(written for @fluffyjuly day two: nursing back to health)
Fandom: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (2003)
Word Count: 1760
“Oh, Mikey.” Don sighs, turning around the corner into his room.
Mikey looks around, vaguely wondering what the hint of worry and sympathy in Don’s voice could possibly be referring to. His room looks the same as it’s always looked: comics strewn on the table, fairy lights decorating the wall, Walkman abandoned on his eye-searingly orange beanbag, blankets and sweaters pooled around him on the floor, small tissue papers scrunched up and discarded everywhere… It’s all normal.
“What’s wrong?” He asks, and huh. His voice sounds strange. Like he’s Batman. Even though he isn’t trying to do a Batman voice. “Why do I sound like Batman? ‘M not ready to go protect Gotham. I don’t even have a Robin yet.”
“You’re sick.” Don shakes his head, making his way over to the nest of warmth Mikey’s sitting in. Does he want to join? Awesome.
Instead of stepping in, though, Don leans over and places a hand over his head. Oh, that feels nice. Like ice and chilly water bottles straight from the fridge and bright popsicles sitting in the freezer. Popsicles sound amazing right now.
“Oh, wow, you’re really burning up.” Don mumbles, a deep indent between his brows. “How did none of us see it sooner?”
See what? Mikey’s head? Mikey’s head has been attached to Mikey this whole time, and Mikey has been in his room all morning. He’d woken up all groggy, tried to get out of bed, plummeted on the floor, and promptly decided to stay right there.
Did he accidentally skip breakfast? Oh. Whoops. That might explain why Don came looking for him. But if he thinks he’s going to be able to drag Mikey out and force some of Raph’s protein porridge down his hatch, he’s got another thing coming.
“—Mikey?” Don says, an expectant look in his eye. Oh, he missed something. Whoops times two. He’d been too busy imagining Raph and his angry porridge.
“Is the porridge mad at me?” Mikey asks.
Don blinks. “Porridge? What porridge?”
“Raphie’s. Is it mad ‘cause it’s not down my hatch?”
Don just stares at Mikey, his face doing a funny thing between frowning and bursting out into laughter. He coughs unconvincingly. “Um. No, no one’s mad at you. Not Raph. Certainly not his breakfast.”
He stands up and puts his hands on his hips, sighing. “But I do think something else should go down your hatch. Like medicine. Acetaminophen should do the trick.”
“No.” Mikey immediately scooches back, shell hitting the bed frame. His stomach is folding in on itself right now. If he puts anything in it, it’ll keep folding over and over until it implodes, painfully.
“Woah, Mikey, easy.” Don’s eyes go wide as he backs up, his hands raised. “No need to yell. The medicine is good for you.”
Did he yell? Crap. He wasn’t trying to yell. He doesn’t like yelling at his brothers. He doesn’t want them to be sad or upset or have that look on their faces.
Mikey’s eyes sting, and that makes his nose and throat burn.
“What—are you crying?” Don asks, and he kneels again, trying to meet his eyes. “Don’t cry, Mikes, it’s okay. I know you feel terrible right now, but I promise it’s temporary.”
“What’s goin’ on? I heard shouting.” Another voice pipes up from the door. Mikey’s blurry eyes catch a faint hint of red. “Wowza, this place is a sty, Mike, do you never—Mikey?”
Immediately, Raph rushes to him and crouches, bent low towards his face. “Why’re you crying?” He interrogates, worry threading through his words like yarn through needles. “What happened?”
“He’s sick. I’m trying to convince him to take some meds, but I’m having… technical difficulties.” Don’s fingers rap against his knuckles, fidgeting. “Can you help me get him in bed?”
“Sick, huh?” Raph huffs, the worry dialed back from an eleven to a four. “Seems like everyone’s sick now. Casey came down with something last week. That’s why you don’t hang out with bozos like him.”
“You hang out with him all the time.” Great, from imitating Batman to imitating Squidward with that nasaliness . “You’re a bozo.”
Raph and Don each put one arm behind his shell and one under his legs, carefully not dislodging the three quilts he’d wrapped around himself. He feels a little like a giant burrito, being picked up and placed on a softer, flatter surface, and that image makes him giggle.
“Now he’s laughin’.” Raph shoots Don a quizzical look. “Has he finally lost it?”
Mikey tries to explain the picture in his head between spurts of laughter, tears rolling down the sides of his face, but he doesn’t get very far. His entire body feels too hot, skin stretched thin and taut. And suddenly, he can’t stand being a burrito.
He kicks and flails his limbs, trying to get rid of the hot-hot-hot, blissfully cool air hitting his exposed skin.
“What the—Mike, woah, stop.” Raph rips the blanket from him at once, and Mikey finally takes an easy breath, eyes closing. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”
“Okay, we have to get some Benadryl in him. Preferably the kind that knocks him out for two to four hours.”
“I’ll get Leo. If he screams bloody murder again, I don’t want my eardrums to be the victims.”
“You don’t have to get him, he’s right there.” Mikey mumbles, relishing the sweat cooling on his skin.
He hears Leo’s familiar footsteps get closer. They’re uneven, like he’s tip-toeing to avoid the mess in the room.
“How did you do that?” Leo’s soft, amused voice asks. “Neither of them heard me, and you had your eyes shut.”
Mikey doesn’t know; his head is swimming too hard to give a real answer. His awareness is just in-tune with his brothers’ presences. One moment he’d known Leo wasn’t there, and one moment he’d known he was. His instinct had made him relax before his conscious thought needed his five senses. Something deep behind his ribs had finally felt complete, when soaring blue joined flaming red and sparkling purple. And so he’d known.
Or, maybe, he’d just guessed and turned out to be right. That’s probably more likely.
“Sensei’s bringing some capsules and a wet cloth.” Leo says when Mikey just gives him a pathetic moan in response. “But. Until then.”
Mikey hears Leo rummage through his stuff, his eyelids too sticky to open. And then feels soft fabric slip over his feet.
He whines out loud, the hot-hot-hot coming back, but Leo puts a gentle stop to his squirming. “I know, I know, the socks suck. But you’re gonna need them. You’ll be feeling pretty terrible for a while, and they’ll help. You’ll switch between hot and cold, you’ll shiver, you’ll cry—”
“You’ll have a massive headache that you’ll complain so much about, the whole lair will be able to hear you.” Don volunteers, wry.
“You’ll try to eat somethin’, say you’re feeling great, and not ten minutes later, throw all of it up in the bathroom.” Raph adds with a snort.
“—We’re very well-versed in Michelangelo Sick Days , is what I mean.” Leo chuckles. “So believe me when I say you need your socks, even if it doesn’t feel like it right now.”
Affection drips from their voices, gooey and melty, like a spoonful of honey in warm tea. Mikey smiles, a knot rising in his throat. Next to the more physical one that was already there, that is.
A quiet click of a walking staff on the ground reaches his ears, and he sighs, the final piece of him fitting solidly into place.
“My son.” Master Splinter speaks, low and quiet. “You did not come to eat, and your brother says you are sick. How do you feel?”
Mikey opens his mouth to make a joke, a non-cringey one, hopefully. But he erupts into coughs, the hard and aching ones that come from the depths of his lungs.
Immediately, four hands come to steady him: one on his plastron, probably checking for worse symptoms, one on his ankle, rubbing the joint in soothing motions, one on his neck, holding him up so he could breath, and one gripping his clammy hand tightly, promising him a calm after the storm.
“Not awesome.” He groans finally, and frowns. Ugh, back to Batman.
Sensei hums, concerned, and shifts. A second later, Mikey feels something cool placed on his forehead, and exhales. Wow. Gosh, that feels wonderful. He feels like he’s on cloud nine.
“If you would be so kind as to relieve your brother of some of his medical duties, Michelangelo,” Sensei says, “I am sure he would appreciate that.”
Don steps forward. “Alright, Mikes, sit up.”
Mikey does, because above all else, he is a good ninja and an obedient son, and if the drugs Don gives him can make him pass out for a bit, that would be great, please and thank you. But since he’s also Mikey, he keeps his eyes shut the whole time, and simply opens his mouth, waiting to be served.
He can clearly picture Don rolling his eyes where he says, “Oh, of course, your highness, your wish is my command.” He pops the pills on his tongue and gives him water to wash them down. Mikey immediately flops back on the bed.
They all stay there for a little while, talking to and about Mikey while Sensei replenishes his wet cloth, and he tries to listen, he swears. But the weight bearing down on his eyelids starts spreading to his whole body, and he can do little but fall victim to it.
“Think it finally kicked in.” Raph remarks quietly.
“Hmm, let him sleep. At least it’ll be peaceful for a while, before the fitfulness starts.” Don. “I’ll try to make him that tea you taught me last winter, Leo.”
“Sounds good. Or, y’know, I could make it. My tea is always the best, right, Master Splinter?”
There’s the sound of an ambivalent hum, and then more chuckles and bickering, getting farther and farther away. The cloth is finally removed, and Mikey feels a stroke and a soft peck on the top of his head.
He jolts awake, grabbing the hand, blinking owlishly up at Sensei, who reels back in surprise.
“Papa.” Mikey calls, a moniker he hasn’t used in ages.
“Yes, my little clementine?”
Mikey tightens his grip. “Will you be my Robin?”
Sensei looks utterly bewildered. “Uh. Yes?”
“Good.” Mikey nods, turtling back into his blankets. “That’s good.”
A slow, exhaled chuckle. “Sleep well, Michelangelo.”