A/N: I read a very intriguing study the other day about what how we sleep says about our personality. Thought it might make a cute story. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Don't own.
How We Sleep
There was something Splinter had always found very comforting about watching his sons sleep. He knew it was a trait carried by all fathers; he remembered the same warm glow in his heart every time he watched his little Miwa resting peacefully all those years ago. The thought saddened him briefly, but not for long. Yes, he had lost his beloved daughter, but that wouldn't take away from the sons he had now.
Though, with four sons at varying teen ages, catching them all asleep at the same time was somewhat rare. Even harder was catching them relaxed enough to sleep without guard. Of course they all knew they were safe as long as their sewer lair was hidden, but they were gaining more and more enemies, and had experienced the pain of loss more times then Splinter cared to think about.
But tonight, tonight was different. Earlier that evening the wiry band of ninja turtles had faced a thrilling victory over the Purple Dragons and the mutant Mikey called Dogpound. When they had come home, they were energized, happy, and (most importantly to their father) uninjured. After pizza, movies, and some late night training, Splinter listened quietly from his room as the sounds of his family slowly died down. At three in the morning, everything was finally quiet; only the pitter-patter of water in far away tunnels and the steady clicks from Donetello's machines drifted to his well-trained ears.
With stealth of a master, Splinter crept from his room and through the dojo, still warm from his sons' training. Outside, in the main room of their home, all was at peace. The tv was glowing its usual soft blue, and even Ice Cream Kitty wasn't mewing from her freezer home. Quietly, Splinter made his way to the hall of dorms that held his son's four bedrooms.
He'd been happy, of course, when he'd first found this place for them to live, but still, he missed the old days when they only had one room, and all his family slept together. Safe. Sound.
The first room was Donatello's. The door had an old 'no entry' street sign bolted in the center. Below, in crude spray paint was an addition : "that means you, Mikey," it said. Splinter shook his head. He remembered when his intelligent son wrote it; Michelangelo had just broken one of his elder's experiments and he was too wrapped in his fury to think ahead. Of course Donatello hadn't really meant it. The sign was more of a joke now.
Silently, Splinter's paw wrapped around the latch and he slid the heavy bunker door open.
The inventor's room was never really dark. There were so many computers and machines-many of which Splinter had no idea what their purpose was-the small dorm was almost always glowing with electronic light. Internally, Splinter had thought such light could never be healthy for the resting mind, but he also knew that his youngest middle son never truly rested anyway. Even in sleep, the teen's mind was racing a thousand miles a minute.
Splinter grinned. Donatello had settled on his side, facing the door, with his arms wrapped fondly around some new invention. Splinter thought his son looked like a father himself in that moment. Just then, the boy mumbled in his sleep and turned around, flipping to curl his face around his pillow and snuggle the little invention closer. Chuckling, Splinter backed out and closed the door.
The next room belonged to his youngest, Michelangelo's room. The door to the small terrapins room always stuck a little (too many comics shoved in the corner behind it) so Splinter had to use great care when sliding through. Not that his youngest was particularly known for being a light sleeper. Honestly, Splinter was quiet certain he could drop a vase and the teen wouldn't budge.
It always amazed him just how easily the little turtle could relax, though. Even in their worst nights, Michelangelo had never had trouble sleeping, once he found a place that felt like home and protected him from the night terrors. The only part that changed was where that place might have been. Sometimes it was on the couch, other times it was here, and, when something really bothered him, it was with one of his brothers.
Tonight, he was snoring loudly; the noise amplified by the comic book laid open across his face. Splinter laughed. Michelangelo held his worn teddy bear in one arm, and an old sock in the other. He was wearing an old pair of human's white underwear, and was...upside down on his bed. Resisting the urge to right him, Splinter ducked back out into the hall. The trouble-making turtle might well be his oddest son, but he was quite sure that he also shed the brightest light on anyone he came in contact with.
Clasping his hand behind his back, Splinter gracefully eased across the hall to he third room. There was a brightly colored sign taped in the center of the door: a crayon and paint creation of a five-year-old baby brother. Michelangelo had thought it kind of silly that Leonardo had kept it hanging for all these years, but Splinter knew that the childish, poorly-scripted sign of his name meant more to Leonardo than the eldest would ever admit.
Being particularly cautious of his lightest-sleeping son, Splinter pushed open the bulkhead door and peered inside. A meditation candle still burned on the floor, casting a soft yellow light to the simple room. Splinter knew that his other sons often teased Leonardo for his traditional preferences, but it hadn't seemed to bother him. He slept on a small, low bed, and on his walls were antique Japanese wall hangings and photos of their family. This place was sacred to his oldest son, but it was also open to any of his family at any time. Leonardo was the leader amongst his sons, and everything about him proved how much he treasured that position.
On the bed with blankets neatly folded back, Leonardo slept on his shell, with one arm at his side and the other tucked behind his head. Here, in sleep, Splinter reminded himself just how young his sons really were. At barely seventeen, Leonardo's conscious face was always pulled in worry, or wrinkled in the deep thought concentration. But now, in sleep, his features were lax, and aging lines vanished, leaving a young, weary terrapin child behind. Leonardo was strong and kind, but was also so afraid; so worried he'd let his family down.
With a frown, Splinter slid the door closed. The life he'd bestowed upon his oldest was a difficult and trying one, but he knew in his heart that the young master could bare it...if only he learned to let someone in, someday.
The last room was always his favorite on nights like this one. It was no secret that his second oldest son was hotheaded, impulsive, and fiercely protective of his family. He was the strongest, the most muscular, and most aggressive of the boys, and had no difficulty proving it at every available opportunity. What was a secret, however, was how he slept when he thought no one was watching.
Ignoring the various threatening signs as he slid open the heavy door, Splinter's eyes sparkled a little at what he might find. The room inside was dark and a little cluttered with all Raphael's interests, but not nearly as dirty as Mikey's room. It was messy and disorganized to the eye, but everyone knew that Raph knew exactly what was supposed to be where, and, more importantly, exactly the moment something went missing. Splinter couldn't help smiling when he remembered one particular occasion when Michelangelo thought he could 'borrow' one of the red-banded turtle's comics.
But deep inside the room, beyond the movie posters, training weapons, and cans of bug spray, there was a well-used twin bed creaking under the growing weight of the warrior son. The sight instantly brought warmth to the old rat's heart. There, half under the worn blanket Donatello had gifted him years before, the fiery terrapin slept peacefully-for once not haunted by his own mind or the violence that chased him so harshly during the day.
The largest of all his sons by bulk, Splinter was always amazed at the teens flexibility. He slept on his side, knees curled up to cradle the arms pressed up against his plastron. There was a pillow under his head, but his beak was pressed into the blanket Splinter knew was his son's favorite.
Raphael was so strong, so earnest, but there, in that moment, he looked like the smallest turtle in the world, simply riding out his fears and the cold in the warmth of sleep. With eyes soft, and heart swelled, Splinter moved a gentle paw to pull the favored blanket around the young fighter's shell, and nuzzled his head in a fond kiss.
The turtle's response was faint and amounted to only the softest of grunts and a quiet shimmy further into the woolen fabric, but it was plenty for the aging father.
With great care, he backed out and began to slide through the half-open door.
"Everythin' okay, Dad?" the question was so soft, so mumbled with sleep that Splinter almost missed it. But as it was, he paused in the door and smiled warmly at the bleary green eyes squinting his direction.
"Yes, my son," he breathed; the deep tenor of his voice instantly lulling Raphael back to sleep. "Rest well."
"Thnks..." came the slurred reply just before the father closed his son's door.
Hands clasped again behind his back, Splinter found himself looking back at each of the doors one last time. 'So precious,' he thought with a blend of great tenderness, pride, and protection.
Nothing. There was nothing in the world that could take the place of these small moments of peace in the old master's otherwise worrisome mind. No matter what they faced, what evil came against them, Splinter only prayed that these little frames of time would always still exist.
Nights where Donatello let his mind sleep.
Michelangelo forgot his nightmares.
Leonardo let his worries rest.
And Raphael slept like no one was watching.
End.
A/N: Thanks so much for reading! Please review if you'd like. (Also, while I realize Raph has a hammock in most versions, he does have a bed in the 2012 version.)