If You Think I'm Gonna Come Up With A Title For This, You're Dead Wrong

One Shot* 2

"You certainly look worse for wear."

"Ha ha." I collapsed onto the couch, leaning my body against the armrest. The day had been entirely too exciting for my taste; too many plans went horribly wrong, I had almost died at least five times, and my body felt like an abused rag doll. I was ready to relax.

"Hey, I still think you look like a million bucks, personally." She put her hands up in defense. "All I'm saying is that you have certainly seen better days."

I sighed. "Look, it was a long day."

"I'd say." She crossed her ankles, drumming her fingers against the cushion. "You wanna talk about it?"

"Absolutely not." I rested my head on her lap. "I honestly just want to watch this movie."

"You? Not wanting to talk?" She rested her hands on my scalp. "You really are beat."

"I'm allowed."

She hummed in agreement as she turned on a movie.

I smiled gently. "First date."

"Bingo." I felt her lean back. "It really is a fantastic movie."

"But you always got on edge when we'd watch it."

"And you cried at the ending of Beauty and the Beast. Let me be."

My face flushed. "I thought we agreed never to speak of that again," I mumbled.

"I don't remember signing any documents to agree to that."

"Verbal agreements are still things that exist."

"Blow me." She flinched at the gunshots.

I rolled over to look up at her. "And I didn't cry," I informed her. "Crying implies inarticulacy. I do believe I was very articulate that night."

"Fine," she conceded, covering my face with her hand. "You babbled."

"Babble implies meaninglessness. I was very meaningful."

She laughed. "Liar!" She pouted playfully. "I will push you off if you don't cut it with the backtalk, mister."

I wrapped my arms around her waist, latching onto her tightly. "Try."

She huffed. "That's just unfair." She moved her hand. "Just watch the damn movie."

"No thanks." I looked up at her. 'God damn she's pretty.' "I like looking at you more."

"That is equally unfair." She went red. "That's just—foul. I'm calling a foul."

"What," I beamed, "am I not allowed to compliment you, princess?"

"That, too," she stammered, voice rising a pitch as she tried to regain her composure. I always loved how cute she got when she was flustered; made me feel better about my lack of aplomb.

"I think it's perfectly fair," I assured her. "You couldn't imagine how much duress I was in when I was with you." I broke eye contact, the statement reminding me of something. "Similar to how you feel right now, probably."

She paused. "Hey, Donnie?" Her voice was slower, more hesitant.

"Yeah?"

She sighed. "I..." She thought better of it. "Never mind." She shook her head. "Are you going to fall asleep?"

I let my eyelids close. "Probably," I admitted. "I always sleep better in here."

"That's curious."

I rolled over onto my stomach, getting more comfortable. "How so?"

"Logistically," she explained, running her fingers along my shell, "it doesn't make a ton of sense. How you act, I mean."

"I don't follow." I looked up at her

"Well," she explained with a shrug, "you don't use me for sex."

I blinked, not at all expecting that answer. "Huh?"

"You miss me, don't you? In that way?" She did not look from the screen, face flushing again. "It makes sense that you would use me for more explicit activities than this. You don't mean that you're tired from that, so I don't see why you'd sleep any better in here than in the company of your brothers."

It was my turn to go red. "Look," I objected, "I—"

"If you say you never thought about it you are a liar." She glanced down at me. "We both know you're lying if you say you haven't at least considered it."

I paused. "You're still not her."

"I know."

I groaned. "Look," I explained defensively, "I feel safe with you, alright? I feel safe with my brothers too, but it's not the same, you know?"

"I guess."

"I just..." I sighed. "If I knew, you would know, wouldn't you?"

"Very true." I felt her tense again as the characters screamed at each other on-screen.

I fiddled with her shirt absently. "I like sleeping in here, though, for a lot of reasons."

"You always slept better with me." Her finger traced the indents in the carapace.

I nodded. "When you thought I was sleeping," I recounted, laying my head back down, "I remember you used to do this thing where you used to sing in almost a whisper, and I always thought it was one of the most beautiful sound in the world, no matter what you sang or whether you were in key or whatever." I stifled a yawn, pulling her closer. "And," I continued, "if we were sleeping together, it was always nice, having you so close. You used to hold me real close— kind of like this— while you slept."

I heard her smile. "You like being touched," she noted.

"Like you would not believe." My arms stayed loosely draped around her waist. "When you let me be this close to you, it always..." I swallowed the lump rising in my throat. "It always made me feel needed, you know? Like I really and truly mattered to you the way you matter to me."

She did not say anything for a while, busy fiddle with the large hole in her jacket. "How's your dad?"

"Well." She felt almost real. Such a good imitation.

"I'd hope." She chuckled. "If he wasn't, I'd be pissed."

"I'm not sure he's grateful, though." I could not quite tell if I was asleep or not. "I think he would have rather died himself. He's had a harder time meditating, lately."

"He'll live." She shifted underneath me. "He fuckin better—if he dies some stupid, avoidable death, I will personally wring his neck from the afterlife."

"I'll pass the message along," I assured her wryly. Every once and a while, she would ask about that. They were not particularly personal questions, but, whether she meant it or not, questions about Master Splinter were always something of a sore spot, much to Leo's chagrin. I would never tell them, of course, why I had grown noticeably colder towards our father, but something told me they had an idea of why I found it difficult to look him in the eyes.

"Y/N?" I felt myself sit on the borderline between sleep and consciousness—I recalled, absently, that the technical term was hypnagogia.

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

She leaned down, kissing the top of my head. "I love you, too," she promised.

'What a stunning imitation.'

I slipped into unconsciousness.