Night passes in a sleepless haze of hospital sounds. A constant string of voices echo from the hall, footsteps clicking against the metal floor. The room itself churns and hums like a living thing, the unsettling noises made even more eerie in the dark. A nurse comes in after Raph's second bout of vomiting. Mikey holds him close as he dares while he pants and retches and sweats, watching with horror as the nurse draws liters of foul liquid from his intranasal tube. "It will be all right," she tries to soothe them both. "We'll give him something to soothe his stomach and help him sleep."

When his brother finally goes limp in his arms, Michelangelo fights hard not to cry.

Hours after, they're alone, and Mike finds himself too aware of the room to let himself sleep. Instead, he dozes like he's in enemy territory, still listening, still holding onto his brother like a ballast, as if fearing he would drift too far away.

When morning comes and the lights go up, his head is stuffy and his eyes are full of grit, but Raph is sleeping peacefully beside him. Too exhausted to crawl out of bed, he lays there for a while, studying his brother's swollen face buried close to his shoulder. It looks worse than it did even hours ago, his puffy eyes the color of bruises against his yellowing skin. But the lines of pain have finally smoothed, and he snores like a rusty freight train barreling down a crooked track.

As Mikey finally pushes himself up to escape the stink of his brother's rancid breath, a sudden voice nearly startles him out of his skin. "Sorry," it says, and he reels to see Don now standing beside the bed, ashen-faced and fiddling with the frayed edge of his sling. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"Man..." Mikey breathes, pressing a hand to his chest. "I must be tired. I didn't even hear you come in."

"Sorry," Don repeats, shuffling off to inspect the monitor screens. Soon as Mikey blinks his eyes clear, he notices the tension in his brother's shoulders, his vacant expression as he reads the blinking monitors. "You're here early," he says carefully. "What's up?"

Don's voice is dull, a careful disguise for his gnawing anxiety. "I had to bring Leo back. He woke up with a fever."

Mike blinks a few more times, his heart tumbling in his chest. "A fever? Why? Is he sick?"

"He's been running around with dirty bandages when he should've been resting," Don says, his words sharp with thinly-veiled frustration. "Now he has a piece of dead shell they have to remove."

The thought alone makes Mikey's insides squirm, flooding his head with gruesome pictures. Leo's shell stripped to the bone. A mess of meat and milky white. A rotten hole of blistering infection. They're all so hideous it's almost funny, and it makes him feel horrible for the anxious smile that tugs at his lips. "They're gonna take his shell off? Seriously?"

Don nods grimly. "Dr. Xenios offered him some kind of prosthetic, but he turned it down. He just wants the scar."

"Jeez," Mike huffs, collapsing tiredly against the headboard. "That's really messed up."

Again, Don nods. Pulling the communicator out of his belt, he stares anxiously at the blank screen. "They'll call me when he's out of surgery. Leo didn't want me watching, and they asked me to leave the waiting room. I think I was making everyone nervous." After a moment of heavy silence, he finally pulls his eyes away, instead frowning worriedly at their sleeping brother. "How's he doing?"

"I don't know. He threw up a lot last night. Then a nurse came in and sucked all this stomach acid out through that tube in his nose. It was really gross." Don only cringes, growing another shade paler. "But he hasn't barfed since," Mike adds quickly, but his smile is too weak to be reassuring. "They gave him some meds and now he's actually asleep. He's been out like a light for a few hours now."

"I don't like how he's breathing."

Pressing his lips together, Mikey watches Raph's chest rise and fall, listening for the terrifying wetness that's settled deep in his lungs. It's gotten worse, just like all the other things, and the realization reignites a crippling yearning for their father. Like somehow, he could make this all better. He could hold Raph's hand and sing soft songs, running a cold cloth over his forehead like they were kids, and it would be all he needs. "That's why they have those tubes up his nose," he states shakily, his eyes pleading his genius brother. "Right?"

"Partly," is all Don says, the worry never leaving his expression. Shaking his head, he lifts his eyes back to his younger brother, some of the shadows falling from his face. "How is your leg? Have you taken your meds yet?"

Mikey runs a hand anxiously over the stiff cast. "It itches like shell, but at least it's not sore anymore. And a nurse came by and gave me some about an hour ago." There's so many other things he wants to complain about, but it doesn't seem like the right time. For now, he can put on a brave face and save it for later. For when things are better. Shrugging, he starts the long process of crawling out of bed. "But now that you're here to sit with Raphie, I'm gonna get some breakfast."

"Okay," Don replies dully, his head bobbing once as his eyes travel back to the blank communicator screen.

"You want anything?" Mike asks, but Don's only answer is a shake of the head. "You sure?" He pries, finally wrestling free from the bed sheets. "You didn't eat earlier, did you?" Again, Don only gives him a small shake of the head. But it isn't enough. Once he's on his feet, Mikey pins his brother with a mothering look. "You gotta eat sometime, bro. I'm gonna get you something anyway."

Don lifts his head, hardly able to open his mouth to argue before Mikey pats his shell and dodges into the hallway.

Breakfast at the hospital is an awful lot like meals in the Triceraton prison. Everybody lines up with their trays, waiting for bored-looking aliens to scoop weird-looking glop onto their plates. Except the food smells a million times better and the risk of getting electrocuted by grumpy Triceraton guards is almost zero. While Mikey waits in line, both crutches jammed under one armpit and his tray balanced in his free hand, a nice nurse with six arms offers to carry his food. After such a hard night and so much bad news, he could almost kiss him. They order three of everything, and the cashier tells him it's all free of charge.

"Food's here!" Mikey beams as he stumbles back into the room, the six-armed alien ducking through the threshold behind him. The guy's so loaded down with food that even he has a hard time juggling everything.

The surprise on Don's face is priceless. "Do you think you got enough?" He snarks, then hurries to help the alien unload the plates. "I'm sorry if Mikey caused any trouble."

The alien only laughs, gill-like flaps fluttering with amusement. "No, no trouble! I consider it an honor."

"Well we really appreciate it," Mike says, winking as he dips his finger into a creamy pile of what looks like mashed potatoes.

Don only bobs his head, busily adjusting the trays on the table to make room for more.

"You must be Donatello."

When Don looks up, the alien is smiling down at him softly. "Yes," he says, straightening to face him properly, the fingers of his good hand reaching again for the frayed edges of his sling. "And, um, I don't mean to be rude…"

"Oh, yeah! Sorry," Mikey chirps, his mouth already full of some kind of mush. "That's Hector. We were line buddies in the cafeteria. He offered to carry up our food. I didn't even ask!"

Hector does some odd kind of shiver that's obviously meant to be friendly. "It is a pleasure to meet you both. I have heard so much about you." When his gaze travels Raph's bed, his face grows instantly somber. "And your brother Raphael."

"Yeah. He's… trying to get better," Mike trails, interrupting himself with a smile. "But he's tough, so don't worry too much about him. He'd hate that."

"I understand," Hector nods gravely, turning back to the still-conscious brothers. "And I am sorry it has come to this. But I must tell you, Governor Ackranon, the monster they call Ch'rell… Two thousand years ago he created an army that ravaged my country with genocide and war. I was just a child, then. I was one of very few to survive."

"I… I'm so sorry..." Don stutters, but the alien raises a hand to stop him. "Do not apologize for what you have not done. It is in the past, and I have made a new life for myself on this planet. I only wish for you to understand the importance of what your family has done."

"We had known the Shredder was an intergalactic criminal," Don says quietly, "but we had no idea he had killed so many people."

"Millions," The alien says, a look of remembered horror flashing through his eyes. "My planet was not the only world he ravaged. He is a conqueror. A beast. But now his cycle of evil has finally ended. So on behalf of the An'trackians, I thank you." Pressing all six palms to the center of his chest, Hector dips into a low bow. Dumbstruck, Don and Mike can only return it.

"Well, heh," Mikey laughs, rubbing nervously at the back of his neck when they recover. "Saving planets, stopping the baddest dudes in the universe, it's kind of what we do."

"Then I will leave you to it," Hector replies, nodding another bow as he ducks back through the door. "Rest well. Perhaps I will see you at the trial."

"Yeah, maybe," Mikey smiles, giving him an awkward wave. "Thanks again."

When the door slides shut, Don sinks slowly into his seat. "Wow."

Mike flops into his own chair, propping his leg up on the edge of Raph's bed and dragging a tray of food into his lap. "Yeah. Did you see how many arms that guy had?"

"Mikey."

Mikey laughs before shoveling more food into his mouth, not waiting to swallow before talking. "Hear anything about Leo when I was gone?" Don only shakes his head, staring distantly at the steaming piles of food. "Then at least eat something. Who knows how long it's gonna take?"

"I'm not very hungry..."

Mike tilts his head toward his brother, his eyes pleading. "I know. But I know you, too. You won't eat all day if no one makes you."

"You're not wrong," Don sighs, forlornly picking up his fork. Mikey watches him like a hawk for a few seconds until he's sure his brother's actually eating.

The silence that follows would be a lot more comforting if it didn't feel so heavy. Mike tries to distract himself with picking apart the strange flavors of his food, but his mind keeps cycling back to the trial. Back to Raph. Back to Splinter. Back to Leo. The way Don's eyes stay glued to the comm, still perched silently on the table, makes him even more nervous.

"So, you think Leo's gonna be okay?" He asks while reaching for another plate, trying his best to act casual. The last thing Don needs is him freaking out because everything will be fine. They're all in good hands and he probably doesn't even have to ask.

Don gives him a one-shouldered shrug, playing with his half-eaten food. "The utroms want to put him on anti-depressants."

"...Huh."

Don squints up at him, disbelieving. "What do you mean, 'huh'?"

"I mean…" Mike sucks on his fork thoughtfully, measuring his words. "I guess I never thought that would even be something we would worry about. But maybe it wouldn't be bad for him. He's been acting pretty scary lately. Maybe it'll help him get over this."

"I don't think he needs to 'get over' this, Mikey," Don scolds, but Mike knows it isn't his choice of words that's got him so irritated. "I just think he needs to accept it. For some reason he's fixated on the worst case scenario, and it isn't healthy."

"Yeah. But even if we gave him the meds, he'd probably hate us when he found out. You know he would never take them on his own."

"He wouldn't. That's why I said no." Sighing, Don puts down his fork and props his elbow on the armrest, resting his forehead in his hand. "I'm tired of fighting with him over everything."

Mike chews his lip worriedly. "Do you think they're even gonna let him go to the trial?"

The tensions in Don's shoulders winds even tighter. "Something tells me he's going whether we like it or not."

Mike shrugs, scooping more mush onto his fork. "I can't really blame him, though. Maybe it'll be good for him. Give him some kind of closure, you know?" Stuffing the food into his mouth, he chews thoughtfully. When he swallows, it sticks to his throat like paste. "I think it'll help all of us."

Don doesn't answer, just goes back to playing with his food and staring at the comm.

In the loaded silence, Mikey finds his comfort in food. None of it tastes like home, but the repetitive motion is distracting and brainless, and he likes the sleepy feeling of being full. It's like he's filling an empty place inside of him. So he eats until everything's gone and his stomach feels like a bloated rock. The sleepy feeling is quick to follow, and he dozes off in his chair soon after. He hasn't been this full since Raph and Casey challenged him to that burger eating contest last summer at the farmhouse. That memory might have ended with him spewing his guts everywhere, but Raph laughed his head off while he did it. So he holds onto it and dreams of his family, laughing together in the sunshine.

Then the comm rings. The sudden burst of sound jerks him out of his reverie.

"They're finished," Don says tonelessly, reading the screen. "No complications."

"Finally some good news," Mike groans, stretching and pulling his leg off the bed so he can stand. "So can we go? I think Raph's gonna sleep for a while."

Don gets up stiffly, still staring at the comm screen like he's waiting for bad news. "Yeah, let's go."

On the elevator ride up, Mike's still uncomfortably full, and the anxiety makes his stomach churn. He just wants the scar, Don's voice repeats in his head. For what? Some kind of message? Some reminder of things they just need to forget? No one wants to look at that. Thinking about it is bad enough.

"That went faster than I was expecting," Don says suddenly, brewing anxiety making his voice sound clipped.

Mikey offers him a strained smile. "I'm telling you, bro. These utroms know what they're doing."

Don doesn't reply and they ride the rest of the way in silence. But Mike hasn't stopped watching his brother closely. Ever since he showed up this morning, he's had this odd look about him. He seems… haunted. The sharp intelligence in his eyes is dulled, and he's worried the edge of his sling to greying threads. A few days ago he'd been so impressed by his brother's composure. It hadn't dawned on him that Don might be bottling things up. Not until the wear had started showing on the outside. Suddenly, Mikey feels like he's trapped in an elevator with a ticking time bomb.

Of course the elevator comes to a stop the second he opens his mouth to ask if he's okay. The doors slide open, and Don marches them to a small lobby where Dr. X is waiting.

"How is he?" Don asks quickly, a stern desperation edging into his voice. The utrom doesn't turn to answer as she busily escorts them down a narrow hallway. "The procedure went well and he is recovering normally. The anesthetics should be wearing off soon."

A pair of doors slide open, greeting them with a familiar wave of hazy warm air. Well trained from hours spent in Raph's room, the brothers ignore its soothing tingle and pile inside. In the center of the room is Leonardo, lying too-still in his hospital bed, looking more bandage than Turtle. Don rushes to his brother's side, touching his wrist for a pulse, studying his face, measuring his breathing. The bulky, pink alien who had been standing beside the bed throws him an annoyed look. Mikey can only smile an apology.

"This is Leena, one of our lead anesthesiologists," Dr. X explains. "I assure you, Leonardo has been in the best of hands under her care."

"Have there been any side effects?" Don asks sharply, cupping the side of Leo's face.

"To the anesthesia?" Leena swaks. "Of course not. The protocol we use is proven safe for all species."

"We're not a species," Don snaps back without looking, turning over his brother's hand to inspect the catheter imbedded in the vein. "We're a mutation. None of these drugs are proven safe for us."

Leena sucks her teeth brusquely. "Worst case scenario, he'll be tired and disoriented for the rest of the night. A little nausea's expected, too. Nothing to worry about. He's been stable through the whole thing. He should be waking up any second now." She glances up at the doctor, floating on her hoverpad near the monitoring screens. "I think we're good to go, Dr. X."

"All right. Thank you, Leena. Excellent work." The utrom chimes, smiling pleasantly as the huge alien stalks out the door with her sour puss still intact.

"Well she seems nice," Mikey chirps slyly, but the joke falls flat. Seeing Leo so banged up and dead to the world dredges up old memories of that winter the Foot threw him through April's window. The idea sends a chill down his spine. Now that had been scary. At least now they have doctors and medicine and certainty.

"It may be a few minutes before he regains consciousness," Dr. X says. "I would like to take this time to review the procedure in more detail. Please, have a seat."

On cue, two chairs lift up from the floor. Mike's chair is warm and forgiving as he lowers himself stiffly onto the cushions. Don sinks into the chair beside him and reaches again for Leo's hand. Next comes a projection, Leo's battered shell floating neatly in front of them. All Mike can do is fixate on the damage while Don and the doctor discuss the details of pain meds and bandage changes. After what feels like forever, Dr. X leaves them alone in the suffocating silence, and the familiar sick feeling starts creeping through Mikey's insides again. Belching loudly, he shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

"Ugh. My poor stomach. I feel like I'm gonna explode."

Don, still holding Leo's hand, wrinkles his snout. "After how much you ate? I'm not surprised."

"But Donnie, it was so good," he whines, flopping dramatically against his chair. "And free. What do you expect from me? Bleh…"

"Don't you dare get sick in here," Don scolds, taking his eyes off Leo to shoot him a proper glare.

Mike screws up his face in a petulant scowl reminiscent of a five-year-old. "I'm not gonna get sick. I'm just really full," he whines, punctuating it with another belch. "And gassy."

"Mikey, stop," Don snaps, surprised at his own lack of humor. Usually, he would jump at the opportunity to crack a joke at his little brother's expense. But now, Mike's antics are grating on his last nerve. Huffing a sigh, he turns back to his sedated brother. "I shouldn't have to tell you that all this binge-eating isn't healthy."

Mikey rolls his eyes, stubbornly crossing his arms over his chest. Don can feel his glare burning holes in the side of his head. "Uh-huh. And you hardly eat at all. What's so healthy about that?"

"That's beside the point," he tries to argue, but he knows the observation is valid. He can't remember the last time he managed to eat a full meal.

"Do we really have to argue about this?" Mikey asks, huffing an exhausted sigh. He's tired, and they're both too wrung-out to keep bickering like this. Don's posture sags in defeat, murmuring a "No." before they lapse back into silence.

Between the pressure in his gut and the tension in the room, Mikey feels like he can barely breathe. Like every second makes the air thicker. Every minute spent staring at his motionless brother feels like eons. But eventually, Leo moans groggily. His fingers twitch around Don's hand, his eyes shining darkly under barely-open lids. Squeezing his hand, Don leans over him, walking the careful line between comforting nearness and a sense of imposed restraint. Mike climbs out of his chair to be closer, calling his brother's name and trying to place himself in his line of vision.

"Leo," Don soothes. "It's us. You're okay. Everything is fine."

"Don?" His voice is thick and slow. "I'm..." he pants, trying desperately to move the arm bound inside the bandages. "Can't move."

"It's okay, buddy," Mikey pipes, resting his hand gently on his brother's chest and throwing him an encouraging smile. "It's supposed to be like that."

"They bandaged your arm to your chest," Don explains. "You need to keep it still."

But Leo doesn't want to hear it. Scrunching up his face, he whines again, still trying to wriggle free. The childish sound seems weirdly out of place, better fitting of a sleep-deprived five-year-old than an embattled ninja warrior. "No. It hurts..."

"Sorry," Mikey chides, trying not to wince at the twist in his gut, "but you've been using it way too much. Dr. X even said so."

Leo's eyes wander to Mikey's face as if seeing him for the first time, his brow knotted. "Mikey..."

Mikey sobers, carefully schooling his expression to something patient and encouraging. "Yeah, Leo?"

"Don't… don't look."

It's hard to watch the pain flashing through Leo's eyes, his free hand slipping clumsily out of Don's to grip the mass of bandages wound around his chest. It looks like he might cry, and Mikey struggles desperately to swallow down his own press of tears. "I don't think so, bro," he answers thickly. "Nothing I haven't seen before."

"He's just worried," Don mercifully intercepts. He's much better at the patient look, but his eyes are shining brighter than they were a second before. He pulls Leo's hand from his wounded side and gives it a gentle squeeze. "We both are. But you're going to be fine. The surgery went well. And if you're really in pain I'm sure we can get you more painkillers."

"No." Leo's eyes squeeze shut. "I wanna go."

"We'll talk about it," Don answers gently. "You need to be fully conscious first."

"M'fine," Leo mumbles crossly, shuffling against the bedsheets in a muddled attempt to sit up. Frustration pinches his expression before he lolls back, exhausted, against the mattress. "S'better now," he pants, squinting pleadingly up at Don. "Karai made the... mark. M'gonna... m'gonna be better now. I promise m'gonna be better."

Don holds his brother's gaze, saying nothing, cradling his hand until his eyes flicker closed again and he's snoring softly against his pillow.

"Is he asleep?" Mikey asks.

"I think so," Don answers. His voice is steady, but he feels as shaky as Mike sounds.

"Then what the heck was that!?"

"He's a little out of it," Don hisses, shooting him a warning glare.

"A little?"

"You know how he's been. He's not lucid right now. He doesn't know what he's saying."

"Yeah," Mikey pipes, "he's saying what he's been thinking all along! Which is seriously messed up, if you weren't listening!"

"Yes, it was," Don snaps. "But talking about it now isn't going to solve anything. So calm down. He's stressed enough as it is."

His brother's words stir up a rare anger warring with the nausea bubbling in Mikey's stomach. But Don's right about one thing: he isn't helping. As messed up as all of this is, there's nothing they can do about it now. "Fine. I'll just shut up then," he sulks, crossing his arms and flopping moodily back into his seat. He's heartily disappointed when it rouses no reaction from Donatello. Instead, Don watches Leo's face intensely, his mouth drawn into a thin, grim line.

Minutes later, Leo's eyes open again, and he blinks owlishly at the olive hand gripping his own.

"Leo?" Don ventures.

Leo sucks in a breath, summoning something deep inside himself, then speaks in a single exhale. "Is it done?" Again, he struggles to sit up, this time wriggling his hand free to grip the metal bed rail. "Can we leave?"

"Yes, it's done, and no, we can't leave," Don replies patiently. "The doctor wants to make sure you're okay first. You know how doctors are."

"I'm fine," he repeats, but doesn't try to fight. He's too weak from the fever and the sedatives. Instead, he carefully scans the room, finding the exit. Studying the living ceiling above him. Accidentally meeting Mikey's haunted expression. Quickly, his eyes dart to the IV buried in the back of his hand. "Take it out," he mutters, pulling away from Don and making as to wipe it off on the bed. "I want to leave."

"I'll take it out if you want," Don answers. "But we can't leave until Dr. Xenios sees you, and she might say it should be put back in."

Leo drags his right arm over to the exposed fingers of his left hand, fumbling weakly with the edges of the tape. "Call her."

Immediately, Don snatches Leo's hand again. "Don't touch," he warns, then realizes his casted arm won't bend to press the call button. Sternly, he turns to Mikey, still parked in his seat, his moody expression long traded itself for worry. "Watch him."

Mike doesn't argue, nodding once as he climbs out of the chair, balancing on his good leg as he replaces his brother's hand with his own. Leo glares at him grumpily, but he only smiles waveringly and shrugs. "Sorry, bro."

Don presses the call button and Leo's gaze moves to the ceiling while they wait. It takes twenty minutes, and none of them dares to speak. When the doors finally open and Dr. X hovers back in, it's like a gasp of air after too long spent under water.

"Good, you're awake," she says, running a fast scan of Leo's vitals. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine, Doctor." Encouraged by the strength in his voice, Leonardo takes the opportunity to push himself into a slightly more elevated position, rolling his weight to the lower curve of his shell. If the movement hurt him at all, he doesn't show it. "Thank you. I'm ready to leave."

"Your temperature is coming down, and I am sure you're feeling better, but your body needs help from the IV pain medication and fluids. Ideally you would stay on them for at least twelve hours."

Leonardo's hand bunches on the cot next to him. "No. That won't be necessary."

"Leo..." Don rubs his forehead and tries to shoot Xenios a sympathetic glance while his brother isn't looking. "I won't make you stay here. But if you leave, I will make you stay in bed in the suite. It's your choice."

Leo's eyes slide away from Xenios just long enough to pin Donatello with a hard look. "I'm going to the trial."

Don's mouth presses into a thin line. "I'm sure."

Everyone's attention settles heavily on the doctor.

"I can't recommend going back to the suite or attending the trial," she says sternly. "but if you refuse to be hospitalized, I would like you to remain on fluids throughout the night. Glurin can help you set things up and check on you periodically."

Leo's eyes settle disdainfully on the tube snaking into his hand. "Fine," he says sharply, like spitting tacks.

"Fine," Don echoes, settling Leo with another stern, warning glare before turning back to Xenios. "Discharge him."

"All right," she agrees reluctantly. "I'll send for Glurin to transport you back. Donatello, I will provide you with some more detailed discharge instructions. And Leonardo, I expect you to stay on your fluids, eat, and sleep tonight. If you are unable to do all of these things, I will make sure you are admitted for more adequate treatment. Do you understand?"

Leo won't look at her, but he nods once, hissing as he eases himself back down onto the bed.

"Excellent," she says, heading for the door. "Glurin will be with you shortly."

They all fall into yet another tense and exhausted silence, which is thankfully broken minutes later by Glurin and another nurse coming in with a gurney. Leo doesn't say anything when they try to speak to him, won't even look at anything but the ceiling. His face is gray and haggard, but carefully schooled as they roll him through the maze of hallways. If the jostling hurt at all, he refuses to show it.

The drive back isn't far, but Mikey falls asleep without even realizing it. He wakes up to the hovercar parked outside the hotel and Don calling his name for the hundreth time. They'd already helped Leo into some kind of hovering wheelchair, his expression stony and lined with pain.

Up in the suite, Mikey waits anxiously in the livingroom while they set Leo up in a bedroom down the hall. He turns on the TV, but keeps one ear trained on the sounds coming from the open door. Don sounds like he's at the end of his rope, asking a million questions about the IV pumps. He hears Glurin promise he'll check on things throughout the night before the utrom wanders into the main room again.

"Do you guys need some help?" Mikey asks from the couch, trying hard to appear like all of this is the most natural thing in the world.

"I was just on my way out," Glurin answers. "I think everything is handled for now. Donatello is trying to get him to eat."

"Oh. Okay." Swallowing thickly, his eyes travel back toward the hallway, where he can hear clips of his brothers' bickering from the bedroom. "That's good," he says, and hopes it's the truth.

Glurin bobs his exosuit's metallic head. "I will be back in two hours to check on things. Sooner, if any of the pumps alarm."

"Okay. Guess we'll see you later, then."

"Yes. Try to get some rest."

Mikey forces a smile. "I'll do my best."

Then he's alone again, straining to hear Leo and Don arguing over the TV. He could turn it down. Or get up and hobble into the bedroom, but he finds himself too sore and tired to bother. Everything hurts. It feels like there's a lead weight on his head. All he wants to do is grab a snack and sleep forever. But eventually he's gonna have to get up and go back to Raph tonight. Hopefully he's still asleep.

After a while, Don slogs back into the living room, his face drawn and pale. It's the first time he's noticed Donnie's lost weight, and Mike makes another mental note to get on him about eating.

"Did he eat anything?" Mikey ventures, knowing by his brother's posture that he won't like the answer.

Don slumps heavily onto the couch, rests his head on Mikey's shoulder, and sighs. "One bite. I think he's too nauseous to manage anything else."

"Well at least it's something." Pulling his arm around Don, Mikey lets his brother settle in further and gives his arm a reassuring pat. "You did good, Donny. I know it sucks, but you're doing everything you can and then some."

Don nods weakly against his plastron, swallowing hard. All Mikey can do is tighten his grip on his brother's shoulders and pray this nightmare will be over soon. "Everything's gonna be okay. You know that, right?"

"Yeah," Don murmurs. "I hope so."