Raph only grunts in reply. There hasn't been a single day in his life that his ugly mug looked anything close to mahvelous. Not now, not ever. And those freshly-closed gashes will only add to the assortment of scars criss-crossing a pale gray across his dark skin. Those stitches will hold for a couple days, until the minute they start itching or start preventing him from doing something. Then he'll find the scissors and pry them out himself. Though the broken hand mind slow him down.

They're done, but he doesn't try to get up. Not yet. He's still far too lightheaded to attempt it, but that's not something he's gonna admit. So he has to fill the silence, give him a reason to stay.

"So is it too late for you to whip up some of that oatmeal before Leo gets back?" He asks. Since, you know, the pots are kind of all over the floor. But since he's still pretty hungry, and he knows how his own Mikey loves to make stuff for him, so in a way, asking for it is his own form of a peace offering.

Or at least he hopes so. He never was very good with that kind of thing.

And if he really was being honest with himself, he likes being taken care of like this. Mike doesn't judge him. Doesn't make him talk about anything. And most importantly, he doesn't even come close to annoying him like his Mikey does. He just does what he needs him to do in the best way possible. It makes him feel... warm. Nice. Something he really hasn't ever felt before.

After a fight like this, he's used to judging looks and short tempers. He's used to having to shut himself off from everyone to diffuse his anger and get the space he needs. He's used to Splinter forcing him to talk about his feelings, having everyone poking and prodding and prying things out of him until he explodes all over again. But not this time.