"I trust you won't be creepy."
"I'm thankful." Yoshi runs his thumb along the rim of his cup slowly. "You have little faith in me, as I understand it."
You try not to be disrespectful. "Well, things in your life could've gone better, right?"
He seems to consider this for a moment. "I suppose so." He takes a slow drink. "Mistakes from my youth have led to many hardships. Still, though the road has been a long and strenuous one, I would not want to change my past."
Your untouched drink is cradled in your hands. "You don't regret anything?"
"It is a foolish and maddening thing, longing for a life unobtainable to you." He closes his eyes, your own scanning the walls for the photograph you know is in some nook or cranny. "Besides, if things hadn't happened the way they did, I wouldn't have my sons."
You can understand, intellectually, he does not mean to be—and likely is not— as arrogant as you perceive him. Still, something about the way he sits, the way he speaks, even how he looks at you now makes you feel painfully inferior, as if you reacting the way you are makes you somehow beneath him in more than a literal sense.
You decide against arguing the point, eyes flickering from the shrine back to the man in front of you. "I guess that's true." You know you are not going to drink any of what he has offered until you have to. "And you've always thought like that?"
He nods. "It was what I was taught."
Nodding, you look back down at your cup, a deafening stillness settling between you two. 'He convinces me to come here,' you grumble silently, 'and all I get for it is a lecture and an awkward silence.' You look back up at him, setting the clay vessel on the ground and pulling your knees to your chest. 'I could be doing something else, like fixing my shirt or something.'
"Speaking of them," he continues, "Donatello tells me you have been experiencing night terrors."
'Snitch. Did he tell me he told him?' "You don't?"
His eyebrows rise. "Sorry?"
"We have the same trauma," you explain simply. "Both our families died in fires we caused. Think that counts."
He does not even flinch. "I've never thought of it that way." He smiles softly. You want to punch him in the face. "I suppose so, yes."
"You seem pretty calm about it."
He chuckles at your expression. "I've had fifteen years to come to terms with my loss," he takes another drink. "And," he jokes, "I was often simply too exhausted to have nightmares back when the wound was fresh; caring for four young boys is tiring, you understand."
"Right." You crisscross your legs in front of you. "Yeah, the makes sense."
"Having said that," he continues, voice lowering, "I can't imagine going through what I did at your age." He sighs. "If something like that happened to one of my boys at this age, I can't honestly say how they would cope."
'Poorly. I'd guess they'd cope poorly.'
"I understand that you and I have differences in ideals and morals."
"You could say that." Your mouth stretches into a wry smile. "I honestly only started hangin' with and helpin' y'all as a way to make up for my manslaughter. With this exception, I live by the adage, 'Not my circus, not my monkeys.'"
"As I said," he covers his mouth to hide his amusement, "we differ in that respect. I take it that's why, when Donatello explained the situation—" you break eye contact—"he was unable to explain in any sort of detail what they were about."
"Not his circus not his monkeys. 'Sides," you shrug, "he was already being really caring and understanding, and I was already sobbing my eyes out, which I'm sure he already told you, so."
You stare down at your tea. "Are you going to elaborate?"
"Not if I don't have to, no." Your face heats up.
"Do you want my help?"
'I hate this,' you squirm. "Honestly, I wouldn't be here if Donnie hadn't asked me to."
"For someone who believes in leaving people to their own devices," he notes, "you seem to value the requests of my son a great deal."
Your knees are back up to your chest. "He's important to me. He's been there for me. It's the least I can do."
He takes a beat to gather his thoughts. You brace yourself for a lecture.
"You care for him, then."
You nod once, treading carefully.
"Romantically?"
You still do not look at him directly, staring instead at the gorgeous screen door. "I dunno." Your fingernails scratch at the surface. "I'm not exactly in my right mind, you understand."
"I can't say I do." A pause as he takes another drink. "Then again, I've only felt for one woman all my life."
"Look at that," you try to joke. "Another difference between us."
"Do you mind letting me in, then?"
"A little," you admit, "but I will since there isn't really a point to being here if I don't."
"That's the spirit." You can hear his smile.
You set the cup down again, glancing up at him before fiddling with the laces on your shoe. "People under stress and without anywhere else to turn tend to latch onto the first people they relate to," you explain, practicing your knot tying with fumbling fingers; there is no harm in practicing your dexterity. "He was the first guy I met after I died, got kidnapped, and almost got killed by a giant vine creature. I like him," you clarify quickly, "I really do, but it's hardly fair to pursue that sort of relationship, especially considering everything going on with the Kraang and Shredder." Your eyes go out of focus. "We get along great," you mumble. "He's sweet, kind, generous, and empathetic. He deserves to make sense of his feeling properly without me muddying things up with my possibly trauma-induced attachment."
"So," he clarifies, "it is not that you aren't in love with him, but, instead, you're worried for his sake?"
Your face goes scarlet as you choke on your saliva. "T-that's a bit—uh—extreme, isn't it?" You rub the back of your burning neck. "I'm not even sixteen, Yoshi. You don't understand love properly at sixteen!"
"I fell for my wife at thirteen," he smiles. "It's certainly not impossible."
"That's—look," you protest, "that is entirely besides the point. The point," you state, "is that is completely irresponsible for me to pursue a relationship with your son. Frankly, I'm surprised you don't agree."
"He cares for you. You know that. Who am I to decide who he does and does not pursue, especially when that person makes him happy?" He reaches for a worn kettle sitting between you two on a table, pouring its contents back into his teacup—you remember Leo telling you that it is technically called a yunomi. "I find love typically does no harm so long as it does not consume you. Moderation is key."
You look up at him. "So, you don't have any reservations about it?"
He takes another drink. "I wouldn't say that. He is my son, after all. In truth," he admits, "I was more concerned that my sons would never experience what I did than anything. Given the circumstances of our existence, I'm sure you can understand my wish to give them a relatively normal, happy life."
You sigh. "I guess, yeah." You adjust your blanket again. 'Seems counterintuitive, teaching them the art of murder, but I guess that's his normal.' "That's just a generally good parenting thing though, right? I'd hope you'd want that even if you weren't a giant rat and they weren't anthropomorphic turtles."
A parent. He is talking to you like one might speak to their kid.
"I suppose so," he nods. "It's been difficult, but we've certainly come a long way over the years."
The screeching of tires pierces the still air, the chattering of his four sons bouncing off the concrete walls.
You strain to hear what they are saying. "I never noticed that there was an echo in here. It's less noticeable than in the tunnel."
"That's by design," he explains. "I've made something of an effort to dampen it."
"Oh, that's cool." You set the yunomi on the table. You sigh, holding your breath and downing your now gross, cool tea in three quick gulps. "I hate to cut this short," you lie, wiping your mouth with your sleeve and tottering to your feet, "but I've gotta check to make sure everything went smoothly on their mission and adjust my timetable accordingly."
He nods, deciding not to point your tell out. "I won't keep you, then. Would you like to borrow my cane?"
This is not the first time he has offered. You, of course, refuse.
"Oh well. I thought I'd offer." He sets his cup down, staying seated. "It has been pleasant talking with you, Y/N."
"Likewise, Mr. Hamato." You nod once in acknowledgment, hopping over to the door and slipping out into the hallway.
Your stomach churns at the stench coming from the lab—you can smell the gasoline. You lean against the wall, making a pointed effort not to eavesdrop and rapping your knuckles against the door. Their voices immediately lower to hisses and someone drags the door open.
"Hey," Mikey beams. "We were just talking about you. Need somethin'?"
"Just is an over-exaggeration." There is a considerable amount of protest as Donnie pulls him away from the door with an uncomfortable edge to his voice. "P-please, come in."
A beaten DIY van sits pathetically on the subway track, looking not dissimilar to a burnt, crushed soda can from where you stand. The once hot pink graffiti has most certainly seen better days, and you squirm at the thought of the sound it must have made if you understand the situation properly. Raphael, who you glance at out of the corner of your eye, looks similarly beat up. Of course, you are not going to say anything because you value your life.
You whistle, smiling incredulously. "So," you try not to laugh, "I take it you took on the cucaracha."
"Made it my bitch is what I did," boasts Raphael. "Shot it with a laser."
"Cool, cool." You chuckle at his excitement. "You take care of the egg?"
Is there a better sight than watching the light in someone's soul die? You would hesitantly say no. "The what?"
"Right outside the building," you elaborate. "On the side of the road. Looks like a horrifying imitation of an orbee?'
He takes a slow, deep breath, holds it, exhales. "I'll be right back," he says calmly, and sprints out of the lair.
Michelangelo laughs. "Were you being serious or are you messing with him?"
"Serious." You readjust the blanket, trying to subtly figure out how to breathe without being assaulted by the mechanical smell. "I won't joke about that sort of thing. It's cruel."
He hesitates. "... speaking of, are you alright? I didn't get to ask before."
The other two are quietly watching the interaction with an odd amount of intensity.
You shrug. "I guess. Probably."
"Alright," he nods. "Just lemme know if you need to talk, alright? Donnie's no—ow!"
"Don't talk bad about people in front of them," Leonardo criticizes. "It's rude."
"You called him special, like, four hours ago!"
"The word of the day is hypocrisy." Donatello puts his hand down.
"Hypocrisy's right" You rub Mikey's shell reassuringly. "To be fair, though, Leo could honestly probably just dodge it anyway."
He leans into it. "I guess," he grumbles, shooting a look at Donatello. "Favoritism."
"It's strategic favoritism," the tallest brother corrects. "It's to encourage parti pris."
"Cronyism," you tease, grinning. "You mean cronyism."
"Hey, I'm plenty qualified!".
You stifle a giggle as his face reddens, looking back over at the battered vehicle, raising an eyebrow.
"That was a team effort."
"Yeah, okay, Hamato." You blow a strand out of your face. "How long do you think it'll take to fix?"
"Half a week? Maybe a bit less." He looks back at it ruefully. "The spy roach completely jacked it."
"Clearly." You remove your hand, Mikey seemingly thoroughly comforted. "Then mind if I borrow a needle and thread so I can fix my jacket? I have school tomorrow."
"Do you have the dexterity for that?" Leo crosses his arms across his chest absentmindedly.
"If I can hold a pencil," you reason, "I can do basic stitching. 'Sides, it's only gotta hold until I get home."
"I didn't know you sewed."
"I don't. That's why I'm asking now."
Donatello pipes up again. "I really don't mind—"
"Dude," you reason, "you have to fix a whole ass van. I'll manage."
He pulls his phone from his pocket. "It's a quarter to twelve. You won't finish before midnight."
"Then sucks to be me." You shrug. "I'll fix it here and walk home."
He looks at you with a surprising amount of incredulousness. "It's New York City."
"You go out at night all the time," you protest.
"I can carry you—"
Immediate panic. "Nah, I'm good!" You try to sound confident. "I walk home all the time, remember?"
"Not at midnight."
"What's a couple hours difference?" You would rather get attacked or kidnapped than fly over buildings again.
"A hundred-twenty minutes," he states. "You know that crime is statistically more likely to happen at night, right?"
"That tracks. What's different?"
"Violent crime peaks at midnight."
Mikey butts in. "Why can't she just go in the blanket? It covers enough."
Donatello rolls his eyes. "Mikey," he sighs, "she's a teenage girl walking around with her torso covered by a single conspicuous quilt. Let's use our heads here."
It takes him a minute. "So you're worried about her getting, like, attacked?"
"... were you paying attention to any of the conversation? Or the lesson we just learned?"
"Dude," he protests, "when do I ever?"
"What, you mean the one where y'all learned to face your fears or the one where talking about people in front of them is rude?"
The bitter edge to your words is not lost on him. "Look," he reasons with you, "I-I'm not saying you're incapable of taking care of yourself—"
"You are, but that's not the point."
"Shut up, Mikey." You are surprised he did not punch him, though, admittedly, you can hardly argue the point. "What I mean is that if you put yourself in harm's way, you're going to get hurt." He nods at Leo. "He's a really experienced fighter and even he gets overwhelmed if he goes out of his way to do something reckless and dangerous like Karai." He spits out her name like it is poisonous.
"Since when have you had a thing against Karai?"
The eldest brother sighs. "I'm never living that down, am I?"
"Unimportant, and nope. Point is," he continues, fingers twitching at his sides, "it doesn't make sense to tempt fate."
You open your mouth to argue. You close it again. He has an extremely valid point all things considered, especially considering everything that has been happening, and although you are completely certain about your stance on him carrying you home, you would be lying if you said the idea of stumbling home without your walker or shirt sounds very appealing.
"Then what exactly are you suggesting?"
He looks off. "I'm suggesting she stays the night, Leo."
Mikey blinks. "What, in your room or on the couch?"
"It would be up to her."
That works for you. "Your home. You pick. Where do you keep your sewing supplies?" You slip out of the circle the four of you have formed.
"On top of the bookshelf," he points. "Behind the cardboard box."
You nod, hopping over.
Mikey offers his two cents. "It makes more sense for you two to share a room. It's kinda cold in the front room, and you guys'll probably end up going to bed at around the same time anyways. She also has your blanket."
You stand on your toes, fingertips brushing against a plastic container.
"That's a fair point." You catch it before it cracks open on the ground. "Training starts pretty early, so she should have time to grab her things before school."
"See? Foolproof plan."
"Would Master Splinter approve?"
"Leo," you call over your shoulder, "he's slept over at my house twice already. I really doubt he cares."
"But we don't know."
"Then you can go ask him." You turn around. "Where's the jacket?"
"In the cardboard box." Donnie starts towards the train wreck on the tracks.
You pull it down, taking your shirt and jacket and sitting down, crossing your bad leg under the one you can use, despite the nausea. 'Exposure therapy.' "Thanks."
"No problem."
You feel a tap on your shoulder. You glance up at Mikey, who crouches down next to you as Leo waves to his brothers and leaves. "You need anything?"
He shakes his head. "Just wanted to hang out with you is all," he shrugs. "You didn't go after Donnie."
"I didn't," you nod in agreement.
"Why?"
"Because car." You unlatch the box, carefully digging around inside for some pins. "That, and the smell is bad enough from over here."
He crosses his legs in front of him. "That's fair." He taps his foot absentmindedly. "You think he knows?"
"I thought I made it pretty damn clear," you shrug, "but it's Donnie, so I wouldn't bet on it."
He grins at that. "Then do you wanna hang out while you work on that out front? He isn't exactly talkative when he gets in the zone."
You shake your head. "If I do, I won't get much done," you admit. You unwind a long portion of the thread, snapping it apart. "Besides, the only way to get over a fear is to face it head-on."
"Alright." He hops to his feet. "Thought I'd ask. Have fun."
"Bet," you mumble through a bit tongue, shaky fingers making threading the needle almost impossible. "You too."
"See ya." He waves, running out of the lab.
You let out a breath, picking a piece of loose wire off of a table and creating a poor imitation of a threader. While you genuinely enjoy talking with Michelangelo, you have some things to think over.
Clumsy fingers start on a running stitch. If your timetable still holds true—which, surprisingly enough, it has thus far—the episode after next's plot will take place in about three weeks. Your cast is coming off in two. You do not know where and when The Kraang are coming through their portal, or if there is any way for you guys to know, but seeing as you are skipping the episode where the turtles get stuck in a labyrinth under the assumption that, without Baxter being bullied by the Shredder and his goons, he has no reason to construct it, you would tentatively estimate the next episode will happen in about a week. You are still fairly sure that Stockman will not get involved with the Shredder without his input until Oroku finally opens his eyes to the dangers and powers of the Kraang, which should happen around the same time as the next episode.
Your eyes glaze over as you get into the groove of it. 'The next episode is also when the guys get on Karai's shit list because they betray her, and, if that happens, the episode where the Shredder starts getting involved with the Kraang and comes to appreciate their resources." You prick your finger. 'It wouldn't be long after that before Saki gets the idea to create a mutant army, and with Baxter already somewhat on the villainous map, our best chance to make sure he doesn't end up under his employment is to...'
You wipe the sticky liquid on your jeans, careful of the bandages on your back. 'It's not a guarantee that he even knows Baxter exists.' Your eyebrows furrow in concentration as you try to keep the stitches separated at equal distances. 'Hell, it's not a guarantee he's even alive. Still, it's better to air on the side of caution and not think about how you'll have to do it until the time comes.'
You let out a soft sigh. "I'll buy a gun, when that happens," you murmur to yourself. "Just want more time where bodily harm is all I have to deal with is all."
--
You slide your poorly stitched jacket over your shoulders under the blanket, pulling your sleeves into place and zipping it up. After folding the blanket up and draping it over your arm, you pull yourself to your feet, hopping over to Donatello and his death trap as he sat down, looking over his work. "How're the repairs comin'?"
The two of you have not spoken for the three hours it took you to repair the jacket, and significantly more progress has been made on his end than yours. At the very least, the generally rectangular frame was pounded back into submission.
He looks over at you, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand and stifling a yawn. "Fine," he sighs, looking back at the hulking mass of metal as you lower yourself down next to him. "It won't blow up or anything if it's driven, but it still needs another day's worth of work to get it back to where it was before." You nod along as he goes into more intimate detail, not understanding half of it, but happy to just listen to him talk resentfully about the whole process that you can tell he genuinely does not mind.
"Sounds like a time." You rest your head on your good knee. "And you're not gonna fix the graffiti?"
"It rubs off," he shrugs. "Besides, it's not exactly important to the design."
Your head bends in a subtle nod, cheek numb from the pressure of your knee. "Are you going to sleep today?"
He shrugs. "Maybe? It wouldn't be a bad idea." His legs are almost crisscrossed in front of him, and he leans his weight back on his skinny, muscular arms. "I honestly don't want to leave it alone, though. It would be weird to just leave it unfinished.
"Hardly, but alright." You sit up for a moment, handing him back his quilt. "Thanks for giving me something to cover myself up with, and for not ditching me on a roof, and patching me up, and—I owe you, is what I'm getting at."
He smiles tiredly. "Don't worry about it, really," he reassures you, his face flushing and muscles relaxing slightly. "You've made it up plenty."
"I disagree. I've never saved your life." You trace the fading lines on your cast his brother had left.
"I don't think a ton of people would literally kill someone for me and my family," he argues. "That's pretty awesome, right?"
'Not sure how I feel about framing murder as a positive thing.' You do not say anything, looking back at his work.
He sighs. "You should go to bed," he advises practically. "It's getting late."
"Never stopped you." You straighten your legs. "I'll go if you come with."
"Tempting," he teases with a sudden burst of confidence, hoping to his feet and outstretching his arm to help you up, "but what's in it for me?"
Your face lights up as your face goes red at his borderline roguishness, taking his arm pulling yourself up. "For as much shit as you're going to get for it," you promise, pecking where his nose would be with an almost kittenish smile, "I'll get up extra early, make everyone breakfast, and go topside for coffee."
His face almost turns the shade of a human blush, forwardness gone in an instant. "C-can't," he stutters, clearly flustered. "When I was eleven, I got addicted to it and I'm not allowed to have any anymore."
"Relatable," you giggle. You blow the hair out of your face, comfortable as he helps you walk towards the door, the air between you two charged with electricity. "Is that for all caffeine or just coffee?"
He opens it for the two of you, ever the gentleman with the quilt over his shoulder. "Tea's fine. Don't bring tea down, though," he quickly clarifies. "Leo'll have a very inconspicuous fit."
You blink curiously, looking up at him as he pulls you along. "Why?"
"It's the one food thing he's particular about," he shrugs, not bothering to hide his gooey smile as you use his upper arm for support. "Couldn't tell you why."
"Are you particular about any foodstuff?"
"Not really?" He helps you up a few steps. "I'm not Mikey, but I don't think I'm that picky about that sort of thing."
"That's fair."
You do not let go of his arm to use the wall. You do not even think to if Donnie is reading your body language correctly. His smile widens as he opens the door for you.
You give a nod as thanks, lowering down onto the foot of his relatively narrow bed. "Alright," you clap your hands together quietly as he sits next to you. "How do you wanna do this?"
You are sitting on his bed, willing, with no pretense other than sleeping getter. He is currently on cloud nine.
You look back at the frame. "Too narrow for us to lay side by side," you note. "You sleep on your front, meaning you will likely take up most of the room.' You look between him and the bed, trying to imagine a position that would work. "You could lay on top of me, I guess, but then your legs would hang off the end."
"I can sleep on my side," he offers hurriedly. "If that makes things easier, I mean."
"You sure?" Your fingers fumble with your shoelaces.
He nods eagerly. "S-so long as you still don't mind being close to me, I mean. The bed's still kinda narrow."
You roll your eyes, smiling. "We've slept together before," you reason. "If you wanted to pull anything, you would've the other two times."
He glances off, face still red. "Y-yeah," he rubs the back of his neck bashfully. "That makes sense."
You gesture to the bed. "Then," you nod once, "so long as you're comfortable, you lay down. I'll work from there."
He tentatively lays himself down, facing the wall, tensing ever so slightly as you lay behind him, legs curling up under his thighs.
You lay your arm under your head as a pillow, the other pulling the blanket over the two of you. "This work," you whisper, closing your eyes.
"Mhm," he hums, covering his face with his hands. "We closed the door, right?"
You look back over. "Yup."
"Locked it?"
"Seems so."
He relaxes a bit. "Alright," he nods, quietly reveling in the way your fingers, again, traced the indentations in his shell like the first night.
'When I wake tomorrow,' he realizes, 'she'll be right there. Right behind me, in my bed. By choice.' He smiles behind his fingers. 'When we get older, maybe we could have our own place. Or our own room, more accurately, where she just lives with us. Imagine her moving in. If—no, when,' he corrects himself, 'we defeat The Shredder, if I ever get the nerve, I'll ask her.' He reaches his leg back, entangling it with yours carefully. 'Would we have to get married first? No, you move in before you get married, right? I should've paid more attention during those movie marathons.' He closes his eyes as you drift off, focusing on this train of thought. 'How long do you need to be in a relationship before you get married? How would we get married, even? Legally, that would be impossible, right? I can't go to a courthouse. And if we had a child—practically speaking, of course—would they live with us or go to a public school? We could give them a good education, I'm sure, but—'
You shift in your sleep, absently laying your arm over his side and pulling him closer.
He exhales, allowing himself to relax back into you. 'Not tonight.' He rests his hand on top of yours. 'It's too late, too soon.' His thumb runs along the back of your hand, letting himself drift off in your arms.
'It'll be okay. We'll last long enough to take it slow.'