Scent
"It smells so bad Donnie! Isn't there anything we can do?", Mikey whines, voice muffled by the hand clamped down over his beak.
The sound of rushing water surrounds them, the after seven tidal flush of all New York's residents gushing through old, leaky, iron pipes.
Donatello shakes his head, glancing over his shoulder at his littlest brother, bouncing from foot to foot…wearing nothing but his frilly kitchens apron and an unhappy expression. Through his workshop door he can see the kitchen where Mikey's culinary discordance has consumed the counters and dinner table. It's an hour after evening training session and Donnie's exhausted, draped over his computer chair like nachos on cheese. A fine sheen of sweat glossing him, belts and pads scattered on the floor around his feet. Splinter had drilled them hard today. How Mikey had energy enough to cook he didn't know.
"It's an unfortunate part of living here Mikey," he says, drooping ever farther. "There's nothing I can do for it I haven't already. Think what it'd be like if we lived farther down. Remember the old tunnel…our first home?"
It's a natural impulse of Donatello's; taking responsibility for the families comfort. And why not? He'd been fixing, building and repairing things in their home for as long as he could remember.
The ruffles on the hem of Mikey's apron tickle his thigh and he looks down at it, peering through fogged over glasses. He reaches up and takes them off, releasing the knock from its hole in the strap, then grabs a rag off the table to clean them with.
"Bleagh!"
Mikey's eyes water at the thought of it. Their old home…the putrid smell of the water filtering in through moldy cracks. He feels bad for complaining, thinking of their quality of life now in comparison to then. He remembers how it used to be. He remembers Donnie and Leo, when they were younger and all slept together, taking the wet, mildewed side of the mattress so he and Raph could sleep comfortably. He remembers his father enlisting their help tearing up rags to use as towels and…yeah. He shouldn't have said anything.
His dramatic response makes Donatello laugh, and smiling he waves Mikey away, back towards the kitchen. It hadn't been his intention to make to make him feel guilty. It was just a thought. A stating of the facts. They lived in a sewer. No matter how much insulation he put up…no matter how help April and Casey gave them…they'd always be surrounded by shit.
"Just stay in there. Focus on how the food smells," he says, chuckling over his unspoken witticism.
Mikey nods, feeling the time crunch in his gut, mollified by Donnie's laughter and gently spoken words. He agreed. It was better for them now than it had ever been. The occasional blast of funk was a small price to pay for their elevated status.
'It is now anyway.', Mikey thinks subconsciously, bringing a knife to bear on the pile of yet un-peeled and quartered vegetables. The cucumber goes first and is the most easily stripped….dark green skin falling in thin spirals onto the cutting board.
Michelangelo breathes in, a smile spreading across his freckled face. It smells good. So light and fresh…like…like dew on new spring grass.
He slices it all the way to the end , then pops the rounded tip into his mouth, unable to resist. It was pho for dinner tonight; a sumptuous and fragrant meal. Every bean sprout, every piece of cilantro, carrot and mushroom he adds to the simmering broth is a pleasant additive, filtering away the scent of raw sewage swirling overhead.
'Focus on how the food smells.',Donatello had said.
"Good suggestion D…", he murmurs to himself, ladling out soup into their color coded bowls.
A half-hour. Not bad. It hadn't taken him long today at all. It was very possible he'd get something out of Raph other than grumbles and slurping. He might even forget the fight he had with Leo earlier today.
'Ah food..'
Donatello walks in first, Leo, Raph and Master not far behind, each voicing his appreciation in his own way. He could see the hunger in their eyes, Donnie's especially. He tended to forget he had a stomach, staying up late working in his lab, loading up on coffee and pep-pills rather than actual food.
He sits down, reaches for his spoon…and just before tucking in…peers over the edge of his bowl at Mikey, cranberry colored eyes crackling. Sparkling with an otherworldly energy.
Mikey's jaw drops. His eyes flutter closed. The light, airy smell of fresh cucumber fills his nostrils, starts his tail to swishing back and forth between his legs.
'Oh god Donnie..'
"Michelangelo? My son..?"
A blush, dark streaks of purple dot his plump, green cheeks, spreading down to his neck and shoulders. Mikey snaps to attention, withering under his father's intense gaze. He wasn't angry. Hadn't any idea in the slightest what his youngest had just experienced. Splinter spoke as a concerned parent, noting the flush of color and sudden shortness of breath that had come over his son.
"Are you in pain?", Splinter asks.
'Does tight shell count as pain?', Mikey wonders, bending down to pick up his spoon from where it lay on the floor.
"No sensei…", he responds promptly, pausing for a moment to peer at his brothers, long, lean legs stretched out under the table. He rises a spilt second later, cheery smile back in place, dipping into his soup with enthusiasm.
"Just really hungry is all."
-End
((A/N: Hoped you all liked it. Feel free to leave a review!-Berry))