The hot water beat down against his skin. He leaned into the stream, bowing his head under the welcome assault.

He breathed. The air was hot, damp, thick, it sat heavily in his lungs. The water fell on his nape, trickling, streaming down his rounded shoulders,

tracing the contours of his weathered carapace. The extreme liquid heat melting away kinks, knots of muscle that had developed nights before,

slowly clenching as time passed until they felt tight, confining, restrictive. He felt claustrophobic in his own body. His muscles, his skin, seemed to

squeeze, clench, wrench. His mighty shoulders rolled, his neck twisting this way and that. A low growl rumbled in the back of his throat.

Two great olive-toned hands braced against the tiled wall. The soap sat in the third highest shelf, covered in suds, used and carelessly returned to

it's proper wire home. Droplets of water jumped from his arm, showering the lathered bar, rinsing it clean, pushing the suds to the floor of the tub

where they swam and twirled between huge toes before being flushed down the drain. After long moments under the seductive heat, Raphael reached

forward and turned off the shower. He stood in the stall, feeling the last drops of moisture ran down his body, letting his skin track each drop's path;

down the side of his neck, pooling slightly in the ridge of his clavical before overflowing, continuing down the front of his plastron, tracing each individual

plate of armor, seeking lower still. He felt the fingers of water tickle his inner thigh, felt them tease the muscle and sensitive skin, seeking lower still, finding

that hidden reccess of his knee, grazing the contours of his sculpted calf. The air hung, almost visible, heavy with moisture. He rolled his shoulder once

again, raised his head. He whipped the curtain aside, and was assaulted by cool air, it whispered over his body, stealing the momentary, coverted warmth.

He let it.

The bathmat dampened underfoot. He groped for the towel hook, grasping the first piece of fabric his fingers touched. Roughly, hastily, he dried himself.

The door made no sound as he exited the room. He stood, for a moment, outside the bathroom, in the hallway. Listening. Learning. His elder, he knew, had

abandoned training of the body for that of the mind long hours ago. He had been the last brother to stay with Raphael in the dojo after the official end of their

extensive morning routine. The door at the end of the hall stood closed. The girl was still with Sensei. And yet, Raphael could still sense her in his brother's

room. He could feel her imprint, feel the air her body had displaced. He could still smell her. He licked his lips, he chewed on the bottom. The door to his immediate

left was ajar, the room dark. The same with the door to his right, at the head of the stairs. He looked back to the end of the hall, the closed door. He huffed,

pushing the air from his nose.

His youngest brother was perched on the couch, his body taut, alert, feet flat on the floor. His entire focus, his entire skill devoted to the image he controlled

projected on the massive television screen.

"Where's Donnie?"

Michelangelo pulled his tingue back into his mouth, remoistening it before he replied.

"Scavenging."

"Hmmm." Raphael stood at the precipice of the living room. He glanced over his shoulder, at the tempting glow beyond the kitchen. The tell-tale glow of candles.

"They still in there, huh?"

"Yep." Michelangelo's eyes remained transfixed on the screen, his impatient fingers punching at the buttons in his palms.

"I'm suprised Donnie left, with her finally up and all."

"Heh. Yeah. He must have really been jonesin'. He's been in everyday since we brought her here, what was that, like, four days?"

"Hm." A sound of agreement.

"Said he wouldn't be long. He knew exactly what he wanted and where it would be."

"Yeah, sure. Till he sees something shiny."

"Heh heh. Yep. He can't be gone too long, though. I mean, he better not be gone long after Splinters done with her."

"Psh. What, Donnies a fucking GP now? Why didn't anyone tell me?"

"Yeah, well, he knows more than we do about that kinda stuff."

" Peh. You've bandaged me up before."

"Ok, yeah, well, thats different. You're Raph. I think we can pretty much slap duct tape on you and you'll be fine -"

A snort.

"- but she's, different, you know? She's, " a shrug. "- delicate."

Raphael stepped forward into the room. He slouched down in the closest chair, eyes absentmindedly resting on the television screen.

"Ya getting soft for her, Mikey?"

Michelangelo could hear the smirk in the words. He could feel his brother's piercing stare. He shrugged his shoulders. A small grin crawled over his face.

"She's pretty. You've seen her, Raph."

"Yeah, I've seen her." He let his legs fall out in front of the chair. " And I can god-damned smell her all over the fucking place, too."

A wicked glint shone in Michelangelo's eyes. It corrupted his smile.

"Feeling a little ansty there, bro?"

"Shaddup."

"So, if you're disappearing frequently for about ten minutes at a time, we'll know why that is. " He could hear his brother's quiet snicker under the noise of his game.

"Especially with The Season coming."

"I don't know. Could be nice to have some company down here for The Season." He glanced quickly over his shoulder to the beckoning candlelight. "Could make things a

little more comfortable."

"Raph!"

"I'm just saying, is all! Geez... And I know you're thinking the same thing." He rested his hands behind his head. A ghost of a smirk still softened the hard lines of his face.

"Yeah, " Michelangelo sighed, glancing past his brother, past the kitchen. "That'll be the day, huh?" His eyes snapped to his brother's face. "Two player?"

"Sure." Raphael stood, moved to his brother's side. He sat on the couch and leaned forward, scrambling with cords beneath the coffee table. He returned, plastic controller

in his grasp. The two brothers sat on the couch, eyes only for the giant screen before them, fingers moving quickly over small plastic buttons, seemingly of their own

accord. Michelangelo perched on the edge of the seat, swaying in movement with his character on screen. Raphael slouched against the back of the sofa, legs splayed

carelessly before him, hands cradled in his lap.

The sounds of the game filled the lair.

"Leo's in his room."

Michelangelo 's eyes drifted towards the staircase. His fingers paused briefly.

"Yeah, " His attention returned. "But he put in extra after the sesh this morning, huh?"

"Yeah. Just over an hour."

"Yeah, so, I mean. Thats something."

"It ain't alot." The words were almost lost under the series of beeps and explosions.

The screen paused. The noises silenced.

Raphael turned his head to find his brother turned towards him. They looked at one another for a moment before Michelangelo glanced down and blinked at his hands. Then;

"It's something. It's more than before. It's more than we've had."

Raphael's brow furrowed slightly. He dipped his head. "It's something. It ain't alot." He looked to the stairs. "It aint enough."

"It's a start. And Donnies told him not to strain anything. And he's been coming down alot more. He's been, you know, - out- more."

Raphael's head swung back toward the television. He leaned back against the cushions. His jaw clenched.

"Yeah."

Michelangelo blinked at his hands around the ergonomically designed controller. Raphael stared at the frozen screen.

"It's never gonna - "

"I'm gonna demolish ya."

Michelangelo stared at his brother.

"I'm serious. I will destroy you." The movement on the screen resumed.

"Oh, pish-aw! " Michelangeo turned back to the set. " Just sit back and try not to hurt yourself, old-timer!"