A/N: An anon on tumblr requested something from 'Problem Child' Leatherhead's POV. Did I jump on this prompt as a chance to write post-fic LH/Mikey? You bet I did. And I'm letting it stand alone because I like it.
It's been twenty years since the lab accident that cost you your second family and left you ugly scars, left you crippled in ways that don't make any sense, and sometimes it feels like you haven't moved at all since then. Your hands still shake on certain days, when you come too close to the oven and feel the packed heat on your skin, when a car horn blares or your own car's engine rumbles a little too loud. There's no telling, really, a good day from a bad until the bad happens.
You live most of your life in a state of fear. You hate the blackouts. You're afraid of the things you do, when your subconscious trips like that, when your brain convinces your body to react so violently. Your ex strode out of your life with glassy eyes and a bruise blossoming across his cheekbone, tears dripping down his face and a venomous,"You're a monster," coupled by a slamming door. You don't remember hitting him, but your knuckles were bruised, too.
You hate the blackouts. You hate that you can feel them coming, the way some people can feel the turn of weather in their bones, but there's nothing you can do to make them stop. You got a prescription on two separate occasions, but stopped taking the pills quickly, both times – the medication made you sad in a way that stuck and clung, made walking over bridges dangerous, made driving down to classes in the morning reckless endangerment because all you wanted to do was crane your weathered old car into every tree and pole you passed. You don't want to die. But for a long, long time, you were helpless and frustrated and terrified that you'd never figure out how to live like this.
You're at home when you're breathing starts to quicken. Must have been something on T.V., or the neighbors cooking barbeque, or your thoughts wandered too far, you don't know. But you scoop Klunk off your lap and take her to the bedroom, setting her down safely inside and closing the door while you still have half a mind to. Already your vision is tunneling and gone all white at the edges, and fear pinches deep in your chest, and your hands fold into fists that hurt, that dig crescents into your palms.
You have one number on speed dial, and that's the one you call now. It rings a few times, and you know he's in class, and feel shame and guilt and regret that this is necessary, that you have to bother him like this work their way up your throat hotly, stinging and bringing tears to your eyes, and when he answers you can't speak.
"Yo, L? That you? Heeey, duuude," he drags the syllables out playfully, laughter rich in his voice, and it reminds you of the way he adds too much vanilla to french toast. Laughter is his default, even after everything he's been through, the way yours is sleeping animal rage. "Did you pocket-dial me again?"
The phone is shaking in your hands. You can't speak. It might not be a blackout, but the panic attacks are no picnic either, and the burning doesn't abate even a little, and the tears start to track down your face, and you actively hate yourself.
Then, softly, "Buddy? You're there, aren't you. Hang on a sec- one sec, okay?" He's in class, but he's making time for you. Bailing on lecture even this close to finals and taking your call to the hallway, where he can give you his undivided attention. "Okay. I'm all yours, Elly. I hope you can hear me. Are you okay? You need me to come home? Y'know what, I'll bribe one of my interns to take over the rest of my classes– s'not the first time I've had to bake emergency lemon bars, won't be the last. Hey, that means I'll get an early weekend! We can do something fun– well, we always do something fun. But this time we can plan something fun, like an overnighter somewhere, y'know? You and me and our baby girl, make it a real family outing, haha– B&Bs are cat friendly, right?"
He knows what he's doing. Knows how to loosen the anxious knot lodged behind your sternum the way he'll loosen the knot on your tie with his fingers when you come home from a seminar. It's the same thing, warm fondness and familiarity and a closeness that has always, always come easily between the two of you, since the day you met him in an alley years and years ago. He was the brightest thing you'd ever seen that day, rainbow of bruises, scattered freckles under a mop of dandelion curls and watercolor eyes. You hadn't known then what you know now– that he could touch you like this, really reach you, make you better.
Your hair is pulled up into a ponytail. He kissed the burned side of your face over coffee and crepes earlier this morning, and your stomach didn't flip the way it used to, because somehow, somehow you're used to this. You're used to him, and the way he occupies your life and your house and the largest part of your heart. You're used to it, and sometimes you can't believe you're here.
It's been twenty years, and sometimes it feels like you've come so far that you might be someone else entirely. Someone who stands tall despite their broken parts, and smiles at strangers in the corner store, and stays up late looking up recipes on Pinterest. The display on your phone informs you that the call has lasted twenty-one minutes and thirty-four seconds so far, and he's still talking, hasn't missed a beat. You know he'll talk for as long as it takes to make you feel better. You wonder if he's already in his office, packing that old saddleback briefcase with all the work he won't finish today, his thoughts full of nothing but heading home to you. Klunk meows in the bedroom, pawing at the bottom of the door, and you move to let her out. Michelangelo laughs in your ear, and your hands aren't shaking anymore.