A/N: On second thought, I'll make this a little mini-series of LH/Mikey side stories all within the PC 'verse.
"I'm here for my daily dose of hugs and kisses!"
Your lab partners are familiar enough with Michelangelo at this point that they only smother good-natured chuckles behind their paperwork at his proclamation. You push the safety glasses you're wearing up from your eyes to your hairline, and follow his voice to the doorway.
He isn't allowed to come in while his own homemade 'science stuff in progress!' sign is in the window, a rule you enforce strictly after one accidental chemical burn too many. So he lingers in the hall– wearing his NYU soccer varsity jacket over the over-large hoodie you loaned him once, years ago, in deference to the cold, rainy spring afternoon– and you can't help but indulge him when he beckons you impatiently. You can't help indulging himever, really.
You pass off your clipboard to your neighbor as you stand, peeling off your gloves and moving across the room in a few long strides. His face is flushed from the weather outside and the force of his smile, and your heart gives way a little.
"Shouldn't you be at class?" you ask as you near him, and Michelangelo adopts the most perfectly innocent expression you've seen to date. "So yes, then," you add dryly. "Donatello is going to kill me once he figures out where you're sneaking off to."
"Pfft, he already knows, L. He even slipped Woody some gas money this morning. Oh, Woody's waiting in the car by the way, he says hi. We have practice till late tonight, then Hob's dragging us to dinner because he doesn't think we can feed ourselves on our own. For someone who ain't captain anymore, he sure is bossy."
It's his way of letting you know he'll be home late, letting you know not to worry. He leans into the hand you cup around his face, and you brush your thumb over the scattered freckles dusting his cheek. His eyes are bright, summer blue, wide like open windows as he smiles up at you– and not for the first time, you wish it was possible to send a thousand thank-yous to all the yous in the past, your other lives who lived so well and loved so much that you somehow deserve someone like Michelangelo now.
"What am I going to do with you?" you ask softly, unbearably fond in a way that tugs at your heart, and he grins, stands on the toes of his bright orange hightops so your face and his are inches apart.
"Dude, I already told you what I'm here for," he says, and you waste no time wrapping your arms around his waist and his shoulders, pressing your smile to his. Honestly, you think, as your coworkers laugh kindly behind you, as Michelangelo laughs against your mouth and tugs you closer, you could stand to indulge him a little more.