I need you. You. You. You. In the Morning. When my soul's on fire!

[michaeljangelo]

Characters: Michaelangelo and...You?!
Date: Catch-all for March, but it could also be earlier.
Location: The Dojo, WA-3B, the Market.
Situation:
Maybe you're under 10 and are looking for the tumbling class the kids are talking about.
Maybe you're not under ten and you're looking to spar in a room that is now slowly emptying with bounding children. Inside there's a turtle cleaning up after them.
Maybe you're in the market shopping for food, and then...BOOM. Nearly five foot tall turtle in street clothes.
Maybe...something else?
Warnings/Rating: None...yet.

Comments

[michaeljangelo]

Mike pauses his fussing to slide a fresh cold pack across the table top to Raph.

"Here," is all he says before he exits the kitchen in search of a sheet willing to give it's life for the greater good of sling and splint.

He's gone for a moment or two, with the sound of tearing fabric being the harbinger of his return.

"Ready?"
Has the cold pack numbed the hand enough so that Mike can set and splint it?

[meanandgreen]

Is it numb enough to curb the excruciating pain he's about to experience? Hell no. But the new ice pack does help a little, soothing the grating, raw pain to a dull, deep ache that's a little easier to tolerate.

Either way, he's gonna be in a world of hurt in a second, and he has to mentally prepare himself. At least he's been through worse.

"Yeah," he grunts, "let's get it over with."

He's about as ready as he'll ever be.

[michaeljangelo]

He gives his own hand another once over, making sure he knows what he should be feeling for, then he shoots Raph a smirk.

"Good thing we've only got the three, right?"

With no other warning than that, he gets to work. First the wrist, then the bones of the palm, and finally the fingers. All pulled and articulated until he thinks he's got it right. Or at least right enough to hold over until Raph allows someone with actual medical training can see him.

[meanandgreen]

The fact that he doesn't writhe or flinch or even complain under Mike's administrations should be worrisome. Raphael only sets his teeth and breathes through his nose, doing everything he can to keep his mind blank. But it hurts. Holy shit does it hurt. With every little movement, every touch, every pull his heart hammers harder in his chest, leaving a sick feeling throbbing in his stomach. His head swims, and static crackles over his vision. His face grows numb and the rest of him feels cold as ice.

It's shock. He's dealt with it a million times. Sometimes it happens to him and sometimes it doesn't. But when it does, he can't help getting pissed at himself for the response. He should be used to this by now. He is used to this, but his body freaks out against his will anyways.

By the end he's broken into a cold sweat, and looks a little too far on the pale side. But he's okay. He just has to close his eyes, hunch forward a little bit and suck in a few deep breaths while he bandages it. He doesn't need for Mike to stop.

And after this, he still needs stitches in his face and shoulder from the hits he took from his fight with Dai Jin's gang. This just keeps getting better and better.

[michaeljangelo]

Which is good, because Mike doesn't stop. It'd be insult on top of injury to do so. The symptoms of shock don't go unnoticed, however, and so Mike does what his father would have done.

He sings.
Or rather, he hums.

Not loud at first, and certainly nothing fancy. Just the simple melody of the lullaby Splinter used to sing when they were small. Or...at very least it's the one his Splinter used to sing.

The the cold compress is applied once more as Mike moves onto cleaning the areas that need stitching.

[meanandgreen]

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.

[michaeljangelo]

If Mike notices, and there's really no question that he does, he makes no show of it. Maybe there's one very quick glance towards his cousin's eyes, but that's it. He respects the other turtle's dignity enough not to stare. There'll be plenty of time for Bond Villain jokes later, but not now. For the time being he'll just keep humming along, cleaning what needs cleaning, and mending what's been torn.

If he allows himself, he can easily pretend that this kitchen is April's kitchen. That it's the wee hours of the morning, and Raph has just come back from one of his outings. That they're hiding out in April's kitchen because she's a deep sleeper, and Leo would know if they were in the basement. Back before all hell broke loose the day Mike pushed Raph...his Raph, too far. When things were better than they are now. Which, considering they were still short a father, is saying quite a lot about how dire Mike views his current situation.

And then...the last bit of dried blood is gone, and the final knot in the thread has been tied. Mike stops humming and leans back to admire his handy work. If any scars are left they'll only be because Raph didn't keep his wounds clean, or he pulled too hard at his stitches too early. Like he always does...

"You look mahvelous," he says affecting a Fernando'esque voice.

[meanandgreen]

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.

[michaeljangelo]

"Sure, of course. No problem," he says turning to take in the rest of the kitchen. He'd all but forgotten about his earlier outburst, and now the once ready to eat oatish meal is coating a portion of the kitchen floor.

"Oh. Uh...yeah, just um...just gimme a sec." He looks back at Raph to shoot him a quick sheepish grin before starting the breakfast procedure all over again. Though this time it has the added difficulty of cleaning the very pots you're only going to dirty up again.

[meanandgreen]

Yeah... should probably clean that up. Raph would help if he could actually do anything without passing out.

While Mike cooks, Raph hunches forward and cradles the side of his face with his good hand, his elbow propped up on the table. He's so tired of everything right now; the throbbing in his hand, the emotional drain, the shock, not to mention letting Dai Jin's cronies beat him to hell.

So he zones, lets his mind wander and his eyes slide half closed, listening for any sound that would hint Leo's return. He sure as hell doesn't plan to be there when he does.