale as they carried her after she had passed out, her unwavering silence in the face of their questions – their demands – for information after she had awoke but before Splinter had pushed them all out of the room and shut the door behind him. Those moments in between when he had thought she might not pull through, might bleed to death right there on their floor, came back to him with the sound of her cry.
She looked up at him as he crouched down in front of her. The fire that had driven her to push him was still there in her eyes and couldn't be called anything other than contempt, but she kept quiet.
"You might have popped your stitches, now just let me take a look." He frowned slightly and rubbed the back of his neck, "We gotta get over that we both don't believe each other right now. Trust me, I won't touch you if I don't have to, alright?"
Her arms slowly uncurled, but she kept her eyes on his. "Alright.." she said reluctantly. She pushed up the edge of her sweatshirt to just below her chest, exposing the white bandages wrapped several times around her middle. Two small red spots had appeared. The muscles of her stomach contracted from her position sitting up against the wall. Her eyes remained on the turtle as she put her fingers beneath the edge of the bandage and pulled it upwards.
The flesh of her left side, just below the ribcage, was purple and blue with bruises that surrounded a five-inch long fissure closed by ten stitches. The wound was red and swollen, had begun to bleed a bit, but was still held closed. Raphael sighed and rubbed his left index finger back and forth across his brow. His eyes went from the wound to her stoney eyes and back, "You're lucky, but it sure isn't anywhere near healed yet. Don't go picking any more fights for at least a couple weeks, huh?"
She quickly pulled the bandages back down, along with her shirt, and braced herself against the wall with her hand as she slowly rose to her feet. He straightened along with her and the two stood eye to eye, being of almost the same height. She had a confused, but venomous, look on her face.
"Don't go picking any more fights?? Just how long were you and your brother watching this roof that night?" she asked sarcastically as she pointed to the fire escape that ran down the right side of the building. "Long enough to see me dragged out of my living room window and onto this roof, yeah? Long enough to see two Foot Soldiers hold my arms while that bitch stabbed me?? That sure is a funny way to pick a fight."
Both held their ground and she drew in two breaths before being the first to look away. He stepped back and watched silently as she turned to face the street. She pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out her front pocket but just stood with them resting under her right hand on the wall's ledge.
Raphael sighed in frustration and shifted his weight. He asked the question that he had wanted to scream at her ever since she had woken up in Don's bed after he had stitched her up. Leo had stopped him then, and whether she had given Splinter any answers in the two straight hours they had spent locked in his room, was known only between them. Splinter had told them nothing. When the brothers were administering to her wound they'd had to remove her blood-soaked shirt. The only clues Raphael had were her back covered in crisscrossing scars, a tattoo of the kanji for "foot" and "clan" on her left bicep, and the fact that the Foot's new leader had tried to skewer her on this very rooftop. "Whose side are you on?"
She picked a cigarette out of the pack and put it in her mouth, lit it. She held it between her fingers and exhaled smoke out into the empty air, both hands resting on the wall now. "I'm not on anybody's side," she insisted. She turned her head to look at him over her shoulder, her hair falling in front of her face and her voice getting stronger, "Unfortunately you and your brothers – whether out of compassion or because you thought you could gain something from me, I don't care which – quite possibly kept me from dying." She stopped for a moment, opened her mouth as if to say more on that subject, but closed it and instead turned back to the street. "I've got work to do," she said simply, shoving her hands in her pockets and walking towards the fire escape.
"Hey!" Raphael grabbed her left forearm and stopped her, pulling her back around. He simultaneously felt her body tense beneath his grip and saw a cold, dark countenance come over her face. Even with the cigarette resting against her lower lip, even with her seemingly fragile frame, he recognized that look. It was the look his master had in battle…he'd see it on his own face if he could, when the all-consuming glaze of a fight dropped down and everything else seemed inconsequential. It was the look of ninja.
"I think that means you still owe us," he said, meeting the challenge of her look by resolutely keeping his hold on her arm. She took the cigarette from her mouth with her free hand. Smoke curled out from her nostrils as the steel melted from her face and she gazed intently at the turtle. A slight smile formed on her lips.
"Where'd you get that scar?" she asked quietly. Her eyes remained on his as she gestured towards an old scar that traced along his side. Raphael frowned and dropped her arm to place his hand over the scar, one he had sustained in his very first real battle, with the Shredder.
Her smile grew more genuine as she climbed over the wall and onto the fire escape. "When I see you again, Raphael, it will be ten years too soon. I told you the same thing I told your master: I'm not on anyone's side, this time."