i_speak_softly (
i_speak_softly) wrote in
lucetilogs2010-02-21 05:01 pm
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Who:
thesevencodes,
i_speak_softly,
gaijin_ninja,
nexuschamp
What: A not-so-dire illness.
When: The wee hours of Sunday morning.
Where: The Hamato apartment, in C6.
Summary: Don feels a little sick. Raph and Leo freak the hell out. An honest discussion is had by all, and Many Theories are Expounded.
Rating: Raph is here. It probably won't be less than PG-13.
The problem with being a turtle, is that you cannot curl into a fetal position when your stomach hurts.
Don rolls over and presses his face into the pillow.
No. Bad idea.
He rolls over again, and breathes in the cool air of the quiet apartment.
Why does he feel so hot?
He's going to get up. He's going to get some water and turn the thermostat down, just a notch.
No, wait. No climate control in Luceti. He'll have to open a window.
Windows. What a novel concept.
Thank God there is indoor plumbing, at least.
Right. Getting up, getting a drink.
Very quietly, because Leo, the infamously light sleeper, is right there on the other side of the room.
He sits up. His stomach rolls. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, and stands. The entire apartment pitches to the left, and two-hundred pounds of turtle crashes to the floor.
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
What: A not-so-dire illness.
When: The wee hours of Sunday morning.
Where: The Hamato apartment, in C6.
Summary: Don feels a little sick. Raph and Leo freak the hell out. An honest discussion is had by all, and Many Theories are Expounded.
Rating: Raph is here. It probably won't be less than PG-13.
The problem with being a turtle, is that you cannot curl into a fetal position when your stomach hurts.
Don rolls over and presses his face into the pillow.
No. Bad idea.
He rolls over again, and breathes in the cool air of the quiet apartment.
Why does he feel so hot?
He's going to get up. He's going to get some water and turn the thermostat down, just a notch.
No, wait. No climate control in Luceti. He'll have to open a window.
Windows. What a novel concept.
Thank God there is indoor plumbing, at least.
Right. Getting up, getting a drink.
Very quietly, because Leo, the infamously light sleeper, is right there on the other side of the room.
He sits up. His stomach rolls. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, and stands. The entire apartment pitches to the left, and two-hundred pounds of turtle crashes to the floor.
no subject
But more than that, it creates so many complications.
These versions of his brothers are softer. Less able, both physically and emotionally. Maybe he hadn't seen the gentler youth in their faces before, but now that the possibility has been dragged to life, he can trace the scars on their skin and see fewer.
Scars. Leonardo gestures slowly to Don. "The scar on your thigh. Where you were infected. Is it there?"
no subject
"The scar on your thigh. Where you were infected. Is it there?"
His first thought is of the old scar where Raph had accidentally stabbed him in practice, the time he had been convinced he was coming down with gangrene. (He'd been only twelve, and suffering from a bad case of paranoid delusional prepubescent med-student syndrome.)
His second thought is that Leo is referring to the mutant monsters who had allegedly injured him and infected him with some agent (a mutagen?) that hasn't been explained very well.
It's cold in the room (I was so hot a few minutes ago) and Don is reluctant to unwrap the blankets. But he does it anyway, and shivers as he traces his fingers along his bare legs.
Good thing I didn't get as far as opening a window. It's February; what was I thinking?
He catalogs each scar as he touches it. The sai mark. A thin line from a jagged edge of broken-off pipe. For each pale inscription, a date, a place, an image, a memory of pain.
But none that trigger repressed memories of being stung by a feral mutant. None that he can't account for.
"I don't... I don't think so..."
no subject
He snorts a laugh, half amused, half giddy with relief, before turning his glare to Mikey. "I was wonderin' why you picked up that Battle Nexus shit again."