Chapter Text
Sometimes, even if his brothers cajole and joke that it’s not true, Mikey has a lot of thoughts.
They’re not bad thoughts, they’re just thoughts. He can hear them all cycle through his mind constantly, their dad’s teachings about peace and harmony, Leo’s singing filtering over the words, Raph’s idle chatter about Spike and Donnie’s ramblings about whatever neat science thing he’d seen that day or something he committed to memory at least.
April’s humming sometimes echo in his brain, Casey’s laughter as he falls off a skateboard, and sometimes, the TV shows rumble through his mind over and over and over.
But sometimes, they get stuck. They get jammed in there like a stick in a gear, and all he can hear is a rattling of whatever it was that filtered in.
Today is the jingle from the Stanley Steemer ad. It’s about a guy who can come to your house and clean your rug, but for some reason, his mind just replays ‘CALL 1-800-STEEEEEMER!!!’ over and over and over, the 3D people dancing in his mind’s eyes and it gets louder every time his mind travels to it.
He knew, when it started, that this would end bad. But he downed two tylenol and hoped it’d stop.
But no. His once a year atrocity began with a vengeance.
All it took was for Raph turning on Vengeful Strike, a game with loud gunshots and screaming, for Mikey to feel like someone was taking a nutcracker to his skull.
(And as a ninja who had taken a LOT of things to the skull, this one hurt the MOST.)
He was busy scrambling some eggs in a bowl, gritting his teeth as each scream and blast felt like it was being thrown at his head like a wadded up tissue. The tender bones around his eyes felt like they were about to crack in, and the back of his head felt like Donnie was hitting him with his bo over and over and over.
CALL 1-800-CALL 1-800-CALL 1-800-
His cheeks hurt.
His head hurt.
Crack. Crack. Like a nut in a cracker. Crank the spiral. Crack. Crack.
He slammed his hand on the counter, holding the bowl in one arm tightly as he drew in a breath. “Hey, Raph?” the words felt squirmy in his mouth, like they fought hard to get from brain to tongue.
“Yeah!” he yelled back, and his nails cut into the cheap linoleum as he swallowed down the shaking echoing up his shell.
“Can you…maybe use your headset or something?”
The game paused, and Mikey cursed the fact that he sounded so unlike himself that one might’ve accused the Shredder of using a brain worm on him, if someone didn’t know. He heard the creak of the couch, Raph clearly turning around. “Uh…you okay, little bro?” he asked, and his words sounded like knives covered in cotton for all he tried.
Lie, his brain said instantly, because he was the funny guy! Ha ha so funny make them laugh and hopefully they won’t notice the wrongness about him.
But if he did, the music would come back on, and he would probably die immediately and they’d have to attend his funeral and his dad would just lament how all he had to do was wear earplugs or get them all a headset or maybe he would say how cool the color orange was and-ow ow OW the thoughts hurt like they were brushing the inside of his skull above his eyes.
Call 1-800-call Stanley Steemer-
He swallowed.
“Got a bit of a headache,” he lifted the words just a bit higher than what he wanted, and while a headache wasn’t too unusual for him, a request to be quieter was.
But thankfully, Raph didn’t ask, even though his eyes burned into Mikey’s shell. “Sure, dude, I can do that. Let me know if ya need anythin’,” he said, and Mikey felt the tension slip away as the couch creaked and he looked back at his game.
Because like. If he wanted to be babied and comforted, he’d clearly whine and demand attention.
But if he was specifically sick, he’d hide away. And then of course, he’d be dragged back in whining away about how fine he was, he was cleaaaaarly just in need of some good pizza and-call 1-800-call Stanley-and then obviously he’d-
Mikey pressed the back of his hand to his forehead, feeling like he was holding the pieces of his skull together with that simple gesture.
Right.
Breakfast.
The fire started on the stove, the pan laid upon it.
But the moment the eggs were poured on top and started to sizzle, the smell hit.
The smell.
It slid up his nose and into his sinuses, crashing into his skull and picking at all the loose pieces and flinging it around in circles-CALL 1-800-STEEMER CALL STANLEY STEEMER, CALL HIM CALL STANLEY CALL STANLEY-
The smell ricocheted around.
Leo came running at the sound of him hitting his knees near the trash can, vomiting so hard it made his shell quake. “Mikey!” A cooler hand brushed his head, and he started to sob weakly, his brains spilling out his head through his nose and mouth, and all he could think of
Was
That
Damn
Commercial.
He doesn’t remember how he gets from the kitchen to-of all things-Raph’s bed, but it’s a good choice. His own room smells of pizza and markers, Donnie’s of lab chemicals, and their father’s and Leo’s of incense so strong that even the memory of it makes his breathing speed up.
But Raph’s? It smells of clean water, fresh vegetables for Spike, and this muted smell of metal from his weights. It’s always been one of Mikey’s favorite combinations of smells, especially when he wasn’t feeling well, and he just relaxes into the bed with a whimper, a cool cloth over his face as a furry hand gently touches his cheeks.
No words are said, because words hurt, and his brain keeps sluggishly trying to pull up memories of music and things that batter against his temple.
But he’s finally entered the stage where his usually running amok brain has melted in place, overheated and exhausted, desperate for rest but unable to do so. The gentle touch is enough that it doesn’t stir him much, something else cool touching at his neck before his father tucks him in to bed.
The moment he’s feeling better, he absolutely knows that Raph will storm in here under the guise of fury, and then yank him on his shell for a piggyback ride while yelling at him to stay out of his room, and then roll into a wrestling match that he will, inevitably, win because Raph is ticklish.
But for the moment, Raph is across the room, quietly feeding Spike with soft, rustling movements, and his father is checking on him and ensuring he sips some water, and the room is dark, and cozy, and his family is nearby.
The migraine feels like it’s fallen on its face, stretchy limbs holding onto his skull like yolk from an egg, and finally, finally, his brain gives in to sleep.
(He’s quiet when he wakes up the first time, not all the way healed, and Raph is sitting on the bed next to his head, reading a comic book. He rolls his head onto his lap, silently poking at him until Raph wraps him up in his arms for a hug, and then he’s pulled back under again.
He wonders if he can nab that comic later though. He’s pretty sure it’s the first of the Captain Laserhawk series that Raph lied and said he never had.
But that was for later. Much, much later, when words made sense and didn’t spin like a screensaver and eat away his brain.
For now…
He slept.)