Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Thursday, February 24, 1977

The radio on the floor switched over from playing Golden Years to One Of These Nights, and April looked up from where she was carefully painting the baseboard trim of her childhood bedroom. She figured that at this pace, her old apartment would be ready for her to move into in just a few weeks. Actually, the job was going a lot faster and costing a lot less than she had at first feared, which was really all due to her new friends having plenty of time and more than enough energy to spare in helping her to fix the place up.

It was rather impressive, as well as a bit of a relief, how they had pretty much taken over the whole of the workload — from planning the jobs, to prepping for them, and acquiring the paint and other supplies they needed to get everything done. Of course, she hadn't asked them much about where or how they had acquired those supplies, feeling like the less she knew about their thievery the better. But at least the lovely yellow paint they were using in this room hadn't been stolen, since several cans had been down in the shelter since it had been built.

Ordinarily, she wouldn't have had the Turtles working up in the windowed rooms without some kind of curtains in there to block the view, but the rain had been coming down hard outside for hours now, and she was certain that anybody who did bother to go out in this cold and stormy weather wouldn't be much inclined to stare up at the third floor windows. And really, the boys seemed not to mind so much about it, anyway; so while Leo and Raph were at this moment pulling up the dull linoleum in the kitchen, Don and Mike were helping her to restore this room to the same bright and sunny shade she remembered from her childhood.

Mike especially had been more than happy to take on prepping for the task, she had noticed, and had removed the wallpaper and sanded the walls down all by himself over the course of a couple days. He had even found her old stick-man crayon drawings under the paper. She had been thrilled to see that they were still there all these years later, and he had promised not to cover them up when he got the painting all done.

He really did seem to be enjoying the job more than any of the others were, though he was a bit too short to reach the ceiling corners without a fairly high stepladder. She turned her eyes to where he was standing on the top step, reaching as high as he was able with his angled brush, and for a moment she let her sight linger on the gouges on his shell and the deep scars on the back of his head and arms.

She had seen the marks once or twice before, though she had not yet asked him where they had come from, fearing that it might not be something he would like brought up. But still, she had her curiosity, and so she shifted around to look at Donatello, who was unscrewing the antique brass heat register from the wall just behind her.

"Hey, Donnie?" she whispered.

"Yeah?" he said without looking up from his task.

"Can I ask you something?"

He nodded. "Of course."

April lowered her voice further. "How did Mikey get those?"

"Get what?"

"Those scars," she clarified.

Don lifted his head to look at his brother, and at once a wide smile crossed his face. "You should probably ask him about that," he told her as he returned his attention to the register.

April drew her eyebrows together. "It's not a sore spot for him?"

"Are you kidding? He loves talking about it."

"Really?"

"Really. He wouldn't stop bringing it up for months after it happened."

April let out a long breath of resignation; then as Don removed another screw from the wall, she set her paint brush down on the tray and stood, making her way over to Mike's side.

"How's it going?" she asked casually.

"Not bad," he said. "Damn fine job, if I do say so myself!"

She pressed her lips together and hummed. "Yeah," she agreed. "It's gonna look good as new when it's all finished." She scratched the back of her neck, then shifted aside as her courage to actually start the conversation flitted away. "I'll just let you get back to work, then."

Across the room, Don shook his head as he pulled the disconnected register off the wall.

"Hey, Mikey," he said. "Did you ever tell April how your shell got all messed up?"

Mike's eyes lit up. "Hey, yeah… I mean, no! I didn't!" He looked at her. "You wanna hear about it?"

Her cheeks warmed slightly. "Yeah, sure," she said, giving Don a slight glare out of the corner of her eye. "Why don't we, you know… take a break so you can fill me in?"

The Turtle hopped down off the stepladder and set the trim brush on top of the small paint can, then he quickly sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor. He patted the spot in front of him, and April lowered herself to sitting as well, while Don grinned crookedly as he continued working on the heat register.

"Okay, picture this," Mike said, holding his hands up dramatically. "It's '75, ten-thirty at night, three days before Christmas, and there's two inches of snow on the ground…"

Chapter Text

Monday, December 22, 1975

"How's your father doing?" asked Rosa, a slight twinkle in her deep brown eyes. "He hasn't stopped by in a while."

Michelangelo leaned his elbows on the counter and smiled at the middle-aged lady from under the hood of his heavy winter coat.

"His knees have been acting up a bit because of the cold," he said as she tallied up his purchases. "He promised to stop by when it gets warmer, though."

Rosa let out a chuckle. "Well, and here I was thinking he just didn't want to see me anymore! I tried to call, but I couldn't get through!"

"Actually, Donnie thinks the phone company caught on to someone using the line, so he's working on getting another one set up. We'll let you know when he figures out the new number."

"You do that! You never know when I might need another rescue, eh?"

The smile on Mike's face widened. Rosalia Quiñones was one of the few humans that knew about the Turtles and their father, and she seemed to revel in both that fact and the knowledge that Splinter had no other lady friends. And though she had never told them exactly how old she was, she had at least confirmed that she was a bit younger than Splinter… which didn't seem to matter to her when it came to flirting with him, nor did the fact that he was partially a rat.

She had actually met Splinter when he had come to her rescue after someone tried to rob this very bodega a few years back. After that, the two of them had become friends, and she'd even given him some advice on how to raise teenage boys. In turn, Splinter had arranged to make purchases at her store whenever they needed something she could provide — though she knew of their occupation, and never asked where the money they spent there had come from.

At any rate, Mike always liked to schedule plenty of time when he came to shop here, because she never seemed to want to stop chatting with him. That didn't bother him much. There was still plenty of time to get his groceries home and put them away before Carson came on.

"Ooh," Rosa said as she rang up the two bags of flour on the counter. "Doing some more baking?"

"Christmas cookies, yeah."

"Going to bring me some?"

"Of course! Don't I always?"

She finished ringing him up, then they both looked over as the door swung open hard. Mike quickly pulled his scarf up over his face, watching on as a man with disheveled gray hair came stumbling in, dressed only in a wrinkled suit despite the twenty-degree weather outside, then shuffled to the back of the store.

Rosa's eyes shifted to Mike, then she leaned forward. "That's Randall," she said in her soft gossip tone. "Owns the building across the way. Keeps saying he's going to fix it up and start renting out the apartments… never does." She stood back and went on in a louder businesslike voice. "Well, that's it, dear. You owe me $8.27."

Mike reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his cash. "Highway robbery," he joked as he counted out nine dollars. "No discount for promising to make you cookies?"

She raised an eyebrow at him as he handed her the money. "Well, that depends on the kind of cookies," she said, opening the register.

"What kind do you want?" he asked. "Gingerbread men? Raspberry thumbprints? Peanut butter blossoms?"

"You know me better than that."

"Snickerdoodles?"

"Right!" she said, handing him back his change. "And you'll get the discount after I get the cookies!"

The sound of crashing came suddenly from the back of the store, and they both turned to look at Randall as he awkwardly bent over to pick up the cans of tomato soup that he had just knocked to the floor.

Rosa let out a weary sigh. "At least it wasn't glass this time," she said under her breath as Mike shoved his change into his jacket pocket. "Honestly, he's spent more money here paying for what he's broken than for what he's actually bought."

Mike glanced back at the wobbly man, then turned forward again and started loading his groceries into his duffel bag. "Why do you let him keep coming back, then?"

"Because at least he does pay for what he breaks. I've made some good money off of that, so why stop now, eh? Only problem is I have to clean up after him."

Scuffing footsteps made their way to the front of the store, and Mike angled his face away as Randall stepped up to the counter; but even as he did, he caught both the strong smell of whiskey and the acrid scent of gasoline coming from the man.

"Evenin', Rosa!" Randall said, slamming a bottle of rum down. "Just the one."

Rosa looked at the bottle, then gave Mike a sidelong glance before fixing her attention back on Randall. "You really think I'm going to sell that to you right now? You're drunk as a skunk already."

"I'm still on two feet," he told her with a chuckle. "I never say I've had enough till I can't reach the doorknob."

Rosa hummed, then took the bottle from the counter and set it on one of the shelves behind her. "Well, I can say who I don't sell to, and right now that's you."

"Why not?" he whined. "Doyle over on 23rd would sell it to me."

"Then go to his place. If you can make it that far without falling face-down in the snow." She wrinkled her nose. "And why do you smell like an Exxon station?"

He let out a flat laugh and tapped his finger on the counter. "Because I just solved a problem," he said, slurring his words though he was apparently trying to sound proud of himself. "One that's been bugging me way, way too long."

"Hmm… and what problem is that? Did you decide to start siphoning gas so you don't have to wait in the pump lines anymore?"

Randall waved his hand at her, nearly falling over in the process. "Nah. It's a… pest problem."

"What kind of pests?" Mike asked, trying to give Rosa a little break from this guy.

The man looked over at him, and after a couple seconds of trying to see past Mike's hood and mask, he shook his head. "Big pests," he said; then he held his arms out. "Real big."

"Bigger pests than you?" Rosa asked, bringing his attention back to her.

Randall held up a finger. "Some of 'em are," he said, clearly not realizing that he had just been insulted; then he pointed out the window. "It's them damn… cockroaches," he said, shoving Mike's duffel bag aside and leaning over the counter. "I keep telling the cops an' they come an' chase 'em away, but they keep… coming… back."

"Why would the cops even bother to come and chase roaches away?" Mike asked.

"Like I said… they're really big."

Mike and Rosa exchanged glances, and Randall seemed to grow frustrated with their lack of understanding.

"Squatters!" he hollered, slapping his palm onto the counter. "No-penny bums, just… creepin' in an' holin' up in my place." He hit the counter again. "Well, I'm done with 'em!" He grinned. "They ain't gonna be a problem no more."

Rosa stood back. "What are you saying?"

Randall pressed his lips into a thin smile, but said nothing, and Mike's heart jumped up into his throat. He grabbed the man by the front of his suit jacket and pulled him down until they were face-to-face.

"What did you do?" Mike demanded, raising his voice.

The man squinted his bloodshot blue eyes. "You know how you get rid of bugs?" he said, almost too casually. "You smoke 'em out. You just…" He made a motion with his hand, as if he was flicking a lighter, then flared his fingers out as he started to laugh. "An' poof… they take off scurrying. Not my problem no more."

Mike looked at Rosa's shocked expression, then back over his shoulder out the window at the building across the street. His hands tightened around the man's lapels.

"You set your building on fire?" Rosa asked, her breath catching. "With people inside?"

"What?" Randall said, looking suddenly bewildered. "No! No, I'm gonna… I'm not tryin' ta kill anyone. I just want 'em ta go away. It's just smoke. That's it… that's all. Just smoke!"

Mike shoved the man back. "Smoke kills people, too!" he said, then he looked to Rosa. "Call the fire department!" he told her, then he pointed at Randall. "And keep him here!"

The man began to protest, but Rosa stepped quickly out from behind the counter and grabbed him by the collar. "Go!" she said, waving Mike out the door; then she reached for the phone on the counter. "I've got this idiot! Go!"