Disclaimer: TMNT are owned by Mirage, Kevin Eastman and Peter Laird

A/N: Thank you to you reviewers! This one is a little quieter than Ego Boost, but with the two who are in it…oh, well! I hope you still like it!

Strength

"Ah!" he fell against the cold brick, his dark eyes wide as he reached to squeeze his calf. Here was a first, the muscle had seized without warning. He let out a low hiss and dug his thumb down his leg until it loosened again. His eyes fell to the walking stick tucked beneath his arm (just in case), his breath shuddering with disgust.

He didn't need it.

Not for something as simple as getting a cup of tea.

His ears flicked towards the small room at the end of the hall, measuring the even breaths inside. Satisfied they were still asleep, he pushed from the wall and entered the living room. Three steps in and he went down again, this time catching himself on the low coffee table.

He snarled, bringing his fist down as quietly as his anger allowed. It had been over a year since Drako had shattered his leg in the Battle Nexus. The Daimyo's healers had done their magic and he had followed their therapy instructions perfectly, yet he could not escape the ghostly bites of the injury.

Once more, he glared at the stick he refused to use. It was loud, constantly tapping, tapping, tapping. He had survived so long relying on silence. He had raised his children to be silent. If he fell into the habit of using it, what sort of hypocrite would he be?

It was a sound his boys already knew too well and it brought them running when they heard it in the night, even if he was slipping to the bathroom. They would follow him back to bed, anxious and worried, until one by one they fell asleep on his quilt or on the floor. Their hearts were in the right place. But he remembered the night his own had broken when he realized they saw him as an invalid now.

Splinter ground his teeth as he looked to the dark kitchen. There was nothing for it. The end of the stick met stone and he hoisted himself up, hating himself for giving in. Hating Drako for handing him this tool of weakness. He prayed he was far enough away from Leonardo's sharp ears and closed his eyes against the first tap against the night.

His ears shot up, quivering, as he spun towards the dojo. It came again, the familiar sound of a blade slicing the air. A short, three tined blade.

The rat sighed and padded over to the black doorway, listening to constant swishing and light feet upon the mats. He hadn't noticed it in his fall and obviously his son was distracted enough to not have heard him either.

He could already picture his strongest son leaping and jabbing at the air, trying to extinguish some of his restlessness. A flicker of annoyance flashed through him. Working off energy with katas or workouts were one thing, but the fact that Raphael had ignored his rule on weapons, that was another matter. He had had countless talks with his sons about leaving their gear in the storage cabinet whenever their father was not present. How many times would he have to scold him on this?

"Raphael!" he snapped, flicking on the light.

He started at the reaction he got. First, because the frightened squeak which greeted him was not Raphael's. Also, he saw both weapons fly across the room with a glint. They slid over the mat and clattered, rather noisily, onto the stone sidelines. Splinter gaped at them, then looked to the child trembling head to toe with his hands behind his back. Light brown eyes were huge with terror.

"Donatello?"

The eight year old's frame shrank on itself and he dropped his face towards the mat. Shame crawled up his cheeks. Splinter frowned, made his way to retrieve the weapons, and returned them to the cabinet. He hesitated, noticing the tiny smeared handprint on the glass beneath his paw. Finally, he turned to face his son and eased into a kneeling position.

"Donatello."

His son hit his knees before his father, sweat-soaked hands twisting. Splinter tipped his head, pulling his walking stick to his shoulder.

"What were you doing with Raphael's sai?"

"Nothing, sensei."

The rat lifted his chin. "Truly?"

A shifty glance betrayed the young face and Donatello's fingers moved to tug at the bandage just above his left elbow. Splinter's eyes narrowed.

"This has nothing to do with what happened this afternoon?"

While he had been instructing Leonardo and Michelangelo, his other sons had been lightly sparring. At least, that is what he thought until a short cry had startled all of them. Raphael had backed away from his younger brother, wide-eyed, as Donnie held a small gash. When asked what had happened, Donatello had smiled, whispering he was just too slow. Raphael had watched him, frowning and wary and had fallen into an unusual silence for the rest of the session.

His son's eyes flickered and suddenly filled with tears. He muttered into his own shoulder. Splinter perked his ears. "What was that, my son?"

"I can't snitch, sensei."

The rat's eyes closed in dismay. He didn't know how his children had learned of snitching, but if he ever found the fool who had exposed them to such foolishness…Before that word had entered their lives, they had never been afraid to tell him anything. Now, he felt he had to drag their worries from them. Simple conversations became contests of will. It was shocking just how stubborn his four boys could be.

Especially this one.

"Is it still snitching if I promise Raphael will never know you told me?"

Donnie bit his lip.

"And if I promise he will not be in trouble? I just have to know what happened between you two."

Their eyes locked. Splinter felt the first foothold towards victory as tears finally broke free.

"He didn't mean it. He was just askin'."

Splinter eased himself forward, unaware of the gesture. "What did he ask?"

"H-he asked…if I k-knew why y-you…" the gentle voice cracked. "Why you don't trust me with a real weapon." He teeth clamped onto his lower lip.

The father's knuckles went white on his stick.

"Please don't be mad, sensei. He didn't mean to hurt…It's fine. It's nothing."

Nothing always meant something.

Splinter drew a breath and relaxed his shoulders, returning his gaze to his son. "I am not angry, my son. Not with you, not even with Raphael. I am glad that you told me of this, though I am also very sad that Raphael felt he had a right to…" He paused, studying his son closer, trying to read a face so well hidden beneath a mask of contentment. "Donatello, is that what you were doing? Would you prefer a weapon like Raphael's or Leonardo's?"

The small shoulders tensed. "N-no…I…"

He drew back, feeling a sting he was unaccustomed to. He had thought so long on choosing their weapons, thinking to reflect their fighting styles. Donnie's gaze was locked onto the walking stick, almost desperate. Splinter frowned.

"What is it?"

"I…I thought…"

"Yes?"

Donnie snapped his eyes upward, begging. "Please don't take my bo, father. I'll do better, I promise!"

"Better?"

"I'll…I'll polish three times a day and I'll replace the ribbon if it gets one tear!"

Splinter set his hand on the slim shoulder. "Donatello, stop. I will not take it."

"I like my bo…but Raph said his sai were better. I…I just wanted to see…I was afraid that he was right..."

"Raphael takes pride in his sai," Splinter said, gently. "He trusts in their strength. But steel does not make his weapon more prominent over yours. Do you want to know why I chose the bo staff for you?" He waited until he received a miserable nod. "Not because I sensed any sort of weakness in you or believed you could not handle a blade. Quite the opposite. You have no need of one."

Donnie looked up.

"You wield such power with such simplicity. You are lethal with a weapon of nature, not one forged of men. Yet, you choose to reign in your strength to disarm, not injure. That control is most impressive, my son. And I am so proud that one so young can tame himself so. You are so far from being weak, Donatello. I only wish you would allow yourself to believe that."

Fingers fidgeted at the praise. Splinter leaned in to kiss his brow, running a thumb beneath his wet eye. Donnie's arms flew upward, clinging to his father's neck. The rat returned the gesture, chucking him beneath his chin when they broke apart.

"T-thank you, sensei..." Donnie whispered, shyly.

"It is late. You should return to bed."

Splinter's winced as his leg reminded him of its presence, having stiffened as he knelt. He found a small, olive colored hand over his own, the other on his elbow. Donatello helped him rise and stepped back to gaze at him with the blatant adoration only a child's face can bear. His fingers slipped from Splinter's, hesitating on the wooden cane. His face softened.

"Good night, sensei."

With that, he turned and trotted from the room. Splinter watched him go. He ran his thumb over the place where Donatello had paused, wondering…

His eyes widened and he turned towards the cabinet, where his son's bo was propped opposite of Leonardo's sheathed swords. Past sparring lessons flashed before his eyes, where his sons were challenged to disarm him. He thought of their little faces filled with awe as he used a stick to overpower each of them. He'd never considered how they may have seen it. Seen him.

Donatello didn't want a different weapon. Because his was the closest to Splinter's own.

I'll do better.

The walking stick rotated over his palm.

Drako's reminder of his weakness.

Donatello's assurance that he was strong.

Like his father.

The rat finally made his way into the kitchen, finding the tapping was not so loud as he had originally thought. After setting the kettle upon the stone, he eased himself into a chair, hooking his fingers over the top of his cane. He rested his chin upon the thin digits and gazed at the dark floor before him.

He smiled.