Work Text:
After visiting NY landmarks under the baking sun, you’re looking forward to the gentle light of the moon and city lights. Even at sunset, August’s heat is stifling. Thankfully, all it takes is a refreshing sip of iced coffee and a quick taste of your vanilla cone to soothe you for the moment.
Calling out of work ‘sick’ to take advantage of such a beautiful day feels like the best decision you’ve made for yourself in a while. That is, until you spot your boss exiting a small shop across the way. Scrambling for a hideaway, you make a mad dash for the next block.
With a firm grip on both your cone and your cup, you turn the corner–and slam into something solid as a rock.
*
Raph looks up from adjusting the fabric wrapped around his ankle just in time to watch you zip into the alley and careen into him. In the blink of an eye his face is smothered with something cold and smooth. There’s a splash on the pavement at his side.
Even with his enhanced reflexes from years of ninja training, he has barely enough time to process what’s happening before he hears laughter burst from Casey’s chest.
“Nice,” Casey jests, drawing out the word until it’s dripping with sarcasm. But he’s not Raph’s concern. No, there’s someone new standing before him and his stomach clenches in anticipation of your scream.
“Shit, sorry,” you mumble and hiss, instead. You mustn’t have seen him, he thinks. Certainly, as you back up, you’ll get a better look at him and run.
Raph swallows hard. He holds his breath, waiting for your reaction. But the look of shock, of disgust, never comes.
Usually Raph is a man of action, but at the sight of you, and with his face full of vanilla soft serve, he’s frozen.
*
You watch the trenchcoated stranger’s scowl deepen under a mask of vanilla ice cream. You expel a long breath as his expression twists into something else. Perhaps it’s confusion shining through his squinting green eyes. Nonetheless, you only have a second to study it before embarrassment brings your gaze to your feet. You worry your bottom lip as you consider the stranger’s silence.
The soft chuckle of his companion is more teasing than sinister. So, you try not to pay him any mind.
Heavy-hearted with apologies, you inch forward to help wipe up the mess. But with what’s left of your coffee and ice cream still held in your iron grip, there’s not much you can do. It must look as though you’re threatening to smear even more of your dessert onto the stranger’s face. “I… I am so sorry.”
Amused, his hockey stick wielding sidekick is quick to respond. “My hotheaded friend here needed to cool off anyway. Isn’t that right, Raph?” He emphasizes his question with a firm slap upon his friend’s shoulder.
Your feet scuff the pavement in a nervous shuffle, but as you prepare another apology for the guys, the one called Raph rises from his knees.
Brushing gravel off his long coat, Raph says, “Don’t sweat it.”
Hockey Stick scoffs, and with a peek out of the side of your eye, you witness him shoot his friend a look of disbelief. The look is so sharp you’d think Raph has never accepted an apology before in his life.
You’re flustered and you wish you could rewind the last three minutes. You could have walked a little slower. Taken a wider turn. Looked up a second earlier. You feel your face grow hotter and hope the guys attribute your blush to the sticky heat of the August evening.
“It’s my fault, really,” Raph says, as his full form takes shape. He’s poised to say more, but your gasp cuts him off. Realization of who and what he is dawns on your face, and Raph’s playful smirk drops.
Your jaw trembles as you take it all in. “You’re one of them. The vigilantes from TV.”
Hockey Stick takes a step closer, as if to intimidate. You guess not everyone responds favorably to meeting one of the turtles, but you’re simply starstruck.
“Sorry,” you explain, “I’ve never met someone famous before.” Eyes wide and heart fluttering, you’re horrified that you’ve made such a terrible impression on the hero, after all he does for the city–and the little thanks he gets. “I’m a big fan. Really.”
His expression softens into a lopsided grin, and Raph licks a bit of ice cream from his lips. “Famous, heh?” He waves off the compliment, seemingly unfazed by the ice cream dripping down his chin.
You wish you had a free hand; never has there been such an easy excuse to reach out and and touch someone you’ve had a crush on for so long.
Then, Raph catches you completely by surprise when he gives a little shrug and says, “Look, uh, we were just on our way t’ catch some grub. Maybe ya wanna join us? We can grab ya another coffee, if ya want.”
“What? Oh. No! No, no. It’s alright. I, uh, I can get another. I mean, I shouldn’t even be drinking caffeine this late. Y'know?” You think he’ll buy the excuse. After all, the interaction has you jittery enough to be tripping over your words.
“How bouts we replace that cone, then?” There’s a kindness, an apprehension, to his voice as Raph insists, “It’s the least we could do.”
Muttering under his breath, Hockey Stick dissolves the tension. “The heck you mean 'we’, Dairy Queen? Ya got brain freeze?” He crosses his arms as he sidesteps the scene with a grumble. “It ain’t my dome lookin’ like Mrs. Doubtfire over here.”
“I’m good,” you say, raising your smashed peak of soft serve, and you don’t know why you keep refusing his offers when what you really want to do is give Raph your number.
Even Hockey Stick seems confused by your hesitancy. “Ya not really gonna eat that, are ya? …Probably tastes like his face,” he adds with a grimace.
“Oh,” you quickly smile to placate Raph after his friend’s offensive comment. “I bet your taste face fine. I mean, your face tastes fine. I… Oh, god.”
You bite your tongue, mortified, but Raph is smiling down at you. He wipes a stripe of ice cream from his cheek and licks it off of his wide, green thumb with an appreciative hum. “Not bad.”
The absurdity of your night hits you and a laugh bubbles up from your chest. It’s nervous and genuine, and when Raph chuckles along, it feels like it’s just the two of you in all of Queens.
Ice cream melts over your fist and down his neck as the harmony of your voices tapers off. Hockey Stick clears his throat, and the moment is gone.
With a bashful, pinched expression, you release a small groan. “Can we just forget I said anything? Can we forget any of this happened?”
Back to wiping his face clean, Raph gives a slow shake of his head. His smile widens as his friend rolls his eyes with a sigh.
“Nah,” Raph says, looking only at you, “I think I wanna remember this for a long time.”