Work Text:
“You mean I’m stuck like this?”
His high pitched voice was not helping him be taken seriously and he knew it. But what else was he supposed to say? Being three inches tall (if that!) was not exactly doing wonders for his self esteem.
“The ships returned to normal size. Why haven’t me, April, or Vernon?” Michelangelo was aware he probably sounded like he was whining but give him a break! It had been a totally weird day, with a capital ‘W.’
“Relax.” Donatello chuckled—chuckled!—at his distress and while Michelangelo knew his brother didn’t mean anything by it, it was infuriating.
The genius clarified, “Near as I can tell from the samples I’ve analyzed, the ships returned to normal size first because they’re non-organic. Anything with flesh, blood, and bone hangs onto that shrinking radiation longer.”
Flopping onto his back, Michelangelo leaned against Donatello’s thumb. He could fit in his brother’s hand! “Major league bummer! Now what?”
His sibling smiled. “Well, now, we wait. Not even all the ships have returned to normal size yet, Michelangelo. My guess is a few hours or up to a day or two. Try to relax.”
“ You relax, dude! You’re not the size of an ant!”
“Technically, you’re a little bigger than an ant—“
“Not helping, compadre!”
Another groan and the surfer turtle flung his arms over his eyes in dramatic fashion. At least he wasn’t weeping like Vernon was.
Didn’t mean he didn’t feel like doing it!
After a few phone calls (and a lot of explanation) Irma showed up and agreed to take April and Vernon home with her until the effects wore off—though with a threat toward Vernon to remember this the next time he was approving her PTO—and the turtles headed toward home.
Michelangelo sat in Donatello’s palm as Leonardo drove. Arms wrapped around his legs, he didn’t care if he was sulking. This was a disaster. Being little was a major cramp in his style!
His brothers couldn’t even hear him if they didn’t have their turtle coms on. Seeing him was a little easier but still a feat. So he might as well have been invisible.
Plus, the after-battle crash was happening in a very real way.
His muscles were jelly, his head hurt (and he knew there was no safe way for him to take anything—even a sliver of a pill was a potential overdose) and the anxiety that came with being so small was going to send adrenaline pouring back into his system any time.
The only thing worse than an adrenaline crash was the adrenaline roller coaster.
And all he’d wanted to do today was ride his surfboard!
“Maximum blow out.” He buried his face in his folded arms and went quiet.
OOO
Well, at least the not-being-heard thing had been figured out. When they got back home, Donatello had been quick to configure some ear buds (that’s what he called them) that linked directly to their turtle coms. So long as his brothers kept their coms on their belts and Michelangelo kept his on, it would transmit what he said.
Watching his brother use a microscope and tweezers to adjust wires in a turtle com smaller than a grain of rice had been a sight for the ages.
Sitting on the table in his brother’s lab seemed one of the safer places to be.
It was familiar, too. Michelangelo would regularly sit in the workshop as his sibling worked on different inventions. Sometimes, he’d offer input, give his brother another angles to consider. Other times, it was simply fascinating to see Donatello work. His mind worked in amazing ways. It wasn’t uncommon for a stack of comic books to be kept in the lab for him to peruse while the genius crafted. Just having the company was welcomed.
But, it turned out, being three inches tall meant reading said comics was much more of a feat. Not so much the turning of the pages but more that the lettering was so big it hurt.
After an attempt at a few pages, his eyes were swimming and the mild headache he’d had before had escalated to moderate—almost severe.
So, no comics. Fine. Listening to his brother work—and grumble to himself—was entertaining enough.
Enough so that when a washer slipped from Donatello’s grip and rolled under a collection of piled metal pieces, he didn’t hesitate to jump down (a rather long fall in retrospect) and chase after it, “I’ve got it, Dude!”
His brother’s voice was booming after him—that’s the thing no one ever told you about being small. Things that normally weren’t loud were suddenly very loud. So, Donatello’s yelling voice was deafening.
Michelangelo clamped his forearms over his ears as he ran and shouted, “Too loud, Dude! I can’t figure what you’re saying!”
Disappearing under the metal slates, the youngest (and now quite literally the smallest) turtle let his eyes adjust for a moment. Following the rolling washer wasn’t hard. It couldn’t have gone far but amid all this similarly colored material, it would have been a task to find.
He could do this !
The turtle attempted to convey this to his older brother who sounded like a frantic mother calling for a toddler right now.
“Dude, I got this. The metal ain’t moving.”
“I’m not worried about that, Michelangelo! I stacked those near a hole in the wall near the water run off until I could patch it. There’s probably—“
A hissing sound. A scurrying sound. The sound of legs. Lots of legs.
Michelangelo froze. The washer was just in front of him. Grasping the edge, he pulled, looping it over his back like a sack.
The scurrying sound again. Closer this time. Then a thud. Like the moon just plopped down in front of him.
If the moon was brown, with feelers and mandibles and that terrible, mind numbing hissing noise.
Something came out of Michelangelo’s mouth that absolutely should not have been said in polite company. He swung his nunchucks, more out of instinct than any actual threat but unfortunately that movement was all the creature needed.
It was on him faster than a creature that size should have been able to move. Those mandibles cut and he felt his leg bleed and there some kind of…slime? Was it slime? Or saliva or…
Crunch. Cut. Slice. God, it hurt. How was this thing so strong?!
Kicking with his free leg while swinging with his weapon, Michelangelo sprung backward trying not to think about the fact he had…stuff all over his leg from the thing’s mouth.
It hissed at him again and the turtle ran.
“Ah! It’s Roachzilla, Dude!” His leg throbbed as he went but if he slowed down even a little, it would be more than his leg in that thing’s mouth and his stomach churned at the mere thought—
Suddenly, the entire ceiling moved. No. Not the ceiling. Right, he’d been under the metal junk pile Donatello had…
A thunderous crash came in the form of a fly swatter that came mere inches (at least by his reckoning) of Michelangelo’s injured leg. The roach twitched, gave off what sounded like a scream of sorts.
“Hold your breath, Michelangelo!”
Not about to argue with his rescuer, the turtle did so, gagging all the same when a pink rain showered the twitching creature (and some of him as well).
A rain that smelled like…fruit? Strawberries to be precise.
But the bug stopped moving and his brother kicked it away with his foot before plucking Michelangelo up by the shell.
“I told you to wait! I told you not to go under there!”
Michelangelo moved his hands from his mouth to cover his ears. The volume! It was like a rock concert inside his head. A whimper escaped his throat.
His brother must have picked up on it because the storm in his brain stopped. When Donatello spoke again, it was soft.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. But you scared the shell out of me.” Michelangelo found himself laid down in his brother’s palm. “Are you hurt?”
Taking advantage to look at his leg, the youngest turtle huffed. “Couple cuts. It hurts but it’s not bad.”
They weren’t bad. Still hurt like shell but not deep and it didn’t seem like his bones or muscles had been hit, despite what it had sounded or felt like. About four gashes on his shin and a small one on his thigh.
“Still needs cleaned though,” his sibling was saying. “Those things are chock full of germs.”
A bit indignant, Michelangelo folded his arms, “if you’re thinking about holding me under a faucet, forget it.”
Despite the circumstances, Donatello laughed. “Oh? I wouldn’t dream of it.”
To his credit, his brother didn’t. He set Michelangelo down on the table and a few minutes later, brought over a shallow bowl full of soapy water.
Initially, the surfer turtle intended to just slip his leg in but the surface of the bowl was slick and he wound up sliding in completely.
All in all though, it wasn’t too bad. The water was lukewarm, not cold, and after everything he’d been through today, he probably needed a bath anyway. His cuts stung as he cleaned them but actually felt good to soak and relax. His muscles were all but screaming for it. To just lay back….calm…let the mind….drift.
Sleep came and he wasn’t expecting it. A light sleep but sleep nonetheless. He probably would have slid right under the water if a large hand hadn’t scooped him out.
“Okay, that’s enough. No sleeping in the tub, you know that.”
Right. Right. Awareness came back to Michelangelo as he sat up, shaking his head from side to side. He took a towel offered to him (it was probably a clean washcloth) and dried off, slipping his gear back on so he could talk to his brother again.
“What was that pink stuff you sprayed anyway, Dude? Couldn’t be poison because I’m not hurting.”
Donatello held out his finger which had a tiny glob of disinfectant ointment on the tip. To Michelangelo, it looked like a bucket full. He took the little he needed, obediently rubbing it over his open wounds. Luckily, none looked deep enough to need to cover and none were bleeding.
“It was body spray.” The scientist answered, “It’s less toxic than bug spray but works the same way—coats their skin so they can’t breathe. April left some last time she was here.”
“That explains the strawberry smell.”
Reaching down where he’d initially put his weapons and gear, Michelangelo held up the metal washer, “Hey, but I found it, Donatello.”
He set the piece on his brother’s finger and the older turtle shook his head good-naturedly. “So you did. Next time, I’ll just find a spare, okay?”
OOO
The turtles scrounged for dinner that night. Everyone was tired, no one felt like going out and there was plenty in the kitchen. Made perfect sense. No need to gather, just get your sustenance and go about your day. (Or if you’re Donatello, take it back to the lab with you)
Except Michelangelo wondered if anyone remembered he couldn’t exactly go make a sandwich.
No worries though. He was more than capable of fending for himself. The kitchen was small and he was flexible. A few running head starts and jumps on the handles and he was well on his way to the cabinets.
His brothers (and him) left boxes and containers out all the time. Much to
Splinter’s chagrin. And as luck would have it, one of his brothers had left a jar of mayonnaise on the counter. The bread wasn’t completely closed.
Great. He could make himself something. Independence thy name is Michelangelo.
Must have been Raphael that last used the stuff because the lid wasn’t on all the way. He had to jump give it a good kick to knock it off. A leap up put him on the edge and —
“You suck, Raphael.”
His brother also had a habit of leaving just a little left at the bottom of the jar. Now, in this case, it would be plenty for Michelangelo but getting to it was another issue.
Eventually, Michelangelo settled on lying on his belly and scrapping some off the sides. Messy but effective.
There was a rumble and bang as someone let the kitchen door slam and while the vibration was minimal, it was enough to send the youngest turtle headlong into the jar. Landing coated him in the condiment but by the time he righted himself, the lid had covered the opening and he heard the telltale sounds of it being screwed back into place.
“Hey!” He screamed into his com. “Little turtle in here!”
The movement stopped, he heard a distinct “ kuso !” and he’d never seen a lid unscrew so fast. The jar was pretty roughly handled, tilted and he was rather unceremoniously dumped into an open hand.
He glared up at his abuser, trying to look as serious as he could.
Judging by the way Raphael was biting his lip trying not to laugh, he was not successful.
“If you laugh, amigo, I swear to God, I’ll—“
“You’ll what? Tickle my fingers?” A snort. “Even your strongest kick is a bug bite right now, Michelangelo…if they weren’t before.”
Michelangelo knew his brother was busting his chops. It was just what Raphael did. He wouldn’t be him if he didn’t.
But right now, he was tired, he was stressed, he was hungry and he couldn’t even make his own meal. He was sixteen, damn it!
Giving his brother’s finger a hard kick (and to be fair, Raphael was right, it did very little), Michelangelo cursed. “ Fuzakeru na, Raphael!”
Almost immediately, two separate calls came through the Lair, one from Master Splinter and one from Leonardo (since there was only a way to connect Michelangelo’s words to the com network, not necessarily a way to make it private), both saying the same thing: “Michelangelo! Language!”
Nothing else worked to convey how frustrated he was though! Defeated, Michelangelo collapsed onto his brother’s palm, buried his face into his arms and cried.
Instantly, all teasing left Raphael’s voice. “Hey, hey, I was just messin’ around. Don’t cry!”
If Raphael had a weakness, a legit weakness, it was tears. He lived to protect people and to make people laugh. Tears fell into the failure category of both those things.
“And what should I do? Laugh? I’m glad you find this humorous, Dude but I don’t! I can’t do anything! I’m tired! You think fighting all day while you’re the size of a butterfly is fun? Bugs might as well be monsters, my weapons are toys, and I can’t even make a stupid sandwich! I’m hungry, man!”
He crumbled again, crying out of tiredness, out of indignation, out of utter frustration.
A soft finger rubbed the top of his head and Michelangelo looked up, even though his vision was a blur of red and green.
Raphael’s voice was gentle. The kind of gentle he reserved for his family alone. “But you’re making this way harder than it has to be. You don’t have to do it alone, Michelangelo. We’re here. Ask, little brother.”
“Little?!” Michelangelo buried his face again.
Raphael winced. “Okay…poor choice of words.” It took some doing to get his finger under the other turtle’s chin without hurting him but he managed it. “But I mean it. You’re half killing yourself trying to do this on your own and you don’t have to.”
“You’re one to talk, you hate asking for help, Dude.”
“I know. But remember when I broke my arm last year? You’re doing exactly what I was doing. And what did you call me?”
The faintest hints of a smile crossed Michelangelo’s face. “A stubborn donkey-head.” He’d actually used another term but he had no desire to be yelled at twice today for language.
Raphael cocked an eye ridge at his brother.
Reluctantly, Michelangelo laughed. A sad, resigned laugh. “Hee-haw,” he mimicked though without as much enthusiasm as normal. “Fine. Help me?”
“See? Was that so hard?” Setting his brother down on the counter, Raphael handed him a dampened washcloth to clean up with and set to work.
By the time Michelangelo had himself mayonnaise free, his brother set down a sliver of a sandwich—turkey, ham, lettuce tomato, cheese, mayo, mustard…and a sliver of pear. Michelangelo had discovered the combo by accident one day and it had been his favorite since.
It really was more of a corner of a sandwich—-no, less, given his size, but it was cut small enough for him to hold. Or at least small enough to get into his mouth.
In fact, even with his appetite, he could only eat half of it. But oh, did it feel good to have a full belly.
Once again though, it meant mayo and mustard went all over him. It seemed he was doomed to be a mess until he was his proper size again.
“Here.”
His brother set a single potato chip down and the cap from a water bottle of water. Michelangelo still had to cup his hands to get any water to his mouth but it was something.
As Raphael put the plate and condiments up, he asked. “You done?”
Nodding, Michelangelo replied, “Yeah…thanks.”
His brother couldn’t help but quip, “You did get some in you, right? I mean, the mayo look works for you…”
Snorting, Michelangelo rubbed the wet washcloth over himself again, though at least he could laugh at himself some this time. “Very funny. Food just plain isn’t meant to be my size, Dude!”
Raphael shook his head, watching his brother attempt to clean up but only succeeding at smearing the stuff more. “Don’t think the washcloth is gonna cut it, Michelangelo. You need a bath.”
“Aw, man. Maximum bummer. I already took one today.”
“…I could hold you under the faucet.” Raphael plucked his brother up by the shell, giving him a grin.
“I hate you.”
OOO
“You sure this is gonna work?”
Leonardo smiled. “Trust me.”
It turned out sleeping was going to be more complicated than they anticipated. While his pillow was normally firm and soft enough, at his current size, it had all but swallowed him. If Master Splinter had not insisted on seeing him settled, it might have suffocated him.
But his eldest brother insisted he had a solution. Right now, with as dead tired as he was, Michelangelo hoped so.
“Here.”
The oldest turtle set his brother down on his nightstand and Michelangelo immediately recognized one of the fancy boxes his brother kept the traditional Japanese tea sets in. The tea pot had been removed and Leonardo had folded some sort of silk sash into it.
Jumping down, Michelangelo found it gave a bit but with the many layers his brother had folded it, it held firm and he didn’t feel like he was drowning.
The fact that he could lay down and rest and be safe and comfortable…it was such a small thing. But it meant so much. “Thanks, amigo. This is perfect.”
“Are you gonna be warm enough?” The mother-hen tendency that was so uniquely his oldest brother was warm to the spirit. “Silk was all I could fold that small.”
“I’ll be fine, Dude. Right now, I could sleep in a blizzard.”
“Alright, but if you get cold, you tell me.” He patted his left wrist where he had attached his com. “I’m leaving mine on so I can hear you, okay?”
Michelangelo gave a thumbs up, “Got it, compadre.” He slid down into the pocket of silk, curled onto his side and closed his eyes. A moment later, he caught his brother’s comforting voice reading.
Leonardo always read before he turned in. It was how he relaxed.
But it wasn’t normal for him to be reading aloud. That had to be solely for him. Much as Michelangelo felt a little too old to be read to, he also realized he didn’t care. It felt good.
Sleep came well before the first chapter was done.
Leonardo closed the book, marking his spot with one of the many bookmarks his youngest brother had made for him over the years. A warm smile graced his face when he caught his brother’s even breathing. He’d had quite the day. He was probably exhausted.
“Good night, Michelangelo.” He extinguished the light and laid down himself. “Sweet dreams.”
OOO
Unfortunately, having been attacked by a giant cat, survived a shrinking ray and being attacked by and by things and people hundreds of times larger than yourself did not lend itself to gentle dreams.
They weren’t necessarily repeats of the day’s events. That would have been easy to handle. These were…corrupt, twisted versions of what might have happened. Of what could have happened. Of what if his brothers were too late. Of what if he hadn’t been able to get help.
Of what if that cat had caught him like it wanted to so badly.
Shadows of teeth, of claws, of water, of shouts, of unanswered cries for help.
Michelangelo awoke with a shout of his own, hand to his plastron, entire body shaking. Eyes darted around the room, trying to reconnect, to make reality make sense.
Everything was still so big. So dangerous. Was he still in that place? Was there a cat here, staking him?
He screeched again when the room was suddenly set ablaze with light as a small lamp on the side table hummed to life.
“Michelangelo, you’re okay.”
That voice. He knew that voice. Had known it his entire life. That voice always meant safe. Always meant help.
“L-Leonardo…it’s you, it’s you.” Gradually as his eyes adjusted, Michelangelo’s sleeping brain caught up with being awake. “Mondo…unpleasant dream…”
“I gathered as much.” The older turtle reached over, intent on just rubbing his brother lightly on the shell but as soon as he got close, Michelangelo crawled onto his palm, hugging as tight to his thumb as he could. Trembling all the while. “Hey, it's okay.”
Leonardo drew his brother close to his chest, covering him with his other hand and gently rubbing his shell. He couldn't properly hug him when he was this small—not without risking hurting him--and that was a serious crime.
A Michelangelo who couldn't receive hugs was… unnatural.
“You're alright, Michelangelo. You're home. You're safe.”
Safe? Home. Yeah, yeah, he was home but…but…there was danger here too. Danger and tribulations…
“What if this doesn't wear off, amigo?” The pitch was higher, more out of fear than any other reason. “What if I’m stuck like this forever?”
The faint light gave his brother’s eyes a deep, comforting glow, “Is that what you're worried about?”
“I'm a liability, Dude!”
Those dark blue eyes narrowed and a sternness entered Leonardo’s voice rarely heard outside of life or death crises. “You are not. I will not tolerate that kind of slander, do you hear me?”
“But it's true! I'm useless like this.” Michelangelo lowered his head. “Or…at least I feel useless.”
Leonardo seemed more accepting of that, “I know you do. But you're not. We wouldn't have been able to stop that crazy sailor without you.”
A light laugh though Michelangelo didn't loosen his grip. “I don't think he was even a sailor, not a real one, anyway,”
He leaned into his brother’s touch, allowing himself to relax some.
“Likely not,” Leonardo agreed. “But you figured out how to get us there. That's no small feat.” The leader grinned. “Pun intended.”
“But…what if I'm stuck this way, what if I never get to my right size again?”
“Michelangelo—”
“What if Donatello’s wrong? What if my only hope was crushed by those ships?!”
“Michelangelo—”
“I can't stay like this! I can't! I just can't!”
“ Otōto !” Leonardo’s voice hardened but lost none of its kindness. “ Ochitsuite, shinpai sinaide.”
There was something about hearing the language they grew up speaking. Or maybe it was his brother’s voice. Something about his tone. But he found his nerves calming.
“That's better.” Leonardo praised, tapping his brother’s shell lightly. “You and I both know Donatello will find a way to fix this, if he happens to be wrong. I mean, Donatello found Usagi’s dimension out of thousands, didn't he?”
“…yeah.”
“And he made a dimension gateway in the first place, right?”
“…yeah.”
“So, do you really think he can't figure something like this out?”Leonardo felt inclined to add, “And Donatello said it could be days or it could be hours. I know you want a solid answer but just because you haven't turned back yet, doesn't mean you won't, right?”
The wind knocked out by his anxiety, Michelangelo flopped onto his brother’s plastrom, relishing when Leonardo let him, resting one hand over his back. “No, I guess not. I just…feel so helpless. So…so…” he yawned.
“You've had a doozy of a day. Your adrenaline is crashing,your mind is still racing and you’re trying to hide all your vulnerabilities. You don’t have to do that with us. Not with me. You trust me, right?”
A nod. “With my life, Dude.”
“Then trust Big Brother right now. Rest. Recover. You're safe.”
“Safe…no giant Cat?”
A low chuckle. “No giant Cat. Think that's the first cat you've not loved.”
“It wanted to eat me!”
“Can you blame it? Sensei always said you were the sweet one.”
Rolling his eyes, the small turtle groaned, “Duuude. There's bad jokes and then there’s that!”
But Michelangelo closed his eyes and appreciated the gentle swell and fall of his brother’s chest. It was rhythmic. Familiar. How many times had they done this when they were little?
Not little. Younger .
You're safe, he scolded himself. Don't be all persnickety about words.
And he was safe. Protected. Cared for. Provided for. Letting go of that pride…he’d come to his brothers’ aid so many times. Was it so wrong to relish when they came to his?
As the youngest (and smallest) turtle fell into a steady breathing pattern, Leonardo settled back. He could sleep in almost any position so this suited him fine. If it kept his brother calm all the better. He could only imagine how infuriated his brother must have felt. So, it was only right, he surmised, to give him some grace.
They'd get through this together.
OOO
True to Donatello’s estimate, about sunset the next day, an odd glow took Michelangelo and the next moment, he could finally look his brothers in the eye again.
“Yes! Fantabuloso!” He spun in place, thrust his fists skyward. “No more little me.”
Raphael laughed. “I wouldn't say that. We're all still taller than you.”
A chuckle from Donatello. “And older.”
“Long as I'm not the size of a bumblebee, I can live with that.” He beamed and hugged his brothers tightly then his father. It felt so good to give full-body hugs again!
Even Raphael smiled a bit at it.
“I do believe, my student, that your small adventure has taught you much about the value of tenacity, ingenuity, and cooperation.” Splinter smiled. “So much so that while you were recovering, your brothers and I have arranged a small surprise.”
Shock settled in his eyes. “A surprise?”
“Yep.” Leonardo ventured in from where he’d slipped off into their master’s bedroom. He carried a small box with a blue ribbon but it wasn't sealed. “We’ve been talking about it for a while and it seemed the perfect time.”
Intrigued, Michelangelo took hold of the gift, finding it very light, and it…moved?
A light ‘mew’ originated from inside.
Gently lifting the lid, the youngest turtle all but screeched as a tiny grey and white kitten crawled up into his hands.
“Dudes! Are you serious?” The kitten gave his cheek a lick and he nearly melted, nuzzling the creature back. “She's mine?”
“Very much so, my son.” Splinter smiled. “You have demonstrated a maturity these last weeks and after yesterday’s events, I would say you have more than proved you can handle a pet you have begged for so long.”
“Man…this is totally righteous! A kitty for me! And one that won't try to eat me!”
Donatello laughed. “Are you sure, she's sure making a go of it!”
The youngest turtle giggled, “Hey, that tickles!” as the kitten seemed content to clean his entire face. “I’m not a pizza pie.”
The group chuckled together as Michelangelo gently cradled her. “Thanks, compadres…Master Splinter. This means a lot to me.”
Wrapping an arm around his brother, Donatello chuckled. “So, what's her name?”
The kitten leapt from the turtle’s hand, intent on exploring her new home. A swipe and crash later, she stood atop the fallen lamp as if it were a felled beast.
With a beam, Michelangelo sat on the ground and dangled his mask tails for her. She quickly became much more interested in those than her slain lamp.
“Klunk. It suits her.”