They're gearing up for a storm all their own. Leo sees it rapidly unrolling over his brother's tight expression, barreling towards them like a tidal wave. He wishes it wouldn't; there are bigger things on his mind than weathering it. But this is such an old storm, and it's always set in just when he feels like they don't have the time. A pattern as ancient and predictable as rainfall itself.

Tonight, he'll try and skirt past. He inclines his head questioningly, keeping his voice carefully neutral. "Why?"

He may not exactly understand how the cogs turn in that head of Raph's, but over the years he's learned how to insert the coins. Sometimes the most straightforward questions dispense the fullest answers.