Series Title: Always
Chapter Title: Vows
Author: (travelingstorm)
Rating: M, NC17 overall
Word Count (fic portion) Chapter 4: 2548
Warnings: This is a DARK DARK ANGSTY TORTURE AND MORE! Lots of not-so-nice details, including Bishop, turtle-torture, drugs, psychological problems and even more unspeakable acts that will be NOT be labeled for fear of giving the whole plot away. There WILL be a happy ending (eventually) but the road from here to there is going to be long and painful.
Notes: This is an 11 part story, with each section falling under a different theme in LJ's fanfic100 community, character: Michaelangelo. This is chapter four, theme 90: Home
Additional Notes: Splinter is always the hardest for me to write (mainly because he and I have so very little in common). Let me know if he sounds...real, to you. Also, I'm truly grateful to the people who are reading this with an open mind. Thank you for reading. And for such thoughtful, informative reviews – you guys are making think as I write, keeping your words in mind. Enjoy the next part!
ooo...000...ooo
Splinter had a lifetime's worth of experience in watching over his sons. From the very first day he scooped them out of a puddle of ooze, he had taken on the role of 'father' to the creatures, raising them, teaching them, training them. He had watched as they first learned to walk; timid, shaky movements coupled with huge, toothless smiles. He had given them congratulatory hugs when he heard those first, tremulously spoken words, squeaky little voices calling him 'Dada'. He had bandaged scraped knees, held little hands in dark tunnels, soothingly rubbed shells in an attempt to calm a crying fit. He had cared for them during bouts of illness, watched them as they grew, and as each day went by, he only grew prouder still.
They were not bound by blood ties, but they were no less a family. That was why watching Michaelangelo, his youngest, and Raphael, his toughest yet most vulnerable, lying in the infirmary, quiet and still, shook him to the core. Once again, a crucial point was being driven home – how quickly and easily he could lose them.
He had thought that once they had returned home, their healing could begin. Their physical wounds were treated, Donatello and April playing 'doctor' with Splinter's assistance. It had been heart-wrenching to treat the areas stripped of skin on Michaelangelo's arms, the cuts in his plastron that spoke of harsh hands and sharp knives. His son, his young optimist, had shuttered his eyes, blanked all emotion from his normally expressive face, and had gone utterly limp, letting them do what they needed. Before his capture, a trip to the infirmary had always been punctuated with exaggerated jokes and giggles, and an unending stream of questions, starting with, "Hey, what's that?" and ending with, "You did that on purpose! I'm telling!"
Laughter had always been Michaelangelo's defense mechanism, his way of responding to situations that might have otherwise resulted in paralyzed fear, or roaring anger. If laughter was truly the best form of medicine, then Splinter felt they could all deal with a dose right about then. Unfortunately, the best doctor they had for that, was not currently prescribing.
Splinter inhaled the scent of green tea, letting it soothe and refresh him. The two beds of the infirmary were on opposite sides of the walls. Raphael was still sleeping; he had yet to wake up since Leonardo had carried him out of Bishop's base, but Donatello and April had both reassured him that he was just sleeping off whatever Bishop had done to him.
His youngest had woken during their examination, and only Donatello's reflexes had prevented him from getting knocked down. Michaelangelo had come awake with a scream, fists flailing, eyes glazed over, trapped in some torturous nightmare he couldn't wake himself from. Splinter had had to help Donatello administer a sedative. Before falling back into unconsciousness, Michaelangelo had looked up at him, and whispered brokenly, "It wasn't his fault, Master."
Splinter cast his gaze on the sleeping form of Raphael, wondering. Both of his sons had been trapped together, and Donatello had already confirmed with a blood test that there had been traces of something floating through his system. Had they fought? Michaelangelo bore the bruises and scars not only of someone painstakingly administering torture, but also signs of a common brawl. His head was one bruised mess, and Donatello had diagnosed a mild concussion in addition to the other injuries he'd suffered. Splinter had noted impact points at the back of his skull, but none on his face, suggesting he had been struck from behind. Had it been Bishop? A random soldier? But there were oddly-shaped imprints on his son's shoulder as well – short, thick bruises that closely resembled familiar, three-fingered hand prints.
If Raphael had attacked Michaelangelo, that would explain his youngest son's earnest pleas. Raphael had a short temper, but he would never intentionally hurt his brother to the extent his injuries showed, not unless there was some sort of outside interference. That had been when Donatello had done the blood test.
Something had also not been quite right about the cell itself. Water, blood, the scent of sickness and something else had hung in the air, though the resultant stench had had him trying not to breathe too deeply. He was now starting to regret omitting that particular course of observation – mayhap he would have discovered the scent of a drug in the water, or something else that had caused such turmoil.
On the right side of the infirmary, Michaelangelo's sleep was becoming restless, but before Splinter could move forward to comfort him, the youngest turtle had bolted upright, sucking in a gasp of panicked air. "No!"
"My son." Splinter reached his side, waiting for his son to acknowledge him. Glazed blue eyes turned in his direction, but after a moment, they cleared, focusing on him. "Are you all right?"
Michaelangelo blinked slowly, an odd expression on his face. A bitter smile broke out, and he said roughly, "I'm just peachy."
Then he began to laugh, a harsh, almost desperate sound that quickly turned into sobs. Splinter moved swiftly, wrapping his arms around the shaking form. He was astonished when Michaelangelo refused his advance, even pushed him back, looking at him with wide eyes, abruptly swallowing back his cries.
"My son?"
"I..." His son licked his lips nervously, eyes darting around the room. "I'm...sorry, Master. Just jumpy, you know?" His eyes fell on Raphael, and an indecipherable expression appeared. "How's...how's he doing?"
"Resting comfortably," Splinter said, watching his youngest carefully. There was something odd about the way Michaelangelo was watching his brother. "Donatello and April have told me he will be fine. He should be waking up anytime now."
"That's...great."
So, something did happen in the cell. His youngest never could tell a lie as a child, and now, years later, he was still far too... open, in his expressions. Splinter cocked his head. That was it. His expression was so closed, so guarded. Splinter had always seen the innocent eyes of a child when he looked at his son, but right now, those same eyes looked...old. Weary.
Frightened.
If not for his tone, the way he avoided Splinter's sharp-eyed gaze, then perhaps he could have gotten away with a lie for the first time in his life.
"My son," he said gently, laying a hand on the bed. Michaelangelo's eyes instantly tracked the movement, and he added that observation to his mental notes. "Will you tell me what happened?"
"Nothing happened." The words came so quickly Michaelangelo nearly tripped over them. Splinter watched as his hands twisted the blanket, his knuckles a pale green from the strain of his grip. "Everything's fine."
Obviously his son was not yet ready to reveal the source of his torment. Splinter nodded, and slowly reached for Michaelangelo's hand, taking it gently, telegraphing his every move. His son watched warily, and then suddenly, without warning, fell forward against him, heedless of his injuries. Splinter caught him automatically, and gently wrapped his arms around him again. This time, Michaelangelo let him.
After a minute, the shaking began. Splinter held his son fiercely as tremors ripped through him, the aftermath of a hellish ordeal, determined to keep him from falling apart. The shaking gave way to tears; silent ones that Splinter only knew existed because of the warm wetness he could feel soaking through his kimono. He held on.
Michaelangelo gripped Splinter's arms with such force it was painful, but he didn't complain. Instead, he stroked one hand gently on the top of Michaelangelo's shell. For a split second, he could feel his son tense, his muscles growing rigid within his embrace. Then it was if a dam had burst with his action. A torrent of anguish and sorrow broke free, tears coursing down his face accompanied by harsh, gasping, choking sobs. Michaelangelo buried his face in Splinter's kimono, sobbing his hurts out as he did when he was a child.
Splinter felt tears spring to his own eyes, a silent testimony to the sheer pain he could feel radiating from his son, a soul-deep hurt speaking of fear, pain, guilt and confusion.
He did not know what had caused this sort of damage to his child's gentle psyche. But he vowed he would find out.
And they would pay.
---
Donatello yawned, stretching back in his chair. Bringing his arms back down, he gave the infirmary's occupants another quick look. Raphael was still sleeping, and Mikey was too, finally. Donatello had tried to come in earlier, but the sounds of his baby brother sobbing nearly broke his heart, and he had waited outside, not wanting to break the moment between father and son. Whatever had happened, somehow Splinter had managed to get past Mikey's defenses, forcing a cathartic release that was incalculably valuable if Mikey was to heal from his wounds, both physical and mental. Donatello could handle the physical wounds, but the mental ones...well, the best 'doctor' for that was already in there with him.
Not surprisingly, Mikey had cried himself back to sleep. Donatello hoped he'd stay asleep for a while – his brother obviously needed it. A small part of him felt oddly guilty that he and Leo had been spared the torments that their brothers had not, but he shoved that thought away. No one was to blame for any of this. No one, except Bishop.
Over on the bed, Raphael shifted restlessly, and a sound escaped him. Donatello swiveled his chair around and stood up, walking over. "Raphie?"
For a minute, there was no response. Then slowly, Raph's eyes opened, bleary, but soon focusing in his direction. "...D-Don...nie?"
Donatello smiled, feeling a huge weight lift off his shoulders. "Yeah, bro. How do you feel?"
Raph blinked slowly, staring at him blankly. "...feel?"
"Heh...sorry, you were really out of it." Donnie leaned down and cranked up the head of the bed, moving Raph to a sitting position. Filling a glass of water from the pitcher he'd put on the bedside table, he helped his brother sip at it slowly. After a few swallows, Raphael's eyes were brighter, the fogginess clearing away. "We're home," he noted, looking around. His eyes fell on Mikey, curled up under a thin blanket. "Mikey..."
"Yeah, he's..okay. Sorta. Bishop did a real number on him."
Raph nodded slowly, confusion in his brown eyes. "But he's okay?"
Donatello nodded. "Well, about as good as he can be. Physically, he'll be fine. He'll have some new scars, but that's nothing really new, you know?"
His older brother nodded, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples.
"Headache?"
"Yeah. Feels like Hun's been tap-dancing on my skull."
"I'll get you something." Donatello went back to his table and grabbed a bottle of aspirin. Bringing it back over, he handed two to his brother. "Here."
"Thanks." Raphael accepted them, washing them down with more water. "Where's Leo?"
Donatello folded his arms, scowling lightly. "With the professor and Leatherhead. He should be sleeping. He's trying to take care of everybody, and I have a feeling he'll only stop to rest when his body physically gives out on him."
Raphael snorted. "Get LH to sit on him. How is the big guy, anyway?"
"Doing better than you." Donnie smiled. "Apparently he was drugged, but nothing really happened this time around." He scowled again. "Bishop must have gotten all the samples he needed from him the last time he was captured. He woke up as we were rescuing him and he cleared a path through some soldiers, allowing us to reach the chopper."
Raphael nodded, taking it all in. "So, what happened?" He gestured to himself, and over at Mikey.
"We were hoping you could tell us," Donnie said, leaning forward and bracing his arms on his knees. "Mikey's... well, he's not ready to talk yet. Something bad must have happened. I saw the marks on him. Bishop is a sick, son-of-a--" he stopped, and took a deep breath. "Anyway, what do you remember?"
Raphael frowned, squinting a bit. "Not much," he finally admitted. "I remember that slime ball taking Mikey away. Then he jabbed Leatherhead with a needle – and me too, right?"
Donatello nodded, closing his eyes. Watching his brothers being taken away one by one had been the hardest, and the worst thing he'd ever had to live through. "Yes."
"Yeah, well, it's all pretty much a blur. A blur filled with black spots. I think I remember him laughing at something, and I know he stuck me in the arm with another needle, but after that...I think I was awake. I kinda remember seeing Mikey. I think..." he shook his head, wincing. "Man, it hurts trying to think!"
"Then don't try," Donatello advised. "I suspect whatever he gave you might have caused some short-term memory loss. If you don't force it, it will probably come back on it's own."
Raphael frowned again. "I don't know if I want it to," he admitted roughly. "I...I think I hurt Mikey. I don't remember."
Donatello nodded understandingly. "Well, I won't lie to you, Raph. I found traces of something, some kind of drug in your bloodstream. I think it made you fight Mikey – he's got some bruises on him that don't match up."
Raphael snapped his head to look over at his sleeping sibling. "Is he okay?"
"I told you, he's fine. Physically, anyway." He lowered his voice. "Whatever happened, he doesn't blame you. He woke up...agitated, earlier. Before Master Splinter and I gave him a sedative, he told us it wasn't your fault, whatever it was."
There was silence for a moment, Raphael looking worried and angry at the same time. "I'm gonna kill Bishop," he seethed. Then he looked up at Donnie, a faint hint of desperation pleading in his eyes. "Donnie, you know I'd never, you know, hurt any of you guys on purpose, right?"
Donatello gripped his arms, looking him in the eyes. "Of course, I know," he said firmly. "We all know that. Whatever happened, we'll deal with it. Mikey doesn't blame you, whatever it is you might have done under Bishop's influence. Remember that, okay bro?"
"...I will," Raph said, after a minute. Then he cast a sad and confused gaze back to Mikey, an expression Donatello couldn't remember ever seeing in him before. "I think I did something bad, bro," he confessed quietly. He looked down, hands fiddling with the edge of the blanket covering his bed. "I don't remember, but I can feel it."
Donatello gave up on the whole 'distance' thing they all tended to adopt around Raphael, in an attempt to keep from smothering him and making him bolt. This required mushiness, whether he liked it or not. Leaning forward, he hugged his brother as hard as he could, and didn't move away nor make a comment when Raph's arms tentatively came up to hug him back. "We'll make him pay," he said quietly, resting his head against his siblings, taking advantage of the moment Raphael was allowing; a rare act of accepting a display of affection.
Oh yes, they would definitely make Bishop pay.
---
End part 4 of 11.
Notes: ...I got nothing. Review? Please?