#hotmilkytea

Donnie frowns and bends both wrists experimentally.  Difficult to do, more so than is warranted by his eldest brother’s loose grip.  “They feel swollen,” he says.  “My fingers, too.”

Leo hums, thumbs tracing the sloppy criss-cross of his arm wrappings   “Well these sure as hell aren’t helping.  Here, let me redo them for you.”

Leo definitely knows his stuff.  His wrap job is high and secure enough to provide stabilization, but not so tight that it cuts off his circulation.  The warm feeling has spread further up Donnie’s arms and down past the first joint of all six fingers, but the annoying buzz has faded enough that he doesn’t bother mentioning it to Splinter before they head out for patrol.  

(“A mistake,” the old rat says later, grey head bent low over his acupuncture charts and freshly sterilized needles spread out on a clean cloth at Donatello’s side.  “But not your first, my son.”  Facedown on the bamboo mat, exposed limbs prickled like a porcupine, Donnie does his best not to scream as feeling floods back into to his forearms with an electric vengeance.)

Come dawn, his fingers are stiff as he slots the manhole cover back into place behind them, but it’d been a cold enough night that his glasses had fogged over more than once, and they are reptiles, after all.  

He doesn’t really, truly start to worry until he goes to strip down for bed and can’t unbutton his pants.

“Youah shi-unh ‘e,” Raph says slushily through a mouth full of foam.  His reflection eyes Donnie warily, toothbrush almost hidden by his giant hand.  “Izis a ‘oke oah...?”

Donnie grimaces and shifts from one bare foot to the other.  At least he’d been able to toe out of his boots.  “Raph, if you don’t help me in the next thirty seconds I’m in serious danger of pissing my pants for the love of—!”

“Oh-ay!  Oh-ay!”

Donatello has never been more grateful that Raphael is a turtle of swift, decisive action.  At least with the buttons and clips all undone he can push the stiff military-grade polycotton down past his thighs using only the heels of his hands.  He’s so relieved to have avoided catastrophe all thought temporarily leaves him, the buzzing in his wrists spreading up to jangle so loudly in his brain that he almost loses his balance over the squat toilet when Raphael barges back into the bathroom, Master Splinter and Leonardo and Michelangelo in tow, because he may be bad sometimes at the whole self-preservation thing but the rest of the family considers it a Big Deal that he can’t feel or move his hands.

“Bilateral inflammation of the brachial plexus nerve,” Mikey declares solemnly as Master Splinter slips another needle between his scales.  Between WebMD and their meager collection of battered medical textbooks, he’s become something of an expert on repetitive motion injuries in the last forty-five minutes.  “Or maybe tendinitis.  Personally I was rooting for Saturday night palsey based on the name alone, but given your other symptoms—”

“Michelangelo, you are neglecting your duties.”

Mikey jerks out of his self-satisfied slouch with a start, fumbling for the dropped fan and nearly knocking the squat, steadily-bubbling pot from the heat plate.  “Sorry, sensei!”  A sudden gush of herb-scented steam washes over Donnie, causing each of the tiny needles to flutter.  His legs cramp as he fights to stay still.  

Once all the needles are in place and Mikey’s fanning reaches a more languid pace Donnie finally relaxes into the treatment, mind drifting far enough away from his body that the prickling fire in both hands is more anchor than misery.  He sifts leisurely through the skeletons of thoughts that approach through his abstract pink trance.  This one is about his latest keyboard modifications, the dozens of hotkey shortcuts he’d programmed in to navigate his user interface without having to boot the power-hungry holo mode.  This one is about the braces April sometimes wears when she spends a week drafting and re-drafting her latest investigative piece.  This one is an itemized list of all the tools in his toolbox technically too small for his hands, the different ways he might be able to extend the handles to make them more ergonomic.  This one...

“Pssst!  Donnie! I think I know what your problem is, dude.”

He cracks open an eyelid, finds Mikey bent low over his head close enough that only most of his features are a meaningless blur.  

“Too much, y’know.  Computer time.”  And then, with a quick glance to make sure their father isn’t looking, he curls his thumb and first finger together and makes a rapid, extremely lewd gesture.