Cold Fire Rising

Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

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For Raphael, the latest dose of Ativan had finally started working. He didn't feel so cold or shaky anymore. But as much as the drug relaxed his whole body and mind, he felt that edge of worry and fear. Something was wrong. Was it Mikey? It had to be. Maybe he should ask April to – no, that was ridiculous. They had tried that once. April had placed her hands on Mikey's temples. Barely one minute later, she had tumbled back, screaming and crying, face colorless. She never did explain what she experienced. But of course, that had been nearly three months ago.

Three fucking months. This just... this wasn't right. Damn it, Mikester, you can't stay in there. We are falling apart here! Fuck everything, I don't care, I just need you back!

He couldn't cry. The drug had dulled that part. He sat there, in the cool dark, surrounded by medical equipment. Two months ago, he had taken over as his brother's nurse, instinct flowing naturally. Bandages changed. Sponge baths applied. IV bags changed. The nutrients via the G tube seemed to be doing a powerful job, as only a little weight had been lost.

During the sponge baths, Raph would take his sweet time, careful to gently clean every part, every crevice in every muscle, between fingers and toes, all over face and neck, between shoulder and shell, between thigh and tail, turning and moving and exercising his brother's limbs as he wiped and washed, working to prevent bedsores and further muscle atrophy. Then he would go grab fresh bedding.

He would run into the attached bathroom and scan the towel rack, finally grabbing the thickest fluffiest towel, and he would pick up his brother bridal style, wrapping him in thick fluffy bunny-soft towel, carefully patting away excess droplets as he let the magic of water sink into terrapin skin, extremely careful to not disturb the cannula tubes against Mike's beak or the G tube inserted into his stomach through his side. Mikey never moved and never made a sound, but Raphael knew he was grateful. And he would glance up at the reflective metal in the machines, seeing his green eyes pale like rough peridot instead of the usual emerald. The black circles under them. His skin, shiny and damp, like dark green tourmaline without light, looking stressed.

He would look over his brother everywhere. Fucking fuck, all those cuts and bruises and slices and holes. Michelangelo's complexion was poor, faded, far from its vibrant dark green turquoise. Those scabbed over wounds everywhere. Some of them peeled back open and shiny with blood and cellular fluid. Raph just got iodine and bacitracin and gently cleaned them. He touched his brother's face and pulled back an eyelid, expecting that dull rolled-back unseeing blue topaz eye. Sometimes he just did it to remember the summer sky brilliance.

And then, satisfied with his inspections, Raphael would bundle Mikey up in that towel, cradling the limp head against his shoulder, gently placing him on the other bedding Raph had made for himself. He would quickly strip the bed and change it, fluffing the pillows. And then, he would scoop Mikey into his arms again, remove the towel, lay his brother against the fresh sheets, careful to let his head sink into those cloud soft pillows. Then he would rewrap every bandage, change every tube and IV, chatting quietly the entire time about what he was doing. He would exercise Mikey's muscles again, rubbing them and flexing them, joking all the way about how Mikey was becoming more flexible unconscious than Leo was awake.

Raph still couldn't understand why this was taking so long. But if it was helping his brother heal, then whatever. Honeycutt had said something about the M'Kari process changing Mikey's neurology, blah blah blah, and it was taking a while to sort out, and shit happening in the brain affected how the body reacted and that was part of why the coma was so deep and so long.