Title: To the Victors Go the Spoils
Author: Raykushi
Disclaimer: Rights to TMNT belong to Nickelodeon and others. This is a fan piece only and no monetary gain comes from its publication.
Incarnation: 2k3 TV show
Summary: Sometimes patrol nights end badly. Sometimes they don't.
Warnings/Ratings: None/G
Word prompt: "Bragging Rights"
Word Count: 1,011
To the Victors Go the Spoils
Sometimes patrol nights end badly. More than once the four brothers had limped home, leaning on each other for support both physical and emotional, reeling from a call too close for comfort, their exhausted silence a sharp contrast to the usual repartee that was the spice of their lives. There in the underground sanctuary they would seek solace and recover, strengthened by the presence of family and the mundane aspects of their lives, until finally drawn upward to the surface to dare fate yet again.
But other times, the night is good.
"Yeeee-ha!" A cry of triumph echoes down the sewer tunnels, proceeding a lithe green form that flips from overhead pipes down to the ground and back up again just for the sheer joy of pushing the limits of gravity's boundaries. "Another night of villains cowering before the mighty force of justice!"
Striding below the swinging figure, a pair of brothers chuckle at his antics, unflinching even when feet or arms (or occasional spinning nunchaku) sweep by inches from their heads. The red-banded turtle tips his head to the side just enough to dodge fingers reaching impishly for his mask tails the next time the form swings past. "Good thing we're letting him wear himself out now, or he'll never sleep through the night," he deadpans to the one walking beside him, the verbal jab eased by a grin.
"I told you not to give him sugar before bed, but do you ever listen to me?" the eldest replies, sounding much put upon, in too much good humor not to join in. The night had been good. No injuries. Thankful citizens. A rarity.
Quieter but no less jubilant, the fourth brother walks behind. A smile of delight crosses his face each time he glances down at a scrap of paper in his hand.
The exuberant gymnast above catches his movement. "Donnie got the girl, he wins best super hero of the night!"
"It's not a contest," Donatello replies primly, but his flash of grin says he is remembering with exquisite detail their last encounter. Two college-aged women walking away from a dance club, crossing into territory claimed by deep shadows and a local gang that the turtles had busted up twice before but had so far failed to learn the lesson. The pair of citizens forced into an alley by a quartet of young thugs, tossed to the ground amongst the refuse, watching the short-lived scuffle that followed with wide eyes but not fleeing in a panic, not whipping out cellphones to call the cops or take a video. The shorter girl stutters her genuine thanks as Raphael offers her a hand. The taller one allows Donatello to help her to her feet, thanking him when he retrieves her purse, and then, before he can recognize it and refuse, pushing a piece of paper into his hand. he looks down and sees a phone number scrawled there. And maybe a night of dancing and drinks and their brush with violence have made the two girls more adaptable, maybe the depths of the alley are too dark for them to really see their saviors, maybe the girl had left her glasses at home to fit in with the club scene—and of course he never intends to actually call... but it doesn't matter because sometimes it's nice to just be treated like a person for once.
"Donnie's always the one who gets the girls," Mikey announces, hanging upside down with his knees hooked around an overhanging pipe, and of course it's not true but the mood in the tunnel is too good to deny it.
Donatello figures he has earned bragging rights. "Because girls have standards," he announces, delighted by Mikey's squawk. Leonardo guffaws.
His three older brothers' tread have carried them on ahead while Michelangelo paused. He curls his body up and reaches for the closest pipe to swing out and propel himself after them, building momentum for an impressive conclusion.
Raphael sees him coming and calls out, "He's earned the best score in Olympic history for his routine so far. But can he stick the landing!?" The teenager somersaults through the air, over Donatello's head, legs tucked up in perfect form, before effortlessly striking a crouched landing between his two brothers.
"And the crowd goes wild!" Michelangelo straightens, arms up in the air in victory. He turns to the sibling on his right and both arms shoot forward, held open with palms up, guileless and demanding. "Pay up, Raph."
Still easy-going, his taciturn brother only shakes his head in wry amusement. "Eh? What're you talking about?"
"The bet! Donnie got a date first, I win the bet!"
At the mention of his name, Donatello hurries his step to catch up to his siblings, raises an eye ridge in disbelief. "You bet that I would get a date first?"
Raph's look of confusion belatedly gives way to recognition. "That... Mikey, we were eight!"
"A bet's a bet, Raph. And I won."
Leonardo shakes his head in mock awe. "You picked Don, really?" His eyes flicker to the last turtle. "No offense."
Don just sticks his tongue out at his older brother. The fact that he has a number on a piece of paper goes a long way toward keeping him in a good mood.
"I bet that it would be anyone but Raph," Mikey says cheekily.
Donatello chuckles. "Statistically that wasn't a very wise bet," he points out.
"I was eight!" Raph growls to defend himself.
"I win I wiiiiin," Mikey insists, poking his finger in Raph's face. "You owe me!"
Finally his lips, pressed in a thin line, soften and curl upward, the smirk on Raph's face a victor's hallmark, finally remembering what it was they had bet. "Sorry to burst your bubble, bro, but I don't even have that race car anymore."
Mikey is undaunted. "That's okay, you can owe me," the younger brother smirks back.
On another night, Raphael would have hot words for Michelangelo. Tonight, he slings an arm across his shoulders as they head home.