In which Raph gets a dog.
More accurately, in which all the turtles get a dog.
Set sometime past Out of the Shadows (maybe even past the third movie depending on how this movie ends?), but mostly spoiler-free aside from a couple of tiny mentions of things that have already been shown in the trailers. tl;dr there is Casey and there is a mention of Laura Linney's character and that's it.
Some minor references of not-nice things having previously happened to a dog, but lots of good things, too.
flower power
Casey calls Raph up in the middle of the night, demanding he meet him in an alley downtown. So Raph goes, shoving on his snowboots and cursing half the way. It's ten degrees and snowing outside, the rooftops are both gritty and icy at the same time, and if Casey doesn't have a good reason for this, Raph is going to punch him.
(But it's ten degrees and snowing outside, and so Raph knows, and hates that he knows, that Casey is serious.)
Casey is in the alley, like he promised, his Dean Winchester-wannabe Impala sitting at the end. He's shifty and his shoulders are up, and Raph knows that Casey's just come out of – not just a bad fight, but a bad fight, the kind that doesn't get under your skin with bruises and broken glass, but gets in your head, with sight and sound. He keeps flexing and then clenching his fists, then reaching up to run his hands over his head, then repeating it. Raph drops down from the fire escape, and doesn't make it silent. "So what's the problem?" he asks, pitching his voice low, and holds his hands up when Casey whirls on him.
The story is about as fucked up as New York tends to get on a Friday night. Casey went out after work, trying to catch the game and the last round at the shitty sports bar where he's got a tab. Then, with a beer in him and a bullshit loss, and six hours sitting on his can at his security gig, he went out looking for better work. Saw a fight down an alley, went in to end it – but they caught one look at him, all tall and unshaven with his nice, white, working-class face, thought he was an undercover cop, and split.
All of them, and their little dogs, too.
Casey pulls open the back door of his car, and something moves, hunkering into the shitty, oil-stained blanket on Casey's back seat. "Oh no," Raph breathes. Casey bristles, and a big wet nose pokes itself out of the blanket, sniffing.
(It's one of the things that Raph knows and likes about Casey Jones: loves dogs. Fucking hates dog-fighting.)
"She okay?" Raph asks, peering into the car, and he can't help it – the dog cocks her head at his voice and looks at him, and just does that. No running, or screaming, or what ARE you? (thank you, Police Chief Vincent). Just a set of big, brown eyes – and Raph offers a faint half-smile in return, something warm blossoming in his chest.
"Already got her checked out."
"Okay," says Raph, and just waits. Because Casey's not the type of guy to call Raph up in the middle of the night just to show off his new dog. Casey wants something. Raph knows exactly what Casey wants, and he's already trying to either find his way out of this, or find a way to pitch this to Leo, and more importantly, Splinter, without causing a five-way fight.
"April can't take her," says Casey. "I can't take her." He reaches into the back seat, tutting gently under his tongue, and the dog fucking cowers, before she leans up and snuffles at Casey's fingers, then licks them, just once.
Casey stinks of Chicken McNuggets and too much coffee and now Raph can understand why.
"The pound's not getting her," Casey adds, and lowers his head, eyes glittering.
Raph hasn't known Casey long, but he knows enough about people – from watching them, from fighting them – to know that this is Casey's Last Stand stance. Raph is taking this dog, or Casey is making Raph take this dog, and if Raph doesn't, then they're done. If Raph says no, then this dog is a dead dog walking – it's a cold, winter night, the city pounds are oversubscribed, and a worn-out pit with her ears cut down and her bones on show won't even get her last meal. They'll just put her down. A shitty little end to a shitty little life.
Raph swallows away the lump that is definitely not in his throat.
"What about your mom?" Raph asks, and Casey just points at the dog's boxy, bony face. "Yeah," says Raph. "Okay."
"So you'll take her?" Casey asks. Raph shrugs one massive shoulder; the brand on his bicep pulls a little – anger, but anger isn't always a bad thing. Right now, the world could use a little more of it. A lot more of it.
"S'not like I have a choice," Raph grumps, but lets Casey put her in his arms anyway. She barely weighs anything, but she stinks of oil and neglect, and for those first few seconds she's tense and shaking all at the same time. Raph adjusts his grip; his arms are thicker than Casey's, he can hold her better than Casey can, and he tucks the blanket a little tighter around her. The dog lifts her head, snuffles at his face once, then tucks her head under his chin, nuzzling in, and lets out a soft, warm breath against his collarbone.
"The hell are you looking at?" he asks, when Casey just smiles.
By the time Raph gets up the next morning, Leo's already awake. Raph takes his time dragging himself out of bed, already going through the argument in his head:
You can't just bring a dog home, Raph!
Well, I did. And before you start yelling, this is what happened to her.
Casey should have taken her to the shelter.
The shelter would have put her down and– whatever, Leo, we're keeping the dog.
We are NOT KEEPING THIS DOG.
When he'd got home last night, he'd dragged together a makeshift bed – one of Donnie's big plastic crates, and a spare blanket from their winter supply, this one a little singed from the last lair, but clean and warm enough. He'd set out a bowl of water, and a handful of the kibble that the vet had given Casey, and written a big note: WE'LL TALK ABOUT HER TOMORROW, with an arrow pointing at her.
She hadn't whimpered, or whined, just curled up in the crate, and watched as he'd backed slowly away towards his room.
What were you supposed to do with a dog, anyway? He'd let her take a leak in the sewers as he'd carried her back, and he'd seen enough TV to know that she'd need feeding, and walking, and Casey and April could handle anything like shots and check-ups, but.
Surprise, I got us a dog. Happy Hannukah, Mikey.
Dude! I knew Jewish Santa came for the little turtles as well!
Mikey, Raph was pretty sure, would be on Team Dog. Leo, Splinter, probably on Team Raph You Are Irresponsible What Were You Thinking.
Raph wasn't sure what Donnie would think.
So when he comes out of his room, expecting to see Leo on the couch with his leg crossed over his knee and his arms folded and about to say something snotty, Raph stops.
Leo is on the couch.
So is the dog.
They're both watching Channel 6, Leo with a cup of tea in his right hand, and his left hand very gently running along the dog's back. "Uh. Mornin'," Raph says, his voice rough from the little sleep he got. "I can explain."
"Casey?" Leo asks. He doesn't look at Raph, but instead looks at the dog, who has turned around, looking at Raph with big eyes. Her tail starts to thump, whapping Leo in the arm. Raph nods. "Yeah. We figured."
"We?" Raph asks, edging a little closer. He hates it, but he forces himself to admit it – this acceptance, this casual okayness that Leo's got going isn't what he expected, and he's wrong-footed, and feels guilty because of it. Why had he automatically assumed the worst of Leo, the softest touch of them all?
"You missed Mikey." Leo shrugs, his hand scooching up to scritch at the back of a badly-docked ear, then lifting away immediately when the dog wiggles and shakes her head. "He and Donnie already spent a hundred dollars on Amazon Prime. They went to pick stuff up from April's."
"Donnie's okay with this too?"
"Once he's dog-proofed the battlestation, yeah. Why wouldn't he be?" Leo finally turns to Raph and smiles, the scar on his cheek crinkling up. "Dad–" Leo paused, and shit, here it comes, thinks Raph, before Leo lifts his hand again and hovers over the dog's ears. "Dad gets it. He's gone to meditate on the benefits of wrath over forgiveness."
"Yeah, well guess which one I'm in favour of," Raph huffs, finally daring to join in the fragile, peaceful little moment and easing himself down on the couch, next to the dog. In the florescent lighting of the lair in daytime, the damage looks even worse – Raph can count every rib, see every scratch, see how her underbelly hangs low, and it hurts, right in the gut of him. "Bastards probably just bred her out and then ditched her." He can't keep the anger out of his voice; he doesn't wantto keep the anger out of his voice, he wants to use his anger until he's put every last one of them in the hospital, or worse.
He's killed for less.
But then he can feel trembling through the cushions, and Leo reaches over, resting a cool hand on Raph's forearm, and casts a meaningful look down to the dog, who is looking up at him, eyes big and round and afraid, and Raph swallows down his rage, and his horror, and focuses on the good things: that she's safe, that they are doing a good thing, that they have a dog.
"Wait." Something nags at him that Leo said a few moments ago. "A hundred dollars?!"
Leo just shrugs, easing back into the couch and patting Raph's shoulder. "You just got our two little brothers a dog, Raph. Better get used to it."
Four days later, Raph gets a text from Casey: a screenshot of his bank account down $482 to TRIBECA EMER. VET. SERVICES with just two words: "FIX THIS."
He shows it to Donnie, who's essentially making a living from draining funds from either One Billion Moms or GOP campaign funds – or Walmart, depending on what day it is. Donnie pays it off, and dumps an extra $50 into Casey's checking account (spending Republican money on actual good causes always makes Donnie a little more generous), and a day later, Casey sends Raph another photo – eight jars of all-natural peanut butter, and a giant pink Kong that's coming down with April on her next visit.
"Nice going, genius," Raph says, ambling over to Donnie's battlestation, and squeezes Donnie's shoulder to show that he actually means it, and isn't being sarcastic. At his ankles, the dog, parked on the big overstuffed cushion they sent to April's, perks up – but Donnie's hand is there before Raph can, gently patting the dog's big warm head, and she rubs up into Donnie's hand until Donnie curls his fingers and scritches gently. Raph can't help but feel a little jealous – after all, hewas the one who brought her home – but it made sense to move her bed here, while she's still so skinny and it's still cold as shit. Here, Donnie has all of his servers blowing warm air constantly, and the dog can focus on eating, and taking her meds, and getting well again.
He reaches over with a toe, instead, rubbing her paw once, gently, before turning to go back to the couch. "Hey Raph!" Donnie calls, leaning backwards in his chair. "Did you think of a name yet?"
Raph shrugs, picking his knitting back up. "Nope," he says, then shrugs. "Don't wanna give her one that doesn't suit her."
The dog rolls over onto her back, squirming and grunting, before she finally gets comfortable again and closes her eyes, sighing. "Hm," Donnie says. "Well, don't leave it too long. Mikey's making a list."
"GUYS," Mikey yells one late afternoon, the dog skipping at his heels. "I'm taking Gwen for a walk!"
Raph's head jerks up from his knitting, just in time for Donnie to snip, "You are not calling our dog Gwen."
"Why not?!"
"I mean, aside from the fact that she's Raph's dog, and he should name her?"
"Ugh, seriously? Leo already said I couldn't use Missus Worldwide, and if Raph doesn't come up with a name soon, I'm gonna name my queen after the queen. Besides," Mikey adds, leaning down and patting his thighs until the dog lifts herself up onto her hind legs, "we're working on a routine, aren't we, girl? Yes we are, yes we are!"
"A routine," Donnie says flatly. "Oh boy. What routine?"
The words are barely out of Donnie's mouth before Mikey starts singing – and when he sings, the dog dances, her butt wiggling and her tail smacking into anything stupid enough to be in its way: "FEW TIMES BEEN AROUND THAT TRACK, SO IT'S NOT JUST GONNA HAP-PEN LIKE THAT, CUZ I AIN'T NO HOLLABACK DOG, I AIN'T NO HOLLABACK DOG."
Donnie facepalms. The slap is quiet, but the way this new lair is constructed, it echoes gently around the caverns. "Raph," he says, helplessly, and just waves a hand to where Mikey is teaching the dog to put her paw-paws down.
"You're not callin' her anything, numbnuts," Raph says, fighting with another k3tog-stitch over Mikey's singing. "I'll think of something."
"I DON'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED," April wails, staggering into the lair under the weight of far too many packages and boxes that she ordered from LOOKATMYDOG. Donnie sighs, pays those off as well, and then joins in as April, Mikey and Leo start tearing open packages full of dog-sized hoodies, leaving Raph and the dog alone by the servers. She's getting better. It's barely been a month, but her ribs are slowly sinking into her fur, and her underbelly doesn't look quite so ragged and sore. Her fur is glossier, and her eyes are brighter, and the other day, she even dared to bark when Mikey yelled at Call of Duty – the scrappiest, yappiest thing that sounded like it should have come from a dog less than half her size, and when Mikey went that's my girl, you tell 'em!, she did it again, instead of huddling into herself.
Most of all, it's like she realises that this is home now. She gives no shits about jumping on the couch, and when it's full tends to just jump straight into Raph's lap, stretching out across his thighs and digging her hind paws into whichever unlucky sucker happens to be next to him. She will stare at Mikey, scooting closer until he cracks under the guilt of not giving her the last of his pizza bones. She curls up next to Leo when he's reading, and naps with her head on his knee.
Sometimes, even though she goes to sleep on her giant cushion, Raph wakes up to dogbreath, and drool on his pillow that isn't his.
"Knock knock," says Casey, from the hidden door. Along with April's purse, he's got another sack of dog-food – plus a big, wet bone from one of the Puerto Rican butchers in a thin plastic bag; Raph can smell it – and more importantly, so can the dog, her nose twitching in the air and her tail thumping on her cushion.
"Hey man," Raph says, shoving off of the floor to bump Casey's fist.
Casey doesn't come by the lair often, but when he does, it's like the dog remembers him as the one who saved her: she scrabbles up off her cushion, and winds herself around Casey's legs, demanding fuss.
And Casey is a dog-guy. He drops to his knees and does what dog-people do – forget that everyone else exists.
"Hey," Raph says, when things look like they're getting too rough and Casey and the dog are basically just wrestling, "hey, Case, be careful with her."
Casey laughs, taking a moment to look away from the dog and look up. "I've had dogs before, Raph. This isn't my first rodeo. She's okay."
And just like that, something crystalises, as Raph looks from his friend to his dog, who is wide-jawed and drooling all over Casey's hand as he scrubs his short nails up and down her fur, cooing at her – who's a good girl, there she is, yes she is, oh-ho-ho, that how you wanna play it? c'mere – and completely ignoring everybody else in the room.
It's not Casey's first rodeo – he grew up with dogs, the only reason he can't get one right now is because he's in a shitty, sublet apartment and he's got one too many enemies that know where he lives. Raph doesn't know if it's April's, but this dog is Raph's first dog. And he knows he's not her first owner, but Raph will make damn sure that he's her last.
It's taken him almost two months – most of his time was spent on the damn flowers, but Raph will learn to crochet when hell freezes over – but the headband is ready. It fits neatly over her ears, and it'll keep her warm in the colder tunnels. Raph tugs her harness on over her hoodie (with ALL-AMERICAN PRINCESS across the back), and clips her bright pink leash to it. The harness has her name, and April's number written on a metal tag, just in case, but Raph knows that she's not going anywhere. "Goin' for a walk!" he yells, but privately hopes that nobody wants to join them. He has a pocket full of training treats and a two mile route to take her on, and when they get back, Rodeo has a big bowl full of kibble with her name on that as well.
Splinter waves from the couch, watching some sort of CW trash, and Raph slips out of the hidden door, just him, and his flower-crowned dog.
THE END.