A/N: I started writing this furiously after binge watching the Walking Dead, where relationships just...happen. One minute you're murdering people together, and the next, you're in love! I don't necessarily ship Angel and Raphael, but I felt they worked well in the aforementioned context. And oh my wow. I love me some old grizzled Raphael. I may have been a little too rough on him in this one. He kicks some major butt in SAINW, but I like to think he's just grinning and bearing it. TW: Assault.
"Hey baby," a voice called from around the other side of the crumbling wall.
The corners of Raphael's mouth twinged into some semblance of a smile as he shut the door behind him. "Hey babe."
With care, he shackled each padlock, though he had to squint as his eye adjusted to the low light underground. The home they shared had no windows. It was safer that way.
"Got you some smokes," she added.
"Aw, you shouldn't 'ave," he said, only half joking.
He hadn't had a cigarette in days. It was making him antsy. Irritable. Awful to be around. She had done them both a favor, getting him more. She didn't smoke, but she indulged him. There were so few indulgences left at the end of the world. The turtle groaned, and began the lugubrious process of lowering himself down into his armchair.
"Yeah, the old broad that traded me said she'd never seen purple hair before," she explained. "I guess it's good for makin' weaving thread with. Human hair. Not just purple hair…"
She stepped out of the kitchen and into the living room that was hardly more than four walls and his ratty old recliner. Raphael blinked, and there she was. The scrappy little girl in pigtails that had taken on three grown gangbangers to prove herself. Not much had changed. Not really. Angel still wasn't about to let anything, or anyone, get in her way.
Something thudded against his chest and he snapped to attention.
"Knew you weren't payin' attention," she said, wryly.
Raphael blinked at the crumpled up pack of smokes in his lap.
"Sorry, babe, I was just rememberin'," he muttered.
She shook her head, and her freshly cropped hair grazed her shoulders. Angel had grown from a little girl to a beautiful woman, tall and lean. There was gray in her purple hair now, but that hardly diminished what a vision she was. Raphael sighed. What she saw in him, he would never know. She leaned in, planting a soft, quick kiss on his cheek. "Gimme a minute to take dinner off."
This was what they did when he went out. She put dinner on. As if cooking something meant he would always come home. So far, it had. At the end of the world, they were playing house. There was no point in fighting it. Not anymore. While April led the resistance against the Shredder, he sat in his chair and smoked.
But that was all about to change. He just had to figure out how to tell her. And he would. After he had a smoke.
The match flared, and the cigarette lit up. He took a long drag, and a rasping cough escaped him, sucking the air from his lungs. The cough racked his chest, making him lurch forward in his armchair. Raphael never would have smoked, before. First and foremost, Master Splinter would never have allowed it. Even though he had seen Casey smoke the occasional cigarette after a beatdown, he had never had much interest in taking up the habit himself. Casey with his bike, and his hockey trophies, and April on his arm; Raphael had always idolized him. But he had never had an interest in cigarettes. Smoking only slowed you down. Though that hardly mattered now; not now, when there was nowhere left to run.
Inhaling deeply, he savored the sweet rush, the anticipation of the nicotine hitting his bloodstream. His brothers had always teased him about sounding like a forty-year old smoker when they were young. He had been an old man, even then.
A sad smile crossed Raphael's face. He had played it up. It had made him feel tough. But he wasn't tough. Not back then. To be tough your heart had to become hard. And hearts only became hard when they knew loss. He had been strong, when he was young.
Now in his old age, he was just tough. Like old leather, all worn, and cracked, and fraying at the edges. Just when he thought another piece of him might fall away, she was there to sew him back together. With kisses and cigarettes, and the songs she sang when she thought he was asleep.
Most nights he slept in the armchair. His back bothered him less if he remained upright. And If he slept in the chair, he was less likely to wake her if he woke up screaming. It happened less and less as the years had worn on. But there were still nights when his only eye shot open in the dark, blinking furiously, trying to focus; trying to see an enemy that was not there. She only asked if he was ok when he was crying out for his brothers. And she only came when he was calling for Leo. On those nights she stroked his face. She held his hand. Sometimes she fell asleep on the floor next to his chair.
Before they were lovers, they were partners. She had shown him how to make a molotov cocktail. He had instructed her in the art of invisibility. Strike hard, strike fast, never let them see you. Now Raphael felt accomplished if he could get out of his chair without wincing. Angel had stopped going on hit and runs, after he broke his leg. She took out a score of twenty Legion bots with one explosive tipped crossbow bolt, that day. Now she just made spaghettios on the gas powered camping stove every night.
If the smoking didn't kill him, the spaghettios probably would. It was only a matter of time.
"Look what else I got," she emerged from the kitchen again, this time with a grin.
She held a condom between two fingers.
"Aw, babe," Raphael smiled sadly. "That thing 's probably, like, a million years old."
He felt himself stiffen as she sauntered towards him. It had been so long. Rubbers weren't exactly easy to come by. Though neither of them knew if they were even compatible, in that way (what with him being a turtle and all), they had decided it was better to be safe than sorry. Raphael sighed. They were getting conservative in their old age.
"Shut up, Raph," she smiled, sliding over his lap.
Her hands, those graceful hands that had snapped the necks of so many Foot Bots, skimmed over his chest. Her fingers, those delicate fingers that could make a butterfly knife dance like a ballerina, traced the edge of his plastron. Those sweet deadly hands drew up his neck, and gently brought his face to hers. Her lips brushed softly against his. She was starting slow.
Those hands, those soft, tender hands that had meant the end for so many, gingerly massaged his shoulders, which sagged at her touch. And then, she pushed her hands back, over his shoulders, up under his bomber jacket. He knew she hated it, that damn jacket. It smelled like cigarettes and sweat. But then again, so did he.
Raphael tensed as she began to roll the old bomber off his shoulders, his body aching in protest as she forced his movements. Drawing his shoulders back to slip the sleeves off, he sucked in a sudden breath. The pain slid in like a knife between the ribs, sharp and quick. He gritted his teeth, and hoped she didn't see. There was a reason he kept the damn thing on.
The jacket slumped from his shoulders, and something fell from his pocket, tumbling to the ground. Angel kissed him on the cheek, "Don't worry baby, I'll get it," she murmured.
"No, babe, 's fine - really," he muttered, his fingers straining for the emptied contents of his pocket.
She leaned back and snatched the crumpled piece of paper up off the floor. "Too slow!" she teased. "You want it back?" she asked, eyebrow cocked.
"Give it to me, Angel," he said, his voice low.
"Oh no baby, it ain't that simple," she said, her head inclined to the side. And then she leaned in close and whispered in his ear. "You gotta work."
The turtle opened his mouth to protest, but she was quick to press a finger to his lips. "Shut up, Raph."
Gently, softly, slowly, she took his hand in hers, and kissed it. The tension that was always there, always bracing him against the pain, almost melted away as she continued to kiss him. Down his fingers, up his arms; infusing his broken body with her love. It was warm, and comforting, and he did not want it to stop.
When she reached his clavicle, he shuddered. Her kisses became slower, deeper, longer; the heat of her lips lingering on his skin. She kept going, slowly, punctuating each movement with a kiss. He knew he needed her to go slow, but the wait, the wait was agony.
Her mouth was on his neck, drawing him closer to her. Lips, tongue and teeth all nipped playfully at him, and he let himself back, surrendering to her. His head resting against his armchair, he exhaled a sigh of relief. And as her tongue traced its way up his neck, he felt his tail strain against his shell, aching to emerge.
Something crinkled in his ear. And then, he remembered. His hand shot up, fingers snapping around her wrist.
"Give it to me, Angel," he repeated.
"Oh you know I will," she murmured, her voice soft, breath hot and heady against his neck.
"No, babe, that's not what I meant -" Raphael stammered as her hand ran down his plastron. He squeezed her wrist, hard. "Give me the paper."
"What the fuck Raphael - that hurt!" Angel snapped indignantly. "What the hell is this, anyway?" She jerked away from him, and his remaining eye widened as she peeled the crumpled piece of paper apart.
The turtle swallowed. He should have just told her. Before he smoked that cigarette. Before she kissed him. Before he fucked everything up. But he knew this would happen. Even if he had hoped it would be different. But at the end of the world, hope was just another gamble, deadly as anything else. Angel slid back, off his lap.
"You promised you wouldn't see her anymore," her voice was flat; almost alarmingly placid.
Raphael pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, already trying to knead away the headache he knew was coming. "I didn't see her, babe."
Angel stood before him, calm as the sea before a storm.
"Then why is she leaving you notes?" her brow creased as her face crumpled in realization of the extent of his betrayal. "How does she even know how to find you!?"
Trying not to put too much pressure on his knees, he stood slowly. Even at his full height, he was still shorter than she was. Her taut muscles tensed as she watched him struggle to stand. Side by side, no one would have known he was only a few years older than she was.
"Whaddyou want from me, baby? A fucking confession?" he asked, his caustic words snapping at her accusations. "Well, you got it," he spat. "I confess."
He met her gaze.
"April called, an' I answered."
Angel's lips drew into the taut line of a frown. The calm was gone. Now there was lightning in her eyes. "You promised me!"
He thought she might push him, then; shove him back down into the armchair, where he belonged. It would have been easy enough. He used to joke with her that he was going to die there, in that damn chair. She used to tell him to shut up, and that he would never get better if he kept talking that way. He wondered if she only said that because she knew it was true. But it didn't have to end that way. Not anymore.
"They found 'im," Raphael exhaled. This was it. His hail Mary. "They found Donatello."
That gave her pause. She stopped bristling, if only for a moment. If there was one thing, anything at all, that might garner forgiveness for his transgression, it would be Donatello. He was the first one they lost. If he could come back, maybe they could, too.
"Don has a plan, babe," he said, trying to sound as confident as April had. "We can do this."
"Do what, exactly?" Angel asked, her words slow and flat as a dull knife blade.
"What do you think?" he inhaled, forcing his anger back, below the surface, as it surged, threatening to swell. To consume them both. "I can't just sit here and do nothin'. Not anymore." His fingers curled into fists. "Not when I can still fight."
"You can barely take your jacket off to fuck me!" she cried.
"They need me," his voice was getting louder.
"She used you," Angel seethed. "She got Casey killed. He's dead because of her!" Her warm brown skin was becoming hot and red.
"I remember," he said, suddenly somber. "I was there."
Raphael reached for her; if anyone knew what it was to love Casey, the way she loved Casey, it was him. But she recoiled from his touch. His eye darted across her face, clamoring for a look at her eyes. Those eyes. Those beautiful brown eyes that he had caught lingering on him on that hit and run. That was then. Now there was no love in those eyes. Only bitterness, and loss.
"Casey died fightin' for what he believed in," his lips pressed together solemnly. "And he believed in her."
"Everyone did," Angel said, almost sadly. "I saw the way you looked at her, when Case was still alive," she murmured. "Hell, I wanted to be her. So smart and pretty. Everybody loved her. But she sent him to his grave, and you just kept looking at her, like that - like it wasn't her fault," she swallowed. "I knew you always loved her more, Raph," Angel looked up at him with eyes like a wounded animal. "I just never thought you would let it ruin you, like she ruined everyone else."
"Don't you get it?" he roared. "I'm doin' this for you. For us. So we don't have to spend the rest of our lives in this fucking hole!"
There were tears pooling at the edges of her eyes.
"If you go, you'll die."
Her words hung in the air like the shards of glass from a breaking window, suspended in slow motion. Only now could he see it all crashing down around him. Even if Donatello's last ditch effort didn't get them all killed, there was no going back. This was it. The end of the line. The life they had built in the ruin of everything they knew was over.
"How do you know she wasn't lying about Donnie?" she choked, a single tear rolling down her face. She did not wipe it away. She did not acknowledge it. If Raphael had not been fuming, he might have cupped her cheek in his hand, and wiped it away for her. There was still some part of him that ached to comfort her.
"Why would she lie?" Raphael retorted, his voice issuing a challenge he knew he would never be able to take back. "Gimme one good reason for her to lie."
"Because she has some scheme she needs you for. Because she's tired of Mikey. Because she's lonely," Angel snarled. "Take your pick."
"We're all lonely!" he cried, looking to her with plaintive eyes. Even though only one eye remained, and all that was left of the other was just a few stitches that pulled his bandana too tight over his weathered face. "I'm lonely. Aren't you?"
"How can you defend her!? She would have sacrificed you too, if we hadn't left!" she snapped. And then, she took a deep breath, and her voice became so quiet he could barely hear her above the thrum of the generator that could barely keep the lights on. "She would have sacrificed us all."
"So that's it? You're just givin' up?"
Then her head tilted back, and she laughed. Like she had nothing to left to lose. "I never gave up on you," she looked back to him. "But that was my mistake."
Raphael clenched his fists.
"If you want to go, then go," she shrugged. "Go be one of her good little soldiers, and let her march you off to your death, like the rest of them. I'm done."
"Mikey's still alive," he blurted out, before pausing to correct himself. "Michelangelo is still with her."
Angel folded her arms across her chest. "Still doing her dirty work is more like it."
Despite his age, and his tar filled lungs, and the broken leg that never healed quite right, he lurched forward. His arm swung so hard and fast he surprised himself. He didn't know he still had it in him. The flat of his hand slapped her cheek so hard that it made his own skin burn with pain.
"Fuck," Raphael exhaled the curse so naturally it could have just been another breath.
He didn't know if he had done it for Michelangelo or for April. Either way, it was unforgivable. There would be no salvation for him; no guardian angel to pull him from the fire. Not this time.
She reeled backwards, but was quick to right herself. When she regained her balance, she didn't reach to touch where he had hit her. Her eyes only met his with a steely resolve. There had been love in those eyes, once. But now there wasn't even bitterness. Now they were just cold.
After everything she had done for him, this is how he repaid her. With broken vows and violence. He would have died without her, when he broke his leg. No question. And now, after years of spaghettios, and soothing him back to sleep, he had made the choice to go where she could not follow.
"Babe, I'm so sorry," Raphael sputtered, his arms reaching for something that was no longer there.
"No Raphael," she held her arm out before her, keeping him from coming any further. "It's Angel. Just Angel."
Turning away from her, he hunched over the armchair to retrieve his jacket. He would have been lying to himself if he hadn't thought that he would die there, in that damn chair. Sometimes he thought he had sunk into it, too far to ever crawl back out. He would have been lying if he had said he hadn't hoped for that. After he broke his leg, he had spent so many days in that chair, waiting to die. Adrift in the haze of homemade painkillers, he had waited.
"If you're going to go, then go."
She didn't even have the heart to scream at him. Not after what he had done. Something fell in the pit of Raphael's stomach. It hit with a heavy thud, like a stone falling into the water, only to sink. The only sound in the void of who he used to be; echoing on and on. There was nothing else there.
The turtle only nodded, knowing he had earned his place in whatever hell awaited him once he walked out that door. He bent, slowly, deliberately, and lifted his jacket. He knew her eyes were on him, watching. Waiting for him to break. Refusing to give her the satisfaction, he shrugged on the jacket without so much as a flinch. Nonchalantly, he popped the collar up out of habit. It was a mistake. The motion only opened the door for pain. It slid in, silent and hot as a sterile needle. Reflexively, he gritted his teeth.
Raphael looked up at her. Even in the low light, she saw. She knew.
She was right.
He was going to die; it was only a matter of time. And he deserved it. But maybe he could be of some use to someone before he went. Maybe they could even win.
Angel's eyes lingered on his face, with that look. The look she gave April, when she walked out the door and never turned back. The look that said I could kill you where you stand. Raphael knew it all too well. Most people, they weren't so lucky. They didn't even get the look. All they got was a knife to the throat.
He reached to touch her one last time, and she flinched.
Angel took a deep shuddering breath. "You should go," she said.
The turtle shoved his hands into his jacket pockets as he turned away. His fingers curled around the last gift she would ever give him. She had given him everything, and all he could do was walk away. Raphael glanced over his shoulder, back to her, and those beautiful livid eyes. Maybe that was the best thing he could do for her. Walk away.
"Thanks for everything, ba-" he paused to correct himself. "Thanks for everything, Angel."
He left the pack of cigarettes on the table.