"I made her an ice cream sundae and rubbed her feet and I even sat through that stupid The Sweetest Thing movie with her and you know what? It wasn't even that stupid!"

Raphael was running, head down against the rain, calloused feet gripping wet cement as he hurtled through the night over the rooftops. His teeth were bared in a fearsome grimace, his eyes piercing and intent. To any hapless soul he might come across he would appear like some great, demonic monster bent on destruction but all Raphael wanted was the glory of exertion, the numbing pleasure of pushing his body to its considerable limits.

To outrun the sound of his brother's voice as it echoed around his head.

"I made her an ice cream sundae…"

Raphael gritted his teeth and pushed harder, the rain hammering down against his skull and carapace, still ice cold so early in Spring. Damn Mikey. A ledge came up before him and he took it at an almighty pelt, catapulting himself through the air with the street glinting darkly below him before he hit the next rooftop with a dull thud, tucking into a forward roll and coming back up onto his feet in a seamless series of movements, carrying on running exactly as though he had never stopped.

It had been two days since April had entered the lair reeking of something irresistible, causing Raphael and his brothers enormous consternation as they had fought their bodies natural urges to – well, court her, for want of any better term – and they were all still feeling mildly traumatised. All except Michelangelo, who had given into his desires with wholehearted enthusiasm and, as a consequence, had spent the entire evening with April, doting on her and spoiling her rotten as she was apparently not only feeling crummy in general but had been hurt and perplexed by the others' desperate efforts to put as much distance between her and them as possible.

Raphael swore into the night and lowered his head and shoulders further as the wind lashed stinging whips of rain against his face. Knowing he had hurt April's feelings had rent at his heart for days. It had been Donatello who had clarified with Michelangelo what the boisterous younger turtle had meant when he said they'd 'broken her heart' – Raphael would never give so much away – but he'd listened attentively whilst pretending to focus his attention on the television as Michelangelo had elaborated in great detail April's big, sad eyes and how she had rested his head on his shoulder during the movie they'd watched and forlornly asked if she had broken some sort of etiquette in the household and how he'd had to comfort her and reassure her that his brothers were just big dumb dweebs who didn't know how to treat a lady and before he could stop himself he'd thrown the remote control at Michelangelo's head. And Michelangelo had gloated and changed the channel so Raphael had simply stormed off to work out for a while, to unleash his frustrations at himself on his much-battered and abused punching bag.

"… and rubbed her feet…"

He sailed across another rooftop, this time landing on his powerful hands and flipping back over onto his feet, the burn in his thighs a welcome distraction from the relentless beating his thoughts were doling out on him.

Michelangelo was right: he didn't know how to treat a lady. And April deserved better than that.

He knew Leonardo had already made some sort of formal apology, appalled at his conduct towards their Hogosha, and that Donatello had made a peace offering by suggesting a host of computer upgrades that would be seriously beneficial to "research" she would need to do in pursuit of big stories, but he had done nothing. Didn't trust himself to do anything. He'd already screwed up, he'd probably just make it worse.

Plus, God, the way she smelled right then – taciturn at the best of times, he knew he'd only get positively tongue-tied around her with that delirious scent compelling him to want nothing more than to take on the entire Foot Army single-handedly just to clear a path for her to aimlessly wander.

"… AND RUBBED HER FEET…"

He clenched his eyes shut as the words ricocheted around his skull, forced them open to keep track of his progress. He recalled binding her foot up a couple of weeks ago when she'd sprained it pretty bad, how slight and delicate the appendage had felt between his massive hands, how he'd wanted then to do something to soothe her pain, to keep his rough hands on that warm, tantalisingly soft skin for as long as possible, but didn't trust himself not to make it worse.

"I even sat through that stupid The Sweetest Thing movie with her…"

Jealousy devoured him from the inside out, gnawing away at his heart and ribs, ripping through muscle and plastron. His little brother might be excruciating at times, but somehow he always knew what to do.

April had been in need and he'd delivered.

He'd spent a whole evening with her giving her the attention and care she'd been craving whilst he, Raphael, had just stormed off past her, leaving her stung and confused. And he'd jerked off in a sewer tunnel and then gone looking for trouble to distract himself from the nauseating guilt he'd felt.

Whilst Michelangelo had snuggled with her on the sofa and watched movies with her and made her treats and rubbed her feet.

Raphael came to a skidding halt in the middle of a rooftop, icy water skimming up around his feet, and spun around in helpless frustration before slamming a fist hard into the concrete.

"Fuck!"

For Michelangelo, it came so easy. It always had. He had no inhibitions, no fears about being awkward or making an idiot of himself – even though he usually did – and no reluctance to let others know how much they meant to him, even though it might mean he could get hurt.

Raphael had always thought it was a foolish way to be.

But he'd never counted on April O'Neil coming into their lives.

If only – if only he could just – could just trust himself a little more. That night she'd sprained her ankle they'd hung out together in the den for a while and it had been almost easy, despite how aware he was of how attractive he found her and how ultimately pointless it was for him to feel that way. They'd watched back to back reruns of The X-Files and cracked jokes about how unrealistic it was and then Michelangelo had joined them and instantly kept up a running commentary about the unresolved sexual tension between Mulder and Scully that had April giggling, and had fetched her drinks and snacks, leaving Raphael cursing himself for not having thought of it – after all, she couldn't fucking walk – and at some stage April had passed out and they'd gone to bed themselves, Raphael unable to stop himself casting a wistful glance backwards and realising, before Mikey did, that she should have some sort of blanket to cover her. And it had been him who had draped one over her, from his own bed, and carefully tucked it in around her, making sure her toes were covered. He'd almost pushed her hair back off her face, his fingertips aching to tenderly caress, but thought it might wake her so let it be. He had no right to touch her like that anyway. That was something lovers did.

But he'd gazed at her lovely, peaceful face as she slept, her expression smooth and untroubled, and had marvelled that she could be so content and trusting amongst them. The vision of her face had hovered behind his eyes as he slowly eased into sleep himself, almost as though she were lying right there beside him.

Raphael stood panting in the rain as it pounded down harder and harder like a barrage of needles piercing his scales, soaking him to the bone, remembering that beautiful face and how it had smiled so bright, so hard to see him emerge from the gym and in a hot rush of horror and misery the words she'd spoken, at the time lost beneath the overwhelming assault of that wonderful scent, drifted back to his memory: "I've had the day from hell and thought we could hang out, maybe watch a movie or something…"

With his jaw set and his head once again down against the rain, Raphael set off once more across the rooftops, but this time he had a destination in mind.

ooo

As he clambered carefully down the fire escape to the window he sought, Raphael was silent and cautious.

He knew April's roommate had moved out and she was still debating whether or not to look for a new one. She was on a slightly higher salary now as her career started to inch in another direction and whilst she wasn't exactly rolling in dough, she said that she thought she would be able to squeak by – making it easier for them to reach her at her place. He had been abashed by how hot his cheeks had gotten when she'd said that so openly and easily to them, but then had noticed all his brothers had looked similarly flattered and touched. Even Leonardo had practically shucked.

So he expected to find April at home alone – but he wasn't taking it for granted.

Reluctant to go peeking in her windows, he hovered outside for several long moments, listening intently, testing the air with his nostrils to see if he could catch any trace of strangers inside the apartment. There was the faint sound of the television but nothing else so in another moment he reached out a barrel-like fist and rapped softly on the glass pane.

Self-doubt suddenly flooded him and his heart leapt into his throat. Maybe he had made a huge mistake coming here. Maybe he should've called ahead first – not that he was any good on the phone – maybe she would be irritated with him for showing up unannounced, maybe her hurt from the other day had turned to rage and hate. Maybe he should just turn tail and leave.

Then the blinds were twitching open and he saw the midnight blue of her eyes peering out at him in surprise, but there was no rancour there, and his mouth was tugging up at one corner in a sheepish grin before he could help himself and the next thing she had whisked the blinds up and was opening the window for him.

"Raphael?" she exclaimed. "What are you doing here? Is everything okay?"

And as he crouched there dripping wet on her fire escape, a great hulking mass of shell and muscle, he realised he had not even thought about this part. Fucking typical.

"Ah," he scratched his jaw nervously and glanced away. "I just – I wanted to stop by and just say – ah – " he could feel her eyes on him, their piercing gaze, as always, seeming to burn right through his bullet-proof plastron and straight into his heart. " – well to check in on you and, uh, say – " oh God, this never, ever got any easier but he knew he had to say it. " – say sorry. For the other day."

Finally he looked back at her and saw that she was smiling gently, warmly, and an intense wave of relief washed through him.

"You're soaking," she announced, her voice alive with concern. "Come in."

And she shifted away from the window, padding quickly to the hallway as he shook himself vigorously and then carefully eased his massive form inside. She opened a cupboard and gathered an armful of towels before coming back to him.

"Thanks," he took a couple of towels from her and dropped one to the wood-panelled floor to stand on before using another to start rubbing vigorously at his drenched body, casting surreptitious little glances at her as he did so. She looked heart-stoppingly sexy in loose draw-string pajama bottoms slung around her hips and a thin tank top, the natural sit of her breasts suggesting she wasn't wearing a bra, her face free of makeup and her auburn hair tumbling in messy waves around her face. Was it really a good idea for him to stay? It wasn't like he wanted to leave, not when she looked that brain-mincingly gorgeous and he had her all to himself; on the other hand it might well be a torture too unbearable to withstand to simply sit there and burn for her while she remained oblivious and uninterested.

But then April was stepping forward with another towel in her hand. "Turn around," she ordered. "I'll dry your shell."

And silently, he obeyed.

Raphael pressed his eyes shut and ground his teeth as the textured linen began to rub over his shell in firm, soothing circles. When they were still very little children, Splinter had often comforted them in this way; tickling and scratching the grooves that etched their carapaces, the sensitivity of their shells making them giggle and squirm. It was Raphael who had first begun shunning the attention as wussy kid's stuff and it had been well over sixteen years since he had experienced such a caress. Now, as an adult and with a woman he was intensely attracted to bestowing the attention, the pleasure of it took on another dimension and he turned quickly around and gently plucked the towel from her hand, using it to scrub at his neck and then forearms.

"Thanks," he said. "That's much better."

If April thought he was abrupt, she didn't say, just invited him into the living room proper with a jerk of her head. Her ass jiggled freely in her loose pants and he forced himself not to stare, dropping the towels into a sodden pile and following her. The living room was small but equipped with a huge – if collapsing – sofa and several patched armchairs, scattered in bright cushions, a tattered but thick rug spread across the boards. It was a cheerful, if slightly shabby, room, cosy and inviting and Raphael felt his muscles uncoil a little as he took in the scene. April plonked herself onto the sofa and patted the cushions next to her, leaving the decision on where he should sit in no question and he gingerly picked his way through the tiny space and eased himself onto the sofa next to her, his eyes flickering to the swell of her breasts before he could stop himself, long enough to notice the crisp air from the open window had caused her nipples to harden and poke out against the all-too-thin fabric of her tank. Oh goddamn.

He ripped his eyes away from her and focused them on the television that hung on the wall. "What we watching?"

April retrieved a hot water bottle from the jumble of cushions propped behind her and pressed it against her abdomen. "Orphan Black. Know it?"

"Nah," his eyes darted to the bottle and then to her face where he thought for a moment he saw the merest grimace.

"It's good fun. Plenty of action and violence. You'll love it."

"Aw shucks, you know me so well," he remarked dryly and she laughed, her blue eyes crinkling at the corners as she glanced at him cheekily and he felt his own lips tug upwards in response. Okay, this wasn't so bad. She was still driving him crazy but he was feeling more relaxed. And she didn't seem to be holding any grudges.

But then, as she returned her gaze towards the screen, her jaw seemed to tense and her brows creased together and he glanced again at the hot water bottle and for the first time since she'd opened the window he stopped breathing through his mouth and inhaled the air of the room through his nostrils.

She was no longer giving off the delirious aroma that had so disturbingly intoxicated him a couple of days earlier. But there was no relief in that, because instead the air was thick with another, profoundly disturbing, scent – one he knew only too well, and he was suddenly terrified. Impulsively he reached forward and gripped her by the forearms, startling her attention from the show that seemed to be composed entirely of the one actress, peering anxiously into her face, for once as heedless and uninhibited as Michelangelo.

"April, are you okay? What's happened? Where are you hurt?"

April was gazing at him, alarm and confusion illuminating her face, her lower lip slack and her eyes wide. "What? Raphael, what are you doing?"

Raphael swallowed hard and focused, loosening his grip on her arms but unable to curb his concern. "Are you hurt, April? You – I – I thought you were hurt – " he trailed off as her forehead creased, as she continued to look at him perplexed and a little disturbed. She rotated her arms in his grip so that she could lay her hands on his forearms, pressing gently but firmly against them.

"Raphael, I'm not hurt. I'm fine. Completely fine. Why would you think I was hurt?"

He couldn't understand it. There was no mistaking the odour he could smell. And it was strong.

"I – " he was embarrassed now, worried he had frightened her and he abruptly let her go and shifted back on the sofa. "I can smell – I mean – I'm sure I can – blood – "

And suddenly April flushed crimson from the roots of her hair to the neckline of her tank, her expression contorting into one of sheer, abject mortification.

As he absorbed her reaction, all Raphael could think was that he had been right all along: this had been a terrible idea. He did screw it up.

"Oh Raphael," April was flustered, lowering her face and reaching a hand up to toy with her hair. "No, no. I'm not hurt. It's just – it's just something that happens – to human women – " she raked nervous fingers through her dark red locks and bit her lip, laughing a little in embarrassment. " – once a month. It's completely normal. Please don't worry."

And they gazed at each other in mutual embarrassment, each perched awkwardly at either end of the sofa, Raphael increasingly aware of his ridiculous bulk in the tiny room, utterly chagrined at just how badly he had loused things up and struggling to understand how April could be actively bleeding and yet not injured.

Vaguely, dots began to connect in his head as they sat there in discomfited silence. Once a month… what happens if the egg doesn't get fertilised… you don't want to know. And he realised this was all connected, just didn't fully comprehend how.

All he did comprehend was that his damn stupid big mouth and inability to control himself had once again disrupted the companionable comfort they had been developing and he cursed himself once and then a thousand times over for being such a goddamn chump.

"I should go," he muttered and rose to his feet, agitatedly adjusting his belts, tightening the knot of his mask. "Sorry to barge in – "

But April was gazing up at him with her jaw dangling and an unmistakeable fire flashing in her eyes. "Oh for Godssakes, I don't have cooties!" She snapped, leaping to her feet to face him off, thrusting her chest forward. "Why are men so hysterical about this shit? It's normal, okay? Trust me, however uncomfortable it makes you to think about, it's ten times worse to actually go through it."

Raphael could only hover and gape at her outburst, vaguely cognizant there was a lot of subtext that was going whooshing over his head, dismayed he had once again only managed to make things worse but unable to turn away from the shimmer of hurt in her eyes. Not again. Seriously? He'd managed to do it again?

This time he wasn't going to run, though.

"Is this – is this a mammal thing?" he finally managed, his voice conveying all the confusion he felt.

April's eyes flickered, disarmed, and in the next instant she was laughing helplessly, bending her forehead to one hand, artlessly flicking her hair back over her shoulder and while he still didn't have a clue in hell what was going on, the restoration of her good humour was a welcome balm to his self-loathing.

"It's totally a mammal thing," she agreed, still laughing. Then she was stepping over to him, resting a tiny warm palm on his bicep, gazing up into his face with liquid eyes, pleading. "Please don't go. I'm sorry I snapped at you just now it's just – oh – I thought you were grossed out – "

"No way," he interjected, so horrified he'd given her that impression he forgot to be guarded. "I just – you looked embarrassed – "

"I was," she confirmed. "But it's okay. I don't want you to go." And she squeezed his bicep, her touch as light as a bird, and he let her draw him gently back towards the sofa, unable to leave when his heart beat so hard to hear her say those words it might fail him altogether if he tried taking on those rooftops again. "I was just so happy when you showed up. I really needed the company tonight."

Raphael felt as though he floated down onto the sofa, so buoyant her words made him. It was him this time, not Mikey.

And he anchored himself to the sofa, determined that no force on earth would shift him from it again unless it was an order from her own sweet lips. He couldn't take his eyes off her as she tucked her legs up underneath her on the cushions, pushing her hair back off her face and smiling at him with real warmth, genuine pleasure to have him there beside her.

"You sure you're not hurt?" he couldn't help querying once more as she again lifted the hot water bottle and held it against her tummy.

She shook her head. "Truly." She paused, tilted her head a little as though contemplating something, then continued. "I mean, I'm in pain, but I'm not hurt."

He couldn't help the little start of concern at that and looked at her enquiringly. She shrugged, her delicate collarbones imprinting against her flesh, her breasts rising and falling. "There's always cramping. I mean, it hurts but it's not the end of the world. So long as I keep poppin' the Tylenol that is."

"You need some now?" His voice was gruff but sincere; he recalled the little grimaces she had been making.

And suddenly her eyes were melting and entreatingly gazing into his as though she were relinquishing a hold on her last reserves of strength. "Oh, that would be so great, thank you. They're in the second drawer in the kitchen. Help yourself to a drink if you want."

She might not have been sending off pheromones in waves of irresistible temptation anymore, but he was as helpless to her needy expression as if she was. He strode off towards the kitchen while she relaxed back into the cushions of the sofa, located the painkillers and poured her a glass of water, then got a beer out of the fridge for himself.

When he returned, she smiled at him gratefully, looking small and helpless all curled up on the sofa and he felt the tug of his heartstrings to see it. "Why would she be giving off all those 'take care of me' smells if she didn't need to be taken care of?"

He dropped the painkillers into her hand and gave her the glass, looming over her with the merest flicker of a smile as she took them, then resumed his seat, feeling the sofa depress heavily beneath his weight.

"Cramps, huh?" he queried, popping the cap off his beer and taking a slug.

"Yup," she sighed, swallowing several of the little white pills at once. "Cramps, nausea, back ache, headache, bloating, fatigue… a regular bushel of fun."

"Jeeze," he shook his head and took another swig of his beer, then turned to look at her again. "Every month?"

"Yuuup," she replied, a grimace of resignation on her face. She finished the water then reached forward to place the glass on the floor before leaning back into the couch cushions and sighing.

Raphael shook his head again, contemplating the beads of perspiration on the beer bottle. "Mammals are weird."

April laughed outright to hear it and he couldn't help grinning a little, glad she wasn't offended. He'd spoken without thinking, as he did all too damn often, but had gotten lucky. He glanced at her again, noticing how now they seemed to have resolved the situation she had given up on any pretensions of being in normal spirits, slumping into the couch and clutching the hot water bottle miserably to her belly. No wonder she'd wanted company, if she was going through all that.

And of all the cockamamie things to think, the thought that sprung to his mind was simply: "Be Mikey."

And he was setting his beer aside and twitching his two massive fingers towards her before he could second-guess himself, his gut fluttering though he resisted with steely resolve. "C'mere."

Her bleary eyes flickered at him, her eyebrows creasing in confusion. "What?"

He jerked his head in a beckoning gesture. "Just c'mere."

And incredibly, she did, sitting up and scootching herself sidewards across the cushions towards him, her expression tentatively curious but unhesitating and when she was close enough he took her gently by the shoulders and turned her back to him.

When he began to massage her, firmly but gently, his huge hands carefully kneading the muscles of her shoulders and neck, she tensed up then abruptly slumped forward in a sudden rush of relaxation.

"Oh wow," she managed, her voice husky and Raphael's lips twitched, fighting a smirk. Years of the brothers attending to each other's practice-weary muscles had made all of them excellent masseurs. He kept careful measure of his hands and how they managed her slight shoulders, modifying his touch and the pressure he exerted accordingly. The thought sprang, unbidden, to his mind that if they were ever to kiss he would have to be as careful with his mouth on hers and his tail tugged at the image it called up. Gritting his teeth and shoving it from his mind, he refocused on April's tiny shoulders, her bones feeling so delicate beneath the massive power of his hands, her tight and knotted muscles steadily loosening and uncoiling beneath his attentive ministrations.

He shifted the two fingers on either hand to cup her neck, their tips overlapping at the front beneath her chin, and worked his thumbs at the base of her skull, circling them upwards. April moaned, an involuntary noise that made him snicker a little and his groin throb a lot. It occurred to him then that he had her throat encased entirely in his hands and she didn't seem even the least bit anxious, merely allowing her head to loll forward, her chin supported on his knuckles. He could crush her windpipe like a straw and she simply sat there and trusted him.

It left him breathless for a moment, gazing at the back of her head, with its shiny chestnut locks all tumbling down, with so ferocious a passion he feared for a moment he might choke on it.

He released her throat and ran his hands back down again, daring to gather her soft, slippery hair up and push it over her shoulder, then resumed kneading her back, this time working his way down. He could feel the collected tension especially towards the base of her spine and though his heart tapped a nervous rhythm in time with the pulse of his groin he carried on in an entirely efficient manner, exactly as if he were massaging Leo's hamstrings. April exhaled in bliss and slumped all the way forward over her crossed legs so that her cheek came to rest on the cushions, her arms splaying over her head, submitting entirely to him. His breath caught to see it.

Raphael glanced down, saw the waist band of her panties peeking above her pajama bottoms, the merest shadow of the cleft of her buttocks and quickly lifted his eyes again to where her head rested, her face mostly obscured by her hair.

"Stop whenever you're over it," she said as though she felt obliged to, the words slurred.

He chuckled a little, changed the motion of his hands, moving back up her spine. "I'm fine. You say when you want me to stop."

April moaned, her body now completely limp and pliant beneath his touch. "I don't think I want you to ever stop."

He chuckled again and ran his coarse palms up over her whole back in a series of smooth effleurages that had her sighing and shivering before he took gentle hold of her shoulders and coaxed her back up into a sitting position, drawing her back to rest against him. She went without protest, letting her head dangle back onto his plastron and he saw her eyes were shut, her expression one of perfect, touching trust. Carefully, he took her face between his hands and gently, slowly rubbed her temples beneath his thumbs, watching her face attentively, enraptured by her thick dark eyelashes and the soft pink membrane of her tempting lips.

"Oh God," April's hand flew suddenly to her mouth and she wiped at it. "I'm drooling. I'm actually drooling." And she was laughing at herself, sitting up with a little flush on her cheeks. He dropped his hands into his lap, a little disappointed it was over but suffused with a warm satisfaction at what he had accomplished regardless. Eat your heart out, Mikey.

April was running both hands back through her hair, glancing at him coyly sideways, her raised arms throwing into relief her unfettered breasts and making his throat dry so that he reached quickly for his forgotten beer. "I'm so glad you came over tonight," she smiled at him, a hint of shyness making her all the more desirable to him.

He felt the heat in his cheeks and was glad for the mottled green of his flesh concealing it from her sparkling gaze, preserving his cool. "Yeah. Me too." His grin may have even bordered on the cocky as he took a swig from the bottle.

She cocked her head at him, no longer looking even a little fatigued or pained, but rejuvenated and content and he could barely resist the smug delight that blossomed beneath his plastron to witness it.

"Same time next month?" Her eyes flashed with cheekiness.

He concealed his smirk with another gulp from his beer and shifted to face the television once more. "You got it."