Inflame
Donatello tossed in his bed. He grabbed an extra pillow and clutched it close to his plastron. Throwing a leg over it, he snuggled his shoulder deep into the mattress, trying to relax.
The clock taunted him with its glowing display. It was three in the morning. His body was exhausted. He'd been on his feet for literal days taking care of his many patients. He should be sound asleep. But sound and sleep had not been meeting for him in recent memory.
He sighed and closed his eyes.
Sharra's soaked and battered form appeared before him, wrapped in towels and curled in a tiny ball. She clutched at her throat, her lips turning from pink to a startling shade of blue—her eyes begged him to do something!
He pushed the image away. It was old data.
Everything's fine.
He flipped over, dragging the pillow with him. The covers got caught on it and he yanked them straight with a frustrated huff. He sighed again. Closed his eyes again. Mentally, he counted down from one thousand, forcing his breathing to deepen until it matched. Ten seconds after he got to number one, his eyelids snapped back open.
She had to wake up soon, even if only for a moment or two. Seeing her eyes clear and free from terror felt vital.
Memories of her cycled through his head and he realized he'd rarely seen them without such a sheen. And most of the time the reason for that fear had been a mutant turtle.
A growl rumbled deep in his chest.
Stop it. Thinking about that won't help.
He compelled his brain to focus on the present by staring fixedly at the wall before him. A large crack spread away from his vantage point. He couldn't remember how long it had been there, or if it had grown any. He frowned.
The equations required to estimate the weight bricks could carry under load flashed through his mind. He filled in the variables he knew—age, dimensions, and mass of the individual building blocks; their location in relation to the lower levels consisting of bedrock; and the city's other substructure layers.
Factoring in baseline measurements for the street and skyscrapers above… He determined the wall was not about to collapse on him. That was fine.
Everything's fine.
Yet, it wasn't. At least, not fine enough for him to get to sleep. Don's thoughts churned. Exhaustion didn't allow for the mental acuity required to sort them out. Worry chased worry, though some had already been resolved.
Raphael had recovered. Mostly. Donatello still didn't understand how he survived the freezing river unscathed, but at this point, he wasn't questioning it. He had too many other problems to deal with.
Like Sharra's continued nightmares. Raph was discharged a little early because he couldn't handle them. Or, more because Donnie lost patience with the hothead's reaction to her screams and his ineffective and unhelpful pestering regarding her care. But the danger of hypothermia and rapid onset cardiac arrest had passed.
Raph needed a few more days of rest before hitting the gym and dojo, but he was moving well enough. It wouldn't be long 'til he got back in fighting form.
See? Everything's fine.
Donatello nestled himself into the covers. Around him, everything appeared quiet. As quiet as it ever got in their portion of the sewer anyway. He tried not to listen too closely to the silence. The echoes and undertones sounded like her. Screaming his name over a vast stretch of water.
He ignored it now the same way Raph demanded he ignore it then and shifted his attention to his youngest brother.
Michelangelo's original injuries were still quite severe. His aural reserves had been drained in the last two weeks—not once, but twice. He'd been subjected to a premonition, multiple out-of-body experiences, and full-blown torture; not to mention the emotional torment of nearly losing the woman he loved.
So his recovery was…slow, at least in regards to a mutant turtle's average healing factor.
He walked a little smoother now. The swelling in his ankle was gone, the pulled muscles subsided, and most of his smaller cuts and bruises had healed. But the stab wound and the shoulder would take longer. It would be several weeks before Mikey would see the inside of the dojo again.
That's ok. Everything's. Fine.
Don forced conviction into the thought, but his gut twisted. He swallowed the knot in his throat, but it crept back in almost immediately. He'd been battling it for days. Because Mikey's recovery also depended on one other major factor. Sharra's.
And her recuperation would take the longest.
She will be fine too.
Eventually.
At least physically.
Donatello sighed and practiced saying the first part of the thought. Largely so it would sound natural when he spoke it aloud to his family. But for some reason, he was having a hard time accepting the pace.
She was healing though.
Her blood pressure had leveled off after the second transfusion. Thankfully, she was a universal recipient. He used the emergency bags he kept on hand for their human friends to top her up, and she took the fluid easily—adapting to it like it was already her own.
Her ribs were stabilized. She breathed on her own. And though it was inconceivable with the pollution in the Hudson, his medical goggles showed no signs of infection in her body.
So things were proceeding normally. And he didn't know why he expected her to heal faster. It must be wishful thinking; because Sharra was completely human, as far as he could tell.
He'd checked for abnormalities, especially after her ranting about mutagen. Terrified Shredder had changed her in ways he couldn't reverse. But her genetic profile was almost perfect. Her scans showed only trace amounts of mutagenic compounds in her system. And DNA analysis said those were transferred from Raph's wounds and Leo's hands. The contamination was slight, rapidly breaking down on its own, and wasn't causing harm.
For the third time in as many days, his mind ticked over the idea of diving back into his decades-old research regarding refining the mutagen compound from their blood. Unlike the diluted copy Shredder had, their original strength version contained curative elements. If he could isolate them they might speed Sharra's recovery —both now and in the future.
Her prospects worried him. They wouldn't be able to keep Sharra's addition to their family a secret from their enemies forever. Because Leonardo was right. Like April and Casey before her, Sharra would ultimately become a target.
Don wanted an ace up his sleeve for that eventuality. He would rather die than allow anyone to hurt her again, but Sharra possessed a human life beyond their own. One that would have her venturing off into the sunlight. As much as they wanted to, they couldn't always be there to watch her back.
He gnawed on his tongue as he thought it through, then set the idea aside for the time being. It wasn't a priority. What he needed was to find more ways to ease her rest now and keep her from aggravating her injuries further.
Her screaming had battered all of them relentlessly. And his new aural abilities nearly drove him insane as he attempted to handle the issue. The scent of her anguish fucking slayed him.
The emotional hit was like a punch in the gut and he didn't know how to turn it off. He held his breath when addressing her wounds and otherwise tried to keep a healthy distance—but that was next to impossible. Every cell in his body screamed at him to stay near. To protect her. To fix whatever caused her distress.
He hated feeling so helpless. He was supposed to be the Renaissance turtle. The brain of many talents. So why couldn't he solve this for her? Why couldn't he ease her anguish?
It burned him when Leonardo discovered an answer, but he couldn't help but feel relief when she fell silent. With Mikey at her side, the nightmares no longer presented a physical threat to her well-being and Donnie had been talked into getting some rest.
Rest.
He snorted.
Yeah, right.
That same unprecedented longing called him back to the infirmary despite the dictates of logic and distance. It tugged as if a rope were tied between them. He fought the pull, for her safety and his brother's sanity. If he went back now, tired and emotionally drained, he was bound to do something inappropriate. Something that would startle Mike and frighten Sharra if it awakened her at all.
Like sliding into bed with the both of them.
For half a second Donatello seriously entertained the action. Holding them close would ease his heart so much… but that was not his place. He throttled the absurd fantasy and turned over again, wondering how they were doing. Leo was keeping an ear out in case of trouble, but it was not enough to assuage Don's worry.
Sharra had infiltrated his every thought, his every action. Her health and happiness dominated each moment of his day. The desire to heal her, to support her, to… love her, was all-consuming. But that was not his fate, and Donatello had long since perfected the art of living without what he wanted.
He could check on her though. Despite the quiet, Sharra's emotions still rumbled through the lair. He could sense her agitation if he concentrated.
Unable to resist the lure of more information, he did just that, seeking a sound that was not a sound. He found it deep within his ears, a muffled grumble, a buzz of irritation. He probed at it like a sore tooth, wishing the signal were cleaner, the feelings more defined.
A spike of despondent terror crossed the bond and jolted him upright. He shook his head to eliminate the bright spots it caused from his vision. Somehow his connection to her had cleared.
Perhaps it was because he was already 'listening' so hard, but the next burst of complex feeling burned Donnie to the quick. A blaze of heat ignited in his center. Desire scalded him like a pyre. A flare of possession demanded his presence.
The voiceless appeal begged for a reply, ravaging and inflaming him by turns until it condensed into a single poignant cry.
*Mine?!*
Donatello answered instantly. He didn't think. He didn't rationalize. His mind shouted it. His heart echoed it with every beat. His soul swore it with total and absolute devotion.
*Yours.*
He charged from the room. Without preparation. Without weapons. Without even his mask.
When he hit the infirmary door and found Michelangelo welded to her lips, Don jerked to a halt as if he'd run into an invisible wall. His arm shot out and he gripped the door frame for support as his knees threatened to buckle. His knuckles tightened until they went pale.
He hadn't considered the call wasn't meant for him.
Seeing them kiss was so much worse than hearing it from another room. Sharra was in complete bliss, wrapped in strong arms and adoration. And Mikey was churring!
Intense, naked hunger darkened Donatello's eyes. That sound was the final nail in the coffin of his fight against total arousal. His cock swelled, so hard and so fast that he nearly gasped aloud. Their tightly wedded bodies were a scene straight out of his wet dreams—
But none of those included the biting scent of Michelangelo's possessive pheromones.
While Donatello's logical mind always denied he had a chance with the beautiful young woman, his subconscious insisted there was a possibility for happiness there. After all, he excelled at fusions. And Mikey was so much a part of his life that he knew they could make a polyamorous relationship work. They were close and affectionate with each other. They could forgo things like jealousy as long as Sharra wanted them both.
But standing here the truth hit him like a bo staff to the skull—hard and brutal. Michelangelo had no intention of sharing.
He MARKED her!
Mikey had spent days holding her so of course his regular scent already covered her body, but this smell was different—the essence unmistakable. It blanketed her and dominated the room, overwhelming Sharra's addictive perfume.
It was a claim that brooked no others.
Donatello swallowed bile as fierce hurt pierced his heart.
Way to delude yourself, Don. She was NEVER meant to be yours.
Slowly, he backed away, hoping to make an unnoticed retreat before the crushing pain in his chest reached his eyes. Tears would give everything away.
But he moved too late. Sharra broke off the kiss with a gasp. Her gaze locked on him and she blanched.
Left jab, right cross, left hook.
Left jab, right cross, left hook, right cross.
The heavy bag swayed in front of Raphael as he repeated the sequence. Over and over he punched the sweat-darkened leather, just as he had been doing for hours.
He wasn't supposed to be in the gym. It was fucking late, near three A.M. And Donnie hadn't cleared him from bedrest. But this was where he needed to be, pulverizing the only thing in the lair that wouldn't question his choices.
The impact of the pounding traveled down his arms into his shoulders and shell—breaking loose the tight constriction of his chest. His muscles screamed for a reprieve, but he didn't stop.
He couldn't. He needed this to breathe.
I need it to drown out the screams.
Sharra might be safe in their home, but she remained unconscious and hurting. And though the others found a way to silence her terrified cries, the sound still rang in his ears.
He hated that she was reliving that horror—seeing it again and again—but there wasn't a damn thing he could do to fight memories and dreams.
One, Two. One, two. Left jab, right cross, left hook.
Each thump of the bag felt like a counterattack, but he danced and moved and kept on striking.
She looked so fragile in the infirmary. Her bones were brittle. They might break with less effort than it took him to close a fist. Her body was marked with scars, her pale flesh blackened by bruises.
But looks could be deceiving.
Sharra is a survivor.
Despite the horrors she'd suffered, her heart had not shattered. It may be battered and broken a little but her strength, her resilience, and her bravery were proven. She was still warm, compassionate, and…
She saved me.
It pissed him off to no end. He was supposed to be her protector, not the other way around. And then there was the way of the saving. It was shrouded in mystery.
Raph only remembered pieces. The shot of adrenalin when he saw the car. The fall. Twisting, trying to shield her from the impact. His head had exploded. The ice-cold water sucked her from his grip. Everything went black.
He was frozen. Numb. Suspended between heaven and earth. Here, yet there.
Then his chest expanded. He couldn't breathe real well and he couldn't open his eyes, but something was keeping him afloat.
Broken bits of a one-sided conversation circled in his brain. Things he hadn't cared to share when his brainy brother pumped him for information.
"Damn it, you're the Nightwatcher! You can't go out like this!"
He thought she might have hit him in the arm but he couldn't answer. Not even when she started sobbing, begging him to stay.
"Raphael… please… don't leave me alone…"
The way she said his name —as if he were important; as if he mattered— broke him. He knew he hadn't imagined the agony in her voice. He wasn't up to much creative thinking right then.
Raph flushed at the memory and punched harder, fighting to excise his demons through his fists. He felt like shit about the bungled rescue. He owed her an apology. A few of 'em actually. He'd promised to protect her and he'd failed miserably.
I'm sorry, Shay.
The words were clear in his mind but stuck on his tongue. He might not ever be able to say them out loud, though that wouldn't matter if she never woke up.
His next strikes were enough to bloody the knuckles of both hands, despite the wraps he was wearing. His lips thinned and his eyes began to sting.
Please come back, Shay. Please…
Round and round the plea went in his head until he felt sick to his stomach. He swallowed hard trying to shake off the cold feeling of dread. Fighting it with the very last thing he recalled from the river.
Blessed warmth.
Her pure sweet essence swept through his chest, easing his shaking lungs. But it hadn't simply permeated his body. It latched onto his soul.
What did she do to me?
Nobody had had a chance to find out. She hadn't been awake to ask. But Don was sure as hell surprised he was breathing. The genius had theories though. He suggested CPR among other more outlandish things.
Raph stopped pummeling the bag so suddenly it almost swung into him. His right hand blocked it out of habit but his left rose to touch his lips. They tingled.
Did she put her mouth on mine?
He had never thought any woman, much less one he'd only recently met, would accept their differences enough to be willing to do something like that—even in a life-or-death situation.
He scrubbed his fingers across them to kill the peculiar sensation then shoved his hand up the side of his face and squeezed his forehead over his eyes. He shook his head, not quite ready to believe it.
Sharra is different.
The words his conscious whispered were right. Raph felt it in his bones. She had embraced Mike without questioning what he was.
Yeah, but what they got is like that shit in the romcoms dad watches. Where the draw between two people is undeniable. Never thought that crap was real.
Yet when Raphael looked into her eyes, he felt it too. A strong pull and a shocking amount of admiration—both for her and from her. His heart pounded harder as he considered that. His ears buzzed, making his head feel fuzzy. He inhaled deeply to calm down.
He was still breathing rough when he sensed another presence in the room. He spun with a raised fist to see Leonardo loitering in the doorway.
"What are you doing here?" he barked, dropping his hand.
Leo looked disgruntled. The expression was odd on him. Normally if he was feeling out of sorts he hid it better. Tonight his lips were pinched and his eyes narrowed.
He glanced at Raph's bloody knuckles. The younger turtle sneered, ready to head off a scolding, either for hurting himself or for ignoring Don's orders. But Leonardo just gestured to the equipment.
"Same as you. Hunting for a distraction."
"Can't find it in the dojo?" Raph snapped.
The remark was more acidic than warranted. Leo hadn't called him out for his misbehavior, but Raphael felt defensive. After dark, the gym became his private territory. And the way he was feeling… Well, he didn't want an audience.
Leonardo didn't rise to the bait. He glided to the weight bench and eyed the setup Raph had left on the bar. It was from several days ago—before he got hurt—and it was heavy.
In general, Raphael worked out more than his brothers. He had more mass and was larger. Leo didn't often care to strain against mere iron. He lifted some but usually chose to exhaust his muscles with the more intricate forms of ninjutsu, which left him leaner. So when Leonardo shrugged, reclined, and tucked himself under the bar without changing a thing it startled Raph. He raised an eye ridge when Leo pressed it off the supports with no apparent effort and began pumping out repetitions.
Leonardo had just finished the first astonishing set of fifty when a sharp stab of terror shoved its way into Raphael's skull. It struck like an icepick between the eyes. He bent in half, pressing his hands to his forehead.
What the fuck?
"DON!" Michelangelo's frantic call carried through the shared wall of the infirmary into the gym.
Leo parked the weight with an abrupt bang and sat up. His gaze sharpened and he blinked with deliberation to engage his second sight. He squinted, Peering through the wall. Raph suddenly realized that's why his brother was here. To be in earshot of the patients.
Didn't know he could pull that stunt though.
"What's wrong?" Raph demanded. When he didn't get an immediate answer, he started for the door to find out on his own. Leo grabbed his elbow and yanked him to a stop.
"Mikey?" A shaky voice murmured.
The brothers locked gazes, Raph's eyes going wide.
"She's awake."
"And they don't need us barging in," Leonardo stated firmly.
"Maybe not you," Raph snarked, but he wanted to be there. He needed to apologize. He had to say something before he made himself sick.
He twisted his arm from Leo's grip, but the leader stood, blocking the way.
"Listen to them," Leonardo hissed in a harsh whisper, "They don't WANT us interfering."
Though he resented the order, Raph cocked his head. There was no mistaking that wet smacking sound, or the distinctly feminine moan that followed. A flush rushed up to darken his cheeks. His eyelids dropped to half-mast and his mouth dried. Jealousy like he'd never known spiraled up his spine, but it only had a second to take hold.
The warmth from his memories returned. Heat coiled up Raphael's form from toe to head, winding around him like thick tentacles rising from the earth. Desire filled his eyes with joyous rapture as a demand echoed through his soul.
*Mine?!*
The cry jolted him from his slack-jawed stillness. He was summoned. She required his presence. He answered back as best he could, trying to send his total agreement to her as he quickly stepped past Leo.
Leonardo shook himself as if coming awake from a dream. His features twisted and his body followed suit. A roundhouse kick caught Raphael on the side of his shell. He missed the doorway and stumbled into the wall.
"What the hell?" Raph growled, bouncing back to his feet.
Leo leveled him with a glare. "That was not meant for you."
"You heard her too?"
The glare softened to a look of pity.
"She's an empath, Raph. A strong one. But she can't control herself. Everyone probably received it, but it was intended for Mike."
Raphael swayed. His vision dimmed for a second and he shuddered, resting a palm on the wall for stability. Then he shoved himself upright with a full-bodied snarl. The shame and heartache blossomed into anger. He couldn't believe what he'd almost done.
And he was mortified that of all his brothers, Leonardo had seen it.
"Fuck."