Title: Validation

Summary: Never the perfect son or student or brother, Raphael does the unthinkable. Away from the lair and into an allegiance with Shredder, honor is replaced by his pronounced desire for validation.

Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to the TMNT fandom or anything else I might reference. Credit to those who do.

SPECIAL THANKS TO! Bella13blue, my own personal Nemesis! (Because everybody needs one.) MY Nemesis has been a good friend; she's a great soundboard and has been kind enough to encourage and offer suggestions on my work for this fic.

Author's Notes: Bro-time between Don and Mike, followed by a checkup on Raphael.

Questions or comments, submit via review or PM. Thank you.

...

CH 22

[Hamato Clan]

It had been well over two weeks- just shy of three- since the Hamato clan had encountered Raphael and he denounced his belonging. Each night after that had been very much the same. Leo and Splinter would meditate and, Don and Mikey would scour the city with or without the aide of Casey. April's involvement varied; she was a working woman with social obligations that seemed to almost drive a wedge between herself and her mutant comrades.

And while they appeared miffed, no one faulted her for that. She was human; she had a life that could easily allow her to remain between the rooftops and sewers, whereas her mutant friends could mainly choose one or the other; for them, there was nothing in between. The cluttered streets were not ever something they could peruse at leisure.

Daytime seemed to be a dividing factor between themselves and humanity.

Still, differences aside, everyone tended their vices and worked the search in their own right.

While Leo had come close to making contact during that first night's meditation, every following attempt had been in vain. Either he couldn't reach the astral realm, or he was met with little more than the white dome that imprisoned his brother's spirit. Leo had approached the dome, hoping to find a way to breech it and get through to his lost sibling, but to no avail. That dome, it was not just some paper prison; it was something much too strong and far more heinous, impervious. Leo had searched and searched for a weak spot, but there was nothing.

Worse than Leo's plight, was Splinter's. The old rat had tried hard, his patience infinite, to reach his lost son. But no matter how many trips he made to the realm of spirits, he couldn't find a trace of Raphael's burning passion. Where Leo could at least find a prison, Splinter found an empty chasm. And the rat couldn't help thinking the worst... 'Raphael, my son. Can you hear me? Have I really lost you? Did I push you away, into this darkness? Why is it, that I cannot connect with you, not even in spirit?'

Their meditation sessions would start early and end late. Hours of simply sitting and trying to achieve that bit of enlightenment that would chance them that much closer to Raphael.

And while they sought the emerald turtle spiritually, the other mutants- Don and Mikey, they sought him physically. Their searches were frequent and thorough, leaving no building left unchecked, no rock left unturned- and courtesy of both Donatello and Casey, no thug left unquestioned (and battered).

Hope was a diminishing factor, but they all held strong. Michelangelo especially fought to keep his spirits up, but the light in his eyes had dimmed and his jokes held no spark.

"So, if two people get together," Mikey began, "and they... y'know... do it, it's called a twosome, right?" He jumped to the next rooftop and waited for Donatello to catch up with him before continuing. "And, if three or four people hook up and... y'know... bang-bang their uglies together, it's called a threesome or foursome, right?"

Don pushed off and tried to keep pace with his little brother while listening to his babble; he gave a slight nod but thought little of what was actually being said.

"Sooo," the orange-banded ninja pressed onwards. "I guess, Donnie, I could call you handsome. Right?" He stopped running then, a grin stretching between his cheeks.

Don stopped beside him, breathing deeply and blinking slowly in an attempt to process what he'd just heard. "Wait, what?" He was perplexed, adequately so.

Michelangelo heaved an exaggerated sigh. "You're supposed to be the genius, Donnie. Think about this a minute. Two people fuck, it's a twosome. Three people- threesome. Four- foursome, right? So, if you're handsome, then you must-"

Don carefully blanked his face as the joke registered. "I get it. It's a masturbation joke. Mikey, that's-"

"Hilarious? I know. I can't wait to tell Raph." Mike was smiling; the expression was soft, but it was genuine as he moved to sit on the roof, his legs dangling over the edge. "Raph will think it's funny. He might even randomly start calling Leo handsome, just for spite." That smile was slight but unwavering.

Don joined his brother, sitting beside him. "Mike..." He wanted to continue the search- they both did, but if his brother was stopping, there had to be a good reason. Something weighing heavily on his mind. And whatever it was, it was just one more thing for the calm genius to fix.

The orange-clad turtle braced his hands against his knees and leaned dangerously over the ledge, peering at the busy city below. Then he leaned back and looked skyward, appearing awed. "Raph would love to be up here; it's a clear night, Donnie." He glanced at his purple-banded brother. Then he raised his hand and reached out as far as he could, towards nothing. "Raphie liked the stars, Donnie... They're like a hundred flashlights in the sky."

Don looked like he wanted to comment on the sheer number of stars, but he refrained, simply watching Mikey's curious new behavior.

Mike dropped his hand into his lap; his gaze fell with it and he took on a crestfallen expression. "Ever think... he... like," he trailed off, words jumbling. He drew in a breath and tried again. "Raph, like, has always lived in his own world, hasn't he? It's like, he and I can both look at the same thing, but we'd never really see the same thing. Not the same way, anyways. I think of the city and see people and music and pizza. He looks at the city and, I don't even know what he sees." He bit his lower lip and shifted uncomfortably. "I feel like, sometimes, I don't know him very well. Like, maybe he's a stranger just livin' with us. And now, he's not even that."

Don placed a hand on Mike's shoulder but withdrew when he felt his brother tense. "It doesn't matter, Mikey," Don said quietly, his own gaze sweeping over the rooftops in surveillance. Part of him wanted to finish this conversation so they could continue their search. There was so much of the city left to be combed. "None of that matters until we get Raphael back home with us. Then, and only then, we'll bother to repair the cracks in our familial bond. We need all the pieces before we glue them together. Until then, we hold onto what we've got."

Michelangelo gave a nod and opened his mouth to speak, but he closed it before anything could come out. Something was eating at him, but now wouldn't be a good time to voice it. Or, would it?

"Donnie, I did something bad."

Donatello cast a sidelong glance at his brother. "Oh?" the word was simple, noncommittal, and just vague enough to invite elaboration.

The younger turtle inhaled sharply and got to his feet. "First, you have to promise not to hate me for it. And you can't hate Raphie either."

Don frowned, his browline creased as he slowly got to his feet as well, following Michelangelo's lead. "Mikey, what's wrong?" His prior thoughts halted, he was notably concerned.

"Promise me..."

"Mikey, I promise, but what-"

"Don, you know how Raphie hurt someone? When I was unconscious and he- With his sai, he...-"

Don's breath hitched; he didn't like where this conversation was going. "Yeah..."

"Well, of the four of us, Donnie," Mikey's voice pitched lower, until it was barely above a whisper. "Raph wasn't the first turtle to kill a human... I was." The confession was soft spoken, but the words and voice were thick as if they'd fallen from a heavy tongue and a heavier heart.

Donatello, the turtle with all the answers, suddenly didn't know the proper response to give. It was as if his cognitive abilities had abandoned him. And, in the absence of the appropriate words, he offered a small sympathetic smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Because, how else was he supposed to respond? He wouldn't lie and act like everything was fine; pity wasn't an option; and everyone was already suffering more than their fair share of sadness.

Then... in the blink of an eye, as if someone had simply clicked a switch, Mikey was smiling again. Traces of worry and guilt, all gone. "Shell, Donnie, it's a lot easier to let the cat out of the bag than to keep it in! Now, c'mon! If we hurry, we can catch April and Casey! We'll get our search party on, and then nab some Chinese! But remember, if you don't eat the cookie, the fortune doesn't come true, bro! And we could all use a good fortune..."

...

[Raphael]

The world of consciousness would come to Raphael in flashes of white. Several brief flashes of white with long periods in between. When his eyes finally opened, they fluttered in an attempt to adjust to an unnatural brightness in an unfamiliar environment. He grimaced and twisted his head to the side, burying his face against a plush pillow in an attempt to shy away from the suffocating light.

Realization hit him in slow increments.

He shifted his body, felt cool crisp sheets against his flesh and pressed his face harder into the pillow.

He was on a bed, near a UVB bulb in a heat lamp that was directed at him: less than two feet from his face.

So bright... but warm. Comforting warmth with a splitting headache. As if he'd stared into the sun like a complete moron.

'Fuckin' light... Kill it.'

He slowly lifted his head and coaxed his eyes open so that he could look around. He propped himself up into a sitting position and couldn't help glaring at an uncomfortable pull in his arm where an IV had been inserted, dripping a clear fluid into him. His vocal cords vibrated as he attempted to growl but his throat felt too tight; the slightest motion among his vocals caused a terrible straining soreness.

'Fuck... Why does that hurt? Sore. Worse than fuckin' laryngitis.'

He tried to swallow. His mouth was dry and his tongue felt thick and pasty against the roof of his mouth. But he had to swallow to investigate the strange new ache in his throat. Oh, fuck did it hurt. To swallow. Even the passage of air through his esophagus came with a slight twinge of agitation.

He grit his teeth and pressed a hand to his throat, trying to nurse the hurt away from the outside; it was impossible, he knew, but he still tried.

He soon gave up and decided that the ache was manageable as long as he didn't add the stress of speaking. Or making any noise, really.

This decided, he took in his surroundings.

White. Too much white. It almost made him angry to see the color- or lack thereof. Everything was sterile, stainless steel and white. White and the reflection of more white. He could smell disinfectant heavy in the air, and it made him nauseous.

One word came to mind: Infirmary.

He turned his attention to the needle in his arm. He supposed it could be saline to keep him hydrated, or some kind of medicine... He was tired, but he didn't feel drugged, so there was no cause for alarm as far as he could tell.

Apart from having one nasty sore throat and a light-induced headache, he supposed he was fine.

Of course, part of him longed to look over and see his purple-banded brother walk through the door with a lab coat and a diagnosis and a soft smile. Oh, what he wouldn't give to see those kind calm eyes directed at him and letting him know that he had nothing to worry about...

But this was not the lair.

Donatello was not his doctor.

And aside from the fact that he felt like shit, he didn't know what happened to land him on bed rest. -If his stomach was anything to go on, he hadn't eaten in a while.

He almost salivated at the mere thought of food. Any food, really; he didn't care what it was. At this point, he'd eagerly scarf down any of Michelangelo's crazy cuisines without protest.

If Michelangelo had been there.

But he was not.

So, hungry, confused, tired, and more than a little frustrated at not having answers, Raphael decided that he could do one of three things.

Option one: wait. Which he refused.
Option two: call for assistance like a helpless tot or cripple. Which he refused.
Option three: get up and do something. Which sounded like a pretty good idea.

Sitting up a little straighter, he disentangled himself from the sheets and turned to slide his legs over the side of the bed.

His shell was between himself and the light; now he could feel the warmth without staring into it. After a moment of simply sitting there, he concluded that he didn't mind the light as long as he didn't have to risk potential blindness. The heat was almost invigorating. Had he not been high-strung about his current predicament, he might have taken a moment to enjoy the warmth.

But there was never time for simple pleasantries. Not in his former home, and certainly not while he operated under the Shredder.

He focused his attention on the IV and determined whether or not it was important- he decided that nothing warranted a damn needle to be stuck in his arm- and promptly ripped it out. Satisfied with that, he moved his feet to the floor and began to ease his weight from the bed to the support of his legs.

This proved to be more difficult than it should have.

His body felt stiff; it was unsettling. His muscles felt tight, coiled and rusty, and they pulled and cramped with little provocation. His legs felt weak, unwilling to support him for the first several seconds; he kept one hand on the bed and braced the other against the wall to prevent himself from falling. He only let up on his crutch when he felt confident that his legs weren't going to morph into something less like legs and more like pasta.

Once standing and sure of his balance, he trained his sight on the door that would lead him out of the infirmary, and he proceeded. His steps were slow and careful; his feet clapped against the cold floor with less stealth than usual, but he didn't care at the moment.

His goal was to just get the fuck out of that white room.

He reached the door. It didn't have a handle, but it held a silver lever. He gripped it and gave it a turn. -Nothing. Angered, he tried again, turning it down and back again, wiggling it. He did it again and again, getting more rapid with his movements as his frustration escalated.

Justifiably miffed, he drew his hand away from the lever and slammed the heal of his hand into the door several times.

'C'mon already. Open the fuck up. Mutant turtle in here, kinda locked in. Don't make me break dis door down,' he thought with a sneer, anger baiting his thoughts as they swirled around in his head. He slammed his fist against the door, hard and loud. Then he chanced a glance towards the door's hinges, wondering if he could just remove it altogether. The idea was there, but it did nothing to quell the fact that he was stuck in there to begin with.

'Trapped. Deliberately put in here...'

The realization was a cold one. The fact that he was literally locked in. It pissed him off first and foremost.

He banged on the door a few more times for good measure; when hitting the door proved to be utterly useless, he pressed both palms against the door and rested his forehead against the cool metal surface.

If Leonardo had been there, he'd ninja his way out without a problem.

But Leonardo was not there.

This room was Raphael's hell. No one else's. He was alone in his endeavor. Alone in his thoughts. Alone in his plight. And it had been his own doing. There was no longer a point in worrying about 'why' things were the way they were; instead, he needed to focus on what he was going to do.

Would there be any fixing on his part, or would he dive further down the rabbit hole?

He closed his eyes and tried to think of what would land him in the infirmary, alone and locked in.

He drew in a sharp breath and was reminded again of the stinging sensation in his throat.

'Could that be it? Am I sick? Dis some kind of quarantine?' It was the first thought that came to his mind in regards to his sudden lack of speech, and he mulled it over. He certainly didn't feel sick, not really. But it was possible.

'People die every day because they feel healthy and don't know they're sick. Maybe I got sick or somethin'. But that don't explain why the door's locked from the outside.'

He sighed and pushed away from the door before resting a hand against his tender throat and lightly rubbing the column; this did nothing to soothe him. He turned his shell to the door and leaned against it, giving the room another survey. There had to be some hint, somewhere, about what he was doing there. But, as he glanced around, the room looked just as it should, nothing out of place, really... though, his eyes found themselves drawn to a camera mounted in the corner of the room.

Alone or not, someone was watching him.

That was cause enough for alarm.

His senses were on high alert, every part of him hyper-sensitized.

A sudden curiosity got the better of him, and he moved away from the door. He grabbed a waste bin and carelessly dumped the contents onto the floor; he glanced through them: the needles, the bloody cotton swabs and band-aids, the latex gloves and tongue depressors- standard shit he couldn't read too much into. The waste bin still caught between his hands, he stepped over the pile of trash and closer to the camera. He placed the bin bottom-up and stood on it like a step stool so he could properly reach the camera.

'Just 'cause I can't make a ruckus, don't mean I can't do anythin'. Let's see what we got here.'

The red light indicated that it was in use.

'Well, duh. Why have a camera installed and not use it?'

He reached a hand to it and assessed how securely it was mounted; the screws were tight in the bracket. Still, he adjusted the camera angle so that he could get a view of the connecting cables.

Techno-shit was not his area of expertise, but he wasn't an idiot, and having a brainy brother who liked to talk as he worked, it was almost impossible not to pick up some tricks now and then.

'If I ever get the chance to thank Donatello...' Raphael couldn't help the thought. He might have smiled if he honestly felt that he'd get the chance to thank his genius brother for unwittingly teaching him. The odds were slim, he knew. Even then, he suspected that he'd manage to screw up so that his gratitude came out sounding sarcastic; it would be just like him to turn something nice into something foul just by the way his voice sounded.

He did growl then. At himself. And he regretted it instantly. His throat burned, as if it was on fire. As if he'd swallowed shards of glass...

'Fuck! Somethin's goin' on here, and I ain't gonna be the butt of someone's joke.' He glared at the camera, his own expression dark and menacing. 'Someone's behind the camera. I'm locked in here. But if I take out the camera, someone would almost have ta come and check on me personally, right? Which means they'd have ta come through the door...'

The gears in his head were spinning, and he focused on that to avoid thinking about the soreness in his throat.

With keen eyes, Raphael regarded the cables behind the camera. He noted the color-coded ports. Just by looking, he would be able to tell if the camera collected audio and visual, or just visual. It mattered little, but it was something worth knowing.

As expected, there was no cable for audio.

He could be seen, but not heard. Not that he was able to talk up a storm... But if he could, he was pretty sure he'd be happy to supply two very choice words that rhymed with: Tuck and Moo.

Pushing the thought aside, he trained his attention on the camera that was mere inches from his face. It was an easy decision that, regardless of what feed it was transmitting, he didn't want the prying eyes of someone on him while he was essentially locked in a box. He was not some animal in an exhibit. And, if he cut off the little 'nature documentary,' his observer would have no choice but to come in person. And that was a meeting Raphael was looking forward to at the moment.

A chance to get his hands on whoever decided it was perfectly okay to treat him like a diseased monkey.

Wrapping his fingers around a little black wire in the back of the camera, he gave a firm yank and disconnected the cord. He watched the red light die almost instantly. Then he hopped off the makeshift stool and began to pace the room. Two laps into his bout of pacing and fatigue began to set in prematurely; he allowed himself to lean heavily against a counter attached to an adjourning sink.

He eyed that sink and thought of his parched throat. A small paper Dixie cup sat within reach, looking inviting enough. With little thought, he drew the cup into his hand and turned to the sink. He turned the tap and watched the water flow before dipping the cup under the spray. Leaving the water running, he brought the cup to his mouth and tossed his head back, swallowing it all in one go before refilling the cup and repeating the process several times. The cool liquid down his throat felt amazing, though it was unsettling that he could feel it go straight to his stomach. Thirst quenched, he turned the water off and looked at his little paper cup.

'Ya sure know how to commemorate an occasion. Looks like ya sprang fer the fine China,' he gave a light snort at his thoughts.

Eventually finding the energy to leave his perch at the sink, he dragged his feet across the floor and made it back to the bed where he sat down with his shell towards the light. He let out a tired sigh.

He had a lot of thoughts to sort through.

First off, what the fuck had happened? Second, how long was he expected to stay locked in a damn room? Third, when he did get out of the infirmary, what course of action would he take?

He wasn't the one to make plans.

Ever.

But here he was, alone, and that's exactly what he needed to do.

He supposed that his first and second question could be answered together, but the third couldn't even be rightfully considered until the first two had been exploited.

He'd barely begun to sift through his thoughts when he heard soft footsteps coming from outside the room, presumably from a hall. The soft steps paused just beyond the door; and as Raphael stilled his breath and focused on his hearing, he was able to make out the sound of jingling keys.

Then, a key scraped against a lock as it was inserted.

The key was turned, the tumblers in the lock moving and becoming properly aligned.

At long last, the door was opened and Raphael moved to his feet unsteadily, his movements hurried and less than graceful as he held his weight and slid his feet apart for better balance. Like any other caged animal, he was ready to bite the hand that fed him.

...

[Another chapter done! Next chapter is In-Progress. Also, keep an eye on my profile for amateur fan art for this fic.]