Chapter Text
“You’ve reached Leonardo. Please leave your message after the beep.”
Straight to voicemail. They must be out of the city already.
Just my luck.
“beep!”
“Leonardo. This is Leatherhead speaking. I uhm, apologise for the inconvenience, but there is a major–”
“–Stop doing that, Mikey!”
The little box turtle giggles while jumping on the couch, making the springs squeak and echo throughout the lair. The snapper, bless him, does the best of his ability to shelter his brother with his casted arm filled with fading doodles.
“…problem, at the moment.”
Four turtle tots.
Same names and colors.
Ɨnɉᵾɍɇđ–
“Whenever you or your family have time, please call back. It is urgent… Take care, my friend.”
Sighing, the handset is left back on the hook.
Klunk stares wide-eyed and with his tail swinging at the new visitors, perched on the back of the dark blue couch. His head follows the smallest boy, Michelangelo, as he hops on the armrest like a bunny. It is quite impressive how he remains stable despite having his arms bandaged from fingers to shoulders.
Still dangerous, nonetheless.
“Mikey, you’re gonna hit Leo!”
That seems to do the trick. Crossing both legs mid air, he falls down onto the couch, getting a last bounce out of it.
On the other side, laying amongst the blankets brought earlier, rests the slider, Leonardo. He has got pillows and the softest washcloths that were found under both his broken shell and plastered leg. His yawns keep turning into pained hisses, but hopefully, the medicine provided for all the pain will start working on him soon. The poor baby wailed all the way to the sewers when being carried. Then again, not much could have been done to prevent that. No matter where my hands landed, pain would spread through his limbs like a wildfire.
The stitches on his back, the torn bandaids, the bruises on his chubby face, the black eye overshadowing those reddish crescent moon marks–
His resemblance to Leonardo is heartbreaking.
Wħø đɨđ ŧħɨs ŧø ŧħɇm?
Wħø đø Ɨ nɇɇđ ŧø ɍɨᵽ ȺᵽȺɍŧ?–
NO! No.
Breathe, Leatherhead, breathe.
This can not be…
Of all the people in this world, why me?
My job here is to look after Klunk for the weekend, and it is proving to be far more of a struggle than expected. All the hours playing with toys and yarn prove to be worthless, for the tabby would run up to the entrance, attempting to escape like he was being tortured despite my punctuality for meals or how many times the heatpat was changed for him.
The point being, if not even the cat wants me closer, why would these hatchlings?
They do not deserve something like me. There has to be someone else, a better fit- Anyone but me. What if my instincts won again? I am good at hurting, not nurturing. My lack of self-control could be their doom–
“Mister crocodile?”
The biggest of the four, Raphael, tugs softly at my tail, mindful of the missing scutes. Giant claw-shaped scars peek below the bandages serving as an eye-patch for him. They are unsettling.
“Yes?” Caressing his head, my thumb brushes over them, feeling the depth.
“We’re hungry!” Michelangelo whines abruptly, leaning against the cushions and clutching at his stomach. His puppy eyes could light up the sky, and somehow, this little ray of sunshine looks at me like I am the sun.
“Food. Right…” These kids must be starving. Heaven knows how long they must have been out in the cold.
Kneeling to their level, my next words are whispered in the wishful thinking that maybe, by doing so, the softshell, Donatello, would quit hiding behind Leonardo’s spot on the couch, looking at me like the monster that I am.
“What about some soup?”
❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ⌛︎ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜
Before the abandoned subway station was found for me to move in, Splinter reminded me, more often than not, that the lair’s doors remained open for me, and that my presence was always welcomed no matter how much time it may take for my return.
That being said, using their ingredients to cook dinner in their kitchen is making my skin crawl. Even with permission granted, it feels intruding. The same uneasiness of stepping into a temple unbidden, that shame, resides strongly inside my chest as the spoon stirs the pot.
It was not my intention to use the few items left in their fridge. Not like there was a lot to work with to begin with. Still, it would be a nice gesture to show my gratitude for their kindness to restock it tomorrow morning.
Right now, the kids are my priority.
The kettle whistles not so long after the tomato soup is ready. It is no culinary masterpiece, but it is going to keep their tummies warm. Michelangelo really wanted to help me with the grilled cheese sandwiches, yet it might be risky for his shaky arms. While hard to negotiate, we agreed that he is welcome to help me with the rest of the meals, starting tomorrow.
Donatello had the job of setting the tea table in the living room instead of the dining area since Leonardo is on bed rest (or, well, couch rest) for the time being and Raphael could have difficulties doing so by himself.
“The plates are on the counter”
Is all that was needed to say before he wordlessly went to work, having to let go of the hands of his brother.
It is not easy to read him at times. He wanders like a ghost and refuses to acknowledge my questions. What concerns me the most is that Donatello is noticeably in pain judging by how he flinches and hisses whenever his shell touches anything by accident. He refuses to communicate about this, yet I am hopeful he might allow me to take a proper look at this hidden injury by the time we have all eaten.
He is a good kid, nonetheless. It is thanks to his assistance on moving all the plates from the kitchen to the coffee table, that we finally started to serve the bowls. Klunk threatens to pull the tablecloth by playing with one of the extremes, only to run away when Raphael attempts to catch him.
“It is okay.” His pout makes my heart ache. “Klunk is just quite fearful.” And he is not fond of me either.
Leonardo stares with a gloomy expression at the sign hanging above his head. The black eye stays shut, which might be the reason as to why he is having trouble reading it. Still, there is something on his face that is way too familiar for my liking. It reminds me of the many years yearning for a way back with the Utroms.
Perhaps it is homesickness.
I would not blame him.
“Here, kiddo.” He startles at my voice, relaxing once he sees the dish. “I know you must be tired, but take a sip.”
The steam makes him hesitate, yet a quick taste with his tongue is enough to deem it tepid. The idea was for him not to move, but he ends up grabbing the plate to swallow like a starved animal.
“Careful.” Comes my warning as my claws go back to grip the bowl. The poor kid is going to choke drinking that fast.
He just nods halfheartedly before continuing.
Raphael sits on the ground, right between Michelangelo and me. The youngest stares blankly at the food in front until he turns to the snapper and, with his mouth gaping like a baby bird, goes:
“Aaaah!”
Raphael stops mid bite of his sandwich.
“... You can use your hands, Mikey.” It is clear this is not his first rodeo by his deadpan manner about it. The box turtle persists, however, closing his eyes and getting louder.
And so, with an irritated eye roll and both the tenderness and patience of a saint, Raphael raises a spoonful for him. Michelangelo gulps it down in an instant, dancing on his seat in victory.
“Is it good?”
A chorus of chirps and clicks answer me back. Heh.
“Good to know.”
Donatello steals glances at the computers and sketches on the desktop of the lab table as we eat. Chunks of metal, crumpled paper balls and books lay scattered on the floor, with the broken subway car lights flickering from time to time. It is the single place left untouched despite my compromise of leaving the lair spotless for the simple fact that as a scientist myself, It is understandable how rude rearranging the organized mess of a peer can actually be. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, after all.
“Um…” He starts in a low voice, just as my tea finishes brewing. He sounds wary, however. His heterochromatic eyes narrow slightly behind his shattered glasses, avoiding all possible eye contact with me like the plague.
“Yes?” I assure, trying to keep my tone in check.
Donatello hesitates… and instead, he leans closer to Leonardo, whispering to him. The slider waits for him to finish, before voicing the thoughts of his brother.
“Is this your home?" Leonardo makes a funny face, making the other three chuckle. My claws clink the white mug as my brain tries to form a proper sentence. A tricky question, indeed.
“Not anymore.” Is the best explanation for my situation. “My friends live here, however. They let me stay.”
A chorus of ‘oooh 's’ comes from Michelangelo and Raphael. Once again, Donatello leans in onto Leonardo, his words barely audible. Whatever he asked, however, made Leonardo more serious about it.
“... Are we under West 42nd Street?”
The other two quiet down, listening and waiting on a response while pretending not to.
“No. We are under City Hall Park.”
“Lower Manhattan” he mutters to himself. His eyes dart to Donatello once more, then roam around the lair as he sinks deeper into the sofa. One last time, his brother leans in.
“... It doesn’t look like New York, though” Leonardo huffs after the whispered conversation.
“It is.” His brothers drop the act by now, curiosity on their faces as they watch me drink. Not wanting to smash another cup, my fingers set it gently on the table.
“Though if I am not mistaken, this is not your New York City.”
Donatello has this puzzled expression as he connects the dots. He taps his own nails on the armrest, and ceases once it clicks. Oddly timed with the slider as he shifts on his position, eyes widening as much as possible.
“So this is-” Leonardo begins out of breath.
“An alternative universe.” Donatello finishes for him. His eyes light up like fireworks on the evening before New Year at the realization.
“Like in Jupiter Jim comics?” Michelangelo wonders as he looks at the softshell for reassurance, tail wagging when receiving a nod from him. “So cool!”
Raphael, however, stays oddly quiet, gaze lost on his bowl.
“If my theory is correct, that is.” A big assumption to make, yet the one most reasonable. Best-case scenario, the Utroms brought the four hatchlings to this dimension by accident after the trial of the Shredder, when attempting to let the Splintersons on the farmhouse. Still alarming, for these boys must have been lost on the streets for nearly a month if that were to be true.
Worst-case scenario, someone dragged them here.
“Which universe is this?” Leonardo begs to know, beaming beneath the blankets. “Which number, I mean?”
And despite his whispering tone, this time, the voice of Donatello is possible to catch.
“Nardo, I don’t think that’s how it-”
“Earth 03.”
They all turn back to look at me.
“Currently, year 2005.”
“We time travelled?! That’s literally so cool!” Leonardo screams in excitement. Donatello clenches his hands, shaking them avidly as he grins.
Before they can keep going, however, “Which reminds me…”
“Do any of you, perchance, know how you ended up here?”
Silence rules the lair at my question. They exchange glances as if communicating telepathically, tracking their steps back before everything.
Donatello shakes his head in a slow motion, lost in thought.
“Nope.” the slider admits.
“Nuh-uh”
“Raph’s got no idea...”
Well, that limits my options.
“It is alright.” Whether that was meant for me or them, it is debatable. “We will solve it later.”
Somehow.
“Now finish your soup. Or it will get cold.”
“Yes, sir!”
❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ⌛︎ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜
The bathroom walls fog due to the hot water filling the bathtub, and between the vapor in the air and the heater next to the door, it feels like being trapped inside an oven. Oh well. It is far more preferable than them freezing. Besides, it is necessary to check those injuries before bedtime. Leaving those unattended could risk them getting infected, and having the medkit right under the sink within arm reach is always a plus.
Michelangelo and Raphael have to bathe together since the former refused to do so alone. Not sure if that is because he is still the youngest amongst the four or because he is an ornate box turtle, but convincing him to stand in the room by himself was like forcing a demon to try and enter a church.
In order to make it quicker for both of us, we are starting with him. As he blows bubbles with a bit of soap, Michelangelo lets me untie the fabric around his arms without much care about it.
Golden scars, akin to a spider-web, get revealed in the process. There is this subtle glow to them, and they have no redness on the sides. His hands can not stop quivering, yet he pays no mind to it. Nor does it seem to be painful. In fact-
“That tickles!” His pitched laugh is contagious, as Raphael snorts with him. He also churrs when the water runs down his damaged spiky shell. The hole aligns with the chipped part of his plastron, just like the stab wound of Leonardo.
“How did you get these?”
Michelangelo chuckles as my fingers poke at him, searching for any kind of reaction.
“I dunno.”
“You do not?”
He traces the scars quietly, then shoves his arm right under the nose of his brother.
“Raphie, how did I get these?”
The snapper had to squint at them, the gears silently turning. With a frown, he ends up shrugging, unable to remember.
Well, this is concerning.
“...Are you sure it does not hurt?”
“Yep.” He reassures with a smile, and goes back to creating waves and blowing bubbles.
Their elusiveness is worrisome, to say the least. There is no sign of a concussion, either… It is as if their memories have been wiped out.
Raphael is next on the medical examination. His broken arm had to be swaddled using a garbage bag in order to protect it from getting wet, so he’s now pretty cautious not to lower it by accident.
“Alright, kiddo. Let me check that eye”
He tenses, yet does not pull away when my claws get closer to undo the fabric. It is quite sticky around the corners and has seen better days. Regardless, it has served its purpose.
“Did you treat it yourself?”
He does not answer immediately, deep in thought for a few seconds.
“No, Uh…Pops was giving me eyedrops…” He spoke as if retailing a tale long forgotten, or like a story being made up as he goes. His face scrunches as he scratches his jaw, seemingly confused at the lack of memory. “Sorry… Raph’s brain is fuzzy.” He adds, apologetically.
“No need to apologise” After all, he had given me useful information about his condition. It sounds like an infection, and if that were the case, then surely the medkit might contain something handy. It would also explain the amount of discharge soaking the-
He winces when the light of the bathroom hits his eye, using his hand as coverage. Moving to the side, my body gets in the middle to cast enough shadow for him. My heart screams at me to help him, yet the shakiness on my arms makes it harder, and the annoying sting in my eyes will not go away-
When he feels my hand rubbing circles over the marked veins of his eye, Raphael sighs, hugging his own tail in what seems to be a soothing comfort. He does not dare to blink.
He acts and looks so big, and yet he is so, so small.
It is agonizing to witness.
“Are you okay, sir?” Funny. It should be me who asks that.
“I am fine, kid.” Battling my tears, the lump in my throat gets tighter. “Is it painful?”
“No, just itchy.”
Poor baby…
Whoever did this.
Ŧħɇɏ Ⱥɍɇ ǥønnȺ ᵽȺɏ føɍ ŧħɨs.
It scares me to give him medicine, for it is proving difficult to figure out whether we are talking about a viral infection or a bacterial one. It does not help that he can not provide any information on how it got infected in the first place. Honestly, it does not even resemble any common eye injury I have treated in the past. The sclera has this pinkish tone that gives it an unworldly aspect to it, and sadly, Young Raphael has already lost a great part of its vision.
For now, the only thing in my power is to clean it and offer some antibiotics. It is not the best solution, yet it is better than nothing. Hopefully, my friends might get more ideas on what to do next.
The white towels that had been previously set on top of the heater are warm enough for me to wrap them both as they leave the bathtub. Raphael relaxes at the coziness, and unties the wet bag on his cast.
And as the two started brushing their teeth before bedtime (with tons of nudging so Michelangelo complied), it was time for Donatello to take a bath. Kind of.
Donatello and Leonardo have problems with their shells. For the latter, since it would be unnecessarily harmful to move him from the living room to the bathtub like a ragdoll no matter how noisome he smells, the best for me will be to give him a sponge bath later on. Both spiny softshell and red-ear slides, despite being partly aquatic turtles, having their backs submerged in water could be potentially dangerous considering their conditions right now. In the case of Donatello, though, it might be more practical for him to use the bathtub as long as his shell does not get wet.
Besides, it needs to be treated.
Donatello, however, did not agree with my opinion.
The idea was brought up once those two had finished brushing their teeth. The moment I did so, he hissed and ran to hide under the couch, wearing the most murderous stare that only a spiny softshell like himself could possess in such a small body.
And so, my next course of action was to drop the entering thing and let him be…
“You need that bath, Donald. You’re stinky!” Then Leonardo spoke up, attempting to look down yet giving up once deemed impossible from his angle.
Growls echo below the darkness as a reply.
Raphael walks into the room, holding hands with Michelangelo, and seemingly curious about the whole interaction. He kneels down in front of the sofa to try and see his brother under there.
“C’mon, Dee. Ya like bath time” he argued.
Another growl. Lower this time.
“Want Raph to help ya?”
As strange as his little habit of talking in third person may be, it works, for Donatello feebly crawls out of the spot, showing his face.
“I understand if you do not want me there, Donatello, but your shell needs to be treated.”
He still looked uncertain, as if wanting to hide in his own shell.
“Please.” comes my whisper as I crouch. Raphael still holds out his hand down to him.
Allow me to help you, my friend.
･
.
.
Donatello grumbles at the coldness of the bathtub, and then sighs in relief once his hands touch the fresh water that barely reaches half of the tub. Raphael, who refuses to leave his side, has officially become my assistant, which is deeply appreciated.
Managing to gather enough strength for the inevitable, and knowing Raphael is doing the best to wash the dried blood off the arms of his brother with one hand and a sponge, my claws pinch the bandages to untie them as carefully as possible, avoiding the sensitive flesh of his softshell.
That is when I see it.
Goodness…
This is… What even is this?
The circular patterns attached to the veins like parasites look so much like the hot branding method used on livestock animals that it makes me sick to even think about all of this. About whatever it was that gave him those. About wħø wȺs ŧħɇ mønsŧɇɍ wħø łɇfŧ ŧħøsɇ ȼłȺw mȺɍꝁs–
Donatello grabs the hands of Raphael like a life-saver as we clean around the injury. Tears prick as he inhales sharply, and all of my mental strength crumbles the moment he dissolves into silent sobs, since he bites his tongue in order to try and keep his composure. The simple gesture of their fingers intertwined becomes comforting in an instant, for he goes limp like a kitten held by the nape.
Had it been possible to strip him from his pain, I would have done so in a heartbeat.
Based on the purplish irritated veins and how he squirms when it gets in contact with any surface, it may be blood pooling under the tissue. At this stage, the only way to help him is to administer an anti-inflammatory and hope for the best until the others return. It is infuriating.
His shell was triple-checked before he left the bath. The softest towel my friends possessed was a lilac one, and it seems to be approved by Donatello by how he sinks into it. It is also warm, so it could be because of that, too. While the medical check left me anguished, at least there was no shell rot, which was my greatest concern considering their previous circumstances.
The injuries of Leonardo were checked the moment we entered the lair, so there is no need to do that again, yet a sponge bag might be necessary.
As we make our way back to the living room, with Donatello tightly hugging Raphael by his good arm, we find that the chairs from the dining area have been brought all the way to the living room and were put closer to Leonardo, with the clean blankets going all over the couch and the chairs, making a roof. Michelangelo is caught red handed as he puts the remaining cushions around his brother, all while trying not to squeeze him by accident.
A giant pillow fort, with three little nest-looking beds near the couch.
“Mikey!” Raphael runs up to both of them immediately.
“Be careful, Michelangelo.” To be fair, he is clearly mindful of not hurting his brother. My words come more as a second nature than an actual warning.
“I am!” he argues back.
“It was my idea, the pillow fort.” Leonardo whispers, doing his best to stay awake. “Please don’t be mad at him.”
“I am not.” Sweet kid. It is astounding how fast they settled it. “Would you like some help, Michelangelo?”
“Yes, please!!”
And so, while Donatello and Raphael help their brother bathe after insisting on handling the job, more bedcovers are brought in. They have been really clear on making their brother company on his healing process, which should not be surprising to me. They are good kids, and after all they have been through, it is obvious that they care for each other deeply.
Finally, when bathtime is over for Leonardo and the pillow fort is deemed acceptable from the four, it is time for these hatchlings to sleep. Raphael yawns, snapping his jaw shut, the sound echoing on the tide pool and the underwater tunnels of the lair, before throwing himself on top of the pillows.
Donatello lays the closest to the slider, resting on his tummy and making sure the blankets do not touch his softshell in the slightest as he takes off the broken glasses.
“I can fix those, if you want.”
He looks at me, eyes still wet. With a simple nod, he gives them to me to take care of.
Michelangelo, resting in the middle, lets Klunk circle his head before plopping right on his face, prompting giggles from the youngest.
Making sure the whole roof of the fort doesn’t fall on Leonardo by accident, I tie the knots around the back of the chair neatly.
“Thanks, Mr. Crocodile” Leonardo says, a bit sleepy.
“You can call me Leatherhead, kid.”
Wonder why they prefer that nickname instead.
… It is a nice change, truth be told.
“Yeah” he yawns, barely covering his mouth. “But I prefer Mr. Crocodile," he explains, smiling cheekily at me. Fair enough then. If we are giving each other nicknames, then,
“Sleep well, bluebird.” He chuckles when my fingers start to tickle at his neck. “I will be in the garage if any of you need me.”
Before making my way out, however,
“Wait!”
Leonardo squeals just as my claws reach for the switch. He hides a bit more on the blankets, shyly toying with the embroidery on the edges of it.
“... Can you leave a light on?”
He begs in such a low tone that it is impossible to say not to.
“Sure, kid”
The lair is consumed by darkness in the blink of an eye, before the warm lights from the subway car in the lab of Donatello are switched on. The light bulbs are not so strong, for they need to be changed, yet it will do the job for the night. They cast enough glow for them to see but not much to bother them in their sleep.
“Is that alright?”
“...Yeah.” He agrees, slowly getting cozy once more “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“Goodnight, Mr. Crocodile!” They chorus from their spots.
“Good night, kids.”
.
.
.
There are plenty of lenses back at my new home. One of those must fit in order to replace the broken one in the glasses of Donatello, most definitely. The problem is going to be making sure it is suitable for his eyesight.
Aside from that, it is a quick fix. For now, I need to find the toolbox in order to reattach the temples to the bridge by adjusting the screws. Main reason as to why the search started on the garage, yet it might be back on the car.
“Mr. Crocodile?”
Coming face to face with young Michelangelo, who almost gave me a heart attack, he ends up bumping against my leg.
“It is late, Michelangelo…”
So late, in fact, we have to whisper in order not to wake his brothers up, who are just a few meters away in the living room. He does not answer right away, his gaze lost for a moment in the destroyed subway car.
“Um..” He teeters, eyes still locked into it. “I want some water”
Huh.
“Alright. Wait here, please.”
He is standing right in front of it when coming back from the kitchen with glass in hand, struck with awe, and looking like a moth to a flame. As if there is something inside only he can notice, and by how motionless he is, it is starting to frighten me.
“Everything okay, Michelangelo?”
The trance he is in breaks at my question. His brown eyes dart between me and the car, nodding calmly as he receives his glass, gulping it down till there is nothing left.
“Anything else that you want?” He gives it back and then dries his mouth with his bandaged hand.
Silence.
And then,
“... I need to write a letter.” he whispers.
“A letter? to who?”
“To pops.” comes his answer, like it is obvious.
“It is late now,” Almost one in the morning, to be precise. “ Why not wait for tomorrow to write it?”
“But he’s gonna worry!” He raises his voice and stomps with one foot, and my first reaction is to shush him. “He doesn’t know where we are! We need to send a letter to him!”
A letter that is not going to arrive, no matter where we send it to. Then again, how does someone explain that the mail system does not work like that? How am I supposed to tell him it is not going to work?-
Michelangelo clutches onto my leg, yanking with all his force. It does not do a thing, yet the message is loud and clear.
“Please?”
Those clear eyes damp in the most soul-crushing puppy face ever imaginable. The yellowish spots on his face, now visible without the orange mask, somehow enhances it.
Never stood a chance, did I?
And so, with a sigh,
“Fine.”
And with that said, Michelangelo is back to his joyful attitude, bouncing around with way too much energy for a kid at this hour. If he keeps playing me like a fiddle, it is going to be a hard weekend.
Sitting on the main chair of the lab, he spins around on it as he waits for me to take one of the blank papers from the drawer on the desk and give it to him.
“Do you want me to write it for you?” It would let his arms finally rest while also making it faster.
“Nope! I will” He declares, grabbing one of the pens on the empty cup of coffee.
And so he does.
𝙷ｉ ｐ𝚘ｐ𝚜! :𝙳
𝙸ｔ𝚣 𝚖ｅ Ｍ𝚒ｋ𝚎ｙ!
Ｗ𝚎 𝚊ｒ ｓ𝚝ａ𝚢ｎ𝚐 𝚠ｉ𝚝ｈ Ｍ𝚛 𝙲ｒ𝚘ｃ𝚍ｉ𝚕ｅ
𝚊ｎ𝚍 𝚆ｅ ａ𝚛 𝚒ｎ ａ𝚗ｏ𝚝ｅ𝚛 𝚍ｉ𝚖ｍ𝚎ｎ𝚜ｏ𝚗!!
𝙿ｌ𝚎ｅ𝚜ｅ ｄ𝚘ｎ𝚝 𝚋ｅ ｍ𝚊ｄ ａ𝚝 𝚞ｓ
ｗ𝚎 𝚊ｒ 𝚜ａ𝚟ｅ
ｉ ｍ𝚒ｓ𝚜 𝚢ｏ𝚞 :(
Ｐ𝚕ｅ𝚎ｓ𝚎 𝚌ｏ𝚖ｅ ｐ𝚒ｃ𝚔 𝚞ｓ ｕ𝚙 𝚜ｏ𝚗!!
𝚒 𝚕ｏ𝚟ｅ ｙ𝚘ｕ! ♡
- 𝙼ｉ𝚔ｅ𝚢
The words are so big they almost touch both sides of the paper. The need to correct him on all the spelling mistakes and lack of punctuation is strong, yet the best for me is to bite my tongue and wait until he is done so he can go back to bed.
As he scribbles, I pick another piece of paper. This time to prepare an envelope for his letter.
“Done!” Michelangelo proclaims after a few minutes, leaving the pen aside. He folds it into a square, and then offers it to me, the paper falling smoothly into the simple wrapper.
“You need to lick it to close it” He explains, matter-of-factly.
… The idea was to use the paper tape, since it is a regular paper, and my saliva will not be enough to seal it.
Oh well.
With a lick all over the seal flap, the envelope is finished. A piece of tape will do the job later.
“Can we send it tomorrow?”
Leaving it on the desk for now, next to the glasses, my hands reach for him and without hesitation, Michelangelo launches himself at me. As suspected, he is as light as a feather, with one arm being more than enough to carry him back to his bed near the couch.
“Sure, kid.”
Tiptoeing around the living room, Klunk patiently waits for me to lower Michelangelo on his impromptu bed before laying on his chest. The breathing of his brothers fills the lair.
“Good night, Mr. Crocodile” He whispers, hugging the cat tightly as he covers both of them with the blanket, and by the slow blinking, Klunk doesn’t seem to mind.
“Sleep tight, Sunbeam.”
.
.
.
