Chapter Text
These past few days since his return to Earth have been giving Mikey some serious emotional whiplash. Which is to be expected, he supposes; he hasn't exactly been feeling like himself for a while now.
For instance, there's this stubborn resentment at the fact that, to his brothers, the whole fiasco with dimension X was just another crazy adventure full of wacky tech, murderous foes, and bloodthirsty aliens.
And then there's Mikey, who, of course, had to be the only one actually affected by the whole thing. Admittedly, it's not like they don't care at all — there's still some concern there, just not as much as Mikey hoped they would.
The first thing Donnie did upon returning to the lair was check all his vitals, which he concluded were normal besides a little stress on the lungs due to being exposed to the strange air for as long as he did and a number of scars — which he figured came from his interactions with the beasts of Dimension X.
On that note, there's been a more... recent development to his affliction in terms of physical state: unusual pain in different areas of the body (there's this stiffness in his neck that's really bugging him), and an awfully persistent neuralgia that just comes and goes.
“Aw, Shell.” Mikey huffs, blearily winking the crust from his eyes. His whole body positively ached; prickly, strained, and... sticky?!
"Ugh." Sitting up from his bed, albeit hesitantly, Mikey looks down at the cheesy mess of leftover pizza on his covers, eyes lighting up. Maybe the universe doesn't hate him as much as he thought it did.
Cheerfully plucking the culinary monstrosity burdened with sardines, jellybeans, and hot sauce, Mikey takes a generous bite and releases a sigh of satisfaction.
His blue eyes wander lazily around his room in content — exactly the way it's always been: posters of his favorite comics and horror movies just barely clinging to the walls, the clutter of wrappers and empty cups he never returned to the sink, a boombox to the right of him...
With a painful swallow - Aw, seriously, was he getting sick? - And with a pat to his belly, Mikey stands at full height.
“Man, that really hit the spot.” he mutters, shifting to peer at his desk and check the time. It’s almost noon.
He’s gonna be late for training.
‘Hope Sensei goes easy on us today.' he thinks, wincing at the forming headache as he rushes to get his mask and gear on when a thunderous knock shocks him to attention.
“Hey! Shell-For-Brains,” Raphie-Boy, “Get ‘yer ass up and into the dojo before I—" Mikey rolls his eyes and swings the door open where a bitter Raph stands in all his glory. Truthfully, having him within line of sight prompted a bit of relief to the involuntary tightness of his shoulders.
“I was getting ready." Mikey whines as his older brother all but shoves him in the direction of the training room. “Cut me some crack! I just returned home a few days ago and everything hurts—"
Raph snorts, directing Mikey forward with a firm grip at the lip of his shell. “It’s ‘cut me some slack.'" Unwittingly, Raph casts a downward glance at his brother's back, the lines of his face contorting into an unflattering sneer that crinkles at the nasion of his scarlet mask.
“Ugh, Mikey! What the shell is that?!” Mikey twists for a look at the gooey canvas decorating his carapace before peering back up to meet blazing green eyes, smiling sheepishly.
“Breakfast?”
Raph returns the look with exasperation and a blank stare, painfully unimpressed. “Go clean up.”
Needless to say, Master Splinter did not go easy on them.
Mikey trust-falls onto the couch with a groan — it creaks in response.
“Dude, I don’t think Splinter’s ever gone that hard on us before.” He sighs dramatically, lifting an arm to shield his face from the overhead light. “I’m ready to hibernate for the next, like, five-hundred years, probably.” Sitting up with sudden wonder, Mikey ponders, “Actually, can turtles even do that?” He squeezes his eyes tightly shut, worrying his inner cheek. ‘Maybe it’d get rid of this damn headache.'
He's starting to consider telling someone about it in case it gets any worse.
“Not hibernate,” Donnie juts in, all long-limbed and awkward in his adolescence. He settles onto the couch next to Mikey with a laptop in hand. “Rather, they do something called brumation, which is a—" Leo, perched comfortably on the ground in front of them, cuts off the oncoming ramble with a huff of frustration and turns up the TV volume.
“Ehem, could you guys keep it down? It’s hard to focus with all the noise.”
“You’ve seen this show a million times already.” Raph remarks, shoving Leo to the side and grabbing at the remote. “Move aside, it’s my turn.”
Mikey observes the impending scuffle with passing interest — he supposes he should be grateful everyone’s getting along like normal. The stress has been at an all-time high lately with the Kraang invasion and all, and the mood between Donnie and Leo is a bit more lax right now despite their disagreements with the Turtle-Mech and the plans or whatever.
Not to mention all the Kraang roaming around the streets lately; they're like roaches. Mikey shudders. He halfheartedly attempts to tune out the chatter bouncing off in tormenting echoes in his head.
God, all this bickering was getting to him. Routinely, his brothers were on the receiving end of his pestering. Is this what people call getting a taste of your own medicine?
'Speaking of medicine, maybe some ibuprofen and a nap will help.'
With a sigh and a stretch, Mikey gets up and mentally prepares himself for the trek to the bathroom. Raph looks over at him, humming with mild interest and quirking the ridge of his brow.
“Where you goin’? Usually you’d be whinin’ our heads off to have a chance at the remote by now, or did hell freeze over?” Mikey resumes his venture to salvation. Medicine, then nap, medicine then nap, medicine, then—
He strains for a sore glance at his brothers for a moment — stiff neck. “Nah,” he snickers. "I've got much cooler, more productive things to do to pass the time. This thing called sleep.”
Leo huffs fondly, “Well, don’t knock yourself out for too long.” He shifts back his focus to the television. “We’ve got a lot planned tonight, so be ready by the time we head out.”
Right…
Mikey finally settles into bed, medicated and exhausted. This time, sleep does come easily.
He doesn’t really know what’s going on, but what he does know is that it’s cold as shell and the fluorescent lights are determined to melt his eyes right off. And that he’s scared, though he’s not entirely sure why.
Regardless, the fear is familiar to him.
Stop, stop, stop, make it fucking STOP—
Mikey gasps for air, struggling frantically in realization that he’s tied down to a patient chair similar to the ones in the med-bay, but this isn't the med-bay. And if it were, he definitely wouldn’t be shackled this tight at the wrists and ankles, straps threatening to cut against skin, tight enough to numb.
He’s startled by the familiar robotic garble of backwards English. It makes his heart speed up further, like it's trying to beat out of his chest and bite into his ribs. He’s sweating and tastes the salt; his lungs fight for air in desperation. Everything hurts. They touch and prod at him like it's nobody's business. He can’t breathe.
Mikey wakes with a choke, eyes frantic, and arms thrashing with the vigor of a cornered animal… and there’s no fucking air—
A loud rap at the door startles him from his panic, freezing him in place. “Hey, Mikey!”
Leo.
Mikey lets out a sob of relief, gathering sanity to the best of his abilities. The ache in his head has subsided, but his muscles continue to twinge and stab at him like they're trying to break out of his skin and leave an empty shell. 'Hah, empty shell.'
His mind drifts back to the nightmare. It’s not like he’s totally clueless. He’s aware that there's some trauma left over from his capture with the Kraang, which, for whatever reason, he struggles to recall. The majority of it at least. Mostly, he just remembers their god-awful speak, lights, and needles, Kraang, touching, prodding...
Another knock and a roaring “Mikey!!” save him from another hectic spiral.
“Sorry, dudes!”
Mikey grapples with his kneepads. His hands keep shaking, and he nearly trips over his feet as he rushes out the door. His brothers will help take his mind off things.
What’s there to worry about?