Tripping Over Me, Over You

A/N: Okay, I'm at it again, this is another bit of work someone asked me to write for them. I enjoy the practice so I agreed. TMNT was one of my favorites when I was little, so I thought it would be fun to go through with it.

All reviews are greatly appreciated and critics are always welcomed.

Chapter One,

What the Hell?

Maybe it was the rain that made her decide to close the store early, the downpour outside was amplified by the buildings old tin roof, and the large window where the new books were displayed. It wasn't often that someone donated new books, so she liked to show them off. The rain streaked down the store-front a window, the store's name was painted in an odd, untidy scrawl that vaguely reminded passers-by of 'The Fantastics': Tall Tales, Short Lines; below that in parenthesis and smaller letters was: (a store for well loved literature).

'Well loved literature' was an eloquent way of saying 'used books', but George was fond of it and decided to keep it the way it was when her father had run the store—his untidy hand writing and all. It had been nearly a decade since her father had left the store, but everyday she half expected him to walk around one of the stacks, reading an old book and sipping at some coffee.

George kept the store running by working mostly on her own, and letting the local poetry mob to hold an open mic. on Fridays. Some of the members were really talented—but most weren't—it was a blessing as much as it was a burden, because for as many people as there were shopping, there were just as many who didn't intend to buy anything.

She dimmed the display lights and locked the front door, switching the open sign to the closed. With the weather this bad there wouldn't be many more customers anyway, and the ones that would come would only be tracking mud and letting the rain in—and if the water got to the stacks…she shuddered at the thought.

Restoration was a bitch, and that was if she only restoring old fiction books. The store, however, did have a few curiosities, books that dated back to the turn of the century or even older. One such book had turned up at the back door three weeks ago. George wasn't a real restoration expert, but she was close.

She found the book in a box at the back door, with a note inside.

Please look after this book until I return for it, I know you to be a good person and trust you with it. Guard it well until I return.

Oddly enough it wasn't the first time something like this had happened, so she wasn't surprised at all. The only thing that bothered her was the fact that it looked to be somewhere between three and four hundred years old, and was written in some Asian language that she couldn't read. The leather cover boasted a decorated seal complete with an oriental dragon. It was so faded that George could barley make out the characters on the cover, she was doing her best to restore it. And when the person who owned the book turned up he'd get a piece of her Irish temper, and the bill.

The storm outside began to get worse, the thunder had gotten so loud that every time it boomed overhead the stacks and the lights that dangled from the ceiling rattled. Whenever the lightning flashed the power flickered. George worried about the roof, during the last storm when the wind had gotten this bad some of the tin had come off, and the ivy that crept up the west side of the building had come undone.

The song on the radio was cut off by the storm warning, and she had to listen to the loud buzz that announced the warning for a sever storm in the area.

"No kidding," she said to the speakers and rolled her eyes.

She went behind the small counter and fished around until she found the remote to the modest stereo she'd installed in the store. She knew that any music that the radio managed to pick up would be interrupted by the storm warnings, so she might as well change it to the Cds. Cat Power began to play solemnly over the speakers and George sighed contentedly. The somber music fit the weather outside, and she enjoyed the light piano that went along in the background of most of the tracks.

Now, she get down to the business of cleaning the second story. The layout of the building was such that the second story extended loft-like over a small portion of the first, and the spiral staircase (a feature that George loved) led up to it. At the very back of the building a closet staircase led to the third story, which was her apartment.

The second story was some of the more expensive books, so it rarely got visited, which meant that it had the most dust. Which, of course, meant that if she forgot to clean it like she was supposed to (and she often did) then she'd have to spend the better part of and afternoon cleaning it at some point. Since she'd closed the shop at nine instead of eleven, George had decided that she could either work on restoring the Oriental book, or she could clean the second story, and the ground floor.

For the next hour George busied herself scrubbing the hardwood floors around the door, where the customer traffic that day had left them a mess, sweeping the dried mud, and dusting. Always dusting, this wasn't so bad, except for the one catch: George was allergic to dust. She was fine if the dust was just laying around, but when she stirred it up she couldn't stop sneezing, and her eyes got bright red and itchy. She hated it, hated it, hated it! And she had to wear a surgical mask and gloves whenever she dusted.

So there she was, curly black hair in a high pony-tail, long bangs in her face, and looking like a hazmat member, and she was only dusting. She had her bright yellow cleaning gloves on, her black apron that read: Read or Die! and she'd even thrown on a pair of chemistry goggles for good measure. She'd rolled up her sleeves and set to work, her jeans were just about filthy around her knees from scrubbing on her hands and knees on the floor.

George had a very short temper, and often she managed to get worked up over nothing—such as dusting. As she scrubbed one particularly bad shelf, she found herself getting angrier with every scrub. It wasn't just her allergies that were bothering her, business had been painfully slow lately, and she was worried about the bills that had begun piling up. She didn't want to have to lay off her part-time workers again, it was only with there help that she was about to have a social life. Maybe she could take out another loan…no that wouldn't work, she still hadn't fully paid off the last one. But, thinking of social life brought about thoughts of her newly ex-boyfriend.

She'd broken up with Justin a few days ago. There wasn't a lot of drama about the situation, he'd been ready for the next step and she hadn't. What's the matter with me? She thought bitterly. All he wanted to do was share a lousy apartment. I'm twenty-one for shit's sake! I didn't go to college, so I should be settling down, right? Hell, that's what you're supposed to do right? Sure it is, and Justin was such a great guy! He was great looking, and he was sweet. A little too sweet actually, they never fought, and that was something George loved to do. There was nothing like the rush of a good shouting match, and nothing like the loving that came after making up.

She stopped scrubbing and stretched, thinking fondly of the nights she'd shared with him. Hell, if they were still together she wouldn't be cleaning right now. She knew exactly what she'd be doing: him. She had to laugh at that, and then toyed with the idea of giving him a call. Maybe we could be friends with perks, very, very good perks. She gave up on the idea, Justin wasn't as much as a free-sprit as she was. Whenever he thought about sex he thought: commitment and she just wasn't ready for that.

If only she had something to vent all this pent up frustration on—and then there came a knock on the door. Yes, she thought, I get to dash someone's hopes.

That wasn't entirely true. It was only ten o'clock and if the person knew exactly what they wanted she'd let them get it. Sales had been bad after all.

She got up, and pushed the goggles o the top of her head, so that they took the bangs out of her face, and let the mask dangle around her neck. As she descended the stair she took off her gloves and put them in her apron pocket. I bet I look like a maniac chemist, she thought ruefully. Maybe I'll scare them off.

The person at the door knocked again. "I'm coming," she shouted, "Hold you're damn horses!"

However weird she thought she must've looked, it was nothing compared to the person at the door. Though he was silhouette by the lamps on the streets she could see he was wearing a full body suit. As she got closer they looked like a cross between black pajamas and a ninja suit—complete with a mask.

Outside

Raphael had been tracking the foot members for a few blocks now. There were six of them, and they kept to the alleys, and he kept to the roofs--a shadow to the shadows. Oh yea! He thought. This is gonna be good! I need the exercise.

It'd been a rough day, he'd fought with Leo morning, and as punishment he'd been given an extra long patrol shift. And it just figured it'd be the day it stormed the worst he'd ever seen.

He thought he'd just follow them for a few blocks, and when they got to one of the bad areas of town he'd take them out. It was what he usually did, but then they stopped at a used book store. Tall Tales, Short Lines.

"What to those thugs want with used books?" He growled to himself. "It don't make no sense."

Five of the six kept hidden in the shadows, while one went directly to the door. Raph could see a woman inside, she went to the door, but when she saw who it was she stopped and began shouting.

Man that gals' got some lungs on her, he smirked.

"Get the FUCK outta here!" He heard her yell. "I swear I'm gonna call the cops, and they can cart you're fucking body outta here when I'm done wiping the floor with you!"

Sheesh I wonder if she can back that up?

Inside

There's no way I can back this shit up, George thought, as her mind reeled for what to do. There was a bat behind the counter, and if she got to it she could take the guy out. He wasn't a big guy, but the suit was tight enough to where she could see the bulge of lean muscle.

George could handle herself in a fight, nothing fancy though, she'd been in a couple when she'd worked in a bar years ago. She could cold cock a man and send him reeling so that she could run. But if what the man had said was true, if he did have guys all around her store…then she was in big trouble.

She'd left the phone upstairs, so calling the police was out. If the guy wanted to he could come through the glass door in a heartbeat, and she hadn't set the silent alarm because she was still in the store.

He'd said that they wanted something she had, and if she gave it to them quietly they'd leave with no trouble at all. But if she refused…

On that note, someone grabbed her from behind, and all hell broke loose.

Outside

"Shit," Raph cursed, leaping from the rooftop, things had just gotten a lot more complicated.

Inside

George screamed and kicked at the guy who'd grabbed her. He had her arms pinned at her sides, and one steely forearm was pressed over her throat, gradually cutting off her air. She did her best to deliver a couple of vicious kicks to the guy's shins in her thrashing. She felt him buckle behind her.

"Let me go, you sonofvabitch. I'll kill you!"

The man at the door had disappeared, but he reappeared when the glass window shattered and he knocked all the display books onto the floor.

George gasped and looked aghast at what was happening, momentarily giving up the struggle. The man had not jumped through her window—no he'd been thrown.

Her attackers attacker stepped through the jagged hole he'd created, ignoring the glass.

"Shit," George whispered.

The man—thing?—standing in the window, lighting blazing behind him…was a giant turtle. He had a red bandana and the ends whipped behind him in the gale, in his three fingered hands he held two sai, weapons she recognized from a book she'd gotten in the week before. War in Feudal Japan, it'd been called, and now some giant turtle was fighting ninjas in her store.

"All right, you creep, let 'er go." A surprisingly gruff voice said.

George used the moment to her advantage and aimed another kick at the guys legs. It worked, the man buckled just enough for her to pull her arms free. She grabbed the arm that was held at her throat and with a swift yank she managed to get the guy off balance enough to throw him to the floor.

George was no fool. She ran for the counter and vaulted over it. She grabbed the bat and held it up like she was in a baseball game.

"All right, what the hell is going on?" She demanded, but got no answer.

The man that had been thrown through the window got up, as did the man she'd knock down, and then four more appeared out of the woodworks.

"Heh," the turtle growled. "This is what I've been waiting for."

What followed next was so quick that George was lucky to have any memory of it at all. The ninjas attacked first, almost testing the turtle with carefully placed kicks and punches. The turtle, however, was more brazen, and after a few of these tested attacks he went on the offensive. Lunging at them, taking the on as a group, slashing with his sai, and kicking with an odd grace for his size and shape. He reminded her of a boxer, more than a ninja…turtle?

I've got to help, she thought, though I must be out of my mind.

Although as it turned out she needed help herself, two of the ninja flanked her, one on either side. They both made to grab her, but she shouted and swung the bat with all her strength.

Crack.

The bat connected the man's side and sent him flying into the wall. He fell into a crumpled heap and did not get up.

"C'mon," she snarled, hefting the wooden bat like a sword and turning around.

She didn't make it around; the other man used her momentum and threw her to the ground. She rolled across the floor, but still kept her grip on the bat.

"You've done it now," she spat, blood dripping from the corner of her mouth from where she'd bitten her lip while rolling. She wiped at it as she tried to get up, but the man didn't let her. He charged and kicked her viciously in the gut.

George gasped as she went air born, landing in some of the glass. She didn't feel the glass that cut into her arm. She was full of anger and adrenalin, and it gave her speed through the pain.

She got a leg under her and waited. The man walked slowly to her, his boots crunching the glass, and tearing the pages of the books. When he was just above her she jumped. The bat connecting with the man's head, he staggered back a few steps and then was on her again.

"SHIT!" She yelled as he pinned her to the floor.

Blood slid from the neck of the suit and dripped onto her apron. He arched back; keeping her arms pinned with his legs, and balled a fist. George shut her eyes and braced for the impact…it never came.

The turtle had grabbed the fist before the man ever let it fly, and threw him off of her.

"You all right?" he asked, kneeling beside her. "That was a nasty kick."

"Later," she gasped, struggling once more to her feet. She could feel where he'd kicked her. It was going to leave a nasty bruise, but she'd heal. "I want these guys out of here."

He smirked, "You got it."

He turned back to the ninjas. He'd knocked one of them out, and so had she, that left four.

"So, you guys are kickin' woman when there down? That's low even for you guys. And I'm gonna let you guys in on a little secret," he brandished his sai threateningly, "it really pissed me off!"

The remaining ninja's looked at one another and seemed to come to a conclusion, they ran for it, grabbing their fallen in their retreat. The turtle let them go, and George was in no shape to chase after them.

The two stood there for a moment, looking like they owed each other some explanation. George, however, was watching the storm, mostly on how it was coming through the broken window and soaking everything.

"C'mon," she said to the turtle, jerking her head in the direction of the back room.

The turtle looked at her confused, "Look, lady, don't take the wrong way. But I'm not chasin' 'em and you shouldn't either."

George growled and began to stalk off, "That's not what I meant. I've got some plywood in the back, so we can cover the window."

The two dragged the plywood out from the back and set it up to cover the hole. They did this silently, and it was no small feet for George. She felt like hell, her side ached from the kick, her arms stung from the glass, and her lip was swelling.

After the window was covered and reinforced, the two looked at each other. The turtle hadn't faired so well either; he had a couple of bruises and cuts.

"You look like hell," she chuckled.

The turtle looked at her dubiously, sizing her up, before saying, "Look who's talkin'."

George rubbed her arm, "Yea, I guess you're right. Listen, I've got a first aid kit upstairs, it's not much, but let me help you get cleaned up."

The turtle looked at the door. "Look, it's nothing personal, but I really should go, my bros'll be worried an' I need to figure out why the foots' after ya."

This was too much for George. She'd been attacked by ninjas, rescued by a giant equally ninja-like turtle, and to top it off her window was broken, her store was wrecked, and the display books were ruined.

"Look," she snarled taking a step towards him. "I don't know who you are, or what you are, but I'm owed an explanation!"

"But—"

"You can't just leap in here, sais a'blazing, breaking my window and then leave! Matter of fact I don't give a damn who you are! Thanks for helping me, but you're gonna march your ass right up stairs and we're going to talk about this, damn it!"

By the end of this tirade George was out of breath and the turtle looked anger. He shook and his fists clenched and unclenched. He looked like he was about to start shouting back at her, but George's legs gave out.

He lept for her and caught her around the shoulders, gently looping one arm around her waist. He marveled at how small she was, she seemed so much bigger when she shouted at him with her hands on her hips.

"Plus," she continued weakly, "I don't think I can make it up the stairs by myself. I'm George, by the way."

"I'm Raph."

"Raph, huh? That's an odd name," she said directing him to the closet staircase. She sharply drew a breath at the first step, she must be worse off than she thought.

"Yea? It's short for Raphael and what're you talkin' about? You're name is George."

"It's short for Georgia—that's where I was born."

"You were named after the state you were born in?"

"It's a long story and I don't feel like getting into it right now."

They reached the top floor without incident and George opened the door. Her apartment was actually very nice, small, but nice. One bedroom, one bath, a living room and kitchenette, George even had a small washer and dryer off the side.

She limped to the kitchen, and rooted around under the sink until she found the first aid kit. Raphael stood in the middle of the 'living room' and looked around.

There was an old green couch in the middle of the room, and a coffee table and large television in front of it. There were old National Geographic's and Cosmopolitans littered around, and a T.V. tray to one side of the couch.

George set the kit on the tray and sat the in matching green recliner. "Damn I hurt," she moaned.

"You curse a lot," Raph observed.

"Hell yeah I do," she replied, gently taking off her apron, and pealing off her shirt. Raph actually blushed a little and averted his eyes, suddenly finding the ceiling and fan very interesting. "Relax I'm wearing a cami underneath."

He let out a silent sigh of relief and opened the first aid kit.

George hissed in pain as the shirt came off. Her black cami got caught on her black bra, but she didn't pay attention, she was too busy being in pain.

Raph whistled, not at her sudden exposure of skin, but at the giant bruise that was forming along her left side. George tenderly ran her right hand over it, while she held her left hand aloft, fist clenched in pain.

"He really did a number on you," Raph said.

"Thank you Captain Obvious—"

"And you've still got some glass in yer arm."

"Figures."

George lifted the arms for inspection, the cuts weren't too deep, just long, they traced the length of her forearm. Most of the glass had either fallen out, or hadn't gotten stuck in her to begin with, so she only had to pick out a few pieces. She gingerly did so with a pair of tweezers she had Raph get from her bathroom's medicine cabinet.

She struggled awkwardly to clean the cuts on her own, until Raph snatched the bandages away and growled, "Lemmie do it."

"Thanks," she said genuinely. His touch was surprisingly light as he cleaned the cuts. "You act like you've done this before, Casanova."

He grunted, not looking up, "Yea, well, all part of being a ninja."

She hissed as the disinfectant got into a cut that still had a shard of glass in it.

"Hold still," he warned. "This piece is in kinda deep."

She sat as still as she could as the tweezers probed her arm for piece. He may have been graceful with his sai, but his efforts were a little clumsy with the small metal tweezers. George's legs twitched in pain, and her uninjured fist clenched.

"That hurts," she groaned.

"Well you shoulda left the fightin' to me."

"What—AH!" She cried out when the glass came free, blood spurt from the wound and got on her jeans. The thought that it might stain flitted through her mind. "Ergh, I mean what do you mean left all the fighting to you? I helped plenty, and you're friggin' welcome, you ass!"

The pain was making her angry, he could tell, and she was nervous that was making her angry to. Raph was loath to admit that she had actually help…but just a little! He had everything under control, but she just had to come in swinging her bat like some medieval night. What a joke! He couldn't believe she called that fight; it was more like she flailed around and got a few lucky hits. Good hits though, he thought proudly. This girl had a lot of fight in her, a bit too much, and way too much mouth. She could be a chick version of Casey! The thought actually gave him a headache so he focused more on the task at hand: dressing her wounds.

They weren't terrible, but they were pretty bad. It was mostly the giant bruise on her side that was worrying him. The cuts would heal, and the scars would be minimul, but some of her ribs could be bruised—he couldn't tell.

"Listen, I don't give a damn what you think you can do, but fighting ain't one of 'em!"

George sighed, "I really wanna fight with you, believe me…but right now I just don't feel up to it, you infuriation green jerk! But I really, really feel like I'm about to pass out—"

"Don't!" He yelped, "I ain't got the slightest clue what to do if you pass out…but Donnie might!"

"Donnie?" she asked wearily.

"He's my brother."

"How many of you are there?"

"Three more turtles, one rat, one chick, and one guy."

George let her head drop back and sighed, "Great, call them all here, we'll have a party and I can get picture for my insurance company!"

"I'm just gonna call my brothers to come and look after you cuz I'm no doctor—"

"No kidding?"

"—but my brother Donnie is as close as we're gonna get. An' if you don't quite with yer sarcasm I'm gonna gag ya!"

George tried to get up, but Raph put a hand on her shoulder. "Look, I'm sorry, I'm just upset. I don't mean to take it out on you, I promise."

Raph rolled his eyes and got up, "I'm gonna go call the others, it shouldn't take them long to get here."

As Raph walked to the balcony, where he was sure he'd get signal on his 'shell-phone' (har har).

"Hey, Raph," George called after him.

"Yeah?" he asked, looking over his shoulder.

"Thanks."

He just smiled and gave her the thumbs up and he walked out.