Donatello's feet padded softly on the hardwood flooring. He ventured a look into the bathroom before turning and
entering completely. The heat and humidity hit him like a wall, clinging to his skin, and invading his sinuses. Steam
billowed from the tub. He leaned to peak over his crouched brother's shoulder; the water swirled freely around the Girl's
legs, the white bottom of the porcelain tub accenting the marred, tan skin.
"Raph, Sensei is here. Are you finished?"
"72 seconds."
"What? It looks like you've done a very thorough job, and Caseys set out some clothes for her, so come on. Lets go."
"63 seconds. Give me a minute."
"One minute? What do you need a minute for? Raphael, it has been a long night. Some of those cuts need to be bandaged,
her fingers need to be put in splints, we need a sling to secure her shoulder... We still have to decide what we're going to
do about her! Sensei is here, waiting to see her. We have to talk to Casey about this whole mess..."
"You said to wash her up. See here? 'Massage through clean hair, concentrating on ends. Leave on three minutes. Rinse
thoroughly.' So, 49 seconds, please." The white tube with a gold embossed label was thrust unceremoniously into Donatello's
face. The wet, slimy edge bumped his snout. He wiped the white cream off with the back of his wrist, snorting at the scent of
coconut oil.
Raphael could hear the snort as his brother exited the small room. "Donny..."
"What?"
"Those three hours a night really aren't doing ya!"
The feet stomped towards the living area. " He's still washing her damned hair!"
The worn end of the wooden cane clapped softly, rhythmically against the hardwood flooring of the hallway. The sound, so familiar,
grew ever stronger as it approached the doorway. The wise rat took in the sight before him; his son crouched at the side of an occupied
bathtub, his bulky figure blocking any view of the ward currently in his care.
"My son, are you in need of assistance?"
Raphael sighed at the low voice. He turned to glance over his shoulder, hesitating for a breath. "I don't think this is going to work."
The rat merely cocked his head to the side in question. Raphael, in turn, huffed once again, but rose slightly, pivoting on his heels, allowing
the Girl to be seen. She lay still, skin bruised, and marred, but clean. Her head lay against the side of the tub, cheek resting on the large porcelain
lip. Her hair hung over the side of the tub, dripping freely onto the floor, comb embedded an inch or so from her scalp. The rat took in this sight, and that
of his son, crouched, arms soaked to the elbow, plastron and thighs splashed. Defeated.
"Yes, I suppose you boys wouldn't have any experience with... this aspect of grooming." He moved closer to the tub.
"I think we have to cut it out."
"There is no need to be so rash, Raphael," he knelt beside his son, thin fingers reaching for the comb. "You are right, this comb cannot
be pulled from her hair, but perhaps we can persuade it." His fingers moved steadily over the comb, moving the hair, a few strands at a time.
The progress was slow, but undeniable. "I would be a very bald, very cold old man if I cut the comb out of my fur everytime I tangled." He chuckled.
It was a low, soft sound, that sat in the back of his throat. When the comb was finally freed from it's prison, the Rat set it aside, by his knee.
"Now, Raphael," his gnarled hands worked quickly as he spoke, dividing the matte of hair, grasping one section in his palm. "Small sections at a time.
Too much will cause you great frustration... and it hurts." A quick smile. "And begin at the bottom," he demonstrated. "See how much
easier the knot detangles." He openned his palm, held the comb out towards his son.
Raphael shuffled on his heels, his shell scraping against the toilet bowl. He lifted the wet hair from his father's palm, into his own. He lifted
the waiting comb and set to the task of untangling the mass of hair once more, mimicking his father's movements. The old Rat portioned off another
section and set forth, combing his fingers through the mess. Father and son sat, knelt by the side of the tub, working in silence.
Time passed unnoticed, until the comb passed freely through the curling locks. The Rat grunted in satisfaction. Raphael dropped the comb and dove his
hands into the wet hair, dragging them through, scalp to ends, feeling the silken strands between his rough fingerpads. When the hair dropped from his grasp
he thrust his hands into the mass once more, and repeated the process.
"My Teng Shen had the most glorious hair. It shone as the night." The voice was soft, almost a whisper, and contemplative.
Raphael's hands froze in their action, his eyes glued to the sight of his large hands consumed by the decievingly delicate curls.
"Ah, but now is no such time for an old man's memories. Come now, my son." He rose, lifting a large towel with him, and stepped aside as
his child leaned and gathered the clean Girl from the water, splashing water down his front, onto the floor. The towel was tucked securely around the bundled form,
the mess on the floor ignored, as they exited the small humid room, and walked on towards the dimly lit bedroom.
Water pooled in the crook of Raphael's arm, dripping from her hair, her neck, her back. Her head rested heavily on his rounded shoulder, and the
scent of coconuts assaulted his nostrils. Raphael ducked his head, snout hovering above her damp forehead, and breathed deeply, holding the scented air
in his lungs.
The room was lit only by the twin tablelamps that guarded each side of the massive bed. The brown sheets lay open in invitation. At the foot,
a pile of clothing was neatly draped, waiting. Shadows hung in the air, splashed across the walls and onto the floor, odd shapes that danced and moved
in an unseen wind. Raphael paused at the doorway, heart suddenly thudding in his chest at the sombre atmosphere, pounding so hard he feared the Girl
would be jostled from her sleep.
He made his way to the bed and deposited the Girl, stepping aside, painfully aware of the walls of the room, and the many occupants leaning upon
any available surface.
Michelanglo, seated on the plush floor, drew his knees up towards his chest, clasping his arms around his legs, bringing his chin to rest on the
surface of his kneecaps.
Raphael pressed his shell into the wall behind him, folded his arms across his plastron, eyes skimming the room, then settling on the back of
his brother's neck on the floor in front of him.
Casey stood at the far end of the bed, as still as the wooden post he pressed his weight against.
Donatello moved swiftly, surely, spreading the contents of a plastic bag onto the unmessed portion of the bed, not far from the Girl. His hands sped
over various medical provisions; suture kit, gauze and tape, metal splints, a large piece of folded fabric, a pen light...
Leonardo stood beside, not against, the large cherry wood armoir, chest out, shoulders back, chin up. Eyes on the Girl. Inspecting her from afar.
His voice broke the silence of the room.
"I trust everything went well?" It wasn't a question.
Raphael clenched his jaw, teeth straining under the pressure.
"Your brother took great care and consideration in his tending to the Girl," Splinter strode to the bedside. "Such things cannot be rushed." He rested his weight on his
ever present cane, free hand finding the Girl's damp cheek. He took his time studying her; her newly cleaned hair, her still-parched lips,
the patterns of bruising on her ribs, arms, wrists, legs, the mangled, unnatural angles of her broken digits, all as he gently passed a towel over her wet skin.
"I will leave what is next to you, Donatello," he regarded his son, kneeling by his side, gauze already portioned, cut into appropriate pieces.
Silence descended once more on the room, only to be disturbed in time by the odd sharp 'pop' as the broken fingers were set into the splints.
All eyes were focused as Donatello finished with his nursing, brow furrowed as he checked her resting pulse, temperature and pupils.
He drew in a breath, rubbing a great paw over his head, exhaustion and strain etched into his face, pulling at his eyes.
"Her temperature seems to have evened out some, and the chill seems to be gone. Her pupils are reacting, she's breathing steadily, pulse
is... acceptable, pretty good, I'd say for all..this," he gestured with a sweep of his hand. "But she could have a concussion, she could have
internal bleeding, and without an IV to give her fluids, unless she wakes up... I mean, I dont know when she's last had any water, or food..."
His shoulders heaved with another mighty breath, head dipping to meet his chest.
"She needs a hospital." Again, not a question.
Donatello nodded his head nonetheless.
"No." It was the first reaction from their host by the bedpost. "No hospitals," he looked up to meet the five pairs of eyes now on him. "I don't think
that woule be a... safe idea."
"Perhaps you would care to explain your objection, Casey." The voice was soft, yet assured, there was great strength under the apparent frailty.
"They're gonna be looking for her soon," his eyes scanned the room, searching for support. All he found was confusion, even suspicion in the waiting
eyes that stared back. "She can't... they can't find her."
Leonardo turned his body towards the man, shoulders falling further back, chin dipping, as he centered his gaze on Casey alone. "Why don't you tell us
who she is, and what you managed to drag us into." Not a question.
"I don't know who she is, I told you guys that..."
"Casey, enough!" The blue turtle's voice snapped through the air. He stalked forward. "You didn't see her overcome by the Foot Elite Guard
the other night by chance, now did you?" Not a question. "You know something about her and you are going to tell us everything." Each word perfectly
pronounced and spat forth. Each syllable commanding submission. The quiet tone did nothing to soften the unspoken meaning behind them.
"I feel, perhaps, that this may be a long story," the quiet voice whispered across the room, stilling the advancing Leonardo. "Some tea, I think, would
prove appropriate."
Leonardo stood deathly still, his chest expanding slightly with every measured breath. At last he turned to his Sensei, and bowed slightly, before striding
out of the room.
"Donatello, please see that the Girl is comfortable and join us in the living room. Casey, you do indeed have much to tell us, I'm sure." The inflection in his voice
remained constant, his meaning needing no additional emphasis.
Casey looked about the room at the remaining occupants, from Michelangelo's somewhat stunned expression, to his friend across the room who glared
back, huffed, shaking his head slightly, and stomped out of the bedroom after his Father.
Donatello took the time to check the Girl's vital signs once more, placing the thermometer in her right ear, while he felt her pulse in the side of her neck. After a moment;
"You shouldn't have lied to us, Casey. The best thing you can do to fix all this now is to just tell us the truth." He caught the focus of the man he had considered
a friend before the gadget in his hand beeped, indicating a temperature had been detected. He looked down, and brought the display screen to his face,
reading the number purposefully as Casey brushed by his side on the way to the hall. He noted, however, the click of the bathroom door a moment later.
Donatello lifted the edge of the duvet, fluffing it as he rested it over the Girl. He stood back a moment, watching the unmoving human face.
"This is.. pretty bad, huh Donny." Donatello never liked to hear that tone in his brother's voice. He liked to think that this sober, saddened version of
his younger brother was an anomoly, a passing mood that would skim across the surface of his character, leaving him untouched, something
easily forgotten and disregarded. He knew that was untrue. A fantasy. His younger brother was the proof of just how much they had all changed,
had change forced upon them, within the past 18 months. Donatello didn't answer, he had no answer.
Michelangelo leaned down over the Girl, and scooped her wet hair from beneath her head and neck, fanning it on the pillow.
"I think no matter what Casey says, we have to help her. I mean, we can't just let the Foot have her. This is just..." he searched for an accurate word. "Cruel."
Donatello had no objection, no words of consolation. Instead, he slung his arm around the shell of his brother. A sad smirk flashed across Michelangelo's
face. "Tea?"
Donatello scrunched his nose. "Coffee."
It was his brother's turn to mock disgust.
"Living room?"
"Living room."