This popped in my head last week. Funny, awkward, and cute. Enjoy.

Over the past week, I noticed Raphael was scratching a bit. Every day, it seemed to get worse. I don't usually grab binoculars and go turtle sight-seeing or researching, but I think he forgets that I'm a girl and is entirely too comfortable. I've been limiting the amount of beer he can schmooze in my apartment, too. Splinter would have two cats and a moose if he knew.

By Saturday afternoon, we were alone and he was watching a western so I put my skills to the test. I may not be as ninja and physically stealthy, but I can wiggle a worm out of a bird's mouth. We began our discussion with a small argument over his alcohol consumption.

"I might die tomorrow!" the green teen barked, sloshing beer and scratching his thighs. "With all of the lowlifes just waiting to kill me out there."

That's when I slap him on the head and take away his beer before he soaks it in my couch. "We're going to have a heart to heart." I set the can on the table, out of his reach and eyesight.

"I don't have my girly pajamas and makeup this time."

"You look good with a light red color to your cheeks, Raphaella."

He snorted, "I think this movie has reused that same footage of the horse running about three times." Scratch, scratch, rub. I'm getting a little worried about his ailment now.

Now, how do you get a teenager to tell you what's wrong with his groin area? He's unbelievably macho and too stinking proud to say anything. It's hard to peer around his brick thighs, and I don't want to seem like a pervert. Even if I was sixteen years old in some parallel universe, I wouldn't dare touch my boys.

That thought just gave me an icy shiver.

"Are you doing okay lately?" Weak, but not entirely creepy.

Raphael smacked his lips. Uh-oh. A classic sigh of aggravation. I might have to grab the beer and fish it over his head. He knows that if he wrestles me for it, and I drop it all over my sofa – he's a dead turtle. He doesn't immediately answer, but I just know the others will be back soon. I'm such a mother hen and want to find out what's wrong with him. The poor thing seems like he needs relief. I've seen the kind of bruises and wounds they get, and most of the time, I let them handle it on their own. They're big boys, but on rare occasions, I see them as children with the World pointing them to their cages and demanding they not be seen or heard, despite saving it all the time.

When he scratches, I have a subconscious itch, too. Behind my neck. Damn sweat!

"I'm fine, April. Don't make a fuss out of nothing."

That's it. My coals are burning now. "I've been watching you all week! You look miserable!"

His dry looks amuse me.

"Okay, more miserable than normal," I grin but quickly jump back to the issue. "You're too proud to tell your brothers, aren't you? And I can smell it on you, too."

I shouldn't have said that. I should NOT have said that! Raph leaped off the couch and barreled to the window for a dashing escape. I flung a pillow at him and it bounced off his shell. "Don't you run away from me! I'm trying to help! Are you messing around? Answer me!"

In the middle of his escape, he whacked his head on the window and almost slipped on the pillow. I bit my lower lip and sniggered. Raphael was red as fire, but I don't think it was from anger. "I haven't touched nobody! Goddamn it, I'm tired of people assuming I touch every damn whore on the street! You all can go to hell!"

"Then shut your mouth and get in the bathroom!"

"NO!" He was so nervous that he knocked over my dvd rack and tried to assemble it back together, still howling, "I got problems, OKAY! I got problems! Let me deal with them! I don't need a nanny!" Dvds slithered out of his shaky hands. "Cocksucking dvds! Who cares about Mrs. Doubtfire and Forrest fucking Gump anyways!"

My movies landed on the city street, and I'm sure I heard a crunch down below as a kid on a bicycle ran over them. Never mind.

"I got an itch and I'm going to scratch it! It's nothing. Some punk hit me and I'm just a little sore. No need to cry over it!" My dvd shelf looked like a bunch of drunk elves assembled it at their annual Christmas work gala. I didn't really care about it, but he felt strongly about lumping it back together. And he could have bailed anytime. Easily. The boy can't fool me.

I crouched and handed him the last dvd, trying to give him my warmest, motherly smile. "I just want to talk about it privately. No peeking or anything weird like that. You don't have anyone else you can talk to about this, do you?"

His rapid chest slowed down and he puffed through his nostrils.

I nodded. "Yeah. You can have your beer after the check-up so long as you don't spill it on my couch."

His dark eyes dashed around the room, but they finally drew on me after it didn't look like he'll slam his head in the wall. I get a rough acknowledgment. Good enough. I don't take his hand or anything silly like that. The best way is to step aside and let him walk the path.

He stopped by the kitchen table and swallowed the last of his beer. When I picked it up earlier, it was half full. He's extremely nervous. I wait a few seconds before trailing behind him, and as I approached the door, he closed it. Perfectly acceptable. We can talk through the door.

Before I can utter a word, there's shuffling in the bathroom, and it sounds like he's going through the medicine cabinet. Thud, whack, scoot, scoot. SLAM.

He gave up.

"Lower left hand side," I softly coach. "Blue and white label."

Gentle movements followed by his mumbling and huffing. I'm definitely certain he's applying the crème. I can't wait to see him and give him a hug for his bravery. Maybe after another two movies, a tub of popcorn, and a three liter of root beer.

"It looks like shit. I'm screwed up for life, aren't I?" His voice echoed; I sense a lot more worry than aggravation. He even flushed the toilet to drawn out his concerns.

"Noooooo," I smile and start to say something else, but he interrupts me.

"I'm already screwed up anyways."

I placed my head on the door and stare at his work of art previously known as my dvd shelf. Immediately I want to say that he isn't screwed up, but it wouldn't make him feel better. We all realize the truth, and positive words vanish as much as they do.

"This gunk gets EVERYWHERE!"

"It does. Don't squeeze the tube as hard."

He crashed into some bottles. "I'll clean your bathroom, don't worry."

I could care less about my bathroom. "Are you feeling better now?"

I faced the door and followed the wood patterns on it for what seemed like forever. The sink water gushed and he washed his hands. I thought it was a good time to step away from the door and head back to the kitchen.

When the door quietly creaked and he appeared around the corner, I already had the movie food waiting for him. His mood improved a thousand times better, and for the next seven days, he was on time for every check-up.