Reunion
A frightened gasp jolted Michelangelo from his light doze. He froze as a full-body shudder rocked through the unconscious girl in front of him. His brow furrowed and he held his breath, waiting to see if she would awaken.
Sharra hadn't opened her eyes since the flashback and this wasn't the first time terror shook her dreams. When Mikey had released her physical functions, she slept peacefully for almost twelve hours. Yet the respite from her past was momentary. A plague of nightmares soon descended; prompting screaming, crying, and thrashing.
Yet they hadn't been able to rouse her.
Mikey attempted to soothe some of her terrors by crooning in her ear and stroking her hair, but over time the episodes grew more violent. Donatello worried aloud that she might struggle too hard and puncture her lung a second time. Keeping her still became a priority.
But how? Michelangelo dared not use his chi again. And with her PTSD, restraints were NOT an option—if Don had even considered them, Mikey would have disowned him. They were at a loss. Each time her fits required they pin her to the table, Mikey died a little inside. But there didn't seem to be any more they could do.
After the tenth terrible bout of hysterics, Leonardo stalked into the infirmary. His face gave away nothing about his intentions. An unreadable mask covered his expression. But his eyes flared deep indigo with suppressed anguish.
Mikey braced for impact. Leo and Donnie still hadn't discussed their issues, though the genius had softened his standoffish attitude somewhat. But tension remained thick in the air and it looked like Leonardo disapproved of their current solution.
However, Leo didn't say a word. He merely dragged in their softest futon mattress and proceeded to recreate the nest from Sharra's home in the middle of the floor. When he finished, he glided over to where she lay—restless and sobbing on the gurney—and locked eyes with Donatello.
Donnie sighed, rubbed his forehead, and nodded permission for his patient to be moved. Leonardo scooped her up and laid her in the bed with infinite care. Once she was settled, he gestured for Mike to join her and strode out.
How Leo knew what she needed was a mystery, but her outbursts of delirium ceased once Mikey joined her on the bed. Mostly. She still occasionally jerked or whimpered.
Currently, she lay on her side with her back snuggled up tight to his plastron in a direct reversal of their previous roles. She had pressed herself against his shell to keep him warm when she rescued him from the ice and snow. To keep him alive. This was his chance to return the favor.
But this time their positions were about more than simply sharing heat. He wanted her to sense his protective emotions—to feel the way every part of him curved inward to shelter her. Michelangelo spooned around Sharra tenderly, his cheek on his bicep. His right arm ran under her pillow to cradle her shoulders and neck. His other hand rested on the left portion of her hip, avoiding her ribs and the wounds from Donnie's emergency procedure. The arrangement was a little uncomfortable. And, after a while, it tended to stretch his healing stitches. But he wasn't complaining.
The yearning to hold her during their week apart, to know she was safe, had been unimaginable. It was a pure—visceral—need. An instinct more powerful than any he'd ever experienced. Not knowing where she sheltered or what she faced had forced him to the edge of sanity.
And then I almost lost her forever…
He tucked Sharra tighter against him and tried to push recent events from his mind. Tried to ignore the way her hair still smelled of smoke and blood and dirty river water. Tried to forget the way she pleaded with him —begged him— to let her die.
He scrunched his eyes shut.
Come on, Mike. You gotta concentrate on the positive!
Sharra's body was warm again, toasty against his front. Her heartbeat was steady, beating in time with his—without his intervention. Her lungs were working.
This is helping her.
At least that's what he hoped. He hadn't been able to reach her thoughts since the boat. Though not from lack of trying.
Twisting, he shifted a minuscule amount, individually flexing muscles stiff from prolonged stillness. Sharra didn't respond to the movement. She hadn't made another sound after the gasp. Reluctantly he concluded that she remained trapped in sleep.
But is she still having the nightmare?
Unlike Leonardo, Mikey couldn't See the aural colors of emotions whenever he wanted. That particular skill took more practice to master. Without an active transfer of energy occurring he was essentially Blind, so for now he relied on her pheromones to determine her mental state.
He nuzzled into the back of her neck and inhaled. His face twisted. Her usual sweetness was, once again, soured by fear.
Michelangelo hated the distortion.
Hate was generally an emotion foreign to him. But since Sharra's flashback, they had become fast friends. He hated what he'd seen with a fierce passion. Hated what the experience had done to her. And hated, most of all, the ones who enacted it.
Fury engulfed him as he contemplated the waking nightmare she must have lived. He'd only witnessed one episode of torture—out of what Donatello grimly assured him was many—but one was more than enough.
If I ever locate the bastard who whipped her, not even God can save him.
Michelangelo's head began pounding in time with his heart as he concocted a lethal plan for revenge. He bared his teeth in a silent snarl. All his muscles tensed.
Sharra stopped breathing.
In a blink, rage turned to ash. He lurched upright and reached for her neck. He couldn't find her pulse. His own blood thundered too wildly in his veins to detect anything beyond it.
"Don!" he roared in alarm.
Sharra awoke already frozen by terror. Her dreams had been turbulent—full of indecent acts. Waking would usually ease the torment, but today someone was pressed boldly up against her back. The person behind her radiated anger and hatred. The surrounding arms were steel. When they tightened their hold she sucked in a breath and held it, unable to do anything more.
Abruptly they let go.
Hate died as if it had never been.
Panic swept in to replace it.
They shouted.
Her heart knew that voice. She recognized the name he called. Shock and hope rattled her mind from its stubborn trance. The fog of sleep and the shifts of time from her flashbacks lifted from her brain. She struggled with the paralysis, hardly believing her ears.
Years passed before her body softened and allowed her to move, but eventually, she rolled to her back—and wished she hadn't. Needle-like blades stabbed every inch of her skin. Every muscle protested. Her bruises had bruises.
Fuck! That was a mistake.
She groaned, waiting for the worst of the cramps and stinging pains to pass. They didn't so she drew a deep breath to force them aside. That was another mistake. Her sides ached far worse than she last remembered. The cracked ribs must have broken.
Sweet baby Jesus! I'm going to be out of commission for weeks.
Ribs affected literally everything. Every breath made them move—which would make them hurt more. The deeper the breath, the more they moved, the more intense the burn.
Shit.
Gritting her teeth, she forced her eyes open. White walls met her pain-filled gaze. A concrete ceiling floated high above. She was no longer on the tall table. The room looked distorted. She lay on the floor.
But she remembered this place.
Asking for Don. Speaking with—
She winced, shying away from the memory of the turtle's father. Of what he was. But she did recall what he said.
This room is their infirmary.
It wasn't as dark as it had been before. Several lamps provided ambient light in the corners, until a head leaned in blocking her field of view. Green scales, cute brown freckles, and shockingly blue eyes made her heart skip a beat and then pound erratically to make up for the pause.
"Mikey?" she whispered, her voice hoarse and uncertain.
Her last confirmed 'real' sighting of him was his limp unconscious body being hauled out of her home. She'd cried herself to sleep dwelling on it every night since, so she couldn't quite believe in this vibrant and moving version of him.
He was still hurt. Bandages wrapped his shoulder and plastron. She forced a hand to rise until her fingers hovered apprehensively over the stitches, then danced them along the rippled muscle, sinew, and skin below as she tried to check his stab wound.
"It's me," he confirmed, gently deflecting her hands. He gathered her up with the utmost care and pulled her into a seated position on his lap.
"I'm ok," he promised, nestling her against his chest.
When she didn't seem reassured, he tipped up her chin with a knuckle and drew nearer to brush his cheeks against each of hers. The tender greeting was… unusual. It resembled a cross between the European double kiss and a nuzzle from a cat and it made his unique scent flower around them, melting her remaining anxiety. She fought tears as he drew his head back. Her hands floated up to cup his face and she offered him a tremulous smile.
Michelangelo's searing gaze shifted to her lips and lingered. His pupils dilated. He hesitated, waiting to see if she would stop him, then dipped his head forward.
His mouth brushed against hers. He was gentle, sliding over her bruised skin with the softest touch—like she was infinitely precious.
Sharra's heart lit up like a Christmas tree.
Relief, longing, and pure joy—a flaring orange light filled with wonderment, so at odds with the dark shadows of her life—flooded through his lips and dazzled her eyes. It chased away the nightmares and horrors of her past. Swearing to do so forever more.
In the last dark week, she had recalled their prior kiss a hundred times or more, wondering if she only imagined the depth of feeling present. But her memory wasn't wrong.
Michelangelo's kiss offered everything. It declared her safe. It welcomed her home.
Sharra's eyelids fluttered closed. Her universe narrowed to that one point of contact—where her lips met his. An ache bloomed deep in her heart. For once in her life she craved more physical affection. She wanted him. And not just for now. But she didn't know how to express the compulsion or the vast sense of attachment that came with it.
She curled an arm around his neck. He leaned into her willingly. The slide of his scales against her skin, the feel of her softness threading its way between the hard ridge of his carapace and neck, overwhelmed his senses. Desire threatened to undo his control. His hands trembled as they slid up her back to cradle her head.
She moaned softly and returned his tentative kiss with a hungry one.
Mikey swayed, unsteady. Her urgency knocked him sideways and he tightened his arms around her seeking equilibrium. Yet he continued to kiss her with the weight of his entire soul.
She got lost in the passion; chasing his lips and mouth with her own as she practically welded herself to him.
*Mine?!*
The demand ripped from her in a pulse of feeling, echoing through mind, body, and soul—part uncertain question, part statement of possession.
She didn't understand how she sent it forth. Maybe she didn't do anything at all. The sensation could be nothing more than a trauma-induced hallucination; like Mikey's non-existent ghost on the subway platform or his voice in her head on the boat.
But it felt natural.
Can he hear me? Will he answer?
A distressed, slightly broken sound reverberated in Michelangelo's throat. He tilted his head to seal them even more tightly together. When her lips parted, his tongue surged into the opening, connecting with her deeply. A low rumble vibrated from his chest.
An incoming rush of adoration and ardor rocked her—answering her heart's call fourfold. Like her cry, it wasn't something stated in words, but the meaning was unmistakable.
*Yours.*