Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

His coffee, as strong as it may, didn’t deter the headache that was blossoming behind his tired, weary eyes from expanding; creeping across the front of his skull with each steady pulse of his heartbeat.

He takes another sip, steels himself to see if perhaps the magic he knows does not truly exist has worked and…

“Papa!” 

There’s the sound of his youngest, voice thick with babyish chub still, carrying across the lair with determination, tallying around inside his squeezing head like a brash drum cymbal.

Before he can push himself up off his stool, it goes off again, shrill and impatient, 

“Papa! Papa! I’m telling !”

That was nothing new for Michelangelo these days, that familiar old phrase, minced with saccharine dramatics, he’s blinking his eyes hard to starve off the rest of the headache that threatens him; the kind that travels down the back of his skull and towards his shell and over his spine and makes him feel about a million years old.

He heaves a sigh. He already feels a million years old these days, what with the trophies of his days gone by evident across his aging body, like his trick knee and the ache he gets in his elbow when it perhaps rains a little too hard. It’s one thing to feel it physically, but the added bonus of it being emotional as well weighs just a touch too heavy for his liking. 

He comes to a stop in the pit where the sounds are louder and more pitchier, and there’s two little turtles to accompany them, faces all pinched into varying degrees of annoyance.

It’s Odyn who reaches him first, as it often is, he’s a daddy’s boy at heart, little tiny legs carrying him the small distance that separates them, he goes barrelling into the larger, older turtle, face first into his pant leg. He’s gripping the edges of the fabric with three little fingers, giving it a sharp tug when he says with a rush of air,

“Papa, Uno is being mean again!” He whines, pressing his snout into Mikey’s leg. “He keeps calling me names!”

Uno has since joined their fray now, chest heaving with each stuttered breath as if the idea of being accused of such a thing is stunting each draw of air into his lungs.

“No I didn’t!” He retorts, voice all pitchy and nasally. Michelangelo groans softly to himself. “He’s just being a baby ! Like he always is!”

Such a spiteful word directed towards their youngest is enough to erupt a hurtful sob from the smaller turtle. He buries his face further into his fathers leg, his voice warbled and muffled from both the tears the the mouth full of pant he has right now, but Mikey is able to carefully decipher it of something along the lines of, (in true irony) ,

“See! He keeps calling me a baby!”

He pries his son’s iron grip off from his leg, forcing him to look upwards with a tap of his finger beneath his damp chin. Fat tears roll down his cheeks, framing his face almost perfectly, he looks at his child sternly.

“You know not to take it to heart, hm? Do you eat baby food and wear diapers?”

Odyn sniffles, bringing a fist up to scrub away at the snot collected beneath his snout. 

“No?”

Mikey hums. “And do you chew on furniture and need papa’s help to feed yourself?”

Odyn shakes his head. “No, papa.”

Michelangelo grins softly. “Then you’re not a baby. You know that, I know that.” He looks pointedly at his other son who is unmovable under his gaze. “Uno knows that. He only says it to get a rise out of you, right?”

Odyn’s bottom lip wobbles dangerously. “Yes,” he says in a rush, “but—”

Michelangelo is swift to cut in. “ But I will deal with your brother. Okay?”

Odyn doesn’t seem entirely swayed; Michelangelo thinks that maybe he wanted some sort of permission to perhaps say a bad word directed at his brother, or maybe to have it out in a short scrap and there as kind of emotional compensation that only siblings would believe to be a reliable source of insurance against name calling.

But the smaller turtle eventually heaves a heavy, wet sigh, and nods his head solemnly. 

“Good. Go play with your sisters,” Michelangelo instructs him, tapping him gently against the ridge of his shell. “I think they’re coloring. Will you make me something pretty?”

That gets his spirits up, the smile beaming across his face so bright, it might as well evaporate his previous tears left behind on his cheeks.

“Okay!” He calls out with delight as he toddles off to join his other, much quieter siblings on the far side of the room. Mikey watches them as they scoot aside and make space for him, offering up a fresh slice of paper, he’s already making grabby hands for the brightest crayons they own.

“He’s always getting me into trouble.”

That’s Uno’s low, forbidding voice, all full of that way too early angst that he recognises from himself and his brothers in their adolescent years, and when Mikey turns to face him, he’s sullen. 

He doesn’t wait to hear whatever wisdom his father might be able to offer, instead, his bottom lip is trembling like it’s heavy with the weight of all the words he wishes to say; all the woes and the hurt that comes with having little brothers, and suddenly, with his face drawn in such an expression and his eyes narrowed and his mouth tight, Michelangelo sees a glimpse of Raphael in this child.

“You know, I was the youngest of my brothers,” Michelangelo explains to him. He motions for him to follow as they leave the pit, letting the soft voices of the other children behind them as they walk back towards the kitchen from which he came. “I pulled the same tricks he pulls from time to time.”

Uno pauses his end of conversation to clamber on top of the barstool that wobbles slightly under his swaying weight. Michelangelo steadies it with a hand until his son is fully situated, and once he is, he’s swiveling around to face the older turtle, still sporting the same, sour expression across his younger face.

“Then why’d you let him get away with it?” He says, words barbed, like this was somehow his fault now. “It’s not fair, papa.”

And Michelangelo chuckles softly. There are the glimpses of Donatello that shine through, like bright sunshine filtering through curtains in the early morning in hues of gold – that sharp intellect that constantly comes with its millions of almost unanswerable questions. 

“Because I also know what my older brothers were capable of,” he tells him gently. “They did all they could to push my buttons, to get me in trouble. They knew how to play the game without getting themselves a foul.”

Uno heaves a loaded sigh, his plastron rising and falling, his hardened glare seems to melt away a little as he allows his father’s words to soak in.

“I just hate him,” he says suddenly, words dark and low. “He’s so annoying.”

Michelangelo stiffens at that. And at his father’s physical reaction, Uno shrinks a little, aware of what he’d just said; how loaded his words were.

“You don’t hate him.” Michelangelo tells him, Uno’s gaze gingerly lifts to meet his. “You are annoyed by him, yes, but hate is such a strong word, musko-san.”

Uno’s dark eyes flicker across the room with nerves, caught out, he wrings his hands together, as if trying to rid himself of the nervous energy that this conversation was building within him.

“I’m sorry chichi,” he says in a small voice. “That was mean. I don’t hate Uno.”

Michelangelo hums. “I know.” Then, “You know how I know?”

Uno shakes his head.

“The time you taught him kanji,” he begins to list. “Or when he lost a tooth and you soothed him because he was hurt.” He watches with pride as a small smile ghosts across his child’s face. “Or whenever you read to him before bed, even when it’s the stories you have already heard before.”

Uno rubs tiredly at his eyes; all of these emotions are a lot to bear for such a small boy.

“I know you love your brother, Uno,” Michelangelo tells him, tapping a green finger beneath his chin to gather his focus. “I know because I see so much of your oji in your soul.” He smiles warmly at his son. “Each one of them,” he adds, moving his finger down from his face to rest across his plastron, right over where his heart lies. “Right here, hm?”

Uno shifts in his seat, the old, worn barstool groans under his growing weight, he pitches himself as far forward as he can go without toppling off, looking up at his father with big, round curious eyes.

“Really?” He says, voice clinging to an awed whisper. 

“Really.” Mikey tells him with a stern nod. “Now go play,” he says quickly, flapping him away with a dismissive hand. 

“Papa hasn’t had enough coffee this morning,” he mutters, pinching his eyes narrowly to try and avoid the impending headache that’s crawling back across his skull. “Try not to have anymore arguments until at least late afternoon, yes?”

Uno hops off his seat, almost tripping in the process, he stands tall when he tells him,

“That’s okay!” He’s smiling now. A sight Mikey is sure he’ll never truly tire of, no matter how many headaches life brings. “Maybe I can ask the others if I can draw too, and we’ll make you something nice to make you feel better, hm?”

Michelangelo reaches across the countertops for his discarded beverage from earlier. Curling his fingers around the mug, he finds with welcomed surprise that it’s still warm. “You better,” he tells him with an entirely serious tone surrounding his words, raising one brow ridge for emphasis. “I didn’t spend hours scavenging those crayons for nothing.”

And with that, Uno is padding off in the direction of where his other children are gathered; straining an ear he can hear their excitable chatter and babble as they continue to work together. 

And when their eldest sibling joins in, there doesn’t seem to be any lasting animosity; Odyn shows off what he’s already made, pride and excitement swelling over whatever leftover hurt from their spat, and Michelangelo chuckles to himself as he listens to Uno’s gentle encouragement that floats through front the other room.

He brings the coffee mug to his lips, steam curls itself around his snout, and a smile touches at his face, the slightest of turns. He awards himself with another mouthful, and whilst it doesn’t do much to quell his migraine, it does feel deserved.

And later that night, when he has all four of his children growing heavy in his arms, fighting a battle against fatigue that they are bound to lose against, as it is most nights, he watches his as Uno shuffles in closer to his brother, his pudgy little arm draped across the slope of his shell, and Odyn, his jaw slack, drool dried across his chin, his soft snores only just about disturbing the silence that falls across the room, he seems to curl into his brother’s offered warmth and Michelangelo smiles softly to himself.

Here in his lap are his children – the little turtles that call him papa and rush to him to settle disputes and disagreements, and to kiss scraped knees and to devote each of their wobbly crayon drawings to him that end up covering the fridge and the kitchen walls in a decoration of color and love and he knows that even with coffee, even with the best coffee in the world, all of this is worth a thousand bad headaches. Tomorrow might bring peace and tranquility and ease, or perhaps it shall be Yi and Moja that decide to scrap and fight or maybe all four will fall out of love momentarily, as siblings often do.

Michelangelo should know, he’s been one his entire life, even if his brothers are no longer here to push his buttons or fight him or argue over petty, useless things, he knows with great ease, that despite it all, they always found their way back together, whether it was over something big or small – that was the love between brothers and family.

He presses his sleeping turtles closer to him, curling his arms around them, they melt around his warmth and he knows that much like his group of siblings, these four here, were no exception to the same rules.

He closes his eyes and basks in the moment, acutely aware in the moment of quiet, of the headache that has finally shrunk itself away.  

Chapter Text

Michelangelo wakes up with an ache blossoming at the bottom of his skull.

He opens his eyes, light spilling into the room, it’s trapped behind his retinas, staying there like pin pricks that burn with each slow blink, he squeezes them shut again to stave off the hurt any more.

There’s an easy quietness that settles across his home like a calm ocean wave, and the humming ache that’s creeping across the top of his head seems to soften slightly.

And the wave comes and goes with a gentle lull, washing over him, he can feel his pulse softening in his ears, he rolls over, pressing his face into the pillow, until—

“Papa!” 

Excitable, shrill voices carry throughout the hall, accompanied by the soft pitter patter of feet, Mikey peels back on eye just in time to watch his children tumble into the room.

“Papa, papa!” Moja is making a steady effort to clamber on up onto his bed, clutching bed sheets with a tight, determined fist as she pulls herself up. “It’s wakey wakey time!”

Mikey rolls over again, to properly face his children, all watching him with expecting eyes, Odyn is also making an attempt to climb on up, albeit, less graceful as his sister.

“Up, papa,” he demands with an audible pout once he’s recognised his failure. “I want up!”

Michelangelo groans softly, sitting up slowly so as to not jostle the child that’s already perched itself across his plastron, he rubs a heavy hand across the front of his face.

“Papa is awake now,” he tells him, his voice sliding out of him like gravel. “C’mon. We’ll have breakfast, hm?”

Odyn seems to be pleased enough with that response, forgoing his previous attempts to get on the bed he’s turning on his heel, his footsteps are heavy and fast as he runs back through the lair towards the kitchen.

He scoops Moja up in one arm, peeling back his moth bitten sheets with his free hand, careful of the remaining children at the edge of his bed as he swings his legs over.

Black spots dance around in the edges of his vision once he stands.

Moja, who is seemingly growing comfortable in his hold, is understandably taken aback when he quickly plonks her back down on the ground to grab at the sides of his throbbing head.

Pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, dark shapes swirl around the backs of his eyelids, exploding like fireworks behind darkened vision, he feels his ears fill with a steady, faint ringing. And when he finally pries his hands away from his face, and the room slowly spills back into his vision, three of his children are watching him with curious eyes.

He manages to lift one side of his mouth into a very slight smile, for them only.

“Papa is tired,” he informs them gently. “Because papa is old, hm?”

And the self-inflicted jab is enough to quell any of their rising worry.

Yi snorts a laugh, as does Moja as she rushes forward to bury her face in his leg. Uno, however, is watching him rather cautiously.

“You’re a dinosaur, daddy,” Yi says between giggles. “You’re like the one in my book.”

Mikey hums; a while back he’d managed to find an old illustrated book, the pages waterlogged and some of the images bloated, but his daughter had studied it almost every night before bed, tracing a delicate and steady finger across each of the words that wasn’t already blotted by the weathered damage left to it, and Mikey had since spent every waking hour with her as she’d excitedly retold him every little fact that she had so far absorbed, even if Mikey had heard it a million times already.

He nudges her along as she starts rambling, and Moja is intently listening as they walk to the kitchen together but Uno…

Uno’s concerned gaze catches Mikey’s for a brief second before he’s pulling away, taking quick steps to reach his sisters before his father can say anything else.

***

Mikey struggles through breakfast. The four infant turtles babble away at each other, voices overlapping and Mikey grips his cereal spoon so hard he feels it press bluntly into the palm of his hands, no doubt leaving harsh indentations across his skin.

Even eating seems to make it worse, as he slowly moves his jaw in languid circles to chew his food, it’s like an explosion working its way up his skull each time.

He gets a quarter through his own bowl before he’s sharing it out amongst his children.

Odyn doesn’t question it, Moja and Yi are apprehensive at first but Uno is entirely hesitant.

“Are you not hungry, papa?” He asks once Mikey has scraped his share into his awaiting, empty bowl. He’s already up out of his seat and turning to start the dishes when he pauses.

He steadies himself on the edge of the counter with one hand.

“Eat,” Mikey tells him softly. “You wanna be big and strong like papa, no?”

And that usually works on all four of his children, but Uno doesn’t look entirely convinced as he shovels in the first spoonful of Cheerios.

***

Mikey doesn’t often have the best memory, not these days at least. Most of it is like wading through thick jungle just to reach something . There’s big chunks of it he’s certain are lost in the thick forever, never to be found and he’s long since made his peace with that.

But he’s able to make out bits and pieces through the vines, little moments he’s able to grasp onto, reaching out before it turns to mist beneath his grasp.

“Let’s see…” Donatello’s voice floated into the room. The click of the flashlight seemed to echo throughout his aching skull. Light is trapped behind his eyes in an instant, and Michelangelo knows his initial reaction is to pull away, but everything is slow and foggy, like his brain was sitting in stodgy molasses, so he blinks once, little pin pricks of white splattered across his vision.

Donatello clicks the flashlight a second time, his face half obscured by the dancing visions before that start to fade. His face is creased with worry.

“Oh Mikey,” he says, voice full of that softness that is reserved for little brothers only. “You definitely have a concussion.”

And it feels like it should be evident in the way his entire face and head aches. Like a burning hurt, a bonfire lit up at the base of his skull, it should be obvious to him but in this moment, it just isn’t.

Donatello’s light comes back across the front of his face, flickering from eye to eye. There’s still creases of concern etched between his brow bone and the downward curve of his mouth.

“I’m going to have to keep you under observation,” Donnie tells him slowly. “Okay?”

Mikey isn’t sure if he hums or nods or even gives any indication of a confirmation of his statement. His brain is positively swimming right now. There’s an ache at his jaw that he’s sure is the beginning of a rather gnarly bruise.

Donnie clicks his tongue against his teeth, and Mikey isn’t sure if it’s just a Donnie-click or just baser instincts coming into play, Mikey wishes he had the energy to click back.

“I truly don’t know how out of all of us you are the one who gets the most blunt head trauma related injuries all the time.” His voice trails off with steady fast worry creeping around his words. His throat bobs and Mikey knows that despite all of his brother's natural tendencies to be a bit of a worrywort at the worst of times, Donnie really was starting to grow scared for his well being.

And it was true. Mikey did have a problem with landing head first or redirecting his head in the way of danger in the middle of fights. How many times had he socked himself in the head with his own chucks? If he was anything but a mutant turtle, there’d be no doubt his family would have shipped him off to the nearest hospital with an instant demand that he get in one of those big, metal tube things to have a proper look at all the damage done to his poor, aching head.

Donnie is putting away his equipment now. He fiddles with the wrappings on his hands, only pausing to look up when he tells him.

“While I know it’s difficult during a fight, I truly recommend trying not to let them near your head, Mike.” He takes a breath, expertly masking the way it quivers just in the slightest. 

“These types of injuries,” he says, rather gravely. “They make themselves known in the long run. So if we ever get to grow older,” he says. “It could get so much worse, mikan.”

Donnie’s voice comes muffled in the jungle again, lost behind miles and miles of vine and fog and mist, and Mikey squeezes his eyes shut in a desperate bid to hold onto his brother's face and voice, even when it was tinged with hurt and concern. It was something.

But he peels his eyes open and Donatello is no longer standing above him with his flashlight and his friendly, warm honey coloured eyes.

Instead it is Uno who is peering over his snout, his eyes a darker shade than his uncles, still traces of the same kind of worry evident there.

“Papa?” He says in a small voice. “Papa?” He tries again.

Mikey shifts. An hour ago he’d left his children in the den with a collection of old coloring books and salvaged pencils and an old VHS tape in the TV recorder. An hour ago he’d hauled himself to bed, trying to calm his throbbing brain with a blanket. But that was an hour ago and the pain was still lingering. The pain hadn’t left and Donnie was right.

All those silly blows to the head that sixteen year old him thought were nothing were now plaguing him. Haunting him.

Hot, burning tears burn behind his eyes. Squeezing them away seems to hurt just as much, but he hates to let his children see him cry like this.

Then, there’s a small, warm hand on the end of his beak. It touches there tentatively, in the same way Mikey does to his children when they are unwell or sad, there’s a sudden spill of warmth in his chest to know his son had recognised the gesture as was now trying to return it in his papa’s moment of need.

He crouches down to meet Mikey’s eyeline. “Should I tell the others it’s a Quiet Day today?” He asks, his voice still thick with that babyish fat that is too stubborn to shift just yet.

More warmth floods him, coming up through him in the way of more tears. He sniffs. Quiet Days were the days when their papa wasn’t well, when he was sad, when something reminded him of his old family perhaps a little too harshly. The days when his children would be soft and gentle with him in the ways that he should be with them instead.

His breath hitches and it sends a wave of aching through his skull.

“Yeah,” he croaks. His voice doesn’t even sound like his own. “Thanks kiddo.”

He’s able to reach a single finger out to trace along his own beak. 

Uno smiles. It’s all Mikey really needs.

He stands on wobbly feet before he’s toddling back towards the doorway, he disappears behind it entirely before he’s quickly backtracking himself, poking a curious head around the frame, fingers curling protectively around the wood, he says in a whisper,

“Okay.” He’s so sincere when he says it. “Love you, papa.”

And Mikey remembers the days with Splinter would be full of cold, or the days his heart was brimming with unspoken, deep hurt and those days spent when he’d watch his strong, incredible father falter, how alien it was as a child. How strange it was to parent them instead. How he needed it, like Mikey needed it now.

“Love you too, honey,” he tells him. He manages to lift his head a little. “I’ll be with you guys in a bit alright?”

Uno lingers at the door a moment longer.

“Okay,” he says with a rush of air, before he’s trotting off, no doubt to go gather up his siblings and inform them of their papa’s current condition.

And there isn’t a day when Mikey gets these monstrous headaches where he’s wishing for Donnie’s gentle hands to trail over the top of his head. Or for one of Leo’s sweet smelling teas that seemed to cure everything (because it wasn’t the tea itself, it was all in the way his brother would make it). Or when Raph would be gentle with him, talking in a hushed voice, trying to keep him occupied as well as comfortable.

He misses it so. It was perhaps the only good thing to come out of those horrid, long, painful days that plagued him. 

But he wakes a few hours later. The lair is quiet and still and for a fleeting moment, panic burns through him like ice in his veins. But he can sense his children one room over, well behaved and still, they’re talking amongst themselves in small, careful voices. There’s also the aroma of noodles that lingers in the air, perhaps an hour old.

He shifts, feeling something soft press against his cheek, he peels his eyes open to see its Odyn’s stuffed toy nuzzled into him. 

There’s also Yi’s dinosaur book and a drawing that he can recognise as Moja’s. All the evidence of his children here, in their best attempt to make him feel better, was from the perspective of a child, the best way to make him feel better.

He curls a hand around the small stuffed toy. He traces a finger over the drawing and the edges of his daughter's book, the bumps along the spine so familiar already.

Then there’s the sound of shuffling feet, and Mikey is able to lift his gaze upwards, his eyes feeling like rocks rolling around in his skull, there in the doorway stands a rather cautious looking Uno, clutching a very overfilled bowl of what he assumes is noodle soup.

Uno takes a few careful steps forward, broth laps at the edges of the bowl, tracing down the sides in thick blobs, Mikey slowly pulls himself, careful not to jolt his son from his steady concentration.

He pauses, looking up, his face breaks into a grin.

“You’re awake,” he says with a breath, like it was all relief spilling from him at once. Like there was some underlying worry that he wouldn’t perhaps wake again. “I made you something to eat,” he tells him, presenting him with the bowl. “Cos you gave us your breakfast already, you’re probably something hungry, hm papa?”

Mikey hums a short laugh, he slowly pulls himself to his feet, gathering up all the gifts in the crook of his arm with a kind of practice that only comes with being a single parent to four rambunctious children that leave a tornado of mess behind them in every room they whirl through, he stops in front of Uno, bending down to kiss the top of his head.

“You’re a good boy, Uno,” he tells him. He then takes the bowl of noodle soup in his other hand and nods towards the door.

“Go join the others,”  he instructs him. He can hear the TV still running, no doubt the rest of his children in a turtle pile, glued to the screen with their bellies full. “Thank you for helping papa today. I feel loads better.”

Uno’s little face is beaming, so pleased himself he rocks back and forth, twice, on his feet like his body just can’t handle holding all that excitable energy. So he rushes forward, perhaps a little too quickly because Mikey had to steady himself from spilling lukewarm noodle broth over his son’s head.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better, papa,” he tells him in a muffled, quiet voice. “I hate it when you’re sick.”

Mikey hums, only wishing he had more arms to spare just to wrap around his child, though, he’s sure he’ll compensate for it later on, when he’s pulled into that inevitably awaiting turtle pile.

“Me too,” he tells him gently. “But I got the best cure for it right here.”

Chapter Text

Yi let’s put a pitiful whine as Michelangelo cradles her in the crook of his arm.

Shuffling in closer to his plastron, seeking out whatever warmth he may have to offer, he presses her towards him, letting her bury her wrinkled little beak in the space between his arm and his chest.

He carefully stirs the pot that’s sizzling away at the stove with his free hand, mindful to split his attention between the two, when there’s a little tug at his pant leg, all the way down at his ankles.

“Daddy?”

That’s Odyn. He makes his own whining sound, but nothing in the same nature of his sister. Michelangelo knows what this sound is for.

“When will soup be ready?”

He’s still got his hand clasped tightly around the material of his trousers, yanking at it as he impatiently hops from one foot to the other. Mikey is about to remind him to be patient and to go sit down but it appears in true big brother fashion, Uno has beaten him to it.

“Odie,” he’s gentle in the way he speaks, just like Mikey had taught him these last few days. “‘Member what Papa told us? We need to be good boys. Yi isn’t very well.” There’s only a slight edge of uncertainty to his voice that Mikey is sure to pick up on. The way his voice warbles just in the smallest of ways. Mikey glances down to watch where one brother takes the hand of the other.

“Come and sit. We can color whilst we wait. Make a card for Yi-Yi, hm?”

Odyn seems satisfied enough with that, plodding after his brother, Mikey continues sweeping the spoon through the broth, his daughter heaving a wobbly sigh as she once again, presses herself closer to his body heat.

A few days ago, their smallest member of the family had shuffled into his room with a thumb wedged into her mouth, her blanket trailing behind her and her face wet with unapologetic tears.

“Don’t feel so good, papa,” she had sniffled to him as he’d peeled back his blanket, scooting over on his futon to make space for her. 

He’d first expected it to be just a cold but Mikey remembers how in his old childhood, those ‘just colds’ would delve into something a little more serious. Something that would settle in his lungs and be too stubborn to shake on just nap times alone.

She’s still warm. Anything she eats usually is brought back up in mere hours. She must catch a whiff of the dinner he’s currently preparing because she whines again, twisting her face away, all scrunched up like a newborn and Mikey begins to rock her before she can begin to properly cry.

“Hey now,” he talks in a soft voice. He remembers being this little and this sick, and how he’d curl up in his own fathers arms, the unmatched feeling of the rumble of his voice as he’d attempt to soothe him.

He hopes Yi feels the same kind of comfort in these moments.

“We’ll eat a little and then head back to bed, hm?” He tells her.

Though, these few days, she hasn’t been entirely vocal. Where she would usually be reading her big girl books out loud or babbling the day away with whatever knowledge she’d recently acquired, or giving her siblings a lecture that definitely went over their little heads — her silence was very much heard in their household.

Moja feeling it the worse.

“When will she be better?” She had demanded after Mikey had told his other children on the state of their middle sister. Her little arms had been thickly crossed across her chest, beak pinched like she’d sucked a lemon, piercing daggers at Mikey like this was one big inconvenience towards her.

“She needs rest and lots of love,” he’d told her, reaching across and running a thumb over her cheek as if to iron out the hidden worry there. He knew this face. He’d seen Raphael wear it many a times. “We can do that, can’t we?”

Yi moans softly, taking in a mouthful of air, it seems to catch in her lungs as her next inhale is spluttered and quick and Mikey steps away from the stove as she begins to cough. 

“Easy now,” he tells her, moving her so she’s no longer on her shell. She’s pressed against him, like he’d often do when they were actual little babies, he’s just grateful that she’s still small enough to cradle like this. He won’t say it out loud but he does miss them being so tiny. 

Must just be a dad thing, he supposes.

Yi’s coughing fit subsides, drool works in lines down her chin and as she nuzzles into her father it’s swiped across his plastron. He chuckles gently. He’s definitely been caught in worse these last few years as a parent, but she seems content enough to press her cheek to his chest plate, sighing gently, he feels her grow heavy in his arms.

“No sleeping yet, sweet pea.” He jostles her just lightly, she huffs. “Gotta get some food in you.” He peers into the pot. “Come on. Better start now before Odyn throws a fit.”

He shares out the soup between his children. Uno and Moja can easily feed themselves but his eldest bypasses his own meal in favor of helping his brother who still struggles a little with keeping the liquid on the spoon when moving it from bowl to mouth.

Mikey watches on proudly as Uno reminds him not to eat too fast, and not to slurp and to definitely not burp at the table. 

Moja is shovelling in her food, watching her sister like a hawk as she purses her lips, pushing away the spoon with disgust.

“You want to get better, yeah?” Mikey tries. These are all the tricks he knows. This isn’t the first and won’t be the last time he has a fussy child at his table. “You want to be big and strong?”

Yi, who’s barely able to keep her eyes open at this point, manages to look up at Mikey through the slits of her eyelids. She looks less than impressed. 

Mikey chuckles. “What? It’s not my cooking, is it?”

Odyn is quick to dispute that, hands slamming down on the table with enthusiasm, sending an echo of chimes of spoons against bowls, he rocks forward on his seat ignoring his brothers protests.

“I love it, daddy!” He exclaims proudly. “If Yi doesn’t eat her dinner, canni have it?”

Yi doesn’t seem to like that idea very much, whining mournfully, she eventually opens her mouth for a spoonful of soup. She finishes her bowl, taking almost double the time than it takes her normally, the rest of his siblings having already evacuated the table once her bowl is empty.

But of course, good things seldom last in this household, and as Mikey is gathering up the bowls, he watched as the green suddenly spills from her face, her eyes going big and round and almost sorry looking, she hiccups once, twice and—

Once she’s thrown up over herself does she begin to cry. Little sad sounding sobs fill the room as Mikey moves towards her to pluck her up out of her seat and rub a hand over her shell.

“It’s okay,” he tells her, rocking her gently enough that nothing more comes up and out of her. “Come on now. How’s a bath sound? Hm? A nice bath and then bed, yeah?”

He plonks her on the kitchen side, propping her up against the stack of hardback cookbooks he’s collected, just for good measure as he rifles through the kitchen cupboard for another large pot.

Some time ago, this was big enough to hold all his children. Back when being a father was still new and scary (and in some instances it does still feel that way) he’d been unsure of how to clean all his kids at once. It felt a little silly at first, tossing them into one big cooking pot, but it had worked and like Donatello had always said:

If it ain’t broken, don’t fix it. 

He sets the pot on the stove, filling it over halfway with water, he lets it slowly warm up as he peels away her now sticky pyjama’s that have stuck to her front with wet, thick chunks of perfectly preserved cubes of vegetables that she’d just chewed up (and when she’s feeling back to her normal self, she’ll be sure to explain the science behind it all) and once the water is warm enough, he pops her in, watching as her entire body seems to relax at the sensation.

He uses his hands to cup the water and let it trickle down the back of her head and down her shell. Of course, this was a pot purely reserved for scrubbing away little turtles, and nothing more, but he can’t help but chuckle slightly at the sight of his daughter lounging about in a big, steel, cooking pot on his kitchen stove, just where he’d been cooking their dinner moments ago.

“That feel better, huh?” He whispers. Her eyes have fallen shut now, just about bobbing above the water, she seems entirely engulfed by the warmth of the water. “My little turtle soup.”

Yi’s eyes open at that, blinking up at him, her mouth slowly curls around a smile, and then she giggles — a sound Michelangelo has sourly missed as of late.

“M’not soup!” She rasps, still smiling. She flaps a hand at him, warm water splashing over the edge of the pot and pooling along the countertop.

“Hmm, I dunno,” Mikey plays along with ease, resting his weight on one hip as if to contemplate it. “You look pretty yummy to me. And you know I didn’t have any dinner myself.”

Yi breaks into a full fit of giggles now, little legs kicking with delight in the pot, she scrunches her face up with delight, Mikey continues to let the water trickle over her. It won’t be long until the water cools to a temperature that would make her feel worse, but he allows her to enjoy it a little longer.

Eventually he scoops her back out once she’s used up what little energy she had, eyes drooping and head growing heavy on her shoulders, he dries her off with a tea towel and carries her back towards his room. 

All he had for her is a sleep shirt that even with the bulk of her growing shell, is still somewhat roomy on her. There’s a faded old logo on the front; probably from a company that had long since gone out of business, but neither turtle seems to care as she snuggles down in it. He lays his sleeping daughter on the futon, draping the moth bitten blanket over her when he senses three little figures standing tentatively at the doorway.

It’s Uno who speaks up first.

“Can we have nap time too?”

Whilst his children might be growing in both the physical and mental sense, they were still just that: children. 

Mikey feels a smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

“Of course,” he tells them. “I think a good turtle pile is in order, hm?”

That has all his children rushing towards him, only stopping once they reach the futon where their sleeping sibling rests.

Mikey makes way for them all, watching as Moja pauses, twisting her hands together rather anxiously, she glances at Yi and then back at her father, her face pulls itself into a frown when she asks,

“Is she gon’ be alright? Is she gon’ get better?”

Mikey sweeps her towards him with a tight hold, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, he tells her with solid conviction.

“She’s gonna be alright, little one. She has all the love in the world to make her better, doesn’t she?”

Odyn, who’s squeezes himself between Mikey and Yi, nuzzles his beak into her arm, huffing tiredly, he’s almost always the one to fall asleep first out of all his siblings.

“Uh huh,” he mumbles. Yi makes the smallest of chirps, and all turtles, Mikey included, chirps back.

He holds his children close, beneath the blanket that it just about big enough for them all, he knows in perhaps an hour it’ll grow too hot and crowded and they’ll start to shuffle around and whine and it won’t be perfect, but in this moment, his entire world in his arms, safe and sound, it is just that.

Chapter Text

He’s not so sure what triggered his nightmare. He just knows waking up from it fucking sucks. 

It’s a little too early for his home to be filled with its usual antics that chase away his ache and anxiety; each of his children sleeping peacefully in their rooms. A rarity, for sure, but something Michelangelo tended to dislike when he woke in such moods.

He lays there, staring up at the familiar ceiling that slopes above his head, tumid, tired eyes tracing over the spider-web cracks and divots left there through time. He takes a breath, letting it ghost past his lips on the exhale.

The nature of the nightmare was starting to slowly creep away from the forefront of his mind — that often pissed him off more, the fact that he couldn’t even remember them in full as soon as he woke. Yet, his brain would decide that it was in fact important enough to ruin his entire day over.

He drags a heavy hand across his face, palm brushing against worn, old scales, laying here he feels about a million years old.

He can just about remember certain clippings of the dream: he remembers his fathers face, that much was true, and they were in a warehouse someplace, years back. Probably a mission they’d run before, not important or poignant enough to retain to what little memory he had these days, but he remembers in the nightmare, something went wrong, and there’d been yelling and screams for help, and fire. 

Lots of flame and fire.

He swallows thickly, a bitter taste sliding down the back of his throat like bile, he twists his aching head to glare at the alarm clock flashing at him with neon colors, telling him that it was indeed too early to rouse his kids for breakfast.

Not too early for him to sink down a couple of coffees before that, however.

***

Hours roll by and Mikey allows himself to move slow around his home, sipping on his coffee as he goes, he’s able to sweep up after his children, picking up toys and books strewn across the place, knowing that it shouldn’t be too long before he’s having to repeat the process, mere hours after they were to get up out of bed.

He’s sat at the table, curled around it like an antisocial cat, nursing his drink when he hears hushed, excited voices travel down the hallway.

He sits up, intrigued.

“—that’s my job. I already bagged it. You can. Um. You can sing him a song. Yeah. You hafta sing a song, like for birthdays but different.”

All four of his children stop short in the kitchen when they clock him, all of their faces dropping in an instant.

“Daddy!” Moja wails, sagging her entire body with a deflated hmph . “We were gonna bring you breakfast in bed!”

Odyn whines, like a little kicked puppy whilst the rest of his children stare daggers at him across the room. It earns such a surprised bubble out laughter from Michelangelo that it temporarily chases away some of the shadows in his chest.

“Okay, okay,” he says with a breath, a smile touching the edges of his mouth. “I can go back to bed. I didn’t hear a thing.”

Uno looks at him pointedly. “No,” he says, crossing his arms across his plastron. “That’s not how it works, Dad.”

Dad. His eldest was already outgrowing the affectionate ‘daddy’s’ and ‘papa’s’ unlike the rest of his siblings. It causes Mikey’s gut to clinch nervously as he remembers the time when that particular part of his own vocabulary started to fade into nothing. When he’d transitioned from papa to dad to father to Sensei to then nothing at all. 

Eventually Mikey would be the one to train his children the way he had when he was their age. It was a task he was admittedly not rather looking forward to, but despite his worries, he was sure of one thing:

The word Sensei would be limited to the dojo only.

He liked being their father. That was a title he didn’t want to have disappeared through being their teacher.

“It does,” Mikey explains to his son, crossing the room slowly where the morning ache had still yet to leave his bones. “The sentiment is all the same whether it’s a surprise or not.”

Uno doesn’t look convinced, so Mikey draws closer towards him and drops a chaste kiss on his head. “Don’t burn anything down, okay?”

It eases a laughter out of each of his children as he shuffles back to bed: he could do with the extra twenty minutes in bed after all. He won’t argue against being doted on.

As he lays in bed, he thinks back to his own childhood, poring over the smallest of details for his father — all the love he had for him, all the love he wished to have expressed better in so many ways.

His relationship with Splinter was never ever going to be perfect; they were so different in so many ways, yet so alike in others. He fought with his father a lot, as he grew older, outgrowing the rat’s ideals and morphing his own from his own consciousness and viewpoint. 

He didn’t regret that. He stood up for what he believed to be right. Even if on one occasion it’d ended up with him having his teeth rattled about in his mouth, he knew now — he understood now the pressures of being a father in such unfair circumstances.

He was never Splinter’s. Not like how Uno, Moja, Odyn and Yi were his. But it never really changed anything. Maybe he loved his father a little more than his father loved him. Perhaps that was always going to be inevitable. 

But it didn’t stop the way he felt. Didn’t stop the way he was going to raise his children, now.

There’s the sound of scuffling about outside his door, hushed, tempered conversations perhaps on the cusp of a blowout before they regain control and come bustling through the door with wide eyed faces.

“Look Papa!” Yi squeals as she barrels across the room with speed, clambering up on the bed, she squeals with delight as amused as he pretends to wake up, giving them a look of surprise.

Odyn storms up to the bed, with a plate of toast (only slightly burnt around the edges) and a rather put out look.

Mikey sits up in bed to take it from him when his youngest son leans in close, dropping his voice to a whisper, “I don’t wanna sing, Papa.”

Michelangelo chuckles and curls an arm around his child, bringing him close, it does something to erase the pout drawn across his face. “That’s alright, Odie,” he assures him. “This is wonderful.” He looks to each of his kids, watching him with anticipation. Uno has yet another cup of coffee held carefully in his grasp, no doubt rather too bitter for his taste but he will drink it nonetheless to chase off the headache he was bound to come from his choppy nights sleep.

“Is it good?” Moja asks, seeking his approval with a rock of her heels. Mikey hums at her and then gestures for the rest of them to join him where he has Yi tucked up against his side.

“It is the best,” he says as he presses a kiss to the top of her head, flattening out her pajama shirt with a palm. “But whatever is the occasion?” He asks.

Uno, who perhaps had outgrown such snuggles with his father, sits at his feet and beams at him.

“We just wanted to,” he says without worry, an easy shrug of his shoulders. “You always make us breakfast.”

Mikey blinks, tears looming at the back of his throat, he clears it with a cough and sets his breakfast down to open his arms up, each of his children, even Uno crawling into his space where they cling to him.

“That’s–” a hitch in his breath he’s able to hide with another wobbly cough. “Thank you.”

And here, as he holds his whole world– his universe in his arms like this, it chases the bitter taste of his nightmare away from the shadowy corners of his mind, bringing warmth and love like no other.

He didn’t have a perfect relationship with his father – far from it. But he could give his children something different. Something better.

And that's what mattered most. Right here, right between his arms, right now.