Inside Out

Sharra trembled in Michelangelo's arms. The sensations he created—the heat, the pleasure—were overwhelming. She never wanted to leave. Her blood surged, thrumming like lava in her veins. Rocking forward, she pressed her lips harder to his, merging them into one being—until reality rudely intruded on their intimate moment.

Hurt erupted in her chest.

Not a physical pain but the prickly, spiny kind of heartache that pokes you no matter how you try to examine it and sticks with you long after the initial devastating event subsides. It jolted her from the trance-like state of bliss she floated in. Sharra's eyes flew open, and she broke away from the kiss with a gasp, utterly stricken. A shadow flashed across the doorway, but it and the emotion disappeared before she could process them. They were gone so quickly she would have chalked it up to her imagination if not for the lingering twinge of regret.

The pain of her injuries once again pushed to the forefront of her consciousness. The muscles of her chest spasmed. Breathing through her nose during their exertions hadn't been enough with her decreased lung capacity. Parting her lips, she panted, trying to keep each inhale shallow so she didn't strain her sides.

Mikey cracked his eyes. The dreamy satisfaction coating his face slid away when she couldn't catch her breath. He rubbed her back with one hand and brushed away the hair sticking to her face. "I'm sorry! So sorry! "he babbled. "I should have realized your poor lungs aren't up to that yet—"

The panting didn't help. Sharra panicked, sucked air in too deep, and choked on it. The coughing fit racked already painful muscles and jarred her ribs, adding a sharp jab of agony.

"Donnie! Guys?" Michelangelo called toward the door. "Somebody out there, go get Don!"

Tears ran down Sharra's cheeks, wetting his fingers. His attention snapped back to her as she cradled her chest with both arms and bent over, still trying to draw breath.

"Breathe, Babe! Just breathe. Slow it down if you can."

Behind him, a throat cleared. "Is everything all right here?"

Sharra flinched at the gruff voice. A dark figure stalked through the doorway, radiating an unfeeling sort of dissonance. Was it Leonardo? Had he come to scold her for making a mess of their household?

She couldn't believe he would welcome her. But with her dream of Leo clouding the picture, she couldn't predict what he would do. So far, his behavior had been disjointed. Hot then cold. Promising protection one minute and leaving her behind the next.

His presence at her 'rescue' had not clarified things. While he appeared genuinely sorry for scaring her, everything happened so fast afterward it swept away whatever apology he might have made.

Mikey tensed when she did, his arms tightening in a reflex reaction, but he relaxed when the voice softened, becoming more familiar.

"It's ok," Donatello assured her, stepping into the light. "You're safe here, Sharra. Can you tell me what's wrong?"

"She got choked, Donnie," Michelangelo rushed to explain.

And Donatello—who'd had all of two seconds to process she was awake and assess the situation—somehow instantly knew what to do. Stepping closer, he scooped up a smaller square cushion and mimed holding it to his chest before handing it over.

"Here. Wrap your arms around that and apply gentle pressure when you cough. Try to blow out slowly, then inhale like you would through a straw."

Sharra took it from him uncertainly, but the pillow was a lifesaver, softening the jerking motions and keeping her from curling up. She still couldn't speak, but her eyes shone with gratitude as she followed his instructions. Donatello hastily averted his.

"That's it, babe," Michelangelo encouraged, demonstrating a steady pace. "You're doing great."

Gradually, the heaving in her lungs subsided.

"Mike, help me get her set up here," Donatello instructed. "An inclined position will ease the restrictions in her airway."

She glanced to the side, careful not to twist, and discovered he had stacked a portion of her nest into a pyramid-shaped pile of pillows. When Mikey grabbed her knees, he reached toward her shoulders, eyeing her warily as if she might bite. Together, they lifted her and slid her backward until she lay propped at an angle.

Moving hurt. And not just a little. She clamped her mouth shut so as not to cry out and distress Michelangelo further, but she couldn't stop a soul-deep groan from escaping. Oddly, the instant it left her lips, Donatello's hands warmed. Heat enveloped her biceps and poured into her chest. Her body began to relax. Air came easier into her lungs, and the pain dulled to a more bearable level.

She glanced at Mikey in confusion. He regarded his brother strangely, but she was too distressed to ask what made his brow ridges furrow. All she could do was hold tight to the small amount of relief and endure the rest until they were through. When they stopped moving her, she closed her eyes, falling limp. But when Donatello released her, the solace went with him.

She shivered as the aches returned. A few seconds later, he cast a light blanket over her, tucked it around her feet, and drew it up under her chin. It provided warmth, but it didn't comfort her the way his hands had.

"Any better?" Donatello asked.

She opened her eyes. He had dropped to one knee beside her futon and leaned in to scrutinize her expression. Their faces were only inches apart. She blinked, startled to find him so close, but something about his appearance seemed... off.

Gazing up at him through wet lashes, she tried to pinpoint the issue. He wasn't wearing his mask, but that wasn't what made her hesitate. His eyes were larger than usual: somber, full of concern, and a little glossy

Why does he look so sad?

His skin looked darker, too, especially around the edges of his neck. As she watched, the color change climbed his face.

Is he flushing?

If so, he didn't turn away. He studied her as intently as she did him. A blush rose to her cheeks as well when she realized why. He had asked her a question and was still waiting for the answer. She nodded sheepishly, though her head still pounded from the coughing.

"I- uh, yes. It's much easier to breathe like this."

"Good." His lips turned up, but the smile didn't reach his eyes as he sat back on his heels. "How are you feeling otherwise?"

She grimaced.

"Kind of like I fell down a flight of stairs."

Freeing an arm from the covers, she brushed it across a very painful cheek and the remains of her black eye. Her face was still tender and wet from her tears, though not as crusty as she expected. She sniffed, annoyed at her blocked sinuses.

"I bet I look like it, too," she added.

Donatello gave a dismissive snort and leaned away. He tugged a tissue out of a square box on the floor next to them and passed it to her without a word. She dabbed her eyes, blew her nose, and crushed the dirty paper in her fist, unwilling to hand the nasty trash back. He stuck his palm out for it anyway. She wrinkled her nose at him, winced at the movement, and relented, averting her eyes as he disposed of it nearby.

Depending on others for everyday things made her uncomfortable. She'd become fiercely independent since escaping the Foot. However, that was more due to paranoia and an inability to trust people than anything else. Mikey's hovering, she could justify. They had a deep connection. He cared about her.

But Donatello? Why is he going out of his way to cater to me?

It wasn't the first time he'd done something like that, anticipating her needs rather than merely reacting to her situation. It disoriented her. Her gaze flitted over his expression again, trying to read his reasons. He looked concerned and a little bit conflicted. She knew Donatello was kind, as well as an incredibly gifted engineer. He was also a doctor of sorts, so maybe that's why he was so diligent.

As she reflected on his motivation, she dragged her other arm above the blanket, reaching for the delicate shell-shaped bracelet he had given her. At some point, fiddling with it had become a habit. Donatello glanced down at her movement and frowned. His mouth opened as if to say something—perhaps to ask for the communicator back since the panic button presumably didn't work anymore after her severe dunking.

Her hand closed protectively over it, and she stared him down. He clamped his lips shut again, but the flush returned, creeping higher.

"Can we get you anything?" Mikey interrupted, cutting the tension. "A drink? Something to eat?"

"Water would be awesome; I'm dying of thirst."

"We can rectify that," Donatello said.

Michelangelo didn't wait for Don to finish his sentence before he hustled off. A heartbeat later, he dropped back down next to her, a lightweight plastic cup and a water bottle clenched in his fists. He filled it and presented it to her with a little flourish. She hummed in appreciation as the cool liquid coursed over her tongue.

"So, back to my earlier question," Donatello said, clearing his throat in an uncomfortable manner, "What is your pain level?"

She tilted her head at him quizzically.

"It helps to gauge the type of painkiller to administer," he clarified. "We use a scale from one to ten. One is mild, akin to a mosquito bite or a poison ivy itch—something you can ultimately ignore that doesn't impede your daily activities. Ten represents unspeakable pain, where you can't think or move and feel suspended on the verge of passing out. Most people have never experienced that rank, of course, unless they've been in a severe accident and crushed a hand or something—"

The blood drained from Sharra's face. Mikey whimpered in sympathy. She had a pretty good idea of what number ten felt like.

Donatello's voice cut off as if he'd been slapped; his eyes widened as he realized what he said. His brain had been on some tangent, not truly processing what was coming out of his mouth as he regurgitated a textbook definition.

"Oh, sweetie, I'm sorry." His fingers trembled as he touched her hair so gently it might be mistaken for the breeze. "I didn't mean to bring up—"

"It's okay." She caught his hand and squeezed to quiet the shake before letting him go. "I- It's maybe a seven? I think I'll be fine with something over the counter. I get by with aspirin at home. Though, I'd kill for some Tylenol."

"That's easy enough. I have a full stock of acetaminophen."

Darting away and back, Donatello dropped two extra-strength pills into her hand like a gift from the gods. She gave him an honest-to-goodness smile and then knocked them back with the remainder of her water. She glanced up at him, hoping for a refill, but the dark-eyed turtle was staring into space, looking a bit stunned.

She handed the empty cup to Mikey. He topped it up, but she reached too far while taking it back, straining her side. Michelangelo matched her pained expression and tugged on his brother's elbow.

"Could you scan her, Don? Just to make sure everything is still ok? I gotta admit I freaked out when she first woke up. She stopped breathing for a sec."

"Oh?"

Donatello swiftly regained his focus, his gaze intensifying as it passed over her from head to foot. The weird pang in her chest fired again, but it wasn't hurt this time. Worry—along with another emotion she couldn't name—consumed her entire body. She vibrated with concentrated energy. Discombobulated, she rubbed at her sternum.

What the heck is that?

"Are you having trouble now?" His eyes were glued to her motion. He dragged them away to check a tablet computer that had appeared in his hand while she was distracted. "Your pulse ox looks good. No radical dips in the last few hours. Are you short of breath again?"

"Maybe?"

The answer was shaky and vague as his eyes strayed back to her body. Typically, Sharra would cringe at such rapt attention, but this time, she felt self-conscious for a different reason. Her face reddened, and her breath quickened because she enjoyed the sensation of his gaze on her.

His mouth moved silently as he counted the number of inhales she took in a timed window. They increased in direct proportion to the length of his stare.

Calm down. He doesn't mean anything by it.

The thought was meant to be reassuring, but she was also a smidge disappointed.

What the hell? When did I start liking physical attention?

As a quick test, she pictured the leers of strangers on the street who had seen through her boyish guise. Her stomach turned. She winced.

Yeah, no.

She didn't like that, yet here she was, yearning for Donatello to do it. Of course, he would never be so vulgar, but she could picture his eyes lit up with joyous adoration, countering the sadness there. Her body temperature rose again, but this time, it settled in her loins, creating a different type of ache.

This wasn't a random surge of lust. She liked Donatello.

Have I completely lost it?

It was a miracle Mikey wanted her. Wasn't that enough?

When did I get so needy?

The genius climbed to his feet, startling her from her thoughts.

"There's quite a fluctuation in your breathing patterns. If you don't mind, I would like to get another scan."

She swallowed the awkward emotions and tried to answer somewhat normally.

"What kind of scan? Do I have to move?" The last bit came out with a groan.

"Nah, girl. He can do it right here. He's got these awesome glasses that can look inside you and see like EVERYTHING!" Mikey said with a smile. "Broken bones, strained tendons, ooh, and blood pressure…"

The list went on, but Sharra tuned out, her fear returning. This time, it wasn't caused by memory or pain. It was the white-hot terror of discovery. If his invention allowed Donatello to really see everything—and she had no reason to believe it would not after analyzing the sheer brilliance of his shell cells—then he would discover her scars.

Not the ones on the outside. He had probably already noted those when they changed her clothes. The thick skin from the shackles on her wrists was obvious, as were the thinner marks of the whip on her back. But the ones inside were worse.

Shame washed through her. Donatello would know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, what she'd been through. What had been done TO her. How those thugs debased her. Cut her. Hurt her. He would know how broken and torn and unworthy she was. And those deep brown eyes that she was beginning to crave would turn away from her in disgust.

What if he tells Mikey what he sees? What it means?

"E- Everything?" she stuttered.

Her voice broke, and in the next heartbeat, Michelangelo sat beside her on the bed. His arm snaked behind her neck and held her tight in a one-armed hug, eyes radiating concern.

"Woah. Hey. Babe. Baby"—he took her hand, interweaving their fingers—"Sharra, it's okay. Donnie here is an absolute gentleman, and you're protected by like doctor-patient confidentiality and stuff, right, Don?"

She locked eyes with Donatello as he returned to her side, a pair of familiar goggles occupying his hands. As if he understood her hysteria and desperation, he knelt and rested a hand on her shoulder. It was warm again. Soothing. His soulful gaze promised to keep her safe.

"It's not invasive," he swore. "I just need to see your lungs. I won't scan anywhere else without your explicit permission."

Donatello was sweet like that, always reassuring. From the moment they met, he dove headfirst into solving her problems. All of them. From low blood sugar to panic attacks to communication. She hadn't forgotten how he made Raphael back off in her home when she was still afraid of the big lug, either.

Or how he rescued me from a cold, watery grave—

Her thoughts stalled. Raph had been with her in that river. Yet he wasn't in the infirmary.

His face flashed behind her eyes, and she couldn't imagine being frightened of him now. He'd saved her from too much: from fire, from horrible death by concrete, from multiple attackers. Not to mention the car. But, last she saw, he had nearly drowned.

"Raphael!" she blurted, scaring both turtles with her volume and the change of subject. "What happened to him? He didn't… leave, did he?"

Waves of confusion rolled over her. Donatello's face contorted as his eyes darted to an empty cot across the room. Painful regret followed.

Sharra's heart fractured. Only one ending would garner those emotions from the stoic doctor of the family. Suddenly, his tearful eyes and sad expression made sense.

"He DIED?!" The shriek ended in a choked-off whimper.

"Woah, woah, woah!" Mikey reached out to smooth his hand over her cheek. "Don't freak out."

Tears poured forth. She couldn't stop them.

Donatello jerked away from her, his eyes full of remorse. More guilt swept in. He said something—fast and desperate—but her ears were ringing too loudly to match words to the movement of his mouth. Her breath came shorter and shorter. She was losing it.

Despite her best efforts to rectify the situation in the water, she had failed. Even the strange golden light hadn't saved Raphael. He was dead. And it was all her fault.

He wouldn't have been in the parking garage if I hadn't summoned the Nightwatcher.

Her vision began to fog. All she could see was his dark, armored figure floating listlessly under the water. She choked as she sank into the depths with him. Her lungs burned.

"RAPHAEL!"

Donatello's roar rattled her eardrums, but it was not enough to derail her downward spiral. The summons resonated with pain—just as it had when the genius reached them with the boat. It only reinforced her heartache to hear him mourning his brother so stridently.

But before she could succumb to darkness, a cold, clean shaft of anger broke through the jumbled emotions, paring the guilt away from her soul like a skillfully wielded knife. Large, cool hands tipped her face up. She blinked hard, trying to focus. Her eyes cleared. An intense amber gaze trapped hers.

"Hey hon, rememba' me?"

Her despair turned inside out.

Sharra launched herself into Raphael's arms.