A/N: The turtle thing was just some weird gag I came up with at like 3 am... I never intended it to be realistic. I've never even owned turtles. I just figured, hey, in a world where pet rats can learn Ninjitzu from a cage, turtles can have personalities, right?
Splinter brushed a furry hand across Michelangelo's forehead. His youngest son didn't move; his pained expression stayed frozen.
"My son," Splinter whispered, though he knew the sleeping turtle couldn't hear him, "Michelangelo, please come back to me."
No response. Splinter sighed, taking a deep breath. He gathered every ounce of internal and external strength he possessed. He would need it. Reaching his son in his dreams was not an easy task, maintaining contact through his nightmares full of violence and fire and ice and everything else next to impossible. His most successful contact had been the first time, before they had rescued him. Since then, he had caught a glimpse but had been unable to work through the chaos.
Now, however, he couldn't hold back. He needed to reach Michelangelo before it was too late.
Raphael's sleeping form was as still as stone as his Sensei let a paw stroke his forehead. Strange to see it so bare...
"My son," Splinter whispered. No response. "Raphael, please return to us."
He hadn't been expecting an answer, and inhaled deeply when none came. This was not going to be easy. He wasn't even sure if it was possible. But Raphael needed him now more than ever. His poor, sick son needed his Master to bring him home before it was too late.
The first steps of relaxation and meditation were easy, routine. Splinter had no trouble getting into the altered state of consciousness he knew so well. It would be
...getting to the state of dreams, specifically those of the boy in front of him, that would be far more difficult. He would be testing the strength of the bond among family. Raphael's life
...depended on that test.
Splinter reached out with his mind, searching for the life force that was his youngest son. As usual, it was there, fainter, weaker than before. But Splinter grasped it and pulled himself inside, letting the chaotic terror of Michelangelo's dreams surround him. It was
...taxing to say the least, holding his own in the midst of Raphael's nightmare. Darkness and voices and creatures who existed only in the ten year old's imagination surrounded Splinter him, clawing and growling and biting and roaring until Splinter himself was almost lost among them. Disoriented in this unfamiliar place, he could not fight them off.
Many of the attackers this time were ninjas and monsters that they had encountered before, though many were not. A strange, black mist surrounded them all; an opening bright red in color threatened to swallow Splinter and Mikey both. But the wise old rat remembered, after a moment, six years before. Closing his eyes and inhaling deeply, he reminded himself that these hallucinations were Michelangelo's, not his own.
Splinter fought for control. He had come for Raphael, not to be swallowed up by his young son's dreams. He foreced himself to separate from Raphael's mind. The chaos stopped. Splinter found himself watching the nightmarish array
... attacking a struggling green form on the ground. He started toward them, gripping his figurative walking stick as his eyes narrowed in fierce determination.
He was a little uneasy, watching it. What was he supposed to do? The scene before him wasn't even real.
"Raphael," he said, "My son. Look past this. It is not real. Raphael, my son. Listen to the sound of my voice. Cling to it. It is real... the rest is not. See past the illusions, my son."
Nothing. Raphael groaned, in pain, in fear, Splinter didn't know.
"Raphael," he begged, "Listen to me."
Still no response. Splinter gripped his walking stick... strange that it had come with him. An idea struck him. He looked down.
Part of him felt awkward, fighting something that wasn't even real. But it was real to his son, real enough to hurt him, and Splinter pushed that part of him away. He needed his full concentration right now.
He raised his walking stick and struck.
Fighting imaginary attackers was much easier the second time. He had the experience to know just how real they were. And dreams were funny things; once he started to win, most of them vanished like smoke, leaving an exhausted Michelangelo lying alone on the figurative ground.
"Ssssensei..." he slurred. Splinter took one of his hands in his own.
Raphael blinked slowly, looking very young and very helpless. Splinter brushed his forehead.
"You are safe now, my son," he said, "I
...am here."
Michelangelo looked happier and more relieved than Splinter had ever seen him, but the heavy exhaustion still pulled on him. He closed his eyes.
"Michelangelo," said Splinter, not allowing the panic to show. Had he waited too long? "Michelangelo, listen to my voice and stay with me."
"Tired..."
"I know you are, my son. But you must stay tuned in to my voice. Open your eyes, Michelangelo. Look at me."
"Wan'ta sleep..."
Splinter knew it was no use to tell him he already was. "Be strong, my son. You must remain strong."
"So tired..."
Michelangelo trailed off. His breathing grew slower; his hand was becoming limp...
"Michelangelo," said Splinter loudly into his son's ear. "Wake up. Open your eyes."
The young turtle's head lolled to one side. His breath was so faint that it was almost impossible to hear. Splinter could feel his stomach turning to ice. It wasn't working He didn't know what would happen to him if he was caught in Michelangelo's dream as he died, but wasn't ready to abandon his son yet. Not if there was a sliver of hope.
"Michelangelo," he pleaded, "My son. Please come back to me."
No response.
"I didn't wanna leave him, Sensei. I made you a sandwich, too. Can I eat in here, with you?"
Normally, Splinter did not allow his sons to eat anywhere except the kitchen or, on occasion, in the living room, but seeing his son's eyes, small and sad and afraid, he sighed. Michelangelo was always the caring one, the giver, the nursemaid. Even in his young age, even amongst his childish silliness, the motivation to make everything right for his family was always there.
"Michelangelo. Michelangelo, open you eyes. Come back to us, my son."
"Someday, I wanna go find treasure just like the other Mikey. Then I'd be so rich, that no one would care that I'm a turtle and I could become a pirate and bury all my gold and..."
"You must not give up yet, my son. You are strong. Do not give up yet... Listen to my voice and come back to me. Open your eyes."
"I made you soup. Are ya hungry? It's Cam-buls. Sensei hadda help me with the can opener, but I heated it up by myself."
"Thanks, Mikey."
"Mas'er Splin'er says you shouldn't talk yet. Not 'till you're better-er. Here, eat."
Splinter, standing unnoticed in the doorway, smiled.
Splinter closed his eyes. Michelangelo was not responding.
"My son," he said. "Remember your family. You cannot give up yet. Your brothers need you, my son. We are waiting for you to come back. Your brothers need you to be strong. I need you to be strong." He squeezed Michelangelo's cold, green hand. "Open your eyes, Michelangelo, and come back to me.
Slowly, very slowly, two bleary eyes opened a crack. Splinter's heart leapt as Michelangelo's face wrinkled. He groaned softly.
"That's it, my son. Listen to my voice."
"Tired... sleep..."
Michelangelo's voice was so raspy it was almost unrecognizable, but Splinter didn't care. It was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.
"You may sleep later, my son. Not now. Now you must do something for me."
"I am going to leave you, my son, but I will not go far. I need you to follow me. Listen to the sound of my voice, and come to it. Do not give in to the temptation to sleep. Do you understand, my son?"
Raphael nodded slowly. He gave his Sensei a weak smile. Splinter closed his eyes and allowed himself to return to his son's room.
"You mean," said Cartagan, dumbfounded, to the three turtles, "He's done this before?"
Raph shrugged. "Beats me," he said. "I don't remember."
But Leo and Don nodded.
"He wouldn't let us be in the room with him, but he stayed there all night," said Leo. "The next morning, he was exhausted. But Raph was okay..."
"Not completely recovered of course," Donatello corrected him. "But out of immediate danger. We'd really thought we were going to lose him..."
Everyone looked at each other. No one dared to hope.
"He'll come back," said Raph firmly. "It's Mikey. He's too annoying to want to quit."
"And Master Splinter knows what he's doing," Leonardo agreed. "If anyone can get Mikey well, he can."
Expressions hardened, people nodded, and a single tear slid down April's cheek.
"I hope so," she whispered. Don gave her a hug. "I really hope so."
Hours passed. No one spoke. No one slept. They just waited. Waited in tense silence until a strange, strangled sound caught their attention. Everyone froze. It was hoarse and weak and barely audible. But they knew what it was. Someone was coughing. Everyone looked at each other with wide eyes.
"Mikey."
They ignored Splinter's orders and burst into the room.
Splinter was holding his youngest son in a sitting position, using his front against Michelangelo's shell and helping him hold a pillow to his chest. And Mikey was coughing – coughing! They were small, weak, raspy coughs, but they were coughs just the same. His eyes were shut tightly, his brow furrowed in pain. Doctor Cartagan was almost immediately at his side. She sat on the other end of the couch.
Mikey gave a deep-sounding hack that rattled in his chest. He winced, clutching the pillow tighter.
"That's it," Cartagan encouraged him. "Don't stop yet. One or two more. That's it."
Michelangelo winced. 'Hurts,' he mouthed. Cartagan took his hand.
"I know it hurts," she whispered, "But you're doing a great job. Don't stop yet."
April and Casey clung to each other. The three turtles looked on with wide eyes.
Two more deep, throaty coughs and Mikey leaned back, gasping for breath. Splinter stroked his forehead. He looked at Dr. Cartagan, who nodded.
"Rest now, my son," he said gently. "You have done well. I am very proud of you."
Michelangelo closed his eyes.
"That," said Dr. Cartagan, "Is the most I've heard him cough in a while." Everyone agreed. "Sounded like it loosened things up in his lungs a little bit. Not completely, but it's progress."
"Progress," said Casey, "That's good, right?"
Cartagan nodded.
"Is he..." April asked meekly. "Is he going to be okay?"
Splinter was laying Mikey's head – he was too deep in sleep to notice – on the pillow. Jeanie watched them.
"His chances are a lot better," she admitted, "Now that he's able to cough again. But he'll need a lot of care before we can say he's completely out of danger. He'll need a lot of rest and a lot of TLC. But... yeah. If we make sure he keeps coughing, give him a lot of fluids, monitor his body temperature carefully... he has a good chance of a full recovery."
The rush of breath being let out was nearly deafening. It was like no one had exhaled in three days. April and Casey hugged. The three brothers cheered; Splinter let a single tear slide down his furry cheek.
Michelangelo slept on.
ONE WEEK LATER
"S'good stuff," Mikey croaked. "I'm proud'a ya, Donnie."
Donatello huffed in mock-annoyance. "I'm technologically competent enough to use a microwave," he said, putting the empty bowl and spoon on the coffee table. "Have a little faith in me."
Michelangelo smiled weakly as he lay back down and propped his head up on one arm. "I have plenty'a faith," he rasped. "I just know you and cooking."
Donnie was about to say something sharp in reply, but his brother started to cough and he closed his mouth. He held out a glass of water and slipped a straw between Mikey's teeth. Michelangelo drank gratefully.
"Thanks, bro."
"Anytime. But you probably still shouldn't talk too much. Save your trachea."
"Wha?"
"Your throat. Save your strength."
"M'kay." Pause. "When will April and the others get back?"
Don rolled his eyes. Some things were just hopeless. "Soon, I think."
"Wonder what they got."
"Knowing Casey, some weird seventies shoot-em-up."
"Nope," said Raph from the doorway. His two brothers looked up, and he grinned. He and Leo sat on the floor by Mikey's feet. "We talked to them before they left. Told 'em just what to get."
"What?"
"Can't tell ya, bro," said Raphael, grinning. "It's a surprise."
"Aw," croaked Mikey, "C'mon."
"Nope. Not tellin'. Unlike some of us, I can keep my trap shut when I need 'ta."
"Did he eat?" Leo asked Don as Mikey stuck out his tongue.
Donnie nodded. "I made him soup. Yes, I did it by myself," he snapped as Leo raised his eye ridges, "And no, I didn't break, burn or otherwise destroy anything. Geez."
"I didn't say a word."
"At any rate, he's getting his appetite back. Not as insatiably Mikey- esque as normal, but getting there."
"Yeah," said Michelangelo. "It was weird not being hungry. I mean, it wasn't... right... It was... just... weird."
"Clearly your gift for eloquence is back to normal," Donnie cracked.
"Wha?"
The brothers laughed.
"It's good ta have ya back, Mikey," said Raph. "It's good ta have ya back."
The others agreed.
"Hey!" called a voice from the front door. "We're home!"
"Casey!" the turtles called. He, April and Jeanie came in the room. All three looked happy to see Mikey awake.
"We got it," said Casey proudly. "Took us a while, but we found it. Not exactly my kinda thing... but it works."
"What is it?" Mikey asked.
"Hey," said April, "It's a surprise."
"Aw, c'mon..."
"Did you see Master Splinter when you came in?" Leo asked. "Because we haven't – "
"I am right here." Splinter smiled from the doorway. He crossed the room to Michelangelo's side and placed a furry paw on his forehead. "How are you feeling, my son?"
"M'kay," Michelangelo replied. "Been better, been worse."
"His fever's mostly gone," Donatello informed him.
"I can tell."
"Sensei," Mikey rasped, "What movie did they get? They won't tell me."
Splinter only smiled.
"Aw, man. Not you too." Michelangelo started to cough.
"Save your breath, Michelangelo. You will see."
Jeanie was putting the tape into the VCR. Mikey lit up as the credits came into view.
"The Goonies!" he cried. "You rented it!" He coughed again.
"Careful, Mikey," Leo warned him. "Don't hurt yourself."
"I'm okay."
Many pairs of eyes were glowing as the ending credits began to roll. Jeanie got up.
"Are you taking off?" April asked her.
"Yeah."
"Are we going to see you before you move into your new house?"
"Maybe. I don't know... I have a lot of stuff to do and now that Mikey's going to be okay..."
"Wait a sec," said Michelangelo, struggling to sit up. April and Don pushed him back down. "You're leaving?"
Jeanie nodded. "I'm moving. I didn't tell you? I've decided city life isn't for me. I found a house in rural Vermont, and I got a job at a Veterinary Practice nearby."
There was a series of protests from the four, apparently uninformed, turtles. Even Splinter seemed sad to see her go.
"You know my number," she assured them. "My cell won't change. If anything happens, either to you," she looked at Mikey, "now or to any of you others later, feel free to call me. I won't be too far to come help if you need it."
"Thanks," said Leo. "That means a lot."
"I just wish there was something we could do for you," said Donatello.
Jeanie was smiling, watching them sit together.
"You've done plenty."
A/N: Wait! We're not done yet! We still have an Epilogue. Oh, and for those of you who still thought I'd kill him off, see my Author's Note on Chapter 5 (Part 6).