based off of a prompt back on tumblr: donnie, and raph, and some sibling-time together.

raph is not a good brother sometimes.

tmnt = viacom.

hey batter batter

For as long as Raph's known Donnie, he's never been mean about sports – at least, not like he could be. He just waves it off whenever Raph wants to watch hockey, or boxing. Ninjutsu's enough for him, he always says, with a polite smile of total disinterest, and keeps tapping away on that laptop of his. Which — when you want to watch the game, you want to watch the game, not feel awkward for stealing the TV. Donnie'll watch the Super Bowl, like any other good American does, and he'll cheer for the underdog, same as Leo does, but that's it.

But sometimes, Raph can hear Donnie in his lab with the radio on low, and sometimes he'll rip out a rattle of curses that reach as far as the dojo and get himself a long meditation on finding one's centre, and sometimes, Donnie'll be happier than he was the month after he first figured out how to order C4 on the internet.

Thing is, Raph does have an interest in sports. Knows all of the tricks, from the radio, to sneaking to the nearest storm drain to get the sports pages after rush hour's over, to long text conversations at 2am trashing Casey's traitorous love for a Canadian NHL team (even worse — a French-Canadian team).

So Raph knows, the second he sees Donnie craning his head to look through the wrong window on patrol one night, exactly what the problem is.

It's the reason why Donnie has a perfect stance with his bo, and why Donnie could, apparently, bat home runs with little canisters of salt into a giant worm-face with a two-inch diameter stick. Why Donnie's kept himself to the lab more than usual lately, without coming out to watch TV.

It's the reason why Donnie has been a perfect little prick these past couple of weeks, snapping at Mikey for everything, at Leo for interrupting him when in the lab, and at Raph for making them stay an extra half-hour to perfect kata.

The wrong window happens to have the TV on.

And the Yankees are in the middle of a losing streak wider than the East River.

Donnie is addicted to baseball.

Nobody else seems to have figured this out, and that?

That's just fine with Raph.

The first thing Raph does is total the kitchen radio. Start small.

He's so apologetic about it — sorry, Donnie, I really am — with the kind of sincerity that Leo never, ever buys but somehow Donnie always falls for. Asks nicely how long it'll take Donnie to fix, and makes himself look suitably mournful when Donnie pulls out what's left of the antenna out of the sink drain.

He almost offers to make Donnie coffee, to make up for it, but that's going too far. He doesn't want to give himself away just yet.

After morning training, Raph's first out, waiting in the kitchen for Mikey to finish putting his nunchucks away and come start the stove. He's just about swallowed his first mouthful of juice (from the carton, just to piss Leo off) when Mikey comes skittering through the curtain, but instead of going to the oven, he grabs onto Raph's arm and starts dragging. "Raph!" he says, except it's the type of fake-whisper that's just as loud and not even trying to be subtle. "Raph Raph Raph Raph you gotta get back up here! Sensei's gonna tear Donnie out."

So of course Raph goes, because one brother being shamed is something that needs to be watched. Leo is already there, in the best listening spot, just at the top of the steps. Raph sidles up, nudging Leo with his shoulder just as Splinter really starts to tear into Donnie:

"Perhaps you would like to explain your form this morning," says Splinter, and Donnie, all meek and reeking of guilt, peeks up from where he's already hanging his head.

"My— my form?"

"Ye-e-e-es," Splinter prompts. "Your form. Your seri ai, something you had mastered by the age of seven, for example. Would you like to explain to me how Leonardo almost sliced open your wrist?"

"M-minor miscalculation?"

"Oooooh, bad idea," Mikey says, under his breath. Donnie doesn't miscalculate.

Donnie wilts, and starts to babble, digging his own grave while Splinter just watches, and Raph sees an opportunity and takes it.

So he swaggers in. "Aw, Donnie, now that's just not true!"

Donnie stares at him, torn between being confused and aghast at his brother selling him out. While he's still trying to come up with a response, Raph takes advantage of the opening and throws an arm around his shoulders. "Donnie's still trying to make more retromutagen, sensei," he explains, squeezing Donnie supportively.

It's a half-truth.

Donnie is still trying to make retromutagen, but considering Donnie has spent the past fifteen years playing dodgeball with bedtimes, a half-lie is more believable than the idea that for once Donnie actually went to sleep at a reasonable hour last night, because this is Donnie.

So Splinter buys it. "I see," he says, nodding. His hand has started stroking his beard in the way that all four of them recognise as his choosing a punishment stroke. Then, he sighs. "My son," he begins, even as Donnie tries to protest. "Three hours is not enough sleep for anybody, let alone a young ninja, and you will not save anyone if you are so tired to focus on your training that you make a mistake in battle, or in creating this retromutagen."

"I was in bed last night by ten!"

Donnie throws Raph's arm off, and Raph glances up at his father, hoping that his face conveys a decent enough level of look at him, sensei. He's delusional. He needs help. This is an intervention.

Splinter nods.

"Donatello."

Even Raph jumps, because that's Splinter's Dad Voice, the one he uses to shut them up and make them listen to all of the horrible things he is going to make them do as punishment. Last time, it was a full-scale decontamination of Mikey's room, while the little shit stood by and bitched about how they had to be careful with his action figures and his Rad Brad cut-out. This time, Splinter towers above Donnie, his hand reaching out and touching Donnie's shoulder.

"Rest."

Donnie gets banned from the lab for twenty-four hours, and banned from everything else, too — no studying, no math, no T-Phone, just rest, for his 'overtaxed mind'. He opened his laptop at breakfast, and Splinter immediately appeared in the kitchen and gently closed the lid before Donnie could even load up Channel6's website. He didn't even say anything, just gave Donnie a paternal smile, picked up the laptop and glided back into the dojo, computer in tow.

The tiny pathetic noise Donnie made in protest had Raph diving into his food, jamming toast into his mouth to hide the grin on his face.

When breakfast is over, Donnie makes a beeline straight to the lab through force of habit, where he stands and looks at the chained doors.

And then he sits down, his knees up under his chin, and stares, miserably, at the gigantic padlock.

Mikey looks to Leo, who looks to Raph, who turns on the TV. "Raph!" Leo hisses, jerking his hand in Donnie's direction. This is, after all, Raph's fault.

Raph raises his hands in the universal gesture for nope. "Not my problem." He ignores Leo's glare and makes sure that the TV is on a rerun of one of Mikey's weird cooking shows before there's even the slightest hint of a news update. Leo makes a gruff, disgusted sighing noise in his throat, and then heads over, setting a hand on Donnie's shoulder that is immediately shrugged off. "C'mon, Donnie," he says, trying to cajole Donnie off the floor. "Let's go play videogames."

Donnie ignores him, and just keeps looking mournfully at the lab.

Leo sighs. "Donnie, you messed up in training. It happens! Use today to relax!"

"One thing!" Donnie spits. "I screwed up in one thing! And you," He turns to Raph, and the look on his face is beyond the level of a shitlook. This is Donnie, Destroyer of Worlds. "I will get you back for this."

Raph would, ordinarily, be scared. Donnie has a vicious streak in him, as well as Roach Team 6 in a jar somewhere in the lair.

But Raph is a ninja.

Raph has gone up against the worst of Donnie, as well as, y'know, the Kraang, and Donnie needs to suffer a little more.

Today is the final day of the Orioles, and if Donnie continues to be a brat, Donnie will continue to get no sports update.

By the time lunchtime rolls around, Raph's called in a favour, as insurance for when the news report airs. While Donnie sits, scowling at the TV, Raph casually checks his phone and glances over to the turnstiles just in time to see Casey vault over them.

"Turtles — and nerd — of New York, your saviour is here!"

Casey jumps down into the pit just in time for the sports report to start, and sets up shop right in front of the TV. In one hand, he has a sweating bag of pitas from a Greek food truck; in the other, he proudly holds up a VHS of Bad Boys 2.

Before Donnie even gets a chance to protest, Mikey the Moving Stomach has scented food from the other side of the lair and gets right up in Casey's face, big sad feed-me eyes and all.

Over feeding Mikey, the news talks about NFL, and then Casey slots in the cassette just as the newsreader says "And in baseball last night, the Yankees—"

Raph watches Donnie twitch, his eyes wide and desperate for baseball, and then COMING SOON TO DVD AND HOME VIDEO storms out of the TV and Donnie is denied his stupid Yankees for the next two hours and twenty-eight minutes.

It's a good day.

April turns up after school, after Donnie has finished prowling the lair looking for access to anything remotely technological and come up with nothing — Splinter has somehow managed to hide anything and everything Donnie might be able to convert into a data receiver, including the toaster, and Donnie has even been forbidden to leave the lair; when he had asked Splinter so very very nicely, if he might be allowed to go for a walk to clear his head, Splinter had smiled and told him that he was welcome to join him in meditation.

So Donnie sits, scowling at the TV while Casey and Mikey roll around the pit trying to one-up each-other with situations in which to use the phrase shit just got real.

"Casey!" April throws herself over the turnstiles. Everything about her screams danger. Raph keeps a careful watch over his comic book. "You cut class!? You skipped a test!?"

Casey looks like he fills his pants at the tone in April's voice. Even Donnie looks up from his sulk, always keen to watch Casey get reamed, and forever keen for April in general. "Oh!" says Casey, totally lying. "Was that today?"

Mikey opens his mouth, and Raph smacks the back of his head before he can even start the quote.

"Yes," April snaps back. "It was today. That big test that we spent all weekend studying for? The one that was the last chance before midterms to not suck?"

Casey shrugs.

"Caseyyyy," April whines, her backpack dropping loosely to the floor as Donnie reaches, silently and swiftly, for April's T-Phone, jammed in her back pocket. "The only reason I signed up for this stupid peer-mentoring thing was because my own grades sucked — if you fail, it looks bad on me!"

She stomps over, moving out of Donnie's sad, pathetic reach, and hauls Casey up by the ear. "Dojo," she snarls. "If I'm flunking trig again, I'm not failing as a kunoichi as well. Let's go, Jones."

The best thing about all of this, is that it's no longer just a matter of Donnie not getting any sports news, but Donnie literally going stir-crazy. After Splinter takes over the TV for his stories, and Leo has to call Donatello down from climbing the escape ladder in the middle of the den on a quest to listen to the streets for news, Donnie sits and starts to tear squares out of an old comic book, and makes paper cranes.

"Dude," Raph says, inwardly gleeful. "It's just one day. You're not going to make a thousand of those before tomorrow."

Donnie ignores him.

All Raph wanted was for Donnie to suffer a little for being such a little shit over his beloved Yankees, but it's become a trend in their lives that, if something can go wrong, it will. Loudly, and usually violently, no ifs or buts about it. They, as a family, have stinking luck. But today, in this tiny, low-level quest of Getting Donnie Back, somehow the stars have aligned for Raph.

When she's had enough of beating the snot out of Casey, April glides out of the dojo ready for patrol.

"Donnie, aren't you coming?"

Leo answers for him: "Donnie's off-duty tonight." He says it in his Leader voice, the one that Raph hates, and when Donnie twitches, Raph's pleased to realise that he's not alone in hating whenever Leo cheerfully lodges a stick up his own ass.

"Leo, c'mon," Donnie asks, hurt. He's an inch away from begging. "I've been cooped up in here all day! Let me at least run recon!"

Donnie's sad look gets even sadder when Leo smiles the sorry-but-sensei-said smile. "Sorry, Donnie. But we'll see you in the morning!"

"Yeah, it's almost past your bedtime," Mikey says, putting his hands beneath his cheek to mime a pillow. He starts to sing: "go to sleeeeeep, go to sleeeeeep, go to sleeeeep angry Donnieeeee."

Donnie chokes down the scream, and stomps back to the couch. He doesn't even say goodbye to April.

Patrol goes like patrol always goes, and Leo hits the showers when they get back, Mikey following, partly to warm up, partly because Leo can always, always be suckered into scrubbing Mikey's shell.

When the coast is clear, Raph heads to the bedrooms, and raps twice on Donnie's door.

It doesn't surprise him at all when Donnie yanks the door open, slightly deranged and totally awake. "Here," Raph says, handing Donnie a folded-up newspaper, a little wind-wrecked from where it had blown around up top.

Donnie looks at it, his hands twitching reflexively. "Why?" he asks.

"Sports pages." He waits another second before sighing. "You're like the worst at secrets, you know that? Your stupid Yankees are in there."

Slowly, very slowly, Donnie's jaw drops. His gaze bounces between the paper and Raph, and a tiny huff of air, not quite a laugh, hits the back of his throat. "Wow," he says tersely, after an awkward pause. He takes the newspaper that Raph is still holding out. "What did I do to deserve today?"

"Literally since the Yankees started losing you have been the biggest asshole."

"You— you got me grounded! If anybody's the asshole here, Raph—" Donnie starts, already riling himself up, and Raph just waits. "You got me grounded over baseball!?"

"Actually, what I really wanted was to go a day without you being a turd because your team sucks. The grounding was just karma."

"Yeah, thanks, Mikey," Donnie snips. "The Mother Universe decided to work against me for being a bad person. Great. I can't wait to see what happens to the Shredder."

Raph rolls his eyes. "Now you're just being dramatic."

"That's not—" Donnie sighs, then shakes his head. "Forget it. Thanks for the paper. G'night."

"No." Raph sticks his hand out, catching Donnie's door before it closes. Something feels urgent — important, even. Donnie's his brother. And Donnie's a weirdo, sometimes, but of all the weird things Donnie is into, baseball is probably the most normal thing ever. "Seriously, Donnie, why'd you try and hide this away? It's just baseball. Like, I watch the game all the time. If you wanted the TV, you coulda just asked for it."

"It's not exactly something everyone else can watch, is it?" Donnie says, shrugging into himself, and he's got a point. Baseball is slow. It's the sport-equivalent, to Raph, of watching paint dry and then peeling it off. "It's just— nice to have something on in the background when I'm working. And," he adds, the nerd-light coming on in his eyes, "it's a great refresher for practical geometry and physics — the truly great baseball players can make calls based on angle or speed or trajectory in seconds! One single degree off could be the difference between winning or losing!"

"Oh my god can you not like a sport for the sake of it being a sport?" Raph says, despairing. "For a second there you were almost cool." He makes to turn to his own room, then stops, one last question nagging at him. "So, if you're only into baseball because of all the math, why the Yankees?"

"I'm from New York," Donnie says, his brow screwed up as though this should be painfully obvious, and as though he is offended at the very thought. "What, you think I'm going to support the Red Sox?"

Raph would disown him, and says as much. It's bad enough Casey supports the Canadiens, he cannot have a brother supporting anything — anything — from Boston, of all places.

Donnie smiles. It's tiny, but it's there. "Thanks, Raph," he says, indicating the paper with a flick of his wrist, and slips back into his room. "See you in the morning."

Raph waits in the corridor. There's a ruffle of newspaper pages, Donnie's quiet humming as he reads — and then, though it's muffled, Donnie screams "ARE YOU KIDDING ME?", because the Yankees lost, again.

Humiliated, in fact. By Baltimore.

It's been a good day.

with apologies and love to all Orioles fans, and Yankees fans, and Canadiens fans!