AN: Thanks for the feedback, and to the optimists who favorited that story! It was a pleasant surprise.

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Raphael swallowed his hot coffee in record time, hoping that the dark beverage would help him look more awake and half-wondering if his brother Donatello was doing the same in his current lab. Raphael had no idea where it was – apparently, even being from the police wasn't enough to be entrusted with that knowledge.

At least his brother was having the time of his life, being surrounded by geniuses like him.

Raphael checked his watch and put his cup down. It was time to go if he didn't want to be late for his dinner with Mike. His brother had insisted to invite him out in one of the most select restaurants in town.

"Raphael? May I have a word with you?"

The turtle sighed. Of course his boss would want to talk to him at the precise moment he wanted to leave.

"Sure, Detective Kurtzman," he replied nonetheless, his tone just short of outright showing his displeasure.

The middle-aged man smiled, not bothered in the slightest. He was used to the grumpy manners of one of his best officers.

"It won't take long, I promise."

Raphael shrugged and followed Kurtzman to his office. He spoke as soon as the door closed behind them.

"What's so urgent? I promised Mike that I would have dinner with him, and I want to be ahead of time to avoid the paparazzi who seem to follow him everywhere these days."

Kurtzman nodded.

"Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that."

Raphael lifted an eye ridge. It still felt strange not to feel his mask move with it, but policemen – or policeturtles – didn't wear masks.

"About my dinner? Interested in the menu? I wouldn't have thought so, considering the stuff you put in your sandwiches."

"No, not about the menu. More about the paparazzi you mentioned. You know how delicate your current mission is, right? How secret and sensitive. We don't want to attract unwelcomed attention."

Raphael narrowed his eyes.

"Not my fault if Mike loves being in the spotlight so much. Are you suggesting I should stop seeing him? Because I'm not going to."

Kurtzman sighed.

"I'm merely saying that you should avoid the spotlight. I trust you to find the right way to achieve that goal."

Raphael nodded stiffly.

"Don't worry. I've got tons of experience in that department."

As his boss didn't answer, Raphael gave him a nod and left, his footsteps silent. Kurtzman kept staring at the door which hadn't creaked, even though it was old and wooden and never failed to remind him that it needed oiling, and wondered not for the first time how much of the information he had gathered about his officer's past was true.

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"Do you like it? It's the best in town."

Raphael rolled his eyes at Michelangelo and took another mouthful of his plate. To his relief, the paparazzi had been pushed back outside, and if he focused, he could ignore the presence of the security personal.

It was almost as if he was enjoying a nice one-to-one dinner with his brother.

"How come a major restaurant does the best pizzas in town?" He answered indirectly.

Michelangelo beamed, as though he was expecting that question.

"Because I've hired the chef for that exact purpose, that's how!"

Raphael opened his filled-with-half-chewed-pizza mouth – a disgusting sight that Mike didn't seem to mind – as he realized the implications of that sentence.

"You own that restaurant?"

"I bought it last month, yes."

"You own a restaurant."

The concept was hard to process, and Raphael was trying desperately not to choke on his food.

"Bro, I'm filthy rich. I need to invest my money somewhere, right?"

Raphael nodded dumbly. As a global star, it made sense that his brother would make a great deal of money, but it was the first time that the reality of that statement hit him.

"You're a true businessturtle now, I see," he muttered.

Michelangelo shrugged, suddenly a bit uneasy. Before, he would have teased his brother about being jealous, and rubbed his success in his face – but somehow, it felt inappropriate now.

"It's mostly my manager who deals with the investments, but I've got a few pet projects of my own. It comes with the territory, I guess."

"Hmm."

"Well, a restaurant is useful, right? There is nothing better than food to brighten someone's day – apart from me, of course," Mikey joked.

Something in his tone, something almost pleading, snapped Raphael out of his trance.

"Nothing better than a pizza restaurant for your real estate beginnings, no doubt," he said. "At least we know you've got what it takes to taste the food, right?"

A brief expression of relief passed over Michelangelo's features, rewarding Raphael's effort.

"You got that right."

Raphael smiled wryly and went back to eating his delicious food.

"Now that we're talking about money…" Michelangelo began hesitantly. "You know that if you need anything…"

This time, Raphael didn't manage not to choke on his food.

"Mike, I don't need your money," he protested.

It sounded harsher than he had intended, and Michelangelo looked immediately sheepish.

"I know, I was just… It was just in case."

"Yeah. Sure. Thanks."

The two of them fell silent, an awkward silence Michelangelo quickly broke.

"So. Uh… What are you up to these days?"

Raphael considered the question. He trusted his brother, no doubt, but they weren't exactly alone right now, no matter how much he would have liked it. Besides, he didn't want to cast a shadow over Michelangelo's bright world with the account of the new threats the police was facing.

There had been a time when they would have faced any threats together, as a team.

That time was over.

For the millionth time, Raphael wondered why Leonardo hadn't tried harder to keep them together when it had become clear that mutants were now welcome at the surface of the Earth. Granted, both Don and Mike had been adamant that it was an opportunity to seize – the possibility to fulfill their dreams, at last, even if it meant they would have less or no time for ninjitsu - but they would have accepted Leo's decision, whatever it would have been.

We have to flow with change, their leader had said. And just like that, their paths had drifted away.

"The usual," Raphael answered. "Boring stuff."

"Come on, bro. I know you're bad at story-telling, but even you can do better than that," Michelangelo protested.

Raphael's phone beeped, sparing him an answer. It was a text from his favorite informer.

I found another one. You better hurry.

Raphael felt the adrenaline rush in his veins, the promise of a fight as intoxicating as ever for him. This was what he lived for.

"Sorry, Mike, I have to go. It's an emergency."

"Oh. No problem, bro." Michelangelo's cheerful tone didn't entirely mask his disappointment. "Do you need a taxi?"

"Nah, don't worry. See you later, and thanks for the pizza!"

With a wave of his hand, Raphael hurried towards the exit.

Time to go back to business.

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Left alone, Michelangelo frowned. He took Raphael's half-eaten pizza – it would have been a shame to let it go to waste – and finished it, wondering what his brother was hiding from him.

His phone beeped with his notification ringtone. A new article about him had been published. What was it this time? A new ode to his glory? Another enthusiastic tale of a fan who had managed to brush past his shell?

His eyes widened as he read the headline.

'Renowned showman tries to help destitute brother.'

Michelangelo found himself praying that Raphael didn't read the gutter press. He had a hunch that his brother wasn't going to appreciate that particular article.