A/N: Moving out of Donatello's section now. Sorry again, Donatello, for your short, short section.
Special note: As becomes obvious pretty quickly in this story, I've put the turtles in a different order age-wise than what I see all over this site. I don't know that there's an official order; either way, I've chosen a different one. For this story, Raphael is the eldest turtle, Leonardo is second, Michelangelo is third and Donatello is fourth. There are explanations for this in the text; and no, I won't change it on request. Sorry.
Warnings: None. It's a fluffy family story, all the way through.
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Splinter gave his slumbering sons one last glance, and then he headed for his room step by patient step, listening to the breathing of his little ones like distant music in the night. Just as he reached the doorway, a small voice broke the silence.
"There's no such thing as monsters," Leonardo whispered.
"They always eat the non-believers first," Michelangelo whispered back.
Splinter did not try to contain his widening smile.
.x.
And he was smiling now, too—smiling at Donatello's pictures resting in his hands, these fragile skeletons of childhood that, like autumn's fallen leaves, told the story of a tree that had outgrown them.
But he could not just smile forever. Time was moving in the next room—moving with his tireless sons as their voices and their hands sorted supplies from the rubble—and he needed to move on, too. With careful eyes Splinter canvassed the ground at his feet, searching out another drawing in the same style, making sure no slip of Donatello had flitted away. But in the end there were no more. So Splinter bent down and retrieved a very different picture—perhaps as far from Donatello's as the space of one coloring book allowed.
The first things he noticed were the colors. Strong, vivid colors, pressed into the page so hard that by running his palm over the back he could feel the imprint of each furrowed mark. Not that every color was represented: red and greens, by and large, deep with the force of the illustrator's hand. And never inside the lines—not deliberately outside of them, but always driving past nonetheless, as though the little fingers responsible had simply lacked the discipline to stop where instructed.
Somehow, the roughness did not diminish Splinter's smile as he laid this picture gently on top of Donatello's, smoothing down the edges that time and early impatience had together made so wrinkled. Even more than in Donatello's artwork, he could see his oldest son in this: the passion, the temper, and the strength that was—always had been—his faithful double-edged sword.
.x.
"Raphael."
There was a groggy moan from behind the door, and Splinter knocked harder this time, hard enough to push the door open a little under his hand. Only darkness greeted him through the widening crack—a fact that sharpened Splinter's idle frown and forced the door back before him, giving his hand a clear shot at the light switch.
"Raphael."
This time his voice was accompanied by a great burst of light, and Raphael's grumble turned into a yelp, his suddenly active hands rushing to pull the covers over his head. Splinter leaned against the door frame and tapped his foot, regarding his eldest's cluttered, careless room with the same bland disapproval as its occupant.
"It is time to rise, my son," Splinter announced, after half a minute had passed with no more movement from the figure in bed. Raphael dropped his blanket barricade far enough to regard his master with one narrowed eye.
"Aw, c'mon, Sensei… it can't be morning already."
Splinter leaned heavily into his cane, his whiskers twitching with growing impatience. "It can for those of us who stayed up past midnight watching television," the old rat observed, causing Raphael to groan and drag his bedding over his head once again.
"Just five more minutes…"
"Five more minutes and you will be practicing without breakfast, Raphael," Splinter replied mildly, turning back to the hallway. "But you may do that if you wish."
"Aurghhhhh…"
Behind him Splinter could hear his son stumbling out of bed, no doubt tripping over the wealth of objects that had taken the place of his floor as he struggled to find his mask. Splinter shook his head, making his slow way back to the kitchen as Raphael's growling voice filled the room behind him. Early rising was not, as it happened, among the things that put his eldest in a jovial mood.
Fighting? Oh, yes. Morning practice? Not often.
There was another crash from the bedroom behind him, but Splinter had no time to wonder at it—because there was a series of smaller but somewhat more mysterious crashes coming from the kitchen as well, and he was curious what trouble his other sons had gotten up to while he was dealing with Raphael. Turning the corridor's last corner and pausing in the doorway, Master Splinter looked over the good-natured chaos that was so common at his breakfast table, keeping his smile firmly off his face so that none of his little ones would get the wrong impression about the mess they were making.
"Hearts, stars, rainbows, clovers and balloons!" Michelangelo was singing as he dumped Lucky Charms into his cereal bowl and halfway across the table. "Pots of gold and… hang on. The rainbows are at the end. Hearts, stars, clovers, horseshoes and…"
"That's still not right," Donatello told him, looking sleepy and not a little put out as he munched Captain Crunch on the other side of the table. "It's 'hearts, stars, horseshoes'."
"What's a horseshoe, anyway?" Michelangelo asked, ignoring his younger brother and liberally dousing milk not only over his breakfast but over the outlying Lucky Charms colonies spread across Splinter's table. "What's a horse need with a shoe? I run around barefoot all day, and I don't even have horse feet!"
"Hoofs," Leonardo corrected automatically, standing at the counter with his back to his brothers. Splinter's next to oldest seemed to have opted for toast instead of cereal this morning—which was only a little funny to his father, because Leonardo was not quite tall enough to retrieve the toast without assistance.
"Hoofs," Michelangelo mimicked. "Whatever. I don't have hoofs."
"Depends who ya ask," grunted a surly voice from the doorway. The three little turtles glanced toward the door to find Master Splinter watching them, accompanied now by Raphael, who had appeared at his elbow with his waking frown still in place. Raphael crossed his arms. "When you come poundin' out of your room in the morning, I'd swear your feet were made of concrete."
"At least it's not my head that's made of concrete," Michelangelo teased, knowing his brother far too well to stay in his seat as Raphael stalked toward his side of the table.
"Why, you—"
"Raphael." The eldest turtle looked back at his master's voice, and Splinter raised a furry eyebrow, inclining his head toward the table where Donatello was eating amid Michelangelo's mess. "There is not much time. Perhaps you should save that energy for training."
Raphael's expression narrowed yet farther, but with grudging steps he did as his father instructed, taking a sordid seat across from his youngest brother and staring at the cereal boxes as though perhaps they were responsible for the morning he was having. Michelangelo slipped back into his own seat with a whistle, leaning on his elbows over his untouched cereal.
"Gee, Raph—you sure are cheerful this morning."
Raphael sent him a baleful scowl. "Just wait 'till after breakfast, Mikey. Then maybe I could do you the favor of cheerfully rearranging your face."
"Still won't be as bad as yours!" Michelangelo sang out, instinctively ducking Raphael's fist between bites of cereal.
"Hey!" Donatello cried. "Watch it, Raph! You're gonna tip over the cereal boxes."
Splinter shook his head a little—but this type of bickering was practically ritual in the early mornings, so he let them be, moving to the other side of the kitchen where Leonardo was still trying to get his fingertips on his cooling toast. The young turtle paused in his reach toward the toaster—the new toaster—to smile up at Splinter with a respectful nod.
"Morning, Sensei."
"Good morning, Leonardo," Splinter returned, lifting two plates from the cabinet as though he had not noticed his son's struggle. "I seem to have left my water glass in the sink. Will you fill it for me?"
"Of course," Leonardo answered, stepping away to do as he'd been asked. Without a flicker of change in his expression, Splinter slipped his son's toast onto one of the plates and inserted two more pieces of bread into the toaster, so that when Leonardo turned back with the glass in his hands, his master was watching the toaster with a bland expression, as though his own wish for toast had been the only reason for the swap.
"Thank you, my son," Splinter said, trading his water glass for the toast. Then he nudged Leonardo toward the table and turned back to watch his browning bread, indulging in only a fleeting, private smile.
Behind him, the conversation had returned to horseshoes, a subject that seemed to have captured Michelangelo's unpredictable mind this morning. "But seriously. What are they for?" the orange-banded turtle asked again, glancing around at his brothers. Raphael scoffed, readying spoon and plastic bowl in front of him.
"You nitwit. You throw horseshoes at a stake in the ground. Everybody knows that."
Raphael looked remarkably proud of his answer until Donatello piped up from his side of the table, knowledgeable indignation written all over his face. "That's not it, Raph. Horses wear them. That's why they're called horseshoes."
"Oh, yeah?" Raphael challenged, leaning over the table in his youngest brother's direction. "And what do they wear them for, huh, smart-aleck? To go out dancing?"
Donatello's lip quivered a little; he wasn't used to being questioned on matters of intellect, since it had been obvious from a very young age that he was miles above his brothers in that department. Beside him, Leonardo sighed and put a hand on his youngest brother's shoulder, sending a look around the table.
"Come on, guys. Let's just eat breakfast, okay? We don't have very long until practice anyway."
"Heh. Spoilsport," Raphael grunted, grabbing for the box of Captain Crunch at last.
"I just wanna know why they're purple," Michelangelo continued through a mouthful of marshmallows.
"Probably 'cause those ones are rotten," Raphael said, upending the box of Captain Crunch into his bowl. "That's why I never eat Lucky—"
His voice stopped in time to the stream of cereal—cereal that had barely covered the bottom of his bowl before it rattled to a stop, refusing him any more in spite of how hard he shook the box. Raphael stared at his meager portion, and then his bad mood turned into a shout that almost startled Splinter's toast right off of his plate.
"Who ate all my Captain Crunch?" he demanded, banging one fist against the table and squashing rogue Lucky Charms beneath it. "It's my cereal—everybody knows that. So who did it, huh?"
"Raphael…" Splinter began to caution—but one harsh look from his oldest brother had been enough to do Donatello in, and he pulled his cereal bowl into his chest, his wide eyes still clinging to the last vestiges of defiance.
"I didn't want Lucky Charms this morning," the youngest turtle said. "Because I've got a toothache, and sugar makes it worse."
"So I'm supposed to go without breakfast instead?" Raphael accused, swiping at Donatello's bowl. But Leonardo stopped him, trapping his hand against the tabletop.
"Stop it, Raph," Leonardo ordered, exchanging glares with his older brother. "This isn't Donny's fault. If you'd gotten up when you were supposed to—"
"Oh, so now you decide who gets to eat?" Raphael challenged, wrenching himself out of his chair and glaring down at Leonardo. "Well, I don't know when I moved to the United States of Leo, but you can bet your shell I'm gonna be on the first return flight back!" Then he spun around and grabbed Donatello's bowl, fighting his younger brother's desperate grip. "Gimme that cereal!"
"No way!" Donatello cried. "I already said I don't want Lucky Charms!"
"What's wrong with Lucky Charms?" Michelangelo protested.
"Children!" Splinter tried, dropping his plate onto the counter with a bang and striding toward the tug of war with a heavy frown. But his two remaining children cut him off, diving into the conflict and inadvertently blocking his path.
"Let go, Raph!" Leonardo ordered, grabbing his brother around the middle. Michelangelo leapt away from the table with his bowl in his hands, dancing from foot to foot to stay out of his brothers' way.
"Hey! Some of us are still trying to eat breakfast here, ya know!"
"Children—"
Then there was a crash, and a splash, and a pair of yelps from Michelangelo and Donatello as the contested bowl went hurtling into the air, painting the two younger turtles a liberal shade of milk before it clattered on the floor. Donatello began to whimper, and Michelangelo's eyes were almost as wide as his mouth, which was still moving in spite of his obvious shock.
"Ew! Way to go, Raph! Next time I want to be whitewashed, remind me that you've got the table manners of a rampaging bull."
"Why you—"
"That is enough," Splinter barked, grabbing Raphael by the shoulders before his eldest could start another fight. He spun the little turtle around until he was looking into Raphael's eyes, meeting the rage and frustration burning there with his coldest stare. A moment passed between them in silence, and then Splinter straightened, glancing around at his conclave of quiet children.
"Michelangelo, Donatello," he said at last. "Go get into the bath tub. You cannot train like this."
Michelangelo made a face. "A bath so early? We just got up!"
"But I didn't get to finish—" Donatello started.
"Hush." It was just one word, but the tone that carried it shut both his sons' mouths in a snap, setting Donatello's lip to trembling just a little as his father pointed to the door. "Do not take too long. Now go."
His two youngest shared a look, and then Michelangelo shrugged, taking Donatello's hand. "C'mon, Donny—we can play turtle submarines!"
"But I don't want—"
But Splinter heard no more of the exchange, because the two were gone, only Michelangelo's imitation motor noises hanging in the air behind them. With a sigh for his kitchen and his breakfast and his peace of mind, Splinter turned back to his elder sons, watching their variously guarded and guilty faces.
"Raphael and Leonardo. Clean up this mess."
Then Splinter turned back to the counter and busied himself with other matters, listening with only half an ear to the protests and muted bickering and terse scrubbing going on behind him.
By the time Donatello and Michelangelo returned from their bath—looking cheerful and clean in spite of Donatello's reservations—the kitchen was clean and Splinter was lifting the first group of pancakes off of the griddle, hoping their second round of breakfast would go better than the first.
Of course, had they been older or at least better disciplined, Splinter would have pressed on into training without bothering about breakfast at all, and let that be a lesson to all of them. But considering how strained things had already been that morning, and taking into account as well Donatello's sensitivity, Michelangelo's mouth and how good Leonardo and Raphael were at pushing each other lately… well, Splinter had decided not to test Raphael's temper any more than necessary.
But it seemed that the winds of conflict had nested in Splinter's kitchen this morning. Because no sooner had Michelangelo and Donatello taken their seats between two silent, glaring brothers and Splinter served all of his children their towering stack of pancakes than he realized a terrible mistake had been made: the two pancakes that had been browning side by side in his griddle had somehow merged into one, a gargantuan lopsided circle that outstripped all the others he had made.
With a feeling of unease, Splinter glanced at the batter bowl—but there was very little left, barely enough to make the thumbprint pancakes he always finished with. Certainly not enough to repeat the accident. The old rat glanced over his shoulder. All four of his children were munching steadily on various degrees of candied pancakes; but by far, the only two still grabbing for the last few pancakes on the plate were Michelangelo and Raphael.
Michelangelo and Raphael. That would be the trouble.
Suddenly Splinter wished he was not quite so full of toast.
Fighting back a sigh of resigned foreboding, Splinter did the only thing he could—he turned for the table and dropped the monstrous pancake onto the serving plate, wondering if he had ever come closer to tossing scraps between a pair of rabid dogs. And he wasn't wrong, on that count. As soon as the pancake touched down, Raphael's eyes locked onto it, and he swallowed his mouthful a little too hastily, so that his voice when he spoke was clouded with pancake.
"Nobody touch that one. It's mine," Raphael declared, sending a self-righteous glare around the table.
Leonardo and Donatello shared a look and then turned back to their breakfast, their eyes surrendering whatever claim they might have exercised—but Michelangelo only ate faster, shoveling tremendous chunks of pancake and whipped cream into his white-rimmed mouth.
"Hey—didja hear me, lamebrain?" Raphael asked, pounding his fist against the table. "That one's mine. You put one sticky finger on it and I swear…"
But Michelangelo just grinned at him around a very full mouth, and Raphael's eyes widened, cementing his realization that no reservations would stand this morning. The eldest turtle glanced down at his plate, but there was nowhere to stash a pancake that big while he finished his other one—so Raphael put his nose to the plate and stepped into his brother's arena, racing Michelangelo for the supreme pancake.
Once more Leonardo caught Donatello's eye, and the two young turtles stood up from the table, carrying their dishes with them. Donatello went straight to Splinter and latched onto his sleeve with one hand, holding his plate carefully flat so the syrup wouldn't drip.
"Make the baby pancakes now, Sensei," Donatello requested, trying to watch the table out of the corner of his eye. Splinter swallowed a sigh.
"I will do so, my son," he said, but in spite of his words Splinter did not reach for the remains of the batter. Instead he tapped one foot, glancing down at Donatello with a sliver of hope in his eyes. "If you are still hungry, you could have another full pancake…"
Donatello's face became strangely pinched. "Um… no thanks, Sensei. Just the baby ones."
Splinter turned his head. "Leonardo?" he tried.
"No thanks," his next to oldest returned, already wiping down his plate in the sink. "I'm full."
Splinter rubbed a hand across his forehead. There was truly no hope, then.
Back at the table, Raphael and Michelangelo had entered the final lap of their pancake race—and though Raphael seemed to be pulling ahead, barely chewing at all before he swallowed, Michelangelo was not far behind, streaks of cream lining his cheeks like war paint as he hurtled through his breakfast. At last it was Raphael who produced an empty plate, and he crowed in victory, lifting his triumphant fork above the trophy pancake.
"Ha! Take that, Mikey! Looks like your big mouth ain't good for anything after all—"
Michelangelo looked at his brother, and at the half pancake still filling his plate, and at the huge pancake between them. Then one quick hand darted forward and snatched the pancake from the jaws of Raphael's fork, drawing the older turtle's startled eyes up to his face.
"Hey, that's mine! Give it back, you little—"
But Michelangelo didn't wait for the end of the threat. He crammed Raphael's pancake whole into his already full mouth, chewing as hard as he could behind cheeks so stuffed it looked like he had hard-boiled eggs, not pancakes, inside. Raphael's jaw fell open. Donatello put a hand over his mouth. Leonardo put his head in his hands. And Splinter just sighed, wondering why it so often came to this.
"Hey Raph," Michelangelo said at last, talking through pancake and whipped cream and a great exultant grin. "You still want it back?" Then he opened his mouth, showing off the disaster Raphael's pancake had become.
"Why you—"
This time words alone could not express Raphael's anger, and he shot out of his seat, bumping the table and knocking dishes every which way as he dove for Michelangelo. But Michelangelo was one step ahead of him, as usual, and he skipped back into the living room, racing for the dojo with Raphael hot on his heels. Splinter was after them as fast as he could go, the other two turtles sprinting ahead of him.
"Uh oh, Raph—I'm not outrunning you, am I? I'm not running circles around you," Michelangelo taunted, doing just that as Raphael swung wildly at him. "You're not missing 'cause you're angry, right, Raph? You're not making dumb mistakes 'cause your baby brother beat you in a pancake-eating contest!"
"Shut up!" Raphael yelled, missing his leg sweep as Michelangelo bounded away from him. "You did not beat me!"
"Whoa, you're right," Michelangelo sang out, ducking Raphael's haphazard fist and poking his brother once in the stomach. "My bad. I didn't beat you—I just outsmarted you. But hey, what else is new?"
"I said shut up!" Raphael roared. Michelangelo dodged backward with an easy handspring.
"Why? Am I bothering you? Is this distracting? It that why you can't hit me?" Raphael growled and lunged at him, colliding none too gently with the wall as Michelangelo stepped aside. Then the younger turtle laughed, sticking out his tongue. "Or is it just all the energy I got from eating that great big delicious pancake—"
"Oh, that is it!"
"Raph, stop it!" Leonardo called, hurtling toward his brothers with Donatello in tow and Splinter a few steps behind. But Raphael did not stop—he swung at Michelangelo all the more roughly, upsetting a stand of staffs as Michelangelo slipped out of the way.
"Ha ha—missed me again. Mikey's got game, Mikey's got—" Then Michelangelo suddenly stopped, falling to his knees and clamping both arms across his plastron. "Oh, man. Mikey's got a wicked stomach cramp."
"That's not all he's got!" Raphael yelled, closing the distance to his crumpled brother. Michelangelo held up his hands in surrender, his eyes getting wider and wider with Raphael's increasing proximity.
"No, seriously, Raph—time out. I'm in some mega pain here. Out. Down for the count. I know I was baiting you, and I'm sorry, but—"
"Sorry isn't good enough!" Raphael shouted, sending one fist at his brother's head with all the force he could muster. Only Leonardo's flying leap, which knocked both older turtles backward onto the floor, prevented the blow from landing. Donatello ran to put his arms around Michelangelo's shoulders, and Splinter slowed out of his dead run, resting one hand against his pounding heart.
He was getting too old to chase four children around like this.
"Raph, how could you?" Donatello cried, hugging a still kneeling Michelangelo. "You almost hit him for real!"
"Did I look like I was playing patty-cake?" Raphael shot back, shoving Leonardo off of him and storming to his feet. "I'm gonna teach him a lesson even his thick skull understands—"
"Raphael."
There was something that came over Splinter's voice, every once in a while, that stopped sound in its tracks. Raphael froze halfway through his angry stride, all the words draining from his tongue as he looked up into those disapproving eyes for the second time that morning. Splinter stared right back, hands on his hips. Then the tired old rat flicked his chin at Michelangelo's seated form, directing his words to his next to oldest.
"Leonardo. Perhaps Michelangelo would benefit from a glass of water."
Leonardo nodded. "Sure, Sensei. Come on, Donny." And together they dragged Michelangelo from the dojo, kicking his feet weakly all the way.
"It was just a pancake, I swear! What did I do to deserve this, huh? It's not like I ate any nails or pennies or crayons or…"
Splinter shook his head as the voice faded into the distance. It was a funny attribute of karma that it could even get into your pancakes. But he had more important things to worry about at the moment—like the red-banded eyes that were hardening in his eldest's face, as the rage that his tongue couldn't release found a new harbor.
Splinter settled both hands atop his cane. "Raphael?"
Raphael gritted his teeth. "It's not fair!" he exploded, both fists shaking in front of him. "That was my pancake, and my cereal—and Mikey, that brat! Makes me so mad I just wanna—"
"Stop." Splinter held up one finger, enough to halt Raphael's words mid-sentence. Then he shook his head. "Finish that sentence in your mind, my son." Splinter paused a moment before speaking again, watching Raphael's face closely. "Now consider what you would have said. Is that truly what you want?"
Raphael's face was so angry that for a moment Splinter thought he might open his mouth again and force the words into the open. Then a change came over his face, and the anger fell away bit by bit, pulling his expression back into uncertainty.
Splinter tipped his head to one side. "What would you do, Raphael, if a stranger said they wanted to do that to Michelangelo?"
The anger was back in a second, along with the poised fists. "I'd—" Raphael began, but again Splinter cut him off, this time with a hand on his shoulder. His master sighed.
"I know you would, Raphael. And someday that anger and strength will serve not only you but your brothers well. That is why you should think carefully when you are angry, and tread softly, so that you do not become that stranger in your heart."
For a moment, Raphael looked up at him wordlessly, searching his face as though the key to his master's lesson might rest in those softening eyes. Then at last the little turtle dropped his gaze, scuffing one foot against the floor.
"I'm sorr—"
"It isn't me you need to tell," Splinter said, leading Raphael toward the door with a hand on his back. "Come. Perhaps Michelangelo has recovered by now."
Quietly they moved down the corridor to the kitchen, pausing just short of the doorway as Raphael hesitated. Then he drew himself up and marched through the open door, his voice loud and decisive in the quiet room.
"Mikey, I'm—"
"Hey, Raph! Hurry!" From his position atop a chair parked next to the stove, Michelangelo waved a spatula, grinning with all his might. "Come see what I made!"
"Michelangelo! What are you doing?" Splinter asked, more than a little worried to find his most energetic child perched so close to the stovetop. Especially when a closer look showed that Michelangelo was cooking, as well, browning small shapes on the griddle. He sent a sharp look at Leonardo, but his next to oldest was busy at the sink, rinsing the breakfast dishes and handing them to Donatello to dry.
"Come see!" Michelangelo said again, urging them over. "I made little turtles!"
And sure enough, he had—tiny turtle pancakes formed out of the remaining batter, all four of them frying side by side in the pan. Raphael stepped up and joined Michelangelo on top of the chair, adding another burned child to Splinter's list of worries. Raphael peered at the lumpy shapes, scratching his neck almost sheepishly.
"Is one of those me?" he asked, his voice rough with his interrupted apology. Michelangelo laughed.
"Yeah—the one with the tiny head! 'Cause I didn't know how else to represent your brain!"
"Why, you," Raphael growled, lifting a fist again—but when it came down, it was only to deliver a swift noogie to the top of Michelangelo's head. Splinter let out a relieved sigh and smiled to himself, and then over at his other two children, who were smiling, too, sharing a wink as they put the dishes away.
"Next time, I won't eat your pancake, Raph," Michelangelo promised. "That stomachache was obviously meant for you."
"All right, bonehead—you trying to pick another fight?"
But Raphael was laughing, and Michelangelo was laughing, too. And so Splinter only shook his head, wondering when—if ever—he could look forward to his sons growing out of this.
End Chapter 4
