"Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, only a signal shown, and a distant voice in the darkness; So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another, only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence." - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Ships in the Night

The window slammed up, startling him. He jumped to his feet as the sound of it echoed down into the gangway.

"Where were you?!"

Her voice was thick with slumber, breathless; eyes were wild, hurt, bright with fright. Her fingers dug into the casing of the window as she leaned slightly forward. The tangle of dark auburn hair tumbled over her shoulders. The top a riot of unkempt curls. The thin night gown she wore billowed. The neckline low, sweeping freely over one rounded shoulder. A swath of bare, freckled flesh caught his eye.

Dropping his gaze to the rusted metal below, scrutinizing the swirling pattern as though he'd never seen it before, he stammered, "A-April. Here. I was here, the whole time."

When she didn't answer, he looked up over the rim of his glasses. Her fearful expression had him reaching for her, across the frigid expanse of air acting as an invisible barrier; keeping him from her and all the warmth emanating from her open window. But hesitating just before his fingertips brushed her skin, dropped his arm back.

"Uh," he ducked his chin.

He was not invited. Not inside. It was improper; presumptuous. And certainly not to touch her when clearly uninvited to do so. They'd only just met, really. A few months. What was that, in the immeasurable scheme of things? Nothing. Certainly not time enough to develop a familiarity close enough for the exchanging of fleeting touches. No matter how brief.

So she'd helped him in his lab a few times. He helped her examine this building and assess the condition of repair it required. They'd gone together to investigate a lab. And when she came down to the lair, they exchanged a little banter. Well, she bantered, he stammered and stumbled over every other word when he'd finally find his voice. Something his brothers loved to use against him as soon as she'd leave.

Truthfully, they knew each other strictly as associates.

He wasn't even sure if she thought of him as a friend. Though he'd like that. Very much. Though how to transition from associates to friends was something that eluded him.

Unsurprisingly, Michelangelo had ingratiated himself and more inexplicably, crude as he was, so had Raphael. Leonardo kept his relationship with her professional and distant, something that he noticed unmistakably ever since Halloween when she'd come over dressed as a samurai bunny.

The memory of her revealing costume filled his mind. His gaze swept upwards to her bare shoulder, sliding across her collarbone and lower, until, he pinched his eyes closed. He cleared his throat, fidgeting; feeling his face flush and not from the cold.

It didn't matter that he found her exceedingly attractive. And refreshingly intelligent. Kind and thoughtful. Determined and funny. Nubile. Perfectly Pulchritudinous.

His glasses fogged.

No, it didn't matter, his . . . feelings. He thought the last word with an internal snort of derision. They amounted to wistful longings, base compulsions due to hormonal shifts and the naturally strong urges to procreate that came with being of the male persuasion. Nothing of import.

Her eyes glittered in the low light, catching on some unseen illumination. The blue sparked as she glanced up at him, then once more into the surrounding darkness. His breath caught in his chest.

Not for the first time, he wondered what had driven her to call him and not one of his brothers. What could he offer her that they could not in this effect? Not that he was complaining. He was just . . . curious.

He thought of her calling him to investigate that lab two weeks ago. How she'd confided in him that she felt safe with him and that's why she hadn't wanted to bring his brothers. She felt comfortable around him alone at the chance that she'd made a mistake.

But why that was remained a perplexing conundrum. Despite his confusion, he'd made it to her apartment in record time.

Did he hurry once he'd gotten the call? Not really. A healthy sprint through the sewers did wonders for the respiratory system. He'd only been dozing in bed, after all. It was just what he needed to clear his mind.

A mile and a half in 5:34. No, he hadn't hurried. Not at all.

"You . . . were here?" She looked around, unsure, eyes darting. "The whole time?" Her anxiety making Donatello twist and double check what he already knew.

The night was empty of threats. No one and nothing stirred in the empty neighborhood below. No sign of gang members nor of the guy who'd shown up the last time he'd seen her.

Donatello's brow dropped into a frown with the remembrance.

That man. An brutish oaf that pulled up on the motorcycle. Jones. His name was Jones.

A curl of deep dislike twisted in his gut. If he'd been thinking clearly, he'd have seen there was absolutely no reason to be reacting in such a primitive manner. They were not rivals. What was another strange human to him?

And yet. The vision of the man's smirking grin as he approached April filled him with the need do to something violent. He could not see beyond the black haze of growing hatred.

Intellectual as he was, he did not discount intuition. And where this man was concerned, his intuition signaled trouble. And they were neighbors! He glared at the building over his shoulder. He'd need to talk to her about avoiding that human. There was just something about the guy that made his shell twitch. He was trouble.

Another thought hit him then. Much better to rid the neighborhood of the pest rather than inconvenience their friend.

Perhaps it would be better to inform Raphael of the threatening man's presence in the neighborhood. Things at home had been rather repetitious for his hot-headed brother. Fixing up the new lair, redecorating, and working alongside Donatello with his more tedious tasks, such as carefully stringing delicate wiring through yards and yards of ducting didn't quite gel with Raph's temperament.

A little side project might be just the thing to get him off all their shells.

"Oh," April said, still blinking from her nightmare. Still half-asleep. Looking disheveled, slightly lost.

Painfully, utterly beautiful.

Donatello swallowed, unable to find his voice, so he remained standing there, feeling gangly and awkward on her fire escape just outside her bedroom window. A sentry against whatever it was she needed protection from.

No, there were no enemies, no threats of any kind present. At least those that lingered without. The ones within, well, they were another matter entirely.

The silence floundered between them.

An icy breeze swept up the brick wall; cutting between them and raising gooseflesh along her bare arms. Donatello shivered but did his best to hide his discomfort.

As if only now realizing that he'd been out there, in the frost-kissed darkness since sunset four hours ago, when she'd called him here, she started. She considered him, fixed there, on her rickety fire escape, barely attached to the crumbling side of the old building, hiding his tremors every few seconds as he braced against the frigid March night.

"I think," she said, with a self-deprecating huff, dropping her shoulders, "maybe you should go home."

He adjusted his stance, bo out, gripped in both hands, more to assure her that he was ready to face off with any foe, at any moment, should the need arise, than for any real necessity. The hard surface of the fire escape had imprinted pale pinkish green designs into his knees. His back and neck ached and his eyes stung with weariness. It was nothing.

He shook his head.

There was no way he'd leave. Not until she was ready to be alone once again. If it took all night, he'd not leave this spot.

In complete honesty, yes. It had been troublesome, squatting here in the chilled night air, watching for something that would never come. April's nightmares being nothing more than that: visions brought on from her recent traumatic experiences. Not only that, with her recent move from the comfort of a familiar neighborhood, her new job causing stress, and Sacks' trial looming, the negative emotions were being stirred and her subconscious was in turmoil.

If it would help her, however incrementally, he'd stand here the entire night. Guarding her from her fears, imagined or not. Keeping the boredom at bay by measuring patterns in the cracks of the brickwork in the neighboring building and counting cars that raced down the busy intersection a few blocks away.

He'd left his gear at home. Though it would have helped to pass the time, the missing weight on his back was something he was grateful for. And despite the boredom, the cold, the aches, and pins and needles in his calves from squatting in the small space, he wouldn't be anywhere else. Not for anything.

"Are you sure?"

"I said I wouldn't leave," he reminded her simply.

She rubbed her upper arms vigorously, ducking her head. Considering. Clearly torn. She glanced at him and he gave her a wavering smile. Trying and failing at hiding his intermittent shivering.

It was wrong. To keep him here. But the reoccurring nightmare had been so real.

The Shredder, undefeated, taking her forcibly down with him into the tower, leading her to a chamber like something out of a B horror movie where the boys are tethered; each in various states of torment, chained to the wall, in agony. The walls between somehow seem alive. They writhe with hidden soldiers, ninja with weapons gleaming in the corners of her eyes. She reaches out for her friends, but is pulled back by the Shredder's rough hands.

Donatello is nowhere in sight and this fills her with renewed fright.

But the worst of it is when the man emerges from the shadowy depths of the room. A pair of enormous glasses distorting the dark-skinned face, split in two by a wide, sinister smile. The Shredder holds her in place as the man approaches. Grinning triumphantly.

A large jar between his hands.

And inside the jar.

Her father's head.

His eyelids raise suddenly and his mouth drops open and there comes the screech of an animal. Some terrible creature of the night. Shrieking. High-pitched and terrible. Like a bat.

And that's when she woke up. Just like all the other nights. Gasping and fighting her blankets. Rolling onto the floor in a cold sweat. Trembling all over.

April trembled now. A violent shudder swept through her. And again, she saw Donatello reach for her only to hesitate at the last second, consider his fingers and drop his arm back to his bo. He gripped it and twisted it beneath his palms. Bunching the tight toned biceps that cut just above the tendons of his inner elbow.

What she would give to feel those strong arms wrapping around her, chasing away her fear. She blinked at the unintentional thought.

Would that be so wrong? To want him, inside? With her? Because she did. Didn't she?

And yet, she hadn't invited him inside, had she? And why, she wondered. She glanced over her shoulder at the rumpled blankets on her bed. She blinked rapidly. The sight brought a strange thrill of fear and something tantalizing but just out of reach of comprehension.

She blew out a breath, ignoring the thought before it fully formed. Turned back to him. Felt silly for having even called him here in the first place. She was a grown woman. Could take care of herself. Had proven it time and again.

And yet.

Having him here, even just outside her window, keeping watch, guarding her, protecting her, was deeply comforting. It was the only way she could get any real rest. She hadn't slept decently in weeks and she was at her wits end.

He was looking at her curiously. She ran her hand through the top of her hair and huffed a nervous laugh. "Uh, okay then . . . just for a little longer?" she asked quietly, unable to meet his earnest expression. So clearly willing to do whatever she asked.

Selfish. If her mother saw her now, that's what she'd declare. "Missy, you're are being a Selfish Sally." The memory of her mother's chastisement, done playfully, but making the point clear, from so long ago suddenly caused a lump in her throat. Her eyes watered.

Oh god, she was over-tired. No doubt about it. Getting sentimental over ancient memories of parents long gone. Yeah. She needed some sleep.

She caught him nodding from the corner of her eye and looked up.

"Yes. Of course." His eyes were wide and soft, full of empathy behind the lenses of his enormous glasses. And there was something more.

She dropped her gaze to the window sill. Wanting and not wanting to see that there in his eyes. Feeling her cheeks heat. Feeling young and exposed and ridiculously vulnerable. Yeah, sleep was needed. Badly.

His soft voice had her heart tumbling.

"As long as you need." He shivered and adjusted his hands on the staff.

She nodded, gave him a fleeting look and a wavering smile; easing back to close the window once more. She hesitated and decided to leave it open a crack, so that some of the warmth from her room might reach him.

He remained where he was, looking in on her as she backed into the dark embrace of her cozy bedroom. April gave him a short wave and dropped her hand down to rub against the other, then vigorously again at her arms, scrubbing away the chill. Scouring away the guilt and the strange urging to go back out into the cold to just stand near him once more.

She dropped to the edge of her bed. She saw him turn through her curtains. Going back to sentry duty.

She flopped back. Stared at the ceiling and then rolled on her side. She plucked at the tucked bundle of blanket; pursed her lips and felt her gaze wander back to the window. Seeing his silhouette, standing in the cold. In the dark. Alone.

As she'd left him for the past four hours.

She bolted upright, crossed the room, flung open the window and reached out.

He yipped in surprise as she took hold of the upper part of his shell and yanked him backwards towards the window.

"Get in here, already!"

He scrambled to right himself, twisting around and ducking in time to miss clocking his head against the window, feeling his face crushed into her softness as she continued to tug him forcibly through into her bedroom. He fumbled and fell besides her to his hands and knees. Bewildered, he glanced up to one side to see her slamming the window closed.

She turned to him with a jubilant look that bordered on wild.

He swallowed, heart tripping, and swept his gaze back to the fluffy rug he perched upon. "Uh, d-do you . . . I guess you need something, then? I m-mean, erm, s-something you need with me, uh, of me. In here, y-your bedroom. For me to fix," he finished with some force and then clammed up, eyes darting about.

He dropped his head between his hands for only a moment, wishing he never said a word to begin with, when she stooped, and taking hold of his shoulder and upper arm, pulled him to straighten up and sit on his heels.

She crouched next to him. Very, very close.

"Tea."

He blinked. "Tea."

She frowned and brought a finger to her chin. "No."

He shook his head. Baffled.

She snapped her fingers. "Coffee!"

He nodded but abruptly switched to shaking his head negatively as she did the same.

She scrunched up her nose. "No. Not if I want to get any sleep at all tonight."

She rested her arms on her thighs and Donatello tried his very hardest not to notice how the short gown had ridden up high on her firm thighs, bunching near her hips, revealing the toned loveliness of her long legs.

She slapped her thighs and stood up. "Only one thing to do."

Before he knew what was happening, she grabbed his arm again and pulled him to standing. Dragging him through the room, they made their way down the short hallway down to her kitchen. She planted him into a chair which creaked as he dropped into it with a grunt.

Out from a cabinet, she produced two mugs. One of them had a grumpy-faced cat glaring from the side. She placed it in front of him. He blinked down at the face scowling up at him.

He was reminded of Raph.

The other was a standard I-heart-NY mug. She brought out a pan and filled it with milk. Then added a dollop of vanilla, a few scoops of sugar and stirred vigorously with a whisk; one hand braced on her waist.

He peered at her with a sidelong look, trying to keep calm. It wasn't the first time he'd been inside her apartment. It just had been a while since he'd been.

From a tin she shook cocoa powder and stirred once more until the milk was creamy and frothy and steaming. She returned to the table, tipped the heated liquid into the grumpy cat mug then filled her own.

The pleasant scent of vanilla and chocolate wafted through the room. He felt some of the earlier tension releasing throughout his body.

This was rather nice.

Donatello reached out for his mug when she tapped his hand. He blinked, surprised, slipping his hand back automatically. She wagged a finger at him and he felt immediately chastised. He ducked his head and watched sheepishly as she dashed away, emerged from under another cabinet with a bag of marshmallows. She tore it open against her chest. A few of the white cubes bounced over her breasts and onto the floor.

Donatello covered his line of sight with one palm and coughed, moving to cover the motion by adjusting his glasses.

Don't be an ass, he chastened himself.

She appeared next to him. Dropping a comically numerous amount of marshmallows into her mug, she lifted her fist over his mug. He felt his face breaking into a shaky smile and he nodded. She dropped not quite as many, but still far more than what might have been advisable into his own. A few bounded over the rim and rolled across the surface of the table. He caught one between finger and thumb and before he could consider the action, tossed it towards her.

She looked up in time, moved her head and caught it in her mouth; chewing with a wide smile. He felt his face flush and his nervous grin relaxed into something real.

She picked up her mug and looked expectantly at him. He quickly reached out and raised his mug. She leaned over the table and clinked her mug against his gently.

"To a good night's sleep."

She sipped at her drink and he did the same. Tipping the mug further as he drank down the comforting brew. He set the half-empty mug down on the table.

"Quite good," he commented, glancing into the mug. "I usually prefer a slightly higher temperature, one adequate to haste the melting of the –"

Her expression made him falter. She grinned around the mug at him, eyes twinkling in mischief.

"Erm, uh, what I m-mean is, this is quite good."

He blinked, eyes darting to the side as self-consciousness made him fidget.

Suddenly, she leaned forward and ran her thumb over his upper lip. Then, to his astonishment, she popped her thumb into her mouth. His eyes widened, heart tripping as his blood flamed as she sucked the cocoa from it.

"Hot cocoa mustache," she said.

He ducked his head. "Heh, oh, uh, right."

She sipped more of her drink then set the mug aside. She rested the side of her head against the heel of her hand, studying him.

"Heh," he glanced around and fidgeted in his seat. "I gather you are feeling better?"

She nodded against her hand. Blew out a breath, "Stupid nightmares. It's silly. I'm too old for nightmares."

"As a product of the subconscious, nightmares can occur to anyone, at any age. Considering what you've gone through recently, it's perfectly acceptable to experience such disturbances."

"Donatello, I'm sorry for bothering you."

His face shot to her. "N-No, no bother."

"I just thought, maybe, I dunno," she said, "I thought having you here might make me feel better."

His eyelids fluttered and he glanced away. "I suppose I did nothing to assuage your fears."

She sat up, "What?"

"Your nightmare returned, even while I was here. Your sleep was disrupted. I did nothing to help."

She said nothing and he felt for the moment, that he'd spoken exactly what she'd been thinking. His stomach sank and he was about to excuse himself. He shifted back to push from the table.

But then she scooted to the edge of her seat. She reached out and took his wrist, prying with her fingertips until his hand turned over. She took his calloused hand in hers and squeezed it.

"That's not true."

He stared at her hand in his. Muted by the intense feelings the simple gesture was causing him to experience.

She stood up and he raised his head by inches, following the movement. She had not released his hand. She gave a gentle tug.

He rose to his feet. Standing eventually, over her, gazing down into her eyes. All the breath squeezing from his lungs. His heart a staccato against his ribs and all his skin tingling from where her flesh met his.

"I think I'd sleep better if you stayed here with me."

The words fell softly but he felt them like hammer blows.

"I . . . I, uh," he stammered. His cheeks burned. He cleared his throat, trying to arrange his thoughts into something coherent. Just what was she asking?

"Would that be okay," she asked, "with Master Splinter?"

The sound of his sensei's name brought him back to Earth. He started and took a half-step back, still his hand remained captured by her own, delicate fingers. He fumbled and pulled the phone from his belt.

"I-I should probably, just, uh," he coughed, "text Leo and let him know where I am. Wh-Where I'll be . . . for the rest . . . of the-the, uh, night."

"Would he be up at this hour?"

She followed his gaze to the phone in his opposite hand.

"Three a.m. for Leo is usually reserved for his meditation before early training on Saturday mornings."

Her brows raised. "Will you get in trouble for being here?"

I don't care, he wanted to say. But instead, he shrugged. With some regret, he felt her release his hand.

He typed in the words, explaining where he was and how long he intended to remain there. Not two seconds later, his phone chirped. He glanced down and frowned.

"Excuse me," he said and turned away, typing furiously with his thumbs, then, again, the phone chirped with the response. Sighing, he said over his shoulder, "I may need to call him."

She squinted. "I'm not getting you into trouble, am I?"

He squared his shoulders, turning to face her. "Not at all." Then he shifted his feet, looking around sheepishly.

April backed up, getting the message. "I'll be in my room, waiting for you," she said.

And for the love of science, Donatello felt his heart literally stop beating. He grabbed the back of one chair for support, feeling his knees wobble.

She turned away – and was that a flirtatious smile? - disappearing back down the hall.

Numbly, he pressed the speed dial to Leo's phone. It rang but once when immediately it was answered.

"What do you mean, you're spending the night at April's apartment," Leo's voice hissed over the line, without preamble or greeting.

A flare of anger made his neck heat. "What part do you not understand?"

The line was silent for a moment. Then bitingly, "You know exactly what I mean."

"Clarify for me," Donatello bit out, "please."

A sigh filled his ears that went on for what seemed an unnaturally long time. Donatello rolled his eyes.

Leonardo was an artisan of sighs. Each had their own unique blend of irritation, aggravation, disappointment, distress and vexation. Even Master Splinter could not match the subtlety and craftsmanship of Leonardo's sighs. They were each their own masterpiece.

Cutting through the lingering noise of his brother's artistic endeavor, he said, "I thought Master Splinter made it clear that whenever the Hogosha requires our assistance, we not hesitate."

"You want me to wake Splinter up and ask if this qualifies?"

Donatello bit the inside of his cheek, regretting bringing up their father. Honestly, he had no idea how he'd take this invitation from April. His cheeks burned and he shifted his feet.

Wait.

What exactly was he feeling ashamed of? What could Splinter take umbrage with? It was simply to keep her company, in order for her to get a decent night of rest. Nothing more untoward that than?

His jaw jumped as he ground his teeth together. Just what did he or Leonardo really think was going to happen here?

A torrid love affair?

With that thought, he dropped his shoulders and felt something like disappointment wash over him. But that couldn't be right, could it? What the hell was he thinking? Damn these illogical, nonsensical, incomprehensible feelings!

"Donatello, get your shell home. Right now. And I think you should talk to Master Splinter when he gets up."

The irrational anger swept over him again. Suddenly his brother was treating him like a child. One that was in trouble, for some reason. He'd had just about enough.

"I'll be home when I stated. No sooner."

"I order you to get –"

Donatello hung up on him.

His fists clenched around the phone. Knuckles whitening. Tempted to throw the phone against the wall, or out the window like some-some teenager having a tantrum. He caught himself. Lowered his arm.

He'd never felt this way before. He'd gotten into arguments with his brothers before, certainly. It was only natural that families bickered from time to time and even had major disagreements. Their family was no different. More often than not, however, he'd bow out. He didn't like confrontation, especially over trivial matters.

And he was never one to outright disobey Master Splinter or his brother once assigned as their leader. Despite Leo only being slightly older than he.

He glanced down at the phone in his hands. Felt it vibrate as Leo tried to call him back, no doubt furious with him.

He found he didn't care. And yet, while he felt at once triumphant and rebellious, his stomach burned with anxiety and regret. He felt sweat break out over his brow and a shaky feeling went through his entire body.

"Maybe I should just go home," he said aloud. Feeling strangely defeated. Slightly sick.

He turned and padded down the hallway. He stopped just inside the doorway of April's bedroom. She lay on her side, curled up, with one hand tucked under her pillow; eyes closed. From the gentle rising and falling of her chest, she was asleep.

Again came the disappointment - but for what reason, what possible reason could he have to feel disappointment? He stepped quietly across the room, glancing once more at her, sleeping peacefully. Feeling perplexed and off-kilter, he slipped out the window, closed it behind him and deftly climbed down the fire escape.

As he passed the neighboring building, he noticed a light was on. Within, the man with dark hair, Casey Jones, sat at the head of a table, taping his knuckles; a hockey stick lay across the surface of the table and Donatello could have sworn there was blood spattered over the wide end. Having finished, the man stood up, grabbed his sport's utensil and jabbed it into a thick bag. He slung the strap over his shoulder and exited the room, turning out the light as he went.

Momentarily forgetting his discomforted state of mind, he firmed his resolve to have Raphael persuade this man to leave the neighborhood. He turned to the alley with the large storm drain. First though, he had to get home and face his overbearing brother and whatever his master had to say about the situation.

Though what the problem could possibly be with him guarding their Hogosha, he didn't know. And a part of him whispered that it wouldn't make any difference to him whether they liked it or approved of it or not. Should April call, he would be there. End of discussion.

And if this new stubbornness where the woman was concerned surprised him, he didn't waste a moment to consider it.

# # #

An hour later, April woke with a gasp. The nightmare hadn't awakened her, no, it was a sound, outside.

She glanced around, suddenly remembering that Donatello was supposed to have stayed the night with her. The pillows and extra blanket remained on the side of the bed where she left them, untouched.

Her shoulders slumped. Before she could examine the flood of emotions, namely disappointment and hurt that flooded through her, she went rigid as the scraping, pounding sound came again.

She rolled out of bed and threw on a robe, hurrying to the window to peek out towards the front of the building. There was nothing. The street was empty. Then she looked down to see a figure leaning against the store's front door. If it were a burglar, he was doing a poor job.

"What the hell?"

The pounding came again, startling her. She opened the door of her apartment to the landing which connected the two stories. She raced down the stairs and peeked out the barred window next to the door of her shop. She made out a man with dark hair and what looked like a bag of sport's equipment. He turned his head as he pounded weakly against the door.

Recognition flared.

It was that guy, Charlie, no, Casey. Her neighbor slumped against the brickwork. She heard him swear. Something was definitely wrong with him. Drunk? High?

She stepped back, felt momentarily torn. Glancing down the street in both directions, once again, she saw no one else in the vicinity. What the hell was going on? Then she heard a soft groan of pain and realized he was hurt.

Hastily, she unlock the bolt and pulled the door open. He fell forward. She caught him clumsily and backed into the store as she did. He splayed across the linoleum. Bracing on two large hands, wrapped in stained tape, he rose up, balancing on one thigh. His head remained hanging low between his shoulders. He lifted his hand and pulled the hockey mask, cracked and splattered with something, from his head. He dropped it with a clatter, his hand waving awkwardly around.

"S-Sorry," he slurred. He looked up at her, blue eyes partly marred by the swelling and bruising. She gaped at the mess his face was in.

He grinned, sloppy and with wry humor, "G-Got a cup of sugar I can borrow?" He snickered softly, then winced.

"Oh my god," she said. "What happened?"

He shook his head and struggled to sit up straighter. He ran a hand over and through his mussed hair and grimaced. His good eye twinkled through the pain.

"No? Well." He sighed and squinted up at her, said, "that's awrigh'. How about some ice, then?"

Even banged up, she had to admit, he was good-looking. In a wild, sort of feral kind of way. Her eyes traveled down the rumbled white t-shirt, torn and stained in places, lifted slightly to reveal a glimpse of toned abs and a line of dark hair.

"I'd be happy to get you a whole bag of ice in return, if it's a problem, uh, just as soon as I can walk again," he interrupted her staring.

She patted his shoulder, abashed at herself for being rude. "Right. Sorry. Ice."

Her heart fluttered as she ran to get the ice from the freezer upstairs. Her body aroused. She fanned her face and cursed under her breath.

"What is with this guy? Why's he got to be so damn hot? Get it under control, girlie," she muttered.

In the kitchen, her hip bumped the table, her eye catching on the mugs as they rattled. She hesitated, reminded of the earlier disappointment at finding Donatello gone. Rallying, she scanned around for a note, but there was none. The disappointment deepened and in the back of her mind she wondered again whether she'd been only making a fool of herself in front of him.

Perhaps he simply didn't find her attractive. And why would he? She was only human. Maybe he only liked turtles. But somehow that made even less sense.

"What have I been thinking? God!" She stared morosely at the mugs, feeling as though she'd just lost a friend. Or something more. "I'm an idiot."

Snapping herself from her thoughts, she moved to the freezer. When she raced back into the living room, Casey stood leaning heavily against the doorway of her apartment. One hand was holding his ribs, t-shirt bunched to reveal once more the toned lines of his torso, his tattered jeans hung low across his hips.

Her mouth went dry.

"Mind if I come in?" he asked.

A/N: *insert evil giggling* AW yeah. I'm sorry. Ahem. What was I going to type? Okay, yeah, I'm setting up a one shot for Raph to meet and confront Casey and I'm scared to death and thrilled to get it written.

'Cuz it's one of my UTTERLY FAVORITE things in the ENTIRE TMNT universe - when those two knuckle heads meet, beat the snot out of each other, banter wickedly, and end up as best buds.