Archive of Our Own ^beta

You walk past endless racks of clothes in Sparrow & Spool, a department store so vast it feels like its own borough.

You’re idly flipping through a rack of stylish jackets when a blur of orange and green nearly bowls you over. “Whoa there, buddy!” you yelp, steadying yourself.

Mikey skids to a halt, a bright pink feather boa wrapped around his neck and a pair of sparkly cat-eye sunglasses perched on his head. He grins, sheepish but undeterred. “Sorry!”

You laugh, shaking your head. “What’s with the fashion statement?”

He strikes a pose, boa flaring out dramatically. “Gotta keep my look fresh.”

“Where are the others?” you ask, scanning the immediate area. This place is a labyrinth.

He points over his shoulder. “Leo’s trying to convince Donnie that sequined capes are ‘tactically distracting’ for villains. And Raph’s in the men’s section. Said he needed new pants.”

You chuckle. “Sequined capes. Of course.” Deciding your boyfriend might need some moral support—or at least a second opinion—you say, “I’ll go find Raph. Try not to buy out the entire accessories department, okay?”

“No promises!” Mikey calls, already heading back towards a display of oversized novelty glasses.

You navigate through racks of shirts and sweaters, finally spotting a familiar, incredibly broad-shouldered silhouette in the aisle dedicated to pants. He is standing stock-still before a rack of jeans—and when he turns, with a pair in hand, his tight-lipped expression speaks volumes.

Pretending to inspect some brightly colored hoodie a few aisles over, you observe him. He’s already yanked several pairs of jeans and athletic pants off the hangers, disappearing into the changing rooms, only to emerge moments later with a frustrated huff. The largest sizes the store stocks are clearly not cutting it.

You decide it’s time to intervene.

You approach slowly, not wanting to spook him. “Hey, Raph.” Your voice is soft, but it catches his attention immediately. He turns, the fire in his eyes dimmed a little. “You okay?”

He grunts, holding up the latest pair like it personally offended him. “They call this an XXL? What, for toddlers?” Then he huffs, flinging the jeans back on the rack with a little too much force. “I just wanted one pair that fit. Is that too much to ask?”

You give his arm a reassuring pat. “Department store clothes weren’t designed for mutant turtle muscle.”

He side-eyes you, half-amused despite himself. “Not exactly comforting.”

“Okay, fair. But it is the truth.” You purse your lips, tilting your head. “You’re … impressively proportioned.” You give his bicep a light, appreciative squeeze. A tiny smile quirks his lips, though the frustration still shadows his eyes.

“Yeah, well, ‘impressively proportioned’ doesn’t help when I’m trying to find something that won’t rip the second I try to breathe,” he grumbles, though some of the tension leaves his shoulders. He nudges a discarded hanger with his foot. “It’s always just … annoying.”

You step closer, placing your hand gently on his shell as you look up at him. He’s towering over you, as always. But right now, that confidence he usually carries in every massive inch of him feels dulled. “Annoying and unfair,” you agree, “because I see nothing wrong with you. The problem’s with the clothes, not the guy trying to wear them.”

Raph shrugs, but it’s half-hearted. His eyes drop to the pile of rejected pants. “It’s not just pants,” he mutters. “It’s everything. Always gotta modify stuff, stretch it out, pray it doesn’t split when I move. And then—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening.

A snicker cuts through the air from the end of the aisle. A duo is openly staring, their eyes flicking from the mountain of discarded pants at Raph’s feet to Raph himself.

“Dude, no wonder,” the man says, loud enough for you both to hear, elbowing his companion. “He’d need a tent, not pants, for that butt.”

The woman giggles, covering her mouth.

Anger flares in your chest. A deep, embarrassed flush crawls up Raph’s neck, his shoulders hunching even further. His hands clench into fists at his sides, and for a horrifying second, you think he might march over to them and lay them out. Instead, he just looks down, his entire frame radiating shame.

Despite you wanting to tear those assholes a new one, you keep calm for Raph’s sake and slide in front of him, your much shorter form standing between him and the rest of the world. “They’re idiots. And cowards too, if they’re only brave enough to make fun of someone from a distance.”

“It ain’t just them,” he says, not meeting your eyes. “Feels like I always take up too much space. Can’t fit in booths, break chairs …” He trails off again, shifting his weight uncomfortably. “Sometimes I just wish I could shrink down. Be easier to be around.”

Your heart breaks for him as you reach up and gently place your hands on either side of his face, though he still doesn’t make eye contact. “Raph,” you say, voice low and steady. “Listen to me. You are strong. You are built to protect people; that’s why you are the way you are. Because you carry the weight of your family on your shoulders every single day.” You move a hand to press your palm flat against his plastron. “You don’t need to be smaller. The world needs to be bigger to deserve you.”

Finally, he looks at you, eyes widening. But you’re not done.

“Being big? It’s not a flaw. You’ve held off ten Foot goons at once without breaking a sweat. You’ve caught me mid-fall like it was nothing. And you give the warmest hugs in this entire city.” Your voice softens. “And yeah, maybe you don’t fit in a pair of discount jeans. Who cares?” You continue, grabbing his hands as you gaze up at him. “You’re not some ‘too-much’ mistake, Raph. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

A breath shudders out of him like he’s been holding it for years. “You’re just sayin’ that,” he mumbles.

You shake your head. “Nope. Not just saying it. I mean every word.” With a grin, you playfully poke his chest. “You own your space. You don’t have to apologize for it.”

His gaze, which had been fixed somewhere around your chin, finally lifts to meet yours fully. He seems to search your face, looking for any hint of insincerity, but finds only the steady affection you always offer him. “Easy for you to say, shorty,” he rumbles, the familiar nickname for you a little rough around the edges, but there’s a hint of a smile playing on his lips now.

You just smile wider. “Maybe. But I’ve got a good view from down here. And what I see is pretty amazing.” You give his large hand a squeeze.

He lets out another slow breath and glances over your head, towards where the snickering shoppers are. He subtly straightens up, but doesn’t glare at them. Doesn’t say a word. The pair exchange a nervous glance and quickly busy themselves with a rack of belts, their earlier bravado vanishing.

Then he looks back down at you, a small, almost shy smile finally breaking through. “Thanks,” he says, his voice low and sincere. “I … I needed that.”

“Anytime, big guy,” you reply softly. “That’s what I’m here for.” You look at the pile of rejected pants. “So, department store denim is a bust. Official verdict?”

“Yeah, you can say that again. Guess I’m stickin’ to my custom-made stuff or, y’know, things that stretch. A lot.” He gestures vaguely with his free hand. “Donnie’s been talkin’ ‘bout some new kinda super-durable, flexible fabric he’s workin’ on …”

“Sounds promising,” you say, already picturing Donnie’s enthusiastic, probably overly complicated explanation. “But for tonight? Maybe we skip the new pants mission and focus on something else?”

“Yeah,” Raph agrees, a visible wave of relief washing over his features. “Good call.” He tugs your hand gently. “C’mon. Let’s wait for the others.”

You let him lead you, his hand engulfing yours, warm and reassuring. You can tell he’s still carrying some of that self-conscious weight—old insecurities don’t just vanish with a pep talk, after all—but it’s lighter now. Manageable. His posture is taller. Shoulders back, head held a little higher.

As you stop near the exit to wait for the others, you rise onto your tiptoes, pecking his cheek. “If it’s any consolation, I like the way you fill out your pants. The view’s kinda unbeatable.”

He flushes red, a deep crimson spreading across his cheeks and down his neck. “Babe!”

“What?” you say innocently. “Just appreciating art.”

He ducks his head, the flush deepening as a bashful rumble escapes him. “Aw, c’mon, stop it.”

“Why? It’s true.” You trace a thumb over his knuckles, feeling the familiar rough texture of his skin. “You think I spend all that time admiring your … strong back for no reason?”

He grumbles something unintelligible, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers curl a little tighter around yours. The tension that had him practically vibrating with frustration earlier has eased into a much softer, more Raph-like simmer of embarrassment.

“Hey, guys! There you are!”

Mikey bounces over, holding several shopping bags, each one threatening to spill an assortment of clothes. The feather boa is still in place, now accompanied by a ridiculously tall top hat adorned with plastic flamingos. Leo saunters up behind him, looking remarkably pleased with himself. Donnie trails after them, appearing thoroughly unimpressed by the retail experience.

“So,” Leo begins, “did the quest for leg-coverings prove fruitful, oh mighty brother of mine?”

Raph grunts. “Store’s a flop. Nothin’ fits.”

“Tragically,” you interject smoothly, giving Raph’s hand a supportive squeeze, “their selection failed to accommodate a hero of his epic proportions.” You shoot Leo a pointed look, which he meets with an amused smirk.

“Indeed,” Donnie pipes up. “Based on my calculations of Raphael’s current dimensions versus standard human sizing charts, the probability of finding suitable trousers in a non-specialty establishment is approximately 2.6%. The structural integrity required is simply beyond their manufacturing capabilities.”

“Thanks for the math, D,” Raph mutters.

“Let’s blow this popsicle stand,” Leo says. “I’m craving pizza.”

Raph walks a little taller as you exit the store. As you leave, his arm a comforting weight around you, you know this insecurity won’t vanish forever. But for now, tucked securely against his side, you also know he believes you; that’s more than enough.

And you wouldn’t trade your big, sensitive, wonderful turtle for anything.