A/N: I was reading way too many angsty fics and got depressed. I wanted to cheer myself up. . . hence this little one shot. Its not hilarious, but it cheered me up.
Disclaimer: You know 'em, you love 'em, they're the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles! I know 'em, I love 'em, but I do not own them. Drat.
I bid ye enjoy.
Splinter sat at the kitchen table. Across from him sat one of his sons. A large, smug grin was on the turtle's green face as he stared his father down, an eye ridge arched questioningly. Body held cockily, he leaned back in his chair.
Splinter held his ground beneath his son's scrutinizing gaze. He longed to turn away from those eyes that gleamed with victory, but he would only be admitting defeat. Despite his reluctance to admit it, it was inevitable; he had lost. He had lost the very moment he accepted his son's challenge, a challenge that had seemed so innocent at the time.
Now, he knew better.
For more than an hour he had fought, struggled, strategized, and conspired. But no matter the extent of his efforts, he had lost. No matter the slow, careful plans he had made and carried out with such precision, he lost. He had been fighting a losing battle since the beginning.
The boy was just too clever for him. He was much more familiar with the weapons than Splinter was. How could Splinter compete with him at something he was just vaguely familiar with?
"Well?" The turtle asked in a tone thick with arrogance.
Splinter held his chin high. "Well what, my son?"
"Do you have it or not?"
Muscles clenched with stubbornness, Splinter spoke on the edge of calm, "I must reflect upon the matter before answering."
"You're stalllling!" His son teased.
Splinter pursed his lips. "I am not stalling."
"Mikey's right, Master Splinter," Donatello said from his spot at their side. He had watched their battle from the beginning, finding great amusement in the whole situation. "You are kind of stalling."
"Neither of you have any patience." Splinter said curtly, "I am simply taking the time to reflect—"
"What's to reflect?" Michelangelo asked incredulously, "Do you have a six or not, Master Splinter?"
Whiskers quivering irritably, Splinter glanced at the lone card in his hand. A six of spades. Drat.
"You win yet again, Michelangelo," he mumbled, sliding the card across the table to his son.
Michelangelo whooped and added the card to his own, placing them down carefully by his stacks of pairs. "Yes! We should play Go Fish more often, Master Splinter!"
Do not count on it, Splinter thought bitterly as both his sons moved to scour the fridge.
A/N: It's based on a dream I had, only Splinter was playing Rock, Paper, Scissors with the guys. They were on the last match, their fists raised, then Splinter paused the game and said, "I must reflect on this." So Splinter thought. . . and thought. . . and thought. . . and the guys were practically bouncing on their toes with their fists still raised, waiting for him to make his move. Heh.
I'm not sure if someone has already written a story like this. If it is out there, I didn't know about it. So sorry!
