A part of Michelangelo was missing. Or maybe it's not. Maybe it's still there but it's broken, somehow.

Wrong.

Though history knew little of their exploits, those affiliated with the recently disbanded SHIELD organization still had access to records, albums filled with lab notes detailing the progress of the four turtles from the moment they were hatched to their adoption by the armed forces, and in every picture, dating as far back as their hatchling days, Michelangelo was never still. Whether he was standing in a group photo, beaming bright and innocent for the camera as Raph grumpily swatted away some wayward bunny ears, there was always some part of him moving, green hands tapping out a rhythm against a thigh or toes wiggling or a restless flick of blue eyes. He was always too energized, too jazzed to see what new, fascinating thing the world had to offer around the very next corner to be still.

The Soldier was nothing if not still. He could sit on the couch or at the counter for hours if not otherwise prompted, his gaze unfocused, or perhaps too focused on a time that had already passed. Without orders to complete or a mission to fulfill, there was nothing for him to do but become lost in his own head, buried under waves of memories that dogged his every waking hour like the vengeful wraiths of the bodies piled up in his wake.

His brothers insisted that it wasn't his fault, that it was Hydra and he could't blame himself for what they forced him to do, but it was his finger on the trigger, his hands around the throat of the man, wife, and – Not the kid. Please. Never a kid. I won't do it. You can't make me – and their words rang hollow.

Sometimes, Leo slipped.

It'd be when they were all together flipping mindlessly through the flat screen TV Stark had donated to their living quarters in his personal vanity fest - which had a thousand channels instead of five or ten, but was simple enough to use, and the mechanics of changing the station and the volume was the same, except now they didn't have an antenna to worry about – and Mikey was doing his best to force his muscles to untense, to smooth the deep lines from his features because he was home and he was safe and he couldn't keep making his brothers worry about him, couldn't act like their patience and efforts weren't working, couldn't keep being a burden-

And because it all seemed, for that moment, okay, like maybe things had changed, but now they were changing back, Leo would unconsciously fall back into the role he was comfortable with, the role of older brother, of leader.

"Hey, Mike," he'd call easily with his feet propped up on the table, an arm thrown lazily over a pillow, "grab me a soda from the fridge."

And Mikey would wordlessly leap to his feet, without any real volition or thought, to carry out the order, but not before seeing dismay smother the light in his brother's eyes.

If he could take that pain, keep it all to himself, he would. He's used to pain, but he can't, and the old him, the one he remembers sometimes in snippets and flashes, the one smiling out at him from the photographs and the comics, he would have known how to cheer them up, how to make them laugh, how to turn a day where the sun sank behind the clouds and the rain never stopped into a day to sing and splash through puddles.

Instead, the pizza that used to be his favorite causes him stomach pain, something Donatello explained, once he'd realized on his own why his little brother seemed to carefully clutch his stomach for a time after every meal, as his body needing time to readjust to carbs and sugars. "You've been on a strict regiment that's meant to keep you in peak physical condition. It seems we'll have to gradually reintroduce carbohydrates into your diet."

His mouth curved into a rueful smirk, Leo had shaken his head. "I can't believe we'll be putting you on a special food regimen to get you eating junk food again.

"Well, joke's on them." Raph snorted. "I eat pizza every day and I'm healthy as a horse."

"That's because you're still young, Raph," technically he was almost a century, but Donnie wasn't counting the time they'd spent frozen. "Keep up that diet when you're older and your health isn't the only thing you'll have in common with a horse."

"What exactly is it that you're trying to imply there, Don?"

It's while Raphael was sweeping his brother's head under his muscled arm and vigorously rubbing his knuckles against his scalp, that Michelangelo uttered a quick, light sound, a fast exhale of air that made every turtle at the counter turn their heads to look at him, and he froze, anticipating a scolding for what could only have been a blatant show of emotion, but then three pairs of arms were around him, three separate voices all repeating the same sound, and deep inside, the Soldier begins to fade, its cold reason and logic and restraint replaced by the warmth of a boundless, uncontainable love bursting forth from the walls of ice his captors had placed inside him.

This, he thought, was what it meant to be home.

Weeks had passed, and he was still not a fan of sleeping. Not in the bed, not on the floor, not on couch. To be inactive for such long periods of time reminded him of cryo, so he got up and paced.

When Donatello noticed, he'd come to stand in the doorway of his room, exhaustion and raw concern shaping the downward curve of his brow, and pursed his lips at the guilt flashing across his little brother's face. He'd turned around and left, only to come back with blankets a moment later, dropping them in neat, folded piles at the foot of Mikey's bed.

And Michelangelo had stared at them without moving, hesitant, stalling to the point where Donatello had wondered whether he was actually going to use them, but when he'd come back later in the night to check on his little brother, it was to see him all bundled up, his tired eyes closed and relaxed.

In an effort to ease the adjustment, they took to raising the temperature at night, making it extra warm so that Michelangelo never woke in a panic, never thrashed as though trying to run, and debated, out of sight but not out of earshot, whether moving to a warmer climate for the winter would outweigh the risks of moving away from their allies.

Yoshi Hamato, the former director of SHIELD, had assured them over the phone that no matter where they went, there would always be someone looking out for them.

And though he was technically unemployed, he'd made sure to not-so-subtlety mention that he was long past due for a warm weathered vacation.

Even after co-inhabiting with his brothers for a little over a month - Or two. It'd been ages since he'd last been awake this long and his internal calendar was becoming confused - it was hard to shake the mindset that pleasure was an emotion best hidden, suppressed, locked away in an iron box until the machine tore it and everything he'd ever been away from him.

Emotions were a weakness, shackles with razor edges – clinging, cloying things that gradually began to fill all the empty spaces Hydra had burned into his brain.

His conditioning demanded he reject them, his brothers asked that he accept them, and so Michelangelo often found himself taking a middle ground.

He'd plop down in front of the television, and not think about anything. Since he never bothered to change the channel, his brothers would often stumble into the kitchen, still groggy, to find him watching a documentary on the life cycle of bees or staring dully at the screen while a historian provided details on the ancient samurai's way of life.

Raph had shot Leo a look for that one.

But when Leo suggested that Michelangelo could change the channel, he'd begun mechanically flipping through the stations just to satisfy him, absorbing nothing.

While Leo and Donatello tried to address the problem by turning on cartoons they thought Mikey might appreciate before leaving the television unattended, Raph took a far more direct approach. "Move over, Frosty," Raph called out, half a second before vaulting over the top of the couch and jostling his little brother. Before Leo had the chance to admonish him for his reckless behavior, he noticed that Mikey didn't move immediately, the slightest hint of a scowl on his face as he grudgingly shifted to make room for the hothead, who then gleefully snatched up the remote.

Ignoring the sharp stab of envy in his chest, Leo settled against the counter, watching as Raph began to rapidly click through the channels, seemingly without any destination in mind at all.

In fact, he wasn't even looking at the screen. Instead, he was paying close attention to his little brother's expression, waiting for a twitch, a frown, anything he could use to discover what he liked.

It wasn't until they hit the early news channels that a curiousity entered Mikey's light blue eyes, and Raph glanced at the screen, mouth dropping a little in disbelief. It was an expose' on him, Leo, and Donnie – talking about their time in the war, how they were MIA for decades, only to resurface once more as heroes.

A video played of two bodies falling from a crashing helicarrier, and though Raph knew both of them would be okay, that one body was brooding silently behind him, safe and whole, and the other was sitting at his side, his breath caught, muscles tensing at how close he'd come to losing two of the most important people in his life.

Michelangelo placed a palm on his wrist, then looked up, blinking owlishly, as though surprised at the gesture.

Though touched, Raph did his best to hide the roughness in his voice behind a hearty cough. "Why ya wanna watch this, Mikey? You're living with the genuine articles."

"…I want to learn more about you." Rubbing his nose, Raph looked over at Leo for help, but Leo merely shrugged, figuring that Raph had accomplished more in the thirty seconds he'd spoken to Mikey than he had in the last thirty days. If anything, Leo was going to be going to him for advice after this.

Still, Raph attempted explain to Mikey that he didn't need to watch the news to learn about his brothers. "If you've ever got a question, you can always ask us."

And at that, Mikey actually smiled. "Why not both?"

A few days later, when Don was in the kitchen, working on installing the new voice-activated toaster that Tony Stark had sent them through the mail, there came several hard knocks on their door.

From his place at the counter, Mikey swiveled in his seat, poised to stand. "Want me to get that, Don?"

Already heading towards the door, Donnie waved him off. "I got it."

Standing at the threshold was a man dressed in a dull gray suit with a white tie, the ensemble matched by a sharp-toothed grin – thin, pale lips pulled back to reveal every one of his blindingly white teeth. It distracted Donatello, making him momentarily think of the man as the shark standing outside his door.

Someone, it seemed, had an unhealthy obsession with aquatic predators.

Though being visited by an agent wasn't an unusual occurrence, considering where they lived, Hamato had made no mention of such a visit, over the phone or otherwise, and so Donatello opened the door slowly, wary. "To what do we owe the pleasure…. Agent?"

"Armaggon." The man supplied cooly. He rustled through his suit pocket, retrieving a badge. "And to correct any possible misunderstandings, I'm actually from the FBI." Donatello stiffened, moving instinctively to fill the entire doorway with his body, though his svelte limbs did little to enhance the intimidation factor. The agent continued as though oblivious to the change. "My department received an anonymous tip claiming that the Winter Soldier, an international assassin, has taken up residence in your home."

Don't you dare call him that like that's all he is, Donnie thought furiously, it taking all of his focus and self-discipline not to spit the words in the man's face. His name is Michelangelo. More than a solider, he's my little brother. And he's not going anywhere with you.

It was true that his body was largely unimpressive, but that wouldn't last long if this agent tried to take Mikey away.

"If you know what I am," Donnie growled, "what I can do, then I suggest you stay right there."

Then he tried to shut the door in the agent's face, only for the man to shove his polished shoe in the crack, prying open the door so Donnie could smell the saltiness of his breath when he said smoothly, with a voice greasy as an oil spill, "What if I told you that in exchange for allowing me to take the Soldier into custody, I could get you the cure for your little… affliction?"

Turning his head inside, Donnie saw that though the couch where Mikey had been sitting was empty, one of the ceiling panels had recently shed a thin layer of dust over the tile floor. When next he faced the man at the door, there was a hint of red glowing deep within his brown eyes. "Leave," he bit out as the man's final warning. "You're making me angry."

And in what could have been the first evidence of intelligent life, Agent Armaggon retracted his foot, nodded, and walked away.

Donnie frowned. He hadn't pinned the man as the type to give up without a fight.

It was time for an emergency family gathering.

Once Raph had retrieved a broomstick to poke and prod Mikey out of the ceiling with, they all gathered in the kitchen, listening as Donatello repeated everything the man had said, starting from when he'd claimed to work for the FBI to when he'd offered to provide the cure for the secondary mutation.

Steepling his fingers, Leo said, "What're the chances that he's telling the truth?"

Donatello scoffed. "The chances that this stranger who, I might add, is screaming shady so loudly he should be perpetually hoarse, somehow found a source for a reliable cure, when SHIELD, with all of its vast funding and state-of-the-art technology, has barely even cracked the surface of the secondary mutation? They're beyond slim, Leo. Practically nonexistent." He paused, clenching and unclenching his fists as he breathed, forcing his heart rate to slow until it was miles clear of the danger zone. "And, also," he added in a softer tone, "Mike's still in danger. I don't think I even want the cure right now."

Unbeknownst to the others, Mikey tensed, confusion and anger beneath his skin. Whether Donatello wanted to receive the cure or not shouldn't have had anything to do with him, and yet he was making it seem as though the decision revolved around his wellbeing.

He hadn't rejoined his brothers to become yet another burden for them to shoulder.

"Look, if you're worried about not being able to defend yourself-"

Donnie shook his head. "I know you guys have my back. Worst comes to worst, it's not me getting hurt that I'm worried about."

"You don't have to worry about that, either." Reaching for his hand and giving it a tight squeeze, Leo said, "We won't let you hurt anyone."

"Except for the bad guys," Raph interjected, leaning back in his seat with a sly grin, "we'll let you hurt them plenty."

It was during one of those rare times when Michelangelo was left to his own devices – not completely alone, as he was still a wanted international criminal, but his brothers were all resting in their respective rooms, leaving him free to channel surf to his heart's content – when a letter was pushed under the door.

Drawing a blade from out of a sheath strapped to his ankle, he stalked towards the letter, bending to retrieve it only after he'd counted to sixty, and sensed no presence on the other side of the door, heard no shuffling or quiet intake of breath, no metallic click as the bullet moved into the chamber.

To be safe, he yanked his bandanna off his head, wrapping it around his mouth and nostrils before opening the letter to read several, neat handwritten words:

Will you stand back and watch as they sacrifice all for you?

He crumpled the letter in his hand, wishing ardently for a furnace he could throw it into. It would have been satisfying to watch it burn.

Something new caught his eye, and he smoothed it out on his knee, reading the back.

Are you worth it?