#I got too into the logistics of how long Splinter has been missing in the public eye

[toothlesshat]

Ooooh idea!

So if we view the Turtles get Exposed universe separate form the Meet the O'Neil universe... what if the way the humans discover the correlation between Lou Jitsu and the turtles and rat man is because Splinter had to seek actual professional medical help for Leo! It's like three days in, the turts are laying low because April came rushing in freaking out because someone got a clear picture if everyone's faces, but then the worst case scenario happens.

Leo's injuries become infected and they've run out of antibiotics and other medicines.

Splinter thinks long and hard, trying to find a suction but there's none to be found. April cannot connect to her mother because her phone was broken shortly before the invasion, the Hidden City is still in lock down and Draxum is trapped on the other side of that because he happened to be down there getting some supplies when the invasion started, and topside is so abuzz because of the invasion and the search for him and the turtles there's no way he could possibly steal the necessary ingredients form a pharmaceutical company! Which leaves only one option... he has Raph wrap his brother up in the cleanest and softest blankets they own, tells Donnie and Mikey that April is in charge, and he and Raph head up topside to an overnight ER to beg someone to help his son.

I love this idea but holy shit how sick would that be for them to finally be exposed to New York but Leo is literally on deaths door if they don’t get help???? And fuck it, lets make this worse for him by giving Splinter a cloaking brooch (maybe Sunita was top side during the invasion and gave it to him, maybe Big Mama gave him hers, maybe he just acquired one in the last two years, idk) so suddenly Lou Jitsu emerges from his hiding place after going missing over 20 years ago (25 if I’m correct. The creators said Splinter was in the battle nexus for 10 years, and in the series Draxum says it was 13 years since they were mutated, and the movie takes place 2 years after so..) with one of the rumored turtle men in his arms claiming to be his father and begging for help or he’ll die. It’s… gotta be a lot to take in for the night shift people…

[dramaticviolincrescendo]

(How to Break the) Alibi Armistice

So, @gallavictorious and I were talking about the logistic problems with Mickey and Terry (a) wanting to brutally murder one other and (b) frequenting the same places. (Read: The Alibi Room.) Could be sorted by Terry just going the hell away, of course, but where's the fun in that? (Okay, sure, there's some fun in Mickey murdering the shit out of Terry, but that's such a simplistic solution and we're sophisticated women. Also, you can only kill him once, but you can make his life miserable forever.)

Anyway. We're thinking it might go down a little like this:

The first time they see Terry after the wedding is at the Alibi. He isn’t alone, but he’s the only one that matters considering the whole burning-down-their-venue debacle. And yeah, they could probably have played it cool, ignored him —  not like he’d do something with a whole bar full of witnesses, right? But Ian still suggests they go home or come back later, which Mickey is not having.

“I’ve been drinking here since I was fourteen. I’m not fucking leaving. He tries to start shit, I will sink his teeth so deep into that bar that he’ll be shitting splinters for weeks.” 

So that’s that. 

Mickey heads to the bar, but before he can order, Terry does indeed step in to start shit. Mickey doesn’t really pay attention to what he says — something about not serving pansies here or whatever the fuck. He’s too busy cataloguing the various ways he can get Terry alone for a few minutes in the alley before Ian wises up. Then he realizes that oh, they’re already in each other’s faces and oh, they’ve got each other by the collar. The fuck did that happen?

Things would have turned bloody then – which would have suited Mickey just fine – had Kev not stepped in and calmly declared that if either of them started whaling on the other, they'd both be banned from the bar. Forever. 

That actually gives them pause. The Alibi's a shit hole, but it's their shit hole and has been for a long time.

Terry's blood-shot eyes turn from Mickey to Kev; the malevolence remains. “You try to stop me from coming here, I'll come back with a goddamn flame-thrower.”

If Kev is unnerved, he doesn't show it. “I don't wanna stop anybody from coming here. But if you do, you have to play nice. No murdering each other. No violence.”

And of course, Mickey is far from amused because, “You came to our fucking wedding, but you won't take sides when the asshole who tried to murder us picks a fight?” Deep down, though, he gets it. The Alibi Room has always been neutral ground. Besides, it's not like Terry's fucking joking about burning the thing down, so. It is what it is.

And maybe no one likes it, maybe no one is totally happy in the end, but they both reluctantly agree, to everyone else's great relief. Kev doesn't try anything as stupid as making them shake hands; he just waits until Terry has retreated to the pool table before pouring Mickey a beer and a shot and asking Ian how's work. 

That’s how the truce is born.

It even lasts for a while, to the utter bafflement of everyone on the South Side, from the transplanted gentrifying assholes to the lifers. Truth be told, it’s mostly due to neither party having much opportunity, or reason, to break the rules. When Ian and Mickey are at the Alibi, Terry generally isn’t; they assume that he visits during their longer stints drinking at home when the money is tighter and Kev less free with the booze. 

Sometimes, Ian will see him there when he stops in on his own, and they ignore each other like they always have whenever Terry isn’t suspecting Ian of sleeping with one of his kids—or catching him at it. Other times, Mickey’s the one who spots him, but Terry doesn’t seem very interested in forcing a confrontation when Mickey’s husband isn’t standing beside him like the tallest, orangest fucking pride flag in Chicago. Doesn’t mean Mickey isn’t occasionally tempted to stick his foot up the bastard’s ass, but Kev always manages to shoot him a glance in silent reminder and he grudgingly downs his glass before hightailing it out every time.

It works. They drink, and nobody leaves in a body bag. All in all, the ceasefire is a success: Kev gets to run his business in peace, and while nobody really wins, nobody really loses either. 

At least not until peace gets boring as hell. 

It happens on a Thursday, and the evening starts off just like any other night they've managed to ditch their responsibilities at the house: they meet up at the Alibi after work for drinks and a chance to be just Ian and Mickey rather than uncles/brothers/responsible adults. Like any other night, they're talking and laughing and Ian has one beer, Mickey three.

It's not very exciting, maybe, but it's theirs and it's nice – until Terry steps through the door with Uncle Ronnie in tow. It takes the evil fucker all of two seconds to spot Mickey, then spot his husband too, seated in one of the booths at the far side of the room. For a moment, father and son simply stare at each other, and had anyone else dared to look for more than the briefest of moments, they'd have seen the cold rage slowly give way to cunning malevolence on Terry's face. He doesn't say anything; he orders a beer and heads straight for the pool table and tells Uncle Ronnie to rack up. 

And then Terry starts talking. Keeping his eyes on the game, on Uncle Ronnie, on anything that isn't Ian and Mickey—he talks, loudly and at length, of what he did to this queer and that, in prison and outside. 

These...are not nice stories. Not very detailed, true, but...yeah. They're not nice.

There's a hush growing in the bar, as patron after patron falls silent, and their eyes dart between the foulmouthed man by the pool table and his son, still and stone-faced at a table nearby. Behind the counter, Kev stands frozen in the process of wiping down a foggy glass, watching and waiting to see if he should grab the broom now or later. 

“He's just trying to provoke you,” Ian says urgently, and his voice is almost steady in spite of it taking damn near everything he has not to get up and run Terry through with the damn cue stick. “He wants you to go for him. Break the truce, get barred.” 

His eyes are on Mickey's face, intent and ready to jump into action the second Mickey makes his move. 

“Yeah, I know.” 

And here's the thing: Mickey sounds calm. This doesn't reassure Ian, because Mickey calm sometimes just means him taking a second to savor the fact that he's about to unleash absolute hell, but then Mickey shifts his gaze from his utter asshole of a father and to Ian. There's a small smile on his lips; it's a sharp thing, true, but a smile all the same. “He wants fucking queer? We'll give him fucking queer.” And he reaches out for Ian and pulls him into a long, hard kiss.

It takes a second for Ian’s brain to reboot enough to break away, hissing, “In front of your dad?!”

“The fuck’s it look like?”

“He’s gonna kill you. Then I’ll be a widower for three seconds until he kills me.”

Mickey’s eyebrows don’t slam into his hairline, but it’s a near miss. “What, are you scared, Gallagher?”

Ian…isn’t. He used to be scared of Terry back when they were kids and he was this dark, shadowy figure who could make Mickey do whatever he wanted simply by virtue of being his father. But they are past that. Terry, like Frank, is old. Terry, like Frank, doesn’t have any power over his kids now. Terry is a blot on their past, but he has no bearing on their future. 

Which is exactly what Mickey’s getting at. 

So Ian shrugs and Mickey nods like he did at the docks, not having to say uh huh, that’s what I thought.

And he leans back in because hey, if Terry does kill them, at least they’ll make it worth the trouble. 

It’s a little awkward, what with the table between them, but they have long been pros at not being kept apart. Leaning over the table, Ian cradles the back of Mickey’s head; Mickey’s hand is on Ian’s neck and the other on his upper arm, clutching at the fabric of his jacket. There's nothing chaste about this, nothing sweet. It's desire and defiance, lips and tongues and teeth, Mickey's fingers digging into Ian's arm, Ian's twisting in Mickey's hair as he pulls him closer, closer, closer. 

(It's another thing Ian blames and hates Terry for. Mickey loves to kiss, loves being kissed, and yet he wouldn't allow it, not for their first year and not for much of their second. No matter how often they stop for a playful peck or something more serious and passionate now, they'll never make up for those lost years and all the kisses they should have shared then.

They sure as hell can try, though.)

It goes on and on. The initial frustration shifts into something softer and more real as any thought of Terry – or anyone – fades and becomes a faraway thing. There is Mickey and there is Ian, and the taste and the smell and feel of the other, and they've done this a thousands times and yet – 

And yet.

And yet it takes a distant vibration and the sound of glass on wood before they hear Kev clear his throat. “Uh, he’s gone. Been gone for ten minutes.” 

Mickey pulls back first and leans over to see past Ian’s shoulder that yeah, Terry’s gone. Nobody appears to be talking about him or them either, so Kev probably isn’t exaggerating about how long they’ve obliviously been at it, especially considering he’s got that dumb smirk on and won’t meet their gazes as he turns back towards the bar. 

And speaking of dumb, Ian is still staring at him like he did after their first kiss, all gooey and gross as if they haven’t done this so often that none of the Gallaghers even complain anymore. Jesus. Leave it to Ian not to have learned how to play shit cool after all these years. 

But what can a guy do when Mickey’s husband is watching him like he farts rainbows, and like he doesn’t give a shit about why they’d attacked each other’s faces in the first place? Mickey doesn’t blame him; he’s having a hard time remembering too right now.

He dives back in, because why not? Their ceasefire says no violence, so (almost) any and all displays of affection are well within the rules. He puts his hand on the side of Ian’s neck where it’s always fit best and reels Ian in, despite how much easier it would’ve been to get on his side of the booth this time. 

“Thought this was about your dad,” Ian mutters into his lips because of course he can’t shut his mouth to save his life.

Mickey shrugs - “Fuck ‘im” - and gives him something better to do with that mouth.

[heyheydidjaknow]

Three hours late? I’ll take it. Is this even a one shot any more? I don’t know

Valentine’s Day 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.

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