Onegai Shimasu – Ni

This chapter sort of popped out of nowhere from my head, although I must give a nod to Andrea O'Down's endearing fic "My Mr. Turtle", which inspired Leatherhead's twist on a classic card game.

Leatherhead was hangin' in the old subway car, as usual. Dude really spruced up the place. Felt like a proper home in there. Amazing how us mutants can take the junkiest thing and make it work for us. I guess we're good at mutating stuff into other stuff. We got an instinct for it. Except for Leo.

L-head was sad, and nuthin' new there either. Never seems to shake the blues. Thaz' probably why he plays them so often. I don't mind: blues iz' the origins of hip hop, baybee. And I get it. It's soothing, hearing other peoples' problems; reminds you that, maybe, you're not as much of a freak as you think you are. And Leatherhead and me? We're about as freakish as it gets. Except for Justin. Oh, and Timothy. See? There's always someone worse off than you, to make you feel better about yourself.

Me, I try to make Leatherhead feel better about himself – Dude's such a gentle giant when he's not tearing everything up. The Croc just needs to find his way out of his own head; and I'm good at driving people out of their minds, Donnie says so. Guess that means I'm the Primo Turtle for the job. I re-adjust the boxed game of Kinekt Force I've been carrying under my arm all the way from the Lair.

"Michelangelo, you have returned for another evening of conversation and 'Go Fish'?", rumbled a hopeful Leatherhead. "This time I promise it will not be so upsetting when we skin them."

"Bro, nooooo, not the fish, again! I'm down with 'za, not seafood. Well, not sewer seafood anyway. No offense – you're a Croc; gotta do like a Croc do."

"As you wish, Michelangelo. I will reserve the sewer piscids for myself. But may I offer you a brownie?"

"Hellsyeah, Bro!"

We munched in silence, the chocolate rushing our brains at the same time. L-head and I sank back against the train's walls, blissed out and totally chillaxed. Don't know how, but Croco-Dude hooks up a Pro sweet fix. Just one of the reasons he's my best bro (aside from Raph, natch').

"Leatherhead, what if you couldn't ever eat chocolate again? Or raw sewer fish. What would you do?"

"What would I do if I could not snack? I would become very grumpy."

"I hear that. But, like, what if life's little pleasures were taken away? I mean, it's tough enough being – well, us. A little brownie – a lotta pizza – can go a long way to curing some big ills."

"You speak of hedonistic pleasures. Short term happiness. This is all I have known, since my escape from the Kraang and the horrors that befell me in their hands. I wish to overcome the wounds left by my abusers, yet I fear that if I try, and fail, then I am proven forever broken and enslaved even while free. I confess that I lack the mettle to fight. Thus the closest I come to peace of mind is…"

L-head got quiet then, like he does when he sinks into a funk. 'Sides, he doesn't need to be shy about it. I know he means that hanging with me is about as near as he gets to escaping who he thinks he is.

What knots my heartstrings into a tight ball is that he's golden just the way he is. I mean, I know that grabbing Donnie by the face and shaking him like a ragdoll is not the direction L-head gots'ta go in. But the Croc's heart is pure. I wish LH could see how he's so noble (? - is that the word Leo overuses?); he'd give himself up in an instant to save someone else, not a second thought about it (especially if Kraang are in the mix). He's a sweetheart if I ever saw one.

Except at parlour games. Then he has about as much mercy as Fishface.

"Kinekt Force", rumbled the giant crocodilian.

"Awwww, duuuude! Not again."

"My friend, I prefer to think that it is not me who wins, but you who loses."

Cheeky sunofva… "Now thaz just not right. You can't pin that on me! I mean, you're the super-genius who keeps slotting four discs into a row. You expect me to compete with that mad skill?"

"Yes, Michelangelo. As does your father. Has he not been training you intensely in this ancient sport from the 1970s? I must pale in comparison to Master Splinter. If you triumph over me, then surely you are a step closer to defeating your Sensei."

"Defeat Sensei? Defeat. Senseeeeiii. That sounds sooo niiiice. It rolls off the tongue almost as easily as "pizza gyoza". OK, I'm feeling' lucky. Empty the grid, Big Guy, and let's see if I can put four circles together."

It only took me an hour to win! Leatherhead had to hint just a coupla times before I got the hang of seeing the pieces in a different way. I don't know how Don manages to learn so much, so fast, so all-the-time without a perma-migraine. If I had a crayon (note: add to April's shopping list) I'd draw a super-squiggly spaghetti line and that would be my brain after beating Leatherhead at this game. Changing perspective is super hard, but I guess it's like learning to skateboard: once you get it, it's hard to not do it right.

"Another brownie, Michelangelo?"

"Naw, thanks dude. The sugar high would send me over the edge. I'm fried. Gotta head back to the Lair anyway: gots training tomorrow and I need to be fresssshh."

"Very well, my friend. As always, I thank you for coming to visit me. I appreciate that I am still not – welcome in your home.

I started to protest but Leatherhead raised one of his huge mitts to stop me:

"It is for the best. I must be well for myself before I can be well for others. You seek your Father's acceptance, and I confess that – while I am in no way deserved of it – I do, too. He loves his family deeply, and is bold and sage. He leans into, not away from, change and, despite suffering great heartache and trauma, seems content. I would be fortunate if some day he was to share with me how he has overcome so many of his demons."

"Erm, you lost me at "for the best". But it's no thang. Friends go the distance for each other. And friends don't let friends leave without brownies…"

"Of course, Michelangelo."

The Croc packed me a tupperware (reuse, reduce, man), which I took, and then put down to give him a hug. I don't think he touches anything that's not dead except for me – and sewer fish, just before he kills them and then they're dead, too. He needs a stuffy – I keep forgetting about that (note: add to April's shopping list). And maybe a shade plant. If he can keep it alive then I'll consider getting April to buy him a goldfish. I'll still give the better hugs, though.

I picked up my snack and my game, stepped down onto the dead line of rail track, and turned back to face my friend.

"Stay loose, Leatherhead."

"I do not know what that means, Michelangelo. I hope to see you again soon."

"Fo sho', bro. You're not alone, you know; even when you are, you're not."

"I will try to remember that. Having a stuffy would also help."

"Totally! Yes! My bad! I'll make that happen, promise."

"Thank you, Michelangelo."

"See ya later, Alligator."

"In a while, Crocodile."

I like that, even while I walk away from L-head's pad, I can hear his music drifting through the air for a minute or so before the emptiness of the sewers seeps in. It reminds me that even when we're not hanging out, I can still hear him in my head, rumbling stuff that sounds smart and patient and gentle; stuff that makes me feel good about who I am, especially when my bros don't seem to think so.

Nobody's perfect. Not everybody accepts that. I'm pretty lucky to have a friend who does, and who lets me do the same – while sharing his brownies.