Four days since Mikey's brief, concussed flirtation with consciousness, three days since he was cleared from the infirmary ("Okay, Mikey. I think I can let you go now.") and Mikey had kinda thought they were just gonna pretend like none of it had ever happened.

The gibberish and the cuddling and the crying, that is.

He remembered enough of it to be a hundred percent completely mortified, which was a new and uncomfortable feeling—like when sensei made them wear layers of human clothes during their first bitter winters, coats that caught around their shells and sat strangely on their shoulders—and every time Donnie looked at him it was with the weirdest expression; like Mikey had turned the universe upside down just for laughs, and left his brother to figure out a bunch of new laws of motion and physics.

They were okay, though. For the most part. They still sparred together at practice and stuff, and sat next to each other at the dinner table, and rolled their eyes in unison when Raph and Leo started arguing over the same stupid thing for probably the ten millionth time.

But… sometimes, Donnie would just… look at him. With that same weirdness. And Mikey didn't know what to do when he did that.

"Sorry for crying on you and making everything really awkward! Everything's cool, I'm cool, I'm just, like, sorta confused—by my life and the entire world and you, kinda—but I'll figure this out! Promise!"

Somehow he didn't think that would work. The P-word probably wasn't exactly the charm it used to be.

Then—three days later, out of nowhere, Mikey hadn't even seen it coming—Donnie called him to the lab, with a "hey, I need your help with something," and Mikey fell for that, like an idiot, and now he was cornered. He belonged on one of those "what NOT to do" stranger-danger posters.

"We need to talk," Don said, really gently, and Mikey wanted to disappear. This was it. This was when they talked about how much Mikey was messing everything up, because he couldn't seem to click back into place with his brother the way he used to—the way he thought he'd be able to, just slide back into the practice of "Before the Accident," but back then they weren't buddies, and as much as Mikey didn't know how to be around Don anymore, he still wanted to, really really bad. And now Donnie was finally fed up with it—with him. And the tentative okayness was over, and it was going to be like before.

His expression must have been telling, because something slow and soft happened to Donnie's face. "Don't look at me like that. I'm not angry."

Which was how Mikey found himself back on the infirmary bed, sitting with his legs dangling over the side, feeling about an inch tall under his big brother's x-ray eyes.

Then Donnie's desk chair squeaked a bit, and Mikey blinked at the weight that dipped the bed as his brother sat next to him. And blinked again, when Donnie reached over to pick up one of his hands. It was small compared to Donnie's, and wrapped up painstakingly in gauze and medical tape; and as he watched, Donnie's fingers curled around his entirely.

"I mean… I wanted to be angry. When Rocksteady almost crushed you, and I had to carry you home. You almost got—really, really badly hurt that time, Mikey. For me. And I wanted to be furious."

For a second he looked furious, words notwithstanding, and Mikey shuffled his feet meekly.

"Sorry, Dee."

And he meant it. He didn't mean to scare him—how many times had he been where Donnie was, watching one of his big brothers take a hit meant for him? He knew it was scary, especially in the after, back at home, waiting for them to wake up. And he really was sorry that Don had to be scared like that, but he wasn't sorry he did it, not even a little. Not even with the bruised ribs and bruised brain and bruised everything else he got out of the deal.

He was only a big bro for like a month, but… he sorta understood now.

He wouldn't be as good at it as Leo (and all those times Leo would draw his swords and stay behind to give his little brothers time to get away, steadfast and strong and never once looking back, not even for a second) or Raph (and the fierce compassion that maybe looked like fury when coupled with snapping green eyes, the fierce wanting to take on the whole world because he had so much love to prove) but he would always, always try.

Try to keep them safe, no matter what.

And in that way, Mikey knew his brothers a little bit better. And he was sorry Donnie had to worry, but he wasn't sorry for anything else.

And Donnie was still being kind of psychic, because a crooked smile was tugging at one side of his mouth, and he gave Mikey a nudge with his shoulder. "Not sorry enough to never do it again, though, right?"

He didn't sound upset—sounded kind of reluctantly amused, actually, if anything—and Mikey found himself smiling back a little, like a knee-jerk reaction. "Right. I always said you were smart." Donnie snorted and shook his head, and Mikey tapped his fingers against his kneepad, summoning courage. Call it morbid curiosity, but he had to know; "Uh—why aren't you mad, Dee?"

"'Cause we made a deal," the purple-banded turtle said, with a shrug, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I protect you, and you protect me." And at the probably dumb look on Mikey's face—was that the world exploding, or just his brain?—Donnie frowned without anger, raised one eye-ridge, and added, "What, you thought I'd forget?"

And the next night, after dinner, Donnie came back to the kitchen with something bundled up in his arms. Mikey took one look and burst out laughing.

It was the dismantled toaster, wrapped together with all its loose parts in an old, oil-stained towel, and Don was looking markedly flustered the longer Mikey giggled. When he managed a "why haven't you fixed that yet?" he got a defensive, "I've been busy, okay?" in response that really only made laugh more.

But when Donnie sat down at the table with the battered-looking, scorch-marked appliance, spreading out the towel and arranging all the pieces, Mikey left the last couple dishes to drown in the sink for a little while, moving over to take the chair next to him. "I can't believe you let me get away with this," Don said after a moment, and Mikey grinned.

"Aww, you weren't hurting anything."

"I set the kitchen on fire!"

Mikey waved one hand grandly. "Accidents are how we learn," he said, in a sub-par impersonation of their father. It coaxed an amused snort of Donnie, at least, and Mikey folded his arms on the table and rested his chin on top to watch.

Donnie tinkered for a moment, looking kind of distracted. Then he glanced sidelong at Mikey, something fleeting and uncertain in his eyes, and said, "Do you want to give me a hand?"

"Uh…" Mikey blinked. "Well—I mean, sure, Dee, but I dunno how much help I'll be."

"I can teach you," he said, and he looked about as nervous as people walking a tightrope probably did, like there was a great big chance Mikey would laugh at him in a mean way, or tell him no. Which was stupid, way stupider than a genius like Don should be allowed, because Don could ask him for literally anything, Don could ask him for the moon, and Mikey's answer would be something along the lines of,

"Sure. Absolutely."

Donnie didn't look up to him anymore—Mikey thought he'd always kinda miss that.

But Donnie did let Mikey pick up a few stray pieces of their poor broken toaster and fit them together, fumbling and clumsy next to Donnie's practiced hands; and his explanations were easy and patient, even when he had to repeat himself, and it all sort of actually starting making sense there by the end—and it was even really fun.

When the whole thing was finished, and their test-run toast popped out all golden-brown and perfect, Mikey cheered, and Don rubbed his head fondly.

"Thanks, Mike."

And "thanks" from Donatello usually meant "thanks" for a hundred different things all at once; and Mikey knew this "thanks" was probably less about the toaster, and more about more important things—like promises, and shadow puppets, and bedtime stories, and banana splits.

Mikey knew what he meant. So he smiled warmly, and reached over to hug Donnie around the shoulders as tight as he could.

"Any time, Dee. I mean, what's a kitchen without a toaster?"