DISCLAIMER: I don't usually do this (I feel like it's obvious and unnecessary), but due to the nature of this chapter I suddenly feel compelled to. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, including Raphael, Michelangelo, Leonardo, Donatello, April O'Neil, and Casey Jones are registered trademarks of Mirage Studios. This fanfiction is based on characters from and draws partially from comic books created by Peter A. Laird and Kevin B. Eastman. In short, I don't own the TMNT. I'm just having fun.
Michelangelo squealed with all the excitement of a prepubescent girl. "Dude! My old comic books! These things are like, totally worth money now!" He dragged the ratty shoebox out from under his bed, blew the dust off the top, and plopped himself down on the floor to read them.
"Which ones?" yelled a voice from the bedroom next to him. It sounded a bit like Donatello. Mike flipped the first one open.
"The ones about us!"
That caught Don's attention. There was a brief pause, a loud shuffle, and in less than a heartbeat he was in the room.
"Oh man, I didn't know still had those!" Donatello exclaimed, almost as excited as Michelangelo was. "Throw me one, man!"
Raphael was walking past the bedroom with a bag full of garbage when he saw them, sitting on the floor with their backs against the bed. He snorted in disapproval.
"What are you two doing?" he asked, dropping the bag and leaning against the doorway. Michelangelo jabbed his finger at the comic spread across his lap.
"Raph, 'member these? The comics those guys put out about us? It was Casey's way of helping keep us under cover. You do remember, don't you, sour puss?"
The scowl that had previously crossed Raphael's face disappeared at the mention of the comic books. It was quickly replaced by an honest, amused smile. He left his garbage in the doorway and knelt down beside his brothers.
"Hah, oh yeah. How clever was that, going up to his college buddy and telling him about us? After all, wasn't like he was gonna believe him or nothin'. You can just hear it now - 'Hey Pete, oh man, I just had this wacky dream! It was about ninjas, dude, but get this - they were turtles! Ninja fucking turtles, how ridiculous is that?' Next thing you know we're on Saturday morning television."
Michelangelo giggled, now giddy as a school girl. "Remember how good the pizza always looked in that cartoon? All gooey and dripping and delicious? The pizza's good around here, but nothing like that."
"It's still on, man," Raphael said, rummaging through the shoebox for a comic to catch his eye. "It's all futuristic or some shit. I saw it on accident when I was flipping through the channels at Audrey's."
"Yeah right, accident," Donatello teased. "You were probably looking for it. You probably saw that ad on TV for the movie and got nostalgic. Anyway, that movie made you look good."
Raphael shoved him roughly, toppling his laughing body to the floor. "Shut the hell up. I'd kick ass as the Nightwatcher and you know it. What awesome friggin' weapons. Donnie, could you rig a couple of those for me?"
"Ouch, geez, no," his brother responded, rubbing sorely at the arm where he was shoved. "For one thing, hitting me doesn't make me want to make you an ancient Japanese weapon. For another, they're called manriki, and they don't come in pairs; it's one chain with a metal piece at each end. Don't you remember anything from our training in Japanese culture?"
"Pfft, that's Leo's department. You two are the brains of the outfit. I'm just here to kick ass."
"That's right Don, it says it right here," Michelangelo piped in, pointing at the second page of his comic. It was a well-sketched image of two of the turtles sitting by while Splinter watched television. One held a book with indecipherable letters along the spine, looking agitated, while the other was taking a small screwdriver to a piece of circuit board. Michelangelo pointed to the two turtles far to the right who were in the midst of a vicious battle. "See? This sums Raph up in a nutshell." He handed the book to his brother, who proceeded to read from the speech bubble.
" 'When Raphael gets this way, you just have to wait 'til he wears himself out'," Donatello read. This earned him a second bruise, just below the first one. He yelped in pain and squirmed up to the top of the bed, where he felt he was safer.
"Goddammit Raphael, I'm just reading!" he cried. "And anyway, look what it says on the next page - 'and Michelangelo's almost as bad'. Why don't you punch him for a change!" Donatello drew his legs up and nursed his wounds by continuing to rub them. A fire ignited in Raphael's face as he looked to his youngest brother with a fierce grin across his face.
"Great idea."
Michelangelo's eyes grew wide. He reached up and grabbed a pillow off the bed. "Hey, no, wait now - you're bigger than I am - so not fair - and anyway, what about the issue where you tell me you like me the best?!"
Raphael crawled over to Michelangelo, who was gripping the pillow in front of him like a shield. "That, little bro, was a comic book based on an imaginary group of mutated turtle ninjas. I'm the fucking Nightwatcher." On all fours now, he looked like a cat ready to pounce on its prey. He had a devilish grin across his face and a hand resting on one of his sais. Michelangelo swallowed hard.
"But it's two in the afternoon!" he shrieked, his voice as shrill as if he were still a teenager. The pitch made Raphael shudder openly, and he attacked his brother with his bare hands. Luckily the pillow caught the edge of his weapons, which he was quick to throw to the side.
"Some vigilante you are, giving up your sais like that," Donatello commented from the sidelines. "What if your attacker took them? You'd be, how do you say it? Oh yeah - up shit's creek without a paddle."
The truth was, Raphael dismissed his weapons because he didn't want to accidentally hurt his brother. Though Michelangelo was certainly not his favorite brother - could he really pick one? - he was hesitant to draw blood from him in play. If anything, he had a particular bond with Donatello, and he'd wasted no time in branding him twice. Then again, there was something in the way that Mike innocently and probably unknowingly tempered his outbursts that presented a special bond as well.
Raphael chose not to choose favorites. He abandoned the hold that he'd had Michelangelo in and lept up on the bed. "You mean these weapons?" he growled, picking up a sai and twirling it impressively between his fingers. Almost instantly he had Donatello pinned, the very edge of his knives all but piercing the mattress on either side of Don's head. The dominated brother flattened his hands, slid them between the prongs, and swiftly pushed Raphael off of him. Caught off guard, Raphael tumbled off the bed head-first, landing on Michelangelo's hard shell and sending his sais flying. The loud clanging noise in the hall betrayed their whereabouts.
Now that Raphael was disarmed, Michelangelo saw the opportunity to tackle him. The two wrestled on the floor for some time before Raphael came up as the victor. In the interim, Donatello had grabbed his comic book and continued to read amid the noise and clatter.
By the end of the scuffle, both Raphael and Michelangelo were covered in cuts, bruises, and sweat. Mike used the respite to lay against the floor, attempting to regain his breath. The stone floor, covered by carpet only where the bed was, suddenly felt nice and cool against his cheek. Raphael was perched against the bed, rubbing a muscle that felt like it had twisted.
"Damn, Mikey," he commented in admiration, "you've gotten good. That hurt!"
"Thanks. I learn from the best, bro," Michelangelo replied breathlessly. He touched the bit of skin just beneath his eye where he suspected he'd be getting a black eye soon. It was extraordinarily tender. Yep. That was gonna be a bitch in the morning.
"Hey you guys," Donatello interrupted, completely oblivious to his sparring brothers, "check out how hardcore Leo looks on this page!" He put the comic in front of them to show them, but neither seemed interested in looking.
"Ooh, Leonardo, that reminds me - has he been in Splinter's study this whole time?" Michelangelo asked, suddenly concerned. He sprang up and grimaced, realizing he was still sore. "When I got here, Raph said he'd been in there all night."
"Yeah," Raphael replied, running his tongue along his teeth. They all seemed to be intact. "I'm pretty sure he spent the night there. I got here early this morning and peeked in to see him sleeping away in there. I think there's something wrong with him - he's having a harder time with this than any of us. We should go talk to him." He struggled to stand up, but Michelangelo held him back.
"I agree, but maybe you should stay here. Remember how you used to pick on him for being close to father? He may not take what you have to say very well."
Raphael gave a watery sigh of regret. "I know. I was just jealous. It's a sibling thing, you know, brothers are supposed to - "
" - fight over perceived affection? I don't think so," Donatello piped in. "I think you better let Mike take this one. We'll give them a few minutes, then go down and talk like a family. Besides, in his current state, he might be overwhelmed by all of us." Raphael implied his acceptance of this by getting up and sprawling back down across the bed. Don gave Mike a silent nod of encouragement, and the young turtle pattered softly out of the room.
"That's fine," Raphael murmured, closing his eyes and folding his hands across his chest. "Little guy gave me a run for the money just now, and I could use the recovery time."
"Not so little anymore, is he?" Donatello mused. He smiled as he looked down as his older brother. Raph was calm now, and when he was calm, he was excellent company. Sometimes he would say things that defied his 23 years, confusing him with a much older and wiser being.
Raphael grunted, rotating his shoulder in half-circles. "Still a little shit."
And sometimes not. Donatello laughed openly, leaning over to help Raphael out of his mask and arm and knee pads. It was a little difficult to recover from injuries with them, as they'd all learned by experience, and Raphael didn't utter a word of protest.