Michelangelo approached the door, pausing at it's entrance. Inside the room, he heard shuffling movements, rushed and purposeful. An odd whisper
an instruction, or perhaps a segment of a one-sided conversation drifted to his ear. He raised his hand, and rapped, twice, on the wooden door frame. He peeked his
head into the room. His brother stood, back hunched, arms full, head turned towards him, shuffling items from here to there.
"Donnie, need a hand?"
Donatello continued his cleaning. He had begun immediately upon being informed that he would now house their guest, and had set forth quickly re-organizing his carefully
divided collection of reading materials. Apparently shambled stacks of journals, texts, books, magazines that occupied a great deal of floor-space were reconsidered, some
combined, some remained seperate. Donatello condensed what he felt he reasonably could without major damage to his library system. He was now in the process of moving the
stacks to line the walls of the room. Stacks, some waist high, sat guarding others at their backs. Donatello lifted another stack, leaning it towards his chest to prevent spillage.
He regarded his brother's offer as he walked the collection to the corner. Michelangelo remained perched at the precipce of his room, not a toe over the threshold. Old habits, rules
so ingrained that they needed no reminding. Donatello estimated the minutes since the shower had been turned off. He calculated the Girl's speed, her injuries, the task of dressing herself.
"Uh, yeah, Mike. You could change the bedding. And that pile of cups and stuff I put by the door? Yeah, that can go downstairs. Thanks."
He stooped to move one of the remaining stacks as he saw his brother's shell disappear around his doorjam.
Angou stood, feeling the droplets of water run down her body. The thin towel around her shoulders did little against the chill. Her head drooped, and she watched
the pool around her feet as it swelled, rippled, as each drop fell, slid into it's collective mass. The polish on her toenails no longer carried the sheen of a top coat, the colour
chipped, broken, inconsistant. Random segments of pigment lifted from her feet. The remaining red, deep and dark, flashed vibrant against her bronze skin. Her wet hair hung,
plastered to the sides of her face, the back of her neck, her shoulders, her back. He raised her mangled hand, swiping bangs from her eyes. Metal slid against her forehead, the
folds catching stray strands, reluctant to let go. Her eyes fell to the pool in which she stood, her feet islands in it's midst. Her eyes blinked slowly, resting at the close before openning
once more, as she watched colour seep from her foot. It mingled with the water, striped it, polluted the puddle. The tendrils of pink, then red reached farther, intent on the out-most corners
of the pool. She shrugged the towel from her back, allowing it to fall to the floor. It consumed the pool. She stepped upon it, watching as the colour seeped onto the fabric, into the fabric.
It's movement now slowed, hesitant or unable to claim the cloth as it had the puddle.
Angou turned to the toilet seat. It's lid had been lowered and it stood as a table, her items neatly arranged for her use. Clothes sat, folded in a pile. Various bottles; cleanser, deoderant, other,
sat in rows behind. And, on top, an item Angou herself had found upon searching the many and thorough contents of the sac that was to sustain her. She picked it up now, plucking
it from the articles of black fabric. She rolled it between her healthy fingers, feeling the pattern, the nap, the weave of the thread. A single red thread, hand woven. She coiled the mass
of the long string in her palm. She raised her palm to her face. Metal touched her forehead once more, as she pressed the thread to her. She felt the weave against her lips, the scratch
of stray threads worn. And the scent. His scent. Still present. Encased in the string. Woven into it. Infused. The scent filled her sinuses, filled her lungs. It warmed her cold body. The thread felt
warm in her hand, as though it had just been removed from him. As though it carried his warmth. As though his heart beat through the woven material. Angou moved to the mirror and raised
her tender and sore arm, worked her crippled hand behind her right ear as best she could, not resting until the thread was woven into her hair. She pressed the damp braid to her face, and
the scent filled her. The scent of shampoo and Him. She stared into the depths of the dark eyes in the glass. He trusted them. These creatures. Trusted them with his life's duty. She would
trust them, then. Until He returned.
Donatello sat Angou in the closest easy chair. He was mindful of her delicate state, aware of the extent of damage, unconvinced by her stoic manner.
He had been careful not to grip her too tightly, to add to her numerous and increasing bruises. Still, he pressed her into his plastron, leaning into her soft heat. The damp chill of their home
reclaimed him as he set her down.
"Angou, if you're feeling up to it, I think maybe some soup and tea would be a good idea. When was the last time you've eaten?" Donatello remained crouched by the chair, speaking softly,
at equal height. Employing every tactic he could think of to minimize any threat of intimidation.
"I really wouldn't know, at this point."
"Okay. Mike, could you heat some of that soup, and put the kettle on, please?"
She watched as the jumpy character left, skipping over the back of the couch, and his seated brother as easily as one would step over a pair of discarded shoes. The one on the couch sat,
unaffected. He leaned into the back cushions, legs splayed obscenely, remote clutched loosely, seemingly forgotten in his right hand. His thumb stabbed at a button, the volume faded. He glanced
over at her in the chair. He took her in; face scrubbed, hair still damp, curling, the familiar set of track clothes that she now wore, the white, fresh bandages that wrapped her foot, her shoulder.
The white of the new gauze seemed to glow in the dim of the living room, contrasting against the black clothing. The skin that, nights ago, seemed to glisten, glow golded, bronze, in Casey and
April's loft now seemed somewhat matte. Flat. It's lustre lost. The glow had died with the fever.
He sniffed.
"You a Li?" His head remained fixed on the giant, animated screen. His eyes, however, bore into hers.
She licked her lips. He noted how her tongue lingered on the healing cut, moistening it.
"I am Angou Li. Yes."
He sniffed again. Cocked a lazy eyebrow. "You don't look chinese."
"Raph." Donatello's head spun in his brother's direction. " I'm sorry, he's just - "
"It's quite alright. I take no offense." Then; " I carry my father's name, and many of my mother's traits."
Raphael's brow twitched. He nodded gently.
"What was your mother, then?"
"Raph! -"
"She took after her father quite a bit. And he was Egyptian."
The side of Raphael's mouth pulled upwards. The smirk lightened his balck eyes, softened their depth. He turned his head to Angou.
"Well, aren't you just a genetic grab-bag."
"Raphael, that's enough! I'm sorry. He's well, an asshole. It's really the only explanation I have for his behavior. Present or future. I'm sorry."
"It's quite alright, Donatello. Actually, given present company, I really don't think I'd make the short list for poster-child of genetic feats."
A quiet noise escaped Raphael. Air pressed from his mouth, a hoarse sound that touched the back of his throat.
"Speaking of present company... Raph, Leo's in his room, I presume? I guess we should get him."
"Nah, let the Girl have some peace before he rips inta her."
"He wont rip into her." Each word enunciated, emphasized. A show of disbelief, skeptism. Then quickly, "he wont rip into you."
Angou blinked at him.
"Tshk. Don't lie to her."
"I'm not lying to her! I'm not lying to you!" Donatello smiled hopefully. It did not reach his auburn eyes. "He's just curious about you."
"Curious like a pirhana."
"Raph-"
"I'm just sayin', is all."
"Well, dont 'just say'"
"She should know."
"Would you just stop it? You're always so damned dramatic."
"I'm dramatic? Please."
"Yes, you, Raphael, are dramatic. I can't believe this is suprising you!"
"I am not dramatic! I'm cool over here, you're the one always getting your panties in a knot over some boring bullshit- "
"Oh, yeah, you're real cool! Just calm, and always thinking things through! I don't know what I was saying, Raph. You're right! You're right!"
"Okay now-"
" Oh my-" the small voice ended the increasingly heated conversation. Both turned to see two wide, dark eyes peering from over top a hand that rested before her mouth. Her words were muffled,
forced past her fingers. Her eyes shone. "You really are... brothers."
"Of course. Don't you see the family resemblance?" Donatello looked form Raphael to himself.
"Yeah, and just so we're all clear; I'm the good-looking one."
A small smile played on Angou's lips.
"Michelangelo said the same thing."
Raphael leaned back into the couch cushions once more. His thumb stabbed at the remote again, and the sound increased.
"Psh. Yeah, right. He wishes."