A/N I do not own TMNT, but am forever grateful for their existence!

Love or Blood

Chapter 2: Reflections

As April watched him leave feeling her chest constricting at his absence, she swore she would never forget their moment in the vegetable bed. Every touch, smell, and sight had to be catalogued and securely sealed into her memory.

April rarely horded her memories in such a manner. Her mind was fickle. Over the brief span of her life she had millions of moments etched into her subconscious. Flashes of events all collected in a vast cobweb of neurons. So many brief and insignificant. Many without context. Fluid and lucid. All were drops in an ever-expanding universe. Every once and a while those sparks would connect. Flames of recollection, married by origin and consequence, could evolve into something more. Some lasted but a few minutes. Some were ancient by comparison. Some vague. Some brimmed with detail. Such was her memory of the afternoon of Tuesday, October 23rd.

April could recall with startling precision the moment Jeremey Henison asked to use the restroom. She knew a fly buzzed by the clock at 2:46 the instant Jeremey raised his left hand, pinkie finger dangling lazily, to catch Mrs. Thompson's attention. It was an obsessively detail-ridden recollection that included every visible stimulus right from the appearance and positioning of every member of her class to the fraying posters hanging haphazardly on the cream classroom walls. It was diamond of a memory that had absolutely no practical application in her life whatsoever. A five-year-old series of neurons, which would never yield her any advantage or even disadvantage to its collection. It was a waste of grey matter, but still April remembered.

Too bad she couldn't recall if she ate breakfast on most mornings.

April O'Neil was not blessed with an eidetic memory. She had long ago accepted the capricious nature of her mind - begrudgingly resigned that she was no savant – for it was a beast that could not be tamed. Of course she had tried, but her mind was like water. Sometimes she could cusp just enough for a taste, but usually the majority would easily slip through her fingers. Yet sometimes – as in once every ten years – her memory cooperated.

The red-head could not pinpoint the exact moment when her feelings for Donatello and Casey began to shift. Her affections for Casey had fled as fast as they came. Yes, he did appeal to her physically, but there was something strange yet attractive about his character. She was undeniably drawn to the hockey fanatic and found herself seeking his company. Over time, Casey Jones became the both the confidante and friend April desperately needed. He helped share the burden of their friends' existence, and for that April was eternally grateful. However, it quickly became apparent that April could never see herself in a committed relationship with the vigilante; at least not until he matured, which was not about to happen anytime soon. April's repertoire with Donatello was less simple.

It had been nauseatingly obvious from the beginning how strongly Donatello felt for April. For a long time, his lack of tact had strongly deterred her from reciprocating his affections. Gradually he became accustomed to her feminine presence and as his advances finally developed some relative subtlety, she began to see the turtle in a new light.

April had never been the object of anyone's attraction before she met Donatello. High school's curriculum alone took a toll on her self-esteem. With the addition of her peers automatically avoiding her due to her very contagious oddball miasma – or some other equally ridiculous notion – April's confidence had been greatly compromised. April O'Neil was not one to outwardly cow to her teenage oppressors, but sometimes in the dead of night she would briefly envision herself as one of the "chosen ones." It was a fleeting dream consisting of her basking in the admiration of her peers much like The Plastics of "Mean Girls" (a film she would blatantly deny watching even though the worn DVD under her mattress proved otherwise). In that world she was not plagued by Irma's dry commentary, she wasn't "voluntold" to tutor, and she did not have a care in the world. It was one of the few dark desires that April normally hid deep within her heart. These fantasies were not only embarrassing, but were not destined for her. So when such imaginings threatened her, April would assertively replace them with better thoughts. However, even if they breathed for only those few tiny moments they still existed, and it was that starved part of her that readily greeted Donatello's advances.

April had tried to muster enough courage to simply inform the purple-clad turtle she had no interest in him romantically. Yet, for the thousand times she rehearsed said scenario in her mind, April had not once managed to perform. After her shameful cowardice had thoroughly asserted its dominance, the red-head resigned herself to the need of a new tactical approach. She decided to further explore her relationship with Donatello and hoped that as they grew closer she would come to return his feelings. This particular delusion had good intentions.

Too bad these are what pave the road to hell.

Consequently after months of feeling nothing but lukewarm nonchalance towards the turtle, hell was exactly where April found herself. Without any premeditation, she had managed to ignite a fire in both the hearts of Donatello and Casey Jones. April had become the Archie to their Betty and Veronica – a sick love triangle in which no one wins – and she was all too aware it was the personal Tartarus she deserved.

Her feelings for the warring lovers only further diminished when they degraded her from human to object status. April found herself full of shame and guilt. Her reluctance to halt the boys' advances, whether from her dark doppelganger or concern over wounding their pride, had only enabled them. Then the entire stereotypical situation rocketed from unbelievingly dramatic – April silently swore a certain DVD would be snapped at first opportunity – to horribly melodramatic when April realized she had fallen for not only Casey's best friend but Donatello's brother. Irony was a bitch.

If she had been the normal girl she once dreamed of being in the dark of the night, she would have dealt with her love-related chaos weeks ago, and moved onto the next teen drama. Mercifully, April O'Neil led no ordinary life and could appreciate the weakest of silver linings. Alien invasions and vengeance-driven lunatics did tend to rearrange one's priorities and so unknowingly, both the Kraang and The Shredder had given April a gift: the gift of procrastination. Yet even with such forces supporting her avoidance of this particular emotional turmoil, April could not hide forever. Once the party arrived at the farm house her ever-growing feelings for Raphael saw to that.

So there she was in the vegetable patch – of all places – glimpsing Lovers' Oblivion. After weeks of unsaid words and silent games, of silent tears and subtle smiles, of painful need and toxic lust, April finally knew what it felt like to be held in his arms. Her mind stilled. Her heart filled. For an instant she knew harmony. If she had a choice, April would have stayed in his embrace for eternity, but life was cruel and did not stop for them. There were conversations to be had and blood to be shed.

Raphael was more courageous than her. He had not hesitated to face his brother. April could only admire how he never bowed to his fear, but she supposed a lifetime battling demons would harden any heart. Even though she knew its cost to his soul, April could not help envying him. She would never be as brave as Raphael. He and the others would probably deny such a statement, but the turtles had always placed April on a pedestal in which she did not belong. Their expectations were the ivory tower she could never ascend. Yet, when she paused to sift through her memories, April knew she was not entirely correct.

One turtle had viewed her differently and here she was, mere minutes after his departure, desperately searching for that moment when she knew it to be true. She had ruminated regularly trying to find the precise instant when the tide of her affections had turned. After last night's solace under the stars April began to obsess. Her tumultuous mind stilled the moment Raphael placed his hand on her cheek. He had denied it, but April knew he was the earth that grounded her water. She too had fire, but her mind was a river. Always moving. Always changing. Only earth could contain her. Now he was absent once more and she was left in an ocean of memories. She expected she would return to a cascade of chaotic confusion, but the current brought her a raft, crafted by his hand.

It was only a few months ago, belonging to a time when their world was still whole. April had been at the Lair determined to write the essay to end all essays (at least for this semester). The fall term's English credit was earned through a course focused predominately on poetry analysis. Only one week into the class and she was worried. After her midterm, April was doomed unless her saviour came in the form of an exemplary term paper. She knew if she had any hope of getting anything higher than a D in the class, she needed to slay that paper. The Monday she got her midterm mark she began tackling her essay with unrivaled ferocity, by Saturday night she began eyeing her paper with pathetic pitifulness, or she would have if she had a paper to stare down at in resentment. Instead she glared at Microsoft Word and in all its bright white glory.

April thought the assignment was simple enough. Her teacher had assigned them a poem and they were to appropriately analyze it while implementing a second poem of their choice for comparison. When she saw her poem was only one stanza April thought she had hit the poetry jackpot.

Oh how wrong she was.

Overall, April was a decent student. Her history and science grades were above average, her mathematics grades allowed her to tutor, and thanks to Master Splinter's training physical education had become a light workout. However when it came to English and especially poetry, April was hopeless. No matter how hard she tried, she was lucky if she could see the poet's efforts as more than a mismatch of random words. Unless it was a rhyming couplet, April was lost. So it was unsurprising that as she read her poem for the hundredth time that day her thoughts held images consisting of pyromania and paper:

"Ozymandias

I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert… Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."

When she finished the poem April found herself face-planting into the worn pages of her textbook and releasing a moan filled with her suffering. The One and Only Raphael had been the first to interrupt her pathetic moping, "Pretty sure that's not what they mean by hitting the books."

She could not see his face from her papery prison, but she was aware of the smirk in his voice. April did not respond immediately. Of course April had done her homework at the Lair on countless occasions, and although she had the odd impossible problem, the red-head overall had little academic difficulty. Consequently, other than the rare piece of advice she never truly needed her friends' help. If she responded to Raphael now, it would be very clear that was no longer the case.

Since she had first met the turtles, April knew they saw her as something special. To them they had practically viewed her as divine. Over time they naturally came to realize she did have plenty of mortal flaws, but she knew they still considered her to be super smart. This was not true and was glaringly evident by the big red X's all over her midterm, but April did not want them to know that. Part of her felt that by displaying her poetic incompetence they would no longer view her the same way. Pride warred with sorrow while she felt the red-clad turtle shift somewhat closer to her when she didn't respond. Tender concern met her ears, "Seriously April, you ok?"

Finally she looked up from the pages eyes blinking rapidly, equally because of her the return to light and her attempts to hide her teary eyes. A quick glance around told her for the moment it was just her and Raphael. When she met his green eyes their sincerity made her crack. Her frustration ran off her tongue with uncharacteristic velocity, "No! I have to figure this poem out to write my paper so I can compare it to yet another poem that talks about the same stuff! And after reading this thing over and over all I know is there's some stupid statue of some stupid guy named Ozymandias in some stupid desert!"

She then threw the book at him and preceded to lay face first into the couch, praying to the couch gods to put her out of her poetry-induced misery. The turtle sitting beside her once again broke through her moans, "You're reading Ozymandias?"

April sighed and lifted her head in exasperation, "YES!"

But he didn't speak. Instead she saw his eyes scanning over her book. A moment later he looked up and she wailed, "See it's hopeless! I probably inherited the Kraang's inability to understand the English language!" she produced an intelligible cry before declaring her greatest fear, "Oh God! This is it! I'm going to fail English!"

Before Raphael could respond, a familiar orange-clad turtle bounced into the room, "Who's failing English?"

April glared at Michelangelo, "Great! Now even Mikey knows I'm hopeless!"

A third turtle entered the room, "Who's hopeless?"

Michelangelo jumped on Donatello's question, "April is. She says she's going to fail English!"

This time April only responded by audibly throwing her face back into the couch. Donatello's voice drew her out, "Come on April it's not that bad."

She sniffed, "Says the guy who doesn't have to do the assignment!"

All three brothers saw the paper April pointed to. After they read over the prompt, Raphael grunted, "Pointless."

Donatello gave his brother a particularly condescending look, "Of course you would think so Raph, but this is important! How else is April going to get a good education?"

Raphael started to reply, "That's not-"

Donatello just ignored him, "Here just give me the book. I can help her."

Raphael practically threw the book at his brother, "Fine Mr. High and Mighty you leave your mark. Let's see if it lasts."

He stormed off completing his departure with the slamming of his bedroom door. April sat up in concern, "Should we go after him?"

Michelangelo knowingly shook his head, "Naw. He just gets pissed when he's not good at something."

Donatello nodded in agreement and gave April a knowing smile, "He'll be fine by dinner. Don't worry I can help you April! Let's see so this is by Percy Shelley a poet from the 1800's. Ok so we just need to find you a poem from the same time period and then you can talk about…"

Much to her dismay, April then found herself in the company of Donatello reading up on Europe's political scene at the beginning of the 17th century. When the pizza arrived two hours later heralding the arrival of movie night, April was more than relieved at her source of temporary respite. Yet, the warm dough turned sour in her stomach when Raphael did not grace them with his presence. Once again the remaining turtles waved off their brother's behaviour. Movie night continued uninterrupted – if minus one turtle.

Around nine April said her farewells. She knew it was earlier than normal, but she figured she could work on her paper for a few hours before she went to bed. It wasn't until she began to pass through the Lair's station turnstiles that Raphael reappeared. April was all too familiar with the scowl on his face, and apparently so were his brothers based on the wide berth they gave him. "Ok well I'll text you guys when I'm home."

Leonardo nodded, "Thanks April."

She turned around, but froze to a gravelly voice, "Hey."

April turned to meet angry green eyes. She returned his glare with a questioning eyebrow raise, "Here, your book."

He shoved her poetry textbook in her direction, "Huh?"

He rolled his eyes and strode off, "Might be useful."

April had no idea why he was being so cold and she realized she was more tired than she thought. She could have sworn she had shoved her book into her bag before dinner so she would not have its offending cover mock her throughout the movie. The cool city air chased the thought away, and by the time April was home she was back to her poetry-induced hysteria.

Donatello had not been helpful. She knew he been trying. He had her best intentions at heart, but somehow she suspected her teacher would not approve of his political analysis as the thesis for an essay that was supposed to be centered on poems. After brewing a hot cup of tea, crawling into an over-sized sweat shirt, and wiggling into black sweat pants, April pulled her text book out for round eight hundred and nine. She froze when she saw one of her pages dog-eared.

Although she did find it strange Donatello had not marked it with one of the many purple stickies – which he had readily used for at least a billion notable pages – April assumed the turtle had marked it for her to revisit. When she opened the book she strongly suspected otherwise. She had never read this poem before:

"When I Heard The Learn'd Astronomer

When I heard the learn'd astronomer,
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,
When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and mea-
sure them.
When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much
applause in the lecture-room,
How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wander'd off by myself,
In the mystical moist night air, and from time to time,
Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars."

Even April with her pitiful poetry skills knew that her reading Walt Whitman's poem was not Donatello's doing. The tiny cramped scrawl at the corner of the page proved her suspicions, "Did it leave a mark?"

For a moment April was dumbfounded. Then as her fingers glided over the ink her memories of the evening rushed by in a dazzling stream. Her mind burning at images both imagined and real. There was Raphael scanning not reading Ozymandias. There was Raphael dropping hints aimed at Donatello and her. There was Raphael sneaking April's textbook out of her bag unnoticed.

Then she knew.

Raphael had known exactly what the poem was talking about and amazingly he knew of others like it. He had said so little, but given her so much in such a way as to not hurt her pride. Yet Raphael had not missed the opportunity to throw a few good punches at Donatello and his brother had no idea. April was thrilled to get an A on that paper, but her heart sung at the grin Raphael gave her when she brandished her trophy before him. The smile he gave her after reading it made her world freeze completely, and she never wanted it to melt.

April's memories were indeed fickle things. They ebbed and flowed with the whirling of time, but every so often they would yield a clear drop of perfect truth. April could not remember the moment she first fell for Raphael. There was no pronounced mark that had been forged onto her heart, but she did not mind because she knew it took more than a mere impression for something to be remembered. Raphael had won her fluid heart, not by forcing it, but by merely calming it in his earthy embrace.

A/N I don't know if this is necessary, but just so no one yells at me for plagiarizing. Behold a bibliography:

Whitman, Walt. "When I Heard The Learn'd Astronomer." Complete Poetry and Selected Prose by Walt Whitman. Miller. Ed. James E. Miller, Jr. Cambridge: The Riverside Press. 1959. 196. Print.

Shelley, P. B. "Ozymandias." The Norton Anthology of Poetry, 5th edition. Eds. Margaret Ferguson, Mary Jo Salter, and Jon Stallworthy. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc. 2005. 870. Print.

And to my lovely reviewers:
Guest: Thank-you so much! I am glad you think so =)
Mimi: I totally agree! That is partly why I was inspired to start this because I felt it's a story that needs to be told.
Terri: Thank-you for both of your reviews! I'm glad to know that my hard work on the descriptions and characterizations are hitting home, and hopefully I can continue to do so =) I also totally agree; they had so many sweet moments! Ahh if only…

Thank-you for reading and as always all feedback is appreciated!