Alone
Michelangelo fought hard—heaving against the black weight clogging his thoughts and holding him unconscious.
Guess I misjudged those Foot dudes. Didn't think I'd live to do this again...
This wasn't the first time Mikey woke up a prisoner. Sadly, it wasn't even the tenth. From experience, he knew not to snap his eyes open or alter his breathing.
Not that I could even if I wanted to.
His eyelids felt swollen shut, so he took an internal inventory while pretending to be blacked out.
The headache was unsurprising. His whole body was as bruised as his eyes and the dull pang of a deeper injury radiated from his right shoulder. Pulled muscles wrecked his left leg and his ankle didn't bear thinking about.
Hands and feet were achy but unbound, and he lay on his side propped up on something soft. A pillow cradled his head and another supported his dud leg.
Odd. The Foot don't usually provide such niceties.
Nothing but a faint fan-like whir sounded around him, so he decided to risk a peek. His eyes didn't want to open, but he forced them wide enough to discern a few objects in the dim light.
A rectangular room swam into focus. A pallet of blankets provided padding from the floor, surrounded by dozens of tables cluttered with equipment. Boxes piled under each one were overflowing with bric-a-brac and unnameable, unrecognizable gadgets.
What? Where? How did I get here?
Here didn't seem like a dangerous place; not a cell or a dungeon. He wasn't strapped to a table. And he wasn't dead—
I hurt too much for that.
Mikey's eyelids drifted shut again. A lovely source of warmth somewhere behind his shell made his thoughts fuzzy, but his survival might hinge on figuring this out.
It seemed mere moments since the fight on the rooftop, but it had to be longer.
Hours maybe. Or days. Bet the guys are looking for me. If they run into the Foot it'll be all my fault!
Guilt and fear jolted him from his daze and he struggled to sit up.
Every muscle in his body spasmed in protest until his toes curled as agony stabbed through a previously unidentified wound in his abdomen. He groaned incoherently and gave up the effort. To ease the pumping of his blood, he inhaled deeply and curled inward.
Cautiously he slid a hand down his plastron to investigate this new injury. His fingers hit gauze. Wincing, he probed the area. A rough patch of some sort covered the site.
As he explored, he stretched a bit too far and his right bicep burned. Flexing the muscles brought the familiar pull of stitches. He cringed, and a twist of his head revealed more bandages bound tight about his shoulder.
Musta happened when they threw those kunai.
Numb from the cold and fueled by adrenaline, he hadn't even felt the impacts. He might have bled out from either wound and never known what killed him.
But SOMEBODY patched me up...
Several minutes passed before the pain eased to manageable levels, but eventually, the sharp sting of solder fumes, the metallic tang of electronics, and the more mellow odors of oil and grease invaded his senses. The combination was so astoundingly familiar his mind reeled.
This place smells like Don's lab!
So much so, Mikey almost expected the genius himself to round the corner of clutter—clipboard in hand and brow-ridge raised—to ask how he was feeling.
Under the chemicals though, lingered a more subtle fragrance. A scent he had never detected in his brother's private sanctuary. Sweet and honey-like, he couldn't quite put a name to it—but it made him want to lick his lips. The unique perfume permeated the entire space.
Perhaps it's pastry? Someone baking?
Mikey inhaled again and his eyes widened as much as they could. His palms began to sweat. This wasn't the result of a nearby confectionery, but potent pheromones.
Sugar and spice and everything nice—that's what little girls are made of.
In a flash, the memories returned.
"Hi. I'm Sharra."
Michelangelo flushed a darker green as her face danced behind his closed eyes in a perfect snapshot of their introduction. Hair wisped forward and caressed her cheeks as she shifted. Brows drew together in a frown. Her dark eyes filled with concern.
Concern for me.
He had never experienced that before. At least, not from anyone outside his small family. Sharra had taken him in and hidden him from the Foot without showing any distress about his inhuman nature. For once, someone hadn't been terrified by his very existence and he wasn't prepared for how much it moved him.
She saved my life. But where is she?
He forced his eyes open once again, but he couldn't locate her tiny form anywhere in the shadowed room.
She must be ok. Right?
Everything in his memory went kind of foggy after his rather rough entrance. He glanced around again. The broken office chair lay at least ten feet away, partially hidden by the rest of the clutter. How Sharra moved his deadweight through the mess to the pallet of soft blankets was a complete mystery.
The Foot didn't notice her, I don't think. But what if I'm wrong? What if she IS afraid to be in here with me?
The place lacked any other beds. Or additional doors. She only had one large-ish room.
What if I drove her out in the hall, or on the rooftop exposed in the cold—
A cute little snort and some sleepy grumbling cut off his worried thoughts. Behind him, something small scootched around under the covers and settled again. More warmth rushed over his shell.
The heat he so enjoyed didn't come from a lamp...
She's lying in bed with me?!
Shock froze him stock still and unconsciously he held his breath.
What if I snore like Raph? What if I roll on her and squish her? I already smushed her twice and didn't check if she was ok. What if...
Mikey stared wide-eyed into the semi-darkness of the room in a near panic, his own injuries forgotten as he tried to wrap his mind around the impossible fact that Sharra shared the blankets with him. An aberration crashed into her life and crushed her, yet she still layed down next to it, to him.
A mutant. A turtle.
He ought to turn over and check on her. Inspect her for damage from his prior clumsiness—but he daren't move.
Except he made a noise, or something because he had nearly passed out from not breathing when a small hand connected with his shell. The sensation wasn't the same as if she were touching his skin. The shell was less responsive, but he sensed the pressure of her fingers and the unbelievable heat.
She stroked down his carapace like she was soothing a cat, and his brain stalled. His breath flew out in a rush. Magnificent warmth followed the path of her hand and he melted, all his muscles relaxing at once.
Sharra.
"Mmm?" she answered.
Shit. Did I just moan her name aloud?
Her reply was vague but the vibration of her hum directly against his shell sent a jolt through him. When her breath puffed lightly against his neck he trembled.
Michelangelo had never shared a bed, platonically or otherwise, with anyone except his brothers. While he had been in some cozy turtle piles, laying next to Sharra was utterly different. More intense, like cuddling a miniature space heater.
Only better. He could feel her—the entire length of her—burning along his back as she curled around his shell. Molding her pliable curves around his hard ones. He had no idea humans could feel this soft! Most of his experiences involved fists and bone.
Sharra feels amazing…
Hunger stirred inside him. An instinctual demand. He needed to read her face. To see what she was thinking. Gritting his teeth, Michelangelo steeled himself against the pain of changing positions and turned to face her.
A muffled cry of agony slipped past his lips. Moving hurt worse than he imagined and he closed his eyes to pant for a few seconds before the pain subsided enough for him to focus again.
"Oh!" Sharra exclaimed and self-consciously scooted back as he stirred. "You're actually awake!"
Her eyes scanned his face, bright with concern as she propped herself up and bit her full lower lip. Instantly, he missed her fiery warmth. She shifted less than a foot, but her skin was no longer close enough to touch.
"I would ask how you feel," she said after a pause, "but I think I already know."
"How"—Mikey's voice broke and he had to clear his throat to speak. But, whether that was because it was hoarse from disuse or because she looked like an angel lounging half in the shadows was uncertain—"How long have I been out?"
Michelangelo leaned against the wall propped by a couple of pillows next to the actual space heater. He hunched a little closer to the machine but still shivered. As if the unit wasn't the source of his previous comfort.
Funny, I feel that way whenever Sharra leaves the covers.
They'd spent the better part of three days together and despite the intimacy required of their situation, he hadn't learned much about her. Most of the time, he'd been alternating between eating and sleeping.
Not surprising since I was barely breathing by the time I got here.
Their waking association had been more than a little embarrassing. His body reacted poorly to the shock and cold. When he woke, he found himself too weak to even lift a utensil.
I lost so much blood, I thought my time had run out.
Sharra coaxed him back to life; spoon-feeding him the first few meals, moistening his face and arms, and treating his wind-burned skin. She piled more blankets on him and continued to wrap herself around his broken body to heat his dangerously cold blood.
Mikey's heart beat overtime just thinking about it.
She is my life support.
Just like with his mutation, she took every little crisis in stride. Doing everything in her power to save him and make him comfortable. Even tackling the fiasco of his bathroom needs when he couldn't stand or walk.
He shuddered.
I don't want to think about that ever again.
But Sharra distracted him from his embarrassment with her easy smile and quips from the novels she read. And thanks to his mutant healing factor it didn't take too long for him to recover enough to care for himself—at least now he could handle all the embarrassing bits.
Gradually, as he needed her less, Sharra returned to what he presumed were her usual pastimes. When he was awake, he observed her with fascination.
Like a hummingbird, she remained in constant motion. She flitted about the room from table to table, soldering iron in one hand and a look of earnest concentration on her face as she finished her projects. Other times she worked in the tiny area which passed for her kitchen preparing food. Michelangelo only ever saw her absolutely still when she was frightened or uncertain.
She even moves in her sleep.
Last night, she suffered a nightmare. At least, that's what he thought happened. He had opened his eyes a crack when Sharra whimpered and glimpsed tears on her face before she lashed out with her foot. And hit him squarely in the shin with a sharp kick.
He rubbed the aching spot on his leg surreptitiously, but she caught the motion.
"I'm so sorry, Mikey"—she fretted, biting her lip—"I didn't mean to hurt you. I- I haven't shared my space for so long. And... I'll sleep somewhere else tonight—"
He held up a hand to cut her off.
"Not a chance. I won't drive you out of your bed. Besides, you didn't hit my injured leg and I've taken a helluva lot worse sparring."
It was true. Her little heel left a bruise, but her kick was nothing compared to blocking one of Raph's sharp jabs. And at the rate he healed the mark would be gone in half a day.
Reluctantly, Sharra nodded and turned her attention back to the concoction she was stirring over her single electric hot plate.
"So I guess you have to train a lot, huh?" she asked. "I mean, your moves on the rooftop were impressive."
All-day, every day if Leonardo had his way.
"Well, I normally spend a few hours sparring... a couple more running laps, doing sit-ups, push-ups, flips, that sorta thing. Practice makes perfect an' all. By the way, how did you see me? I kinda got a sixth sense for cameras, an' I didn't see any."
She full-on blushed and it lit up her face.
Huh. Never knew pink could be so perfect.
"That's 'cause they don't look like what you expect, at least the ones I make don't. I added a few of the neighboring buildings' security cams to my network. You were on the edges of those, but my early warning system components are smaller than gravel."
"You build them yourself?"
"I've been cobbling together stuff for as long as I can remember. My father introduced me to making things when I was a child. I hung out in his lab a lot so he used to give me leftover bits to experiment with and keep me busy."
She flashed a hesitant glance at his face.
"Now I make my living recycling parts. I build simple toys and sell little robots at a temporary table on a street corner downtown to tourists. The more complex things like cameras and laser tripwires are for my own protection."
Lasers? Huh. Talented girl. Don would love to chat with you.
For some reason, the thought made him uncomfortable.
Sharra declared her dish done and poured the soup into a chipped bowl, offering the meal to him with a plastic spoon.
Mikey's stomach twisted in guilt as hers growled audibly. She'd been feeding him breakfast, lunch, and dinner since he got here but he'd yet to observe her eating more than a bite.
"You should have some," he protested, trying to give it back.
Smiling, Sharra shook her head. "I'm not hungry."
"Liar," he accused gently, but it was useless to argue with her. The one thing he had learned in their time together was when she smiled and insisted on something he might as well surrender.
When she smiles, my knees turn to jelly.
Besides, her cooking was marvelous. Sharra may use a tin can as a pot and scavenged leftovers as ingredients, but somehow the results were delicious. He spooned a huge bite into his mouth and closed his eyes in pleasure as beef stew with carrots, potatoes, and brown gravy melted on his tongue.
"Girl, you have to share your recipes. This is the best I've ever had."
The compliment pleased her, but she didn't appear to know what to do with it. She flushed again and sat down in front of him, drawing her knees up and rocking back and forth on her hips. Apparently, she decided their previous topic was safer.
"I also repair old tech for one of the electronics stores downtown," she volunteered. "Mostly stuff no one else will touch; DVD players, some VCRs, and older console gaming systems. The owner doesn't pay much but I get a lot of free parts out of the deal."
"Video games?" Mikey's eyes lit up like fireworks.
Sharra shrugged, misinterpreting the expression of awe on his face. "Yeah, everything from Atari to Xbox." She bumped her shoulder against his. "Beats sharing my bed with strangers."
Mikey blinked, shocked for a second by her implication. He was not so naive as to be unaware of what life was like on the streets. He'd seen more than his share of hookers in the alleyways entertaining their clients. But for some reason, the thought of Sharra having to resort to such acts offended him.
I mean, I have been sharing her bed, but... not that way.
"Woah, Sharra, I never thought—"
She laughed. "You should see your face. I'm teasin'."
"Ya got me," he chuckled along with her.
Chatting with her like an old friend when she was still a stranger was odd. Especially since he sat in front of her more exposed than he'd ever been in his life. To tend his wounds she had removed his mask, belt, and boots. He was pretty much naked, except for some bandages and the blanket swathing his midsection.
She returned the gear to him carefully cleaned, but he'd been so bed-ridden he hadn't bothered to put anything back on. He couldn't wear most of it anyway.
His ankle had swollen to twice its normal size. It might be broken. His shoulder ached something fierce and his gut burned like fire. He couldn't even stand on his own.
But with Sharra, he felt safe. Nurtured. Cared for. Tomorrow, he might be up to hobbling around again thanks to her studious attention.
However, something was bothering him.
"Sharra?"—she glanced up from the corner of her eye, peeking through a shock of hair fallen over her face. It was one of the most adorable looks he'd ever received—"What you said before about sharing your space... Are you always alone?"
All motion ceased and she sat up straight, staring at him. Somehow the question made her uncertain of him again. Wary. She examined his expression minutely, then relaxed with a soft chuckle at her own reaction.
"Well, you haven't seen anyone else here have you? Unless you can see dead people. If you can see dead people, don't tell me. I don't want to know."
The words were light and she winked at him but the humor was forced.
"What about parents? Siblings?"
The shocked questions tore from him in a rough whisper. Family meant everything to Michelangelo despite their petty squabbles.
Sharra flinched. "No."
"Friends, then?" Mikey found he couldn't help but probe further. "A partner? Boyfriend?"
The last question left a bitter taste in his mouth. For reasons he couldn't explain, he hoped the answer to that was 'no' as well.
Sharra sighed when she realized he wasn't going to change the subject and dropped her gaze.
"I used to have a family," she said to the floor. "And a few friends. I even had love at one point. But those days are gone."
Her expression turned woeful, sorrow competing with fatigue.
"I don't tend to stay in one place long enough to meet decent people. Possibly because I'm a bit paranoid"—she grimaced—"but when you live on the streets, you learn real quick that while most of society starts out being nice they have a hidden agenda."
She peeked back up at him shyly. "You're the first houseguest I've had in ages."
Michelangelo was simultaneously flattered and appalled. He couldn't imagine a more terrifying fate. Being forced to live alone—stripped of all family—was perhaps his worst nightmare.
Mikey fidgeted with the pillow supporting his injured leg. He hated to make Sharra more uncomfortable, but he had to ask his next questions. Because, as optimistic as his general outlook was, ignoring signs of a 'too good to be true' type situation was foolish.
Despite her help, Sharra might still be a risk to his own family. He had to find out before he revealed too much.
"I get that," he agreed. "You've got to be careful. It's just— Why did you let me in? You were in no danger from... those guys. You risked exposing your home to rescue me."
Fear flashed across Sharra's face. Her breathing accelerated and she licked her lips.
Mikey mentally winced and wished he could take the questions back. Her acceptance of him was too precious to jeopardize. He never wanted to frighten her.
"I almost didn't," she admitted. "When they tripped the proximity alarm, I freaked out. I thought they'd found me at last." She visibly took hold of herself and a flush of shame replaced the terror on her face. "When I realized they were chasing you instead I almost fainted in relief."
Guilt stabbed Mikey anew.
And I led them right to your door.
"No, it wasn't your fault," Sharra objected.
Mikey jumped when she disagreed, not realizing he had spoken his thoughts aloud yet again.
"They were herding you. Driving you to a dead-end you couldn't anticipate." Sharra shook her head and her expression turned stony. "The Foot are capable of horrible things. They're deadly."
Mikey froze when she mentioned the Foot. Until now, he wasn't sure she realized who he had been engaging. Sharra misinterpreted his reaction and rushed to assuage him, as if his ego needed boosting.
"You're strong, Michelangelo. You would have bested them in a fair fight. But the Foot—they take every advantage. You were injured and outnumbered. I couldn't stay hidden and watch them kill another person."
Not a monster. Not a mutant. She thinks of me as a person.
She had always treated him that way, but warmth flooded his chest as her words reaffirmed the view. But her choice of words bothered him.
'Found me at last... capable of horrible things... watch them kill another person...'
Sharra had faced the clan before—and lost.