The lullaby twists something inside of him, that familiar pang of homesickness broad siding him out of nowhere until it's all he can think about. The scent of incense clinging to his father's fur, his gnarled hand running over his scalp, murmuring a song, a prayer that's meant to soothe away the pain and sickness in place of things they could never have from the world above. Medicine. Doctors. Bandages that weren't secondhand and stained from years of use. The look of concentration on Don's face as he puts in another stitch, one by one, until they're whole again.

And then that time, in the beginning when things were new and raw, when this Mike sang over the network to soothe away a different kind of demon, and everything had come tumbling down.

By the time Mike's sewing the last stitch into his shoulder, the ice in Raph's veins has melted. The sting and pop of the needle, then the pull of the thread through skin is a rhythm he can concentrate on; brings him back to his senses and away from memory.

When it's time to lift his chin to shut the gash on his face, his eyes are watery with unshed tears, and he won't go anywhere near looking Mike in the eye.

But above all, he's tired. He's so tired he can feel it in his bones, his head aching behind his eyes from even the small strain of holding in that little emotion. Everything just feels sore and raw and exhausting.

Cradling his throbbing hand and the ice pack protectively against his chest, he wonders if he'll even be able to sleep.