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Watching Raphael fight and spar has always fascinated you from the first moment you spotted him from your apartment window. It must have been after he had one of many arguments with his brothers because he was clashing with a gang of Purple Dragons on his own. You’ve always been a night owl, so it was only a matter of time before one of these battles fell before your wondering eyes. After getting over your initial confusion about his appearance, you found yourself utterly enraptured by his moves and how he fights with a lack of reservation. Curiosity got the better of you that night and urged you to take a closer look - a decision that has snowballed into you being here with him and his family now.
“I’ll spar with you,” you chime, earning many baffled glances.
“And risk wrecking that pretty face of yours?” he asks through a teasing, confused smile. “Not happening, princess.”
Your blood warms with both the sly compliment and his skepticism. It isn’t uncommon for the two of you to flirt, whether it’s playful banter or a means of trying to disarm one another. No one is entirely sure how this exchange came to be but everyone has put it down to you retaining a similar fiery temperament. What they don’t know is that this friendly transaction of dallying quips has been hanging hot in your stomach recently. You can’t pinpoint exactly when this materialised but you know that you’ve got it bad. He’s just so iron-willed - brazen in the face of danger no matter the circumstances. You’ve always revered strong figureheads, so you suppose it was only a matter of time before you’d develop a crush on your friend.
“You think I can’t take it?” you challenge bluntly.
“I know you can’t. Remember how many times I had to save your ass within the first week of knowing ya’?”
How could you forget? This guy makes a point of reminding you every opportunity he gets - a fact that annoys you tenfold given the feelings you harbour for him. You would love nothing more than for him to see you as something other than a damsel in distress. That being the case is admittedly your fault but it’s time for a change. You don’t expect to dazzle him but it would be nice to feel as though you can stand on his level and what better way than to engage in a sparring session? That is pretty much his language, after all. Hopefully, this will be the defining moment that halts the frequent patronisation you endure. It just so happens that you have a little something up your sleeve.
A hand makes home on your hip, pushing out slightly as you quirk a brow in his direction. “Will you at least humour me?”
His eyes flicker down and up again to meet yours, noting the absence of any jest. You are dead serious on this one and that alone manifests a new level of respect. It’s stupid, quite frankly foolish to volunteer a match with him, but he will oblige nonetheless. Raphael may give you a hard time but deep down he does care about you (though he’d never admit it), which is why he’s going to go easy on you. He has years' worth of training and genuinely doesn’t want to run the risk of hurting your pretty little head.
When he caringly rests his sais to one side and stands just a few feet in front of you, you know you’ve gotten your way. Promptly, you dash for your bag, retrieve a small item, and return to your position. His head cranes to the side as you open up the case and slip in your earbuds. A smile from the youngest of the brothers shines from the corner of your eye. Michelangelo was a huge inspiration for this idea and he’s more excited than anyone to see how you follow through. Your opponent merely saunters ahead of you with an unamused patience that is wearing thin, assuming that you must think this to be some kind of joke. In a sense, you do.
After a quick song selection, you hop on the spot and shake everything off before readying yourself. A raised hand that double taps the air is all it takes to beckon him to make the first move. He sprints in and swings a hand around your right, a hit that he holds back enough in case you don’t dodge but you do. You swerve back and your feet crisscross in time with the beat before one leg swings up to jab him in the cheek. The look of stark surprise pressed onto his face with the contact of your calf will be cherished forever; heavy bass and harmonic strings vibrating into your skull make the small victory all the more worthwhile. He doesn’t fall but the shock has him stumbling until he quickly regains his posture.
Your movements aren’t copies of Mikey’s, so there’s no way he taught you any of this. One wouldn’t trust him to teach to begin with. When Raphael turns back to face you, he is met with an expectant grin. Raised tauntingly, your hand gestures for him to go at you again. He complies by doing so, swinging with less restraint than before and, yet, every jab sent your way is only met with empty air. The rapid movement of your limbs doesn’t give him a clear indication of where you’re going next. In between each side-step, you smirk at him, egging him on with your rising cockiness. You barely attempt to strike him, instead focusing on these effortless evasive manoeuvres.
As if you can sense his agro, you decide to stop this back-and-forth shuffle and hook an ankle around his knee, knocking him onto his front. This will be a short-lived win, however. Frustration finally takes its helm and Raph pirouettes on his hands before he forces a foot into your abdomen. With a strained grunt, you fall back and one of the earpieces tumbles onto the floor. Your face scrunches up and you gasp against the hysteria of your rattling stomach.
“Crap!” Any grievance he had before diminishes and he’s quick to try and make amends. “You okay?”
Once he’s close enough, you lurch your hands on either side of your head, lift your legs into your chest, and use any strength left in your core to spring up and kick. Your shoes make a crisp smack against his cheek and he loses enough footing to fall onto his back, arms pressing into the floor to prevent his shell from rocking. He can’t find it in himself to form any words at this moment. Words have lost all meaning. All he sees is stars. That was… incredible. He had you down on the ground and still, you found a way to turn the situation in your favour. Where has this side of you been hiding? Have you always been able to fight or have you been taking lessons in secret? Regardless, he’s speechless. Usually, a beatdown like this would have him going savage but the only thing he feels is admiration and a strange rush in his chest. If it’s adrenaline, it’s like nothing he’s ever experienced amid battle before. This intoxicating, almost painful sensation sends his mind into a spin and he barely registers the small hand outstretched in front of him. Your prideful smile only accelerates the screaming pounding of his heart and it takes a second before he manages to take your grasp.
You help him back onto his feet and chortle confidently. “Reckon I can take it then?”
“I… how…?” These are the only words he manages to stammer out with his slowly furrowing brow. “What?”
“If you think that was cool, you should see what I can do with flamenco,” you joke, crossing your aching arms over your chest.
“Where’d you learn to fight like that?”
“My old man used to take me to defence classes.” You kneel to retrieve the stray earbud from the floor and place both back into their pod safely. “As for the dance moves: that’s all self-taught, honey.”
The shot of a wink from your person has him reeling again but he has another burning question that just about keeps him stable. “If you know how to defend yourself then how the hell d’you end up in so much trouble back in the day?”
A mischievous grin brightens your face and you absentmindedly shrug. “Had to get your attention somehow.”
Softly, you pat him on the cheek you had just pummelled - the sting only now registering with your touch - before leaving to check for any bruising. If you want to avoid questions at work, you’ll need to treat them quickly with a cold compress and some aloe vera; a neat little trick courtesy of the braniac brothers. This leaves Raph to stare at the doorway you just left through. A million and one questions are still whirring around in his head but he can’t seem to shake the thought that you have just unequivocally bewildered him. You wanted his attention. That confirmation alone threatens to burn his face, surely worsening the condition of his bruise, but he doesn’t care. The only thing he loves more than your playfully flirtatious banter right now is the fact that he now knows you can handle yourself in a fight.
Cooing from his brothers’ voices draws him out from the rose-tinted world and he glares them down to the best of his abilities with his supposedly tarnished pride.
“You just got served, son!”
“Yeah, well, I won’t be holding back next time.” A confident smirk pulls at the side of his lip and his eyes return to the open doorway. “Especially now I know she’s got what it takes.”