You're sitting in the pit, shell pressed to one of the raised seats behind you, knees pulled up tight against your plastron. You're flexing your hand, curling a fist and uncurling it, so hard you can feel the pull up to your bicep.

You do it over and over, just because you can. No one's in control of you but you. Your body is doing exactly what you want, your fingers folding exactly the way you want them to. Everything's okay, these fists are still yours.

You've only been at it a handful of minutes, but already footsteps plod toward you from the hall. They aren't loud but they're deliberate, enough that you know you're meant to hear him coming. And then with a soft thump, your youngest brother is sitting on the hard ground beside you, scooting close enough that his shoulder bumps into yours.

"Y'okay, Raph?"

His voice is soft and scratchy with sleep. You must have woken him up with that stupid nightmare—his bedroom shares a wall with yours. On top of everything else, guilt manages to find a snug little place in the chaos of your head and your heart, and you clench your hand closed again.

"I'm fine. Go back to bed."

But you're not fine. You're usually not fine, you're usually a mess, and you're usually fine with being not fine. But this time—this time—

"Bow to me," that monster said, and you did. You barely put up a fight; you folded down into a proper kneel, the one your father taught you so patiently all those years ago, and you bowed to him like he was a master, like he was a teacher or a father or anyone who deserved your respect—

You bowed to him, and you shake with fury or fear or something in between the two.

"I'd rather sit out here with you."

He says it in that way that makes it hard on you—he's your baby brother in a way he'll never outgrow, he can get away with things no one else in the whole world can, and he knows it. Most of the time that knowledge makes him a holy terror—in the daylight hours of pranks and sneers and endless laughter—but then there are moments like this, when he leans against your arm a little more, shifting until he can rest his head on your shoulder, that make you glad he knows what he can get away with.

You couldn't feel a thing when your mind wasn't yours. You couldn't feel the leather of your sai in your hands, you couldn't feel the sting of impact when those unfamiliar gauntlets crashed against Leo's spear. You were practically tied to a chair somewhere in the back of your brain, senseless and powerless and just watching like your eyes were distant windows; just watching, while your body moved like a puppet on a string. You couldn't feel anything, you couldn't even feel your brother under your arms when you tried to kill him—

But Mikey is warm against you now. His chest is swelling and collapsing slowly, his breath puffing against your arm, and you sit quietly, almost reverently, feeling him and feeling him breathe.

"If you're just gonna fall asleep on me, go back to bed already," you grumble out of principle, but it comes out softer than usual. Mikey makes a disagreeable noise—he's half asleep already, it sounds like—and if anything slumps against you more heavily. "You're a brat."

Something like a minute goes by, and suddenly Mikey says, "I'm not scared of Squirrelanoids anymore."

You blink into the darkness, thrown off balance at the non-sequitur. You'll wonder later if Mikey does that sort of thing on purpose, just to get the best of you, just to get your attention; but for now you glance down at the top of his head and ask, "Say what?"

"Squirrelanoids. They really freaked me out, you know? I had lots of dreams where I was drowning again, only this time no one saved me."

In a moment of instant recall, you see it again—Mikey, with that mutant tongue wrapped like rope around his neck and his shoulders; your brother fighting it, clawing to the surface, running out of air, his eyes rolling back—

You shift your arm out from under him and wrap it around his shoulders. You can still do this. Muscle-memory, almost. Reflex. You pull him in close, tucking him under your chin. The Shredder didn't take this from you.

"I didn't know you had nightmares," you say, and he huffs out a laugh.

"Well, duh. I didn't tell you guys about them. I should have, though. It probably would have made me feel better."

Something about the way he says that bugs you. You look out across the dark living room, and wonder if he meant that the way you heard it.

You don't talk about your nightmares. You never talk about your nightmares. You work them off on your punching bag come daylight, maybe sit through some meditation with Splinter if he thinks you should—but you don't talk about those ugly, dark things; you don't bring them with you to the breakfast table. They don't belong where your brothers are.

Tonight it was bugs, and it's not the first time you dreamed of roaches and spiders, but this time there were worms, too. Worms with teeth, that oozed and hissed and burrowed inside of you. You screamed and screamed but you couldn't lift your arms, couldn't move—useless, helpless as they ripped into you. It was scary, and it hurt, but you couldn't move—

"Raph?"

Your grip on him is close to crushing. You let up. You wish your hands would stop shaking. Stop, you order them, and feel cool panic like floodwaters when they don't. Stop. Do what I say. You're mine, this is me, I don't want you to. Stop.

They shake. You're impossibly terrified.

Mikey sits up to look at you, and his blue eyes are light and wide awake and he doesn't look even remotely tired. Something about that should bother you, something about that doesn't make sense, but you'll worry about that when you can breathe. Your body is betraying you again, it's happening again; your hands are shaking, you can't breathe, nothing is working— It's the sleeper agent, it's the mind control serum, it still has you, he still has you, you're shaking and you can't breathe and you're not in control, never in control, it's not you it's not you it's not you it's not—

Something hits you, hard—a slap, the side of your face stinging with it, head snapping to one side. Mikey's voice is sharp and distressed, cutting through you like the edge of a knife.

"Breathe, bro, breathe."

His eyes are inches from yours as he cups your face in his hands. His hands are strong, steadfast, and he's unbearably caring as your breathing slows, unbelievably patient as you find your way back. Your baby brother is a different person like this, a different person as he rubs a hand over your head the way you've done for him a hundred times.

You're an idiot. You were having a panic attack, you idiot. The bug is out of you, Donnie kept you in his lab for like an hour to be sure. You're fine. They made sure you're fine. You're fine.

"The bad dreams went away," he tells you when you've finally caught your breath. He doesn't give you time to be mortified, just sits back on his heels and starts talking again like that never happened, tactful in his own strange way. "I just had to remember the really, really important thing: you caught me."

I caught him.

"You didn't let me go. You'd never let me go." His hands tighten around your arms, strong in a way that belongs to you, strong in a way you let him borrow for now.

Leo coaxed you out of oblivion by tricking your temper. It was easy, like baiting a caged lion—Leo's wild brother, poke you with a stick, watch you roar. It was easy, because in that secret, safe, untouched part of your heart that was scared and breaking, you were already angry, and Leo just had to fan it like a flame.

Sometimes you worry your brothers forget that there are other things you feel just as strongly, things that aren't anger or rage. There's love and loyalty, too, fierce, unrelenting, and forever. Almost crippling, how much you trust them, how much you would do for them, what you would give up for them.

Leo used your anger to save you. You think Mikey would have found another way.

"That's what brothers are for," you tell him, and he laughs, moving back to sit beside you. It tugs at something inside you when he laughs like that, and compels you to smile. It's involuntary, the smile—not quite something you meant for your mouth to do. But it's okay. You're okay.

"Exactly! And I mean, what can a nightmare monster do against that?"

Not a damn thing, you realize, and pull him closer. When you wake up in the morning, Don and Leo will have joined your pile on the floor, blankets and pillows and arms draped around you. Mikey will still be a solid warmth at your side. The lair will be dim with morning light, filtering down from the grate above the spiral stairs. Your father will be making his tea in the kitchen, your brothers breathing deep and soft and sound in their sleep.

And you'll dare the Shredder try and take you again.