Part 2

Patchy images filled his dreams. The smoke of Splinter's incense, the televisions chattering in the distance, blood trickling down his face-Leonardo was glad when he woke up to the sound of crickets and the stairs creaking. One of his brothers must have just visited him and left again. He could have said something and called them back, but lay silent. He needed time to think.

So many jumbled thoughts turned over in his head. He was hurt, injured somehow. His brothers all knew his loved them more than as brothers. According to Donatello, they returned those feelings.

Maybe. He couldn't take the chance that the kiss hadn't been a dream. He would wait. If they really were that open about it now, then they would demonstrate it. Otherwise he would keep it hidden as he had for the last couple of years now.

With that decided, he felt a little more centered, enough to handle the next problem-why was he hurt? They often came to the farm to recuperate, so that wasn't unusual, but this was the first time they were there that he didn't know why.

Which led him to Donatello's unwillingness to answer his questions. It wasn't like them to keep secrets. They would never keep secrets from each other, not about something this important. What had happened to make him forget? Head injury? He doubted it. Something that physically traumatic would have left a severe concussion, and that would probably have killed him. So it had to be emotional. Perhaps someone had died.

Donatello had said Splinter was home. One of his friends, maybe. Were Casey and April hurt? Usagi? He didn't think any of that was right.

The bigger question was why Donatello couldn't tell him. That wasn't something his genius brother couldn't guess at. He seemed to know for certain that he couldn't tell Leonardo. Which meant that they'd probably told him and...he'd promptly forgotten again.

Leonardo sighed and watched the moonlight play on the wall, flickering around the shadow of tree branches. Not good. There was something he knew and wasn't letting himself know. He'd seen that in humans on the rare times when he and his brothers were accidentally spotted. People would lapse into hysterics and then convince themselves they hadn't seen four mutated turtles coming out of the darkness.

Although he understood why they did it, that kind of self-induced amnesia had made them look weak and he couldn't stand that kind of weakness. It grated on him to know that he'd given into that weakness himself.

What the hell had happened?

His first clue would be his injuries. He needed to see them clearly, especially the bandages over his eye and face. He needed a mirror.

He glanced to his left. Across the pillow, across an interminably long floor and through the distant doorway lay the bathroom. It looked so far. As tired as he was, he thought he'd sink heavily into the bed. But the curiosity ate at him until he took a deep breath, gathered his strength, and moved.

It turned out easier than he thought it would be. Like breaking wood or bricks, he simply needed to focus himself. Steady breathing kept him from falling dizzily again, and he shifted on the bed enough to slide off and stand. It was shaky going-he had to put his hand on the wall to center himself again, but with a little concentration, he found that he wasn't as tired or weak as he thought he was.

He paused. Had that been another form of his convenient memory loss? He had convinced himself he was weak so that he couldn't reach the mirror.

This was going to be trickier than he thought. This was a fight, but not against a tangible enemy like Saki. No, he was fighting his own fear.

Disgusted at his own mental deception, he forced himself to face the mirror. It was visible through the doorway, and he made himself look at the bandages, white without any visible blood, and the way his right arm settled against his side. His arm must've taken the most damage.

He couldn't keep leaning on the wall. The nightstand was in the way. Taking a breath, he lifted his hand and waited to see if he would fall. The room felt a little wobbly and he didn't dare look at the floor, afraid it would ripple underneath him. But despite a little disorientation, he covered the space between him and the door in a couple of steps and quickly grabbed the door frame.

His arm and head started to throb, and his legs ached with the sudden use, but as tired as he was, he felt strength coming back as he moved. He could stand in front of the mirror without feeling like he was going to tip one way or the other, and with one hand on the sink just as a precaution, he fully studied himself in the glass.

Faint bruising peeked out from under the bandage over his eye. Almost healed, it was a mild darkening under the white bandage, and with his good hand he gently pulled the gauze back. From previous experience with battle wounds, he expected dried blood and torn skin. Instead he found the wound clean and knitted back together, although the three long marks were clear against his skin.

He was lucky he hadn't lost his eye. Three strong cuts... He frowned. He'd seen cuts like that before, but Saki was dead. Only his razor gauntlets made marks like that, and Donatello wouldnt' have resisted telling him that Saki was back. Besides, Leonardo had taken his head off the last time and they'd disposed of the body themselves. No, Saki wasn't back.

So what was it?

He examined the marks again. There weren't even stitches or marks showing they'd been stitched. A quick slice, then, and one he'd almost dodged.

What of his arm? He pulled the bandages as far as he dared and found much heavier scoring. If he'd dodged the blow to his face, then he'd used his arm as a shield, taking the hit deliberately. He hoped he'd used the sacrifice to make a fatal, battle-ending strike. The marks here were deeper and longer, disappearing under the gauze, and he found the stitches he'd expected. The marks started at his shoulder and crisscrossed, and though he couldn't see them, he felt the scars pulling slightly whenever he moved.

Heated fighting, no doubt. Probably a quick fight, but quick didn't make them any easier. That had been a frenzied attack, maybe even a surprise attack. He hadn't defended well if he'd had to let himself take that kind of a hit.

The memory would come to him. He wouldn't stop trying to remember and eventually his mental guards would crumble. Until then, he'd keep it in the back of his head. There were other things to think about.

The bathroom was old though clean, and the wooden floor creaked if he wasn't trying to stay silent. Already he heard someone coming up the steps, but not in a panicked rush. If he'd fallen, they would've heard, so there was no need to race upstairs and save him. He took the moment to pick up the worn plastic cup on the sink, fumbling a little with one hand, and fill it with water, taking a long drink.

"Sorry," Raphael murmured as he looked in from the doorway, leaning against the frame. "Should've kept a glass on the nightstand."

Leonardo put the cup down with a sigh. "Nah. Made me get up. I needed to."

"You're looking better," Raphael said, giving him a once over. "Wide awake at least."

"How did I look before?" Leonardo asked casually.

Shaking his head with a rueful grin, Raphael chuckled. "Nope, you'll have to try better than that. None of us'll tell you anything. You gotta remember for yourself."

Leonardo looked up at him. Raphael had an annoying five and a half inches on him now, and his growth spurt showed no signs of stopping. Annoying and reassuring. In a fight, it was good to have a tank on their side, and after a fight, it was good to have someone big enough to lean on or even one of them out. Not that he'd told him yet. He and Raphael were slowly growing less antagonistic, more open with each other, but this uneasy detente made speaking awkward sometimes. They were so used to snapping at each other and posturing, trying to come out on top, that everything they said seemed to call back old arguments. They often kept to short sentences, finding them easier to navigate without blowing up at each other.

"Was..." He paused. "Was it really bad?"

Raphael hesitated before answering. "Yeah. Yeah, it was."

That was all he would reveal, clearly refusing to continue. As he met Leonardo's eyes, he reached out his hand and cupped his face, running his thumb lightly under his big brothers' cheek. Both of them froze-they'd been closer before, nestled for warmth and after unbearable injuries made easier by being in contact. But this was different.

"Don said he told ya," Raphael said softly. "But maybe you thought you were dreaming."

"I still think I am," Leonardo said. He turned slightly but tilted his head at the same time, loathe to lose Raphael's touch. "How did you find out? I thought..."

"You thought you kept it secret?" Raphael said, more of a statement than a question. "You did. None of us guessed. We all kept it pretty well hidden, though me and Mikey were starting to get an idea with each other. But you...jesus, with the way you acted, I would of sworn you trained all those thoughts outta you."

"I tried," Leonardo said. He half shrugged. It seemed so pointless now. "I thought you'd hate me."

"Never hate you," Raphael said. He swallowed and his voice turned urgent. "No matter what. You remember that, okay? None of us'll ever hate you. We love you and we need you. You gotta stay here, okay? You gotta try-"

Raphael's voice thickened until he couldn't talk, and on impulse he pushed forward and kissed Leonardo. Much different than Donatello's, this kiss bruised and even hurt at first as their mouths crushed, and then the pressure let up as it went on and Raphael was reassured Leonardo wasn't going anywhere.

Relief, joy-he didn't have to hide anymore. He could give in. Leonardo felt a rush of feeling, like the world had slipped off of his shell and he could breathe again. He didn't even mind, as Raphael embraced him, that his brother had to lean down to meet him, and that Raphael held a touch too hard and pressed in on his arm.

But behind the relief and growing happiness was a hard knot of fear. Raphael had focused too much on fear and let a clue slip.

Whatever Leonardo forced himself to forget, it was enough to make him think they would hate him. Even if Raphael assured him otherwise, his own weak heart couldn't believe it. He didn't want to hurt his siblings. Maybe it would be better if he did forget and never remembered.

Despair settled in his stomach. He'd already tried not to remember, he was sure of it, and he'd failed.

"How many times?" he whispered as they broke apart.

Raphael didn't have to ask. He didn't move away, holding Leonardo and staring at the wall behind him.

"Twice," he said. "This is the third time."

"And you told me the first time," Leonardo guessed.

"Yeah," Raphael said. "You overheard us talking about it the second time."

"How'd I-"

"No," Raphael said, pushing him back at arm's length and shaking his head. "That's it. You remember it when you can. We ain't pushing. It's hardest on you. We'll wait."

Leonardo closed his eyes in frustration. Raphael's voice showed the strain. His brother was putting on a brave front, but his rocky emotions were obvious. This trip to the farm wasn't just taking care of a wounded sibling this time. They'd done that for him, for each other, before. No, something new and awful loomed over the house, unspoken, and they were struggling to keep it at bay. They needed him.

Resolve fired within him. He had no choice. To help his siblings, he had to remember what had happened, what he'd done. And then he had to survive the memory.

TBC...