The next day, Michelangelo made more of his notorious pizza milkshakes to ensure plenty of leftovers. When the turtles had all given their excuses when offered the horrible goop (save for Raph who flatly asked “What is wrong with you?”), he feigned hurt feelings before dumping the rest into a couple of thermoses. He was sure Leatherhead could find his own food but the gator did like Mikey’s cooking and Mikey did like compliments.
Before leaving the lair, he stopped by Donatello’s work station to find the brainy turtle working on the buggies… or what was left of them. “Fixing the go-karts?” Michelangelo asked while looking over his brother’s shoulder.
“I’m fixing the ‘all-terrain buggies’, yes,” responded Donatello, twisting the monkey wrench in his hand diligently. “See, the ratchet mechanism should have been attached to the suspension rather than the bumper so the rope spears have enough torque to function properly when the clutch is…”
“Donnie?”
“Yes?”
“It’s me.”
“Oh, right. Um… I make go-kart better. Go-kart not go pthhbpbp next time.”
“See, was that so hard?”
“You have no idea…” Donatello switched tools and continued working. “So what’s up?”
“Just wanted to say thanks for the T-Pod. Leatherhead really likes it,” Michelangelo said before being cut off by a sharp shush from his brother.
“Mikey, keep it down. If you get caught, I get caught. I’m not balancing a bucket of water on my head for 8 hours because you can’t keep your own secret.”
“All right, chill, chill,” the smaller turtle placated and made a zipping motion across his mouth to placate his brother. “Anyway, I’m heading out again. Splinter’s still meditating. If he asks just tell him I had too much P-Shake and went to bed because I wasn’t feeling so hot.”
“Fine,” Donatello said and sighed wearily. “And you seriously need to stop calling them that.”
“Why?”
“Because I-… Never mind. Just go.” Mikey bid his brother farewell and headed for the exit. On his way out he passed by his other two brothers in the living room. Raph was reading a comic that had a cowboy with a half-melted face on the cover and Leo was glued to another one of his episodes of Space Heroes. They didn’t need to know about his little excursion so he tried to slip by as quietly as possible.
As he was passing, he caught part of the show. “Your species is highly intelligent, but you sure are a stiff lot,” the Captain was saying to some alien woman with an enlarged head and big blue eyes.
“We merely relax in different ways,” the woman responded in a strange accent. “Theorizing, calculating, unravelling the intricacies of the galaxy… We may lack brute strength, but we are most at ease when challenged intellectually.”
“It sounds to me like you never learned to dance,” the Captain replied seductively, one eyebrow arching. At this Mikey stopped and listened.
“We know of dancing; many forms, favouring synchronization and flourish, a display, a challenge, an offer. It is fascinating but our bodies do not facilitate the kind of abandon balanced between thought and physical instinct.”
“I think you think too much,” the Captain replied and took her by the hand and spun her and caught her, her silvery hair somehow coming tastefully undone. They proceed to step back and forth, hand in hand to music that faded in from nowhere, the woman showing inexplicable finesse, the Captain’s eyebrow stuck in a perpetual arch. It gave Mikey an idea.
When Michelangelo reached Leatherhead’s alcove, he noticed that there were now tattered sheets hanging across the entrance, blocking most of the light emanating from within, save for what shone beneath the frayed bottoms or through holes. He carefully pulled one side across from the middle, just enough to peer in. The alligator was in his bed, lying flat on his belly with his arms folded beneath his jaw. The short turtle could hear his even, somewhat gravelled breaths and knew that he was sleeping. “Aww,” Mikey cooed to himself and let himself in.
Michelangelo crept up to the snoozing gator and for a moment considered diving on him for a surprise wake up call. He quickly decided against it figuring Leatherhead wasn’t fond of surprises; as much faith he had in his friend’s capability to remain in control, he wasn’t willing to push his luck that far.
Instead, he opted to calmly crawl upon the gator’s sloping back which expanded and retracted with each deep breath. Depositing his thermoses on the floor, he clambered up the huge, docile form, feeling the leathery texture covering hard muscle, wary of the ridges protruding from it. Once atop, lying on his plastron, Mikey rested his head between Leatherhead’s shoulder blades, listening to his breathing and the beat of his strong heart. The turtle’s own heart beat at a faster pace and together they made a kind of unheard cadence; two light beats for every heavy one.
Michelangelo decided to wake the big guy up before he himself fell asleep right there and then. Reaching up, he bagan gently scratching behind where an ear would have been, still listening to the internal song. Leatherhead’s breath hitched after a few moments and Mkey knew he was awake. Then the gater sighed, realisation setting in with the pleasurable sensation and weight on his back.
“Hello, friend,” the larger mutant said in a tone more husky than usual, obvious enjoying the attention.
“’Sup?” the turtle responded casually, propping his head with his free hand. He idly wondered if this was the first time Leatherhead hadn’t woken up alone.
“Something smells good,” the gator said dreamily.
“Thanks, I’m trying this new shampoo…”
“I meant food.”
“Oh, right,” Mikey said, suddenly remembering the thermoses. He climbed down and picked up the shakes he brought while Leatherhead yawned and sat up and stretched.
“I’m guessing you like pizza and milkshakes because, well, who doesn’t?” Michelangelo said as he unscrewed the cap and handed the container to his intrigued buddy. The larger mutant accepted graciously and brought it to his snout, sniffing once and twice before guzzling it down in a matter of seconds. He licked his chops and made a pleased sound.
“This is delicious. Thank you, Michelangelo.” Leatherhead smiled and returned the thermos to the turtle whose eyes lit up with pride.
“I’m glad someone can appreciate my cooking,” he said, screwing the cap back in place. “And you can call me Mikey, dude. Everyone does. Well, everyone I like.”
“Very well, Mikey,” Leatherhead responded, careful with the name, as if he would break it. He eyed the other thermos hungrily. Mikey noticed.
“Here, LT. They’re both for you; I already ate.” The turtle handed the other container to his friend.
“Are you sure?” asked the gator, already screwing off the cap.
“Yep, gotta get your nutrients so you can grow up big and strong like me.” His hungry counterpart grinned and downed his second helping and Michelangelo was unsure if he got the joke. “So,” the smaller mutant began, reaching down and stirring the fabric of the blanket with his finger,” have you given any more thought to what you wanna do for fun?” Leatherhead finished and wiped his mouth and looked back at the inquisitive blue eyes.
“Well,” he said, thoughtful, “perhaps chess…”
“Um, do you know how to play?”
“No.”
“Oh. Master Splinter tried to teach me once. He said, ‘In great suffering lies enlightenment.’ Then he thanked me and went to bed because he said he was feeling really, really enlightened. I must be pretty good.” Leatherhead looked unsure. “But I was thinking something involving a little less sitting around.”
“Like what?”
“What about skateboarding?” Mikey asked excitedly. The alligator looked even more confused. “But I don’t think they make boards your size…” They each sat in silence for a moment, feeling the wall of experience and possibilities between them. Then the turtle remembered his idea. “Dancing,” he said, questioning but confident. The larger of the two said nothing, more dubious than ever. “You, know? Dancing? Like this.” Michelangelo rose and moved back and began moving to imaginary music, fast paced and energetic, incorporating spins and handstands with seeming effortlessness. Once done, he looked expectantly to his friend. He was met with a mixture of awe and doubt.  “You just need some music,” he said, walking over to the T-Pod sitting on a dusty console beside the bed. “Anybody can dance.” He thumbed through the selection but was met with dusty old musicians long since dead, from a time when bass and speed didn’t exist. “Maybe…,” he said, finger hovering above the play button, “maybe we should just start slow.” The click of the button was followed by the twinkling of a piano, bringing a brass section to life, slowly and steadily. He turned around and offered a hand to Leatherhead who looked every bit the shy guy he really was.
“I don’t think so,” the gator said, looking to the side and absently scratching the knee that was bent at his chest.
“I think you think too much,” Mikey retorted, mustering all the Captain Ryan he could, even cocking an eyebrow.  Eventually Leatherhead took the offered hand and stood, considerably dwarfing his newfound dance partner. The smaller of the two held his other hand out and the larger grabbed that too. Michelangelo remembered the episode as best he could and pivoted, drawing in one enormous hand with his own and pressing forward with the other. Back and forth the dance went in stuttering steps, Leatherhead distinctly lacking in finesse.
Eventually, they found a rhythm and became more fluid. The gator was hunched over, clasping and engulfing each of his friend’s hands with almost comical size difference, one of his clawed fingers fastened between two smaller digits. It was nothing more than a game of push and pull, gentle, rotating, careful. They looked at each other all the while, smiles growing as if in acknowledgment of the strangeness of the situation. The music ebbed and flowed as did their laughter. To an observer it would have seemed so absurd, but they each found meaning and new ground upon which to build.
The song ended. The couple stopped. Without thinking, Leatherhead bent down further and touched the tip of his snout to Mikey’s forehead, spurned by instinct and desire rather than understanding. In turn, the turtle craned his head back, making contact with his nose, rubbing slightly with slow turns to the left and right.
When they became aware of the silence, they broke the embrace and laughed bashfully. They stepped back from each other and idly fidgeted with their chilling hands, never breaking eye contact.
“You’re a good dancer,” Michelangelo offered lamely, unsure of what else to say.
“I… enjoyed it,” Leatherhead responded, just as confused by what just transpired.
“I better get going,” the turtle said after ages of silence, getting the vague feeling that if he stayed any longer he wouldn’t return home until morning.
“Will you visit tomorrow?” asked the gator, suddenly somewhat anxious.
“Yeah, ‘course,” Mikey reassured, sealing the deal with a quick hug. It was returned without hesitation, just a bit tighter than the last.