A/N: Moving into Leo's section. Two down, two to go.

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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"I'll show you who's a troll," Raphael yelled, knocking the book out of Splinter's hands as he barreled after Michelangelo.

"My book!" Donatello cried.

"No need, Raph. You already did!" Michelangelo yelled back through his unstoppable laughter.

And although he was once again ringed with chaos and commotion, Splinter held on to a sliver of his smile. For all the noise and disorder that came with raising four tireless little turtles, there were moments like this when he was so glad that he did: moments when he could see past the present, past the fight in his lap and the tussle at his feet, to the souls of the adults his sons were going to be. That was a sight that always brought a smile to his face.

.x.

"Sensei, can I borrow your teapot?"

Splinter had been asked a lot of strange things in his life—more, ever since Michelangelo had learned to talk. The teapot was a first. Splinter blinked for a moment at the book that had been peacefully passing his time, wondering what his strictly juice-drinking son wanted his teapot, and then he put the book down, signaling the end of the rare moment of quiet that Michelangelo showed no remorse over intruding upon.

Michelangelo gave his master his best smile. "Please?" he added, the word making Splinter even more suspicious of his next to youngest's motives.

"What do you need it for, my son?"

"Raphi n' me are playing Aladdin," Michelangelo said, "and we need a lamp. So can we?"

Splinter glanced toward the kitchen with wary eyes, turning the question over in his mind. He only had one teapot, and because there had not been time to be choosy it was a great ceramic one, heavier than Michelangelo could probably carry with ease. Not to mention that Michelangelo and Raphael, no matter what they were playing with, tended to be unrivaled forces of destruction.

Still, it had been one of those rare days so far when all of his children seemed to be getting along: morning training was remarkably uneventful, and they had been playing quietly this afternoon except for a few minor squabbles—and honestly, Splinter would have been more worried if those petty disagreements had been absent. He didn't want to risk disrupting that. So with a sigh Splinter closed his book and stood up from the chair, leading a skipping Michelangelo into the kitchen, sending the little turtle a pointed look over his shoulder.

"Do be careful with it, Michelangelo."

"Oh, no worries, Sensei. I'll be so careful. I'm a ninja, after all," Michelangelo told him proudly, stretching up eager hands for the old familiar teapot.

He staggered a little as the weight hit his chest, then he turned and tottered out the door on steps that did nothing to appease his master's concern, lilting to one side and just missing smacking his head against the doorframe.

"Thanks a lot, Master Splinter. All the other genies are going to envy my super fashionable lamp. Even if it does smell like gross tea." With that, he was gone, and the teapot with him, leaving only one old rat by the stove, wondering if he would ever see his teapot whole again.

Splinter glanced for a moment between his abandoned book and the door Michelangelo had taken—but as his concentration was already broken, in the end he followed the little turtle's footsteps, interested to know what his other children were up to. The answer awaited him in the hallway: Donatello and Leonardo were doing something in the threshold of Donatello's doorway, and Raphael, a towel wrapped around his head, was watching impatiently as Michelangelo conversed with his calmer brothers.

"So just in case Raph decides to wish for a whole cast of Power Rangers, you guys've gotta be ready, okay? Leo, you can be the blue one—Donny, I guess you'll have to be the pink one, but…"

"The pink one's a girl," Raphael cut in.

Donatello frowned at his energetic brother. "Mikey, can't you see we're busy?"

"Well, yeah, I can see you're busy," Michelangelo replied, reaching down to poke one of the machines in Donatello's lap before an olive hand swatted him away. He shrugged. "I just wanted to let Leo know that if he wants to do something interesting for a change, instead of messing with this mess, all the cool kids are playing Aladdin down the hall."

Raphael smirked a little at this and Donatello's frown grew more severe, but Leonardo only shook his head, glancing up briefly from the screwdriver he was using to dismantle an old radio. "Thanks, Mikey, but I'm helping Donny right now. Maybe later, okay?"

"That's too bad," Michelangelo replied, swinging the teapot back and forth in his arms. "I was going to have you be the genie so I could be the tyrannical villain Jafar-angelo. Oh well. I can just be a tyrannical genie instead."

"Mikey, the genie wasn't the bad guy in that movie," Leonardo told him, issues of continuity getting his attention as usual. Michelangelo shook his head.

"So naïve, Leo. Think about it. The genie's got all this power—especially at the end when Aladdin sets him free. You think somebody with all that power's not gonna use it for evil? You know what they say: Absolute power corrupts absolutely."

Splinter wondered, from his spot in the hall doorway, where Michelangelo had heard that phrase. Leonardo just looked mildly alarmed.

"It doesn't have to be that way, Mikey—"

"Chill out, bro," Michelangelo cut in, balancing the teapot absently on his head. "No need to go all activist and save the genie's evil soul. C'mon, Raph—let's get to wishing. You guys have fun with your techno toys," he called down the hall as he and a chuckling Raphael scampered to the oldest turtle's room. Then it was just the three of them in the hallway, and Leonardo shook his head.

"Mikey's pretty weird sometimes."

"It's 'cause he watches too much TV," Donatello said, carefully lifting coils of wire out of the now open radio. "That's bad for your brain. I read about it on the computer."

Splinter took a moment to wonder if the computer wasn't bad for one's brain as well. He didn't ask. Instead he moved to stand beside his more sedate children, inspecting their project with cheerful, curious eyes.

"And what are the two of you constructing, Donatello?"

As Splinter had expected, Donatello's face swelled with pride at the question, bringing out the dimples on his round cheeks. "We're making a burglar alarm!" the little turtle told him.

Splinter blinked. "Burglars?"

Leonardo bent over a disembodied motor, his tongue stuck into one corner of his mouth. "Well, more like a Mikey alarm."

"Oh?"

"Yeah! Did you know Mikey's been coming into my room without permission?" Donatello railed, his smile forgotten. "And you know what he does? He steals my washers—my emergency washers—and uses them to make hats for his clothespin people. He says they're a band of traveling salesmen n' they need those hats, but I need them, too. Mikey should get his own!"

Splinter was a little surprised at the vehemence of his youngest son's tirade until Leonardo looked up at him with knowing eyes, lowering his voice as though to keep it from his brother. "Mikey took a lot of washers, Sensei."

"How many?" Splinter asked.

Leonardo winced. "Like fifty. It wasn't so bad when he just wanted salesmen, but now he thinks they make good helmets, too, and he conscripted the clothespin people into a big army. And then he asked Donny if he could have some more."

Splinter raised an eyebrow. "And you don't want to share your washers with your brother, Donatello?"

"No way!" Donatello fumed. "He takes so many without permission. I'm not letting him have any more."

"Aha. And that is why you are making a burglar alarm," Splinter finished, hoping the restatement would calm Donatello down. Leonardo smiled up at him.

"Yeah. You should hear Donny's plan, Sensei—it's pretty cool."

"It all starts with this," Donatello explained, holding up a coil of thin red wire. "I string this across the doorway, and on the one side it's connected to a speaker, and on the other side it's connected to this circuit. See?" he asked, pulling Splinter to the edge of the doorway to see the complicated mass of batteries and cords hidden behind the door. "Right now it's an open circuit, so there's no electricity getting to the speakers. But if somebody walked in and didn't see the wire, and they tripped on it, that would pull this latch closed 'n let the electricity go, and then there'd be energy getting to the speaker!"

Splinter smiled at his youngest son, trying to look like he had some idea what any of that meant. Donatello must have believed it, because he only paused for a short breath before the explanation went on.

"I didn't get to hook the speakers up to anything yet, but when I do there'll be a siren that goes off if somebody trips it. Right now it's just this staticky stuff." As demonstration the little turtle quickly fixed the wire in place and tugged at its middle, eliciting a crackle and a whine from the junkyard speakers. Donatello grinned. "So that way I'll know if somebody's breaking in!"

"That is very impressive, my son," Splinter replied, resting a hand on Donatello's shoulder. Leonardo stood up and brushed himself off, joining them in the doorway.

"Donny didn't even show you the coolest part yet, Master Splinter." Then he nudged his brother in the side. "Show him the walkie talkie, Don."

"Take a look at this!" Donatello bent down to retrieve a small box from the floor, and then he grabbed Splinter's hand and pulled his father halfway down the hall, almost panting in his excitement. He whirled around to wave at Leonardo. "Give it a tug, Leo!"

Leonardo pulled the wire gently toward himself, and with his naturally sharp ears Splinter could hear the sprinkle of static going up in Donatello's room—but much closer at hand, the device Donatello was holding out to him made the exact same noise, a chorus of clicks and pulses that lit Donatello's face like the sun.

"See? See? I used the transceiver from the radio to send the sound to the walkie talkie. So even if I'm far away, I'll still know if Mikey's up to something."

Splinter wondered if it were possible to get a wide-scale version made, so that he might know if Michelangelo was up to something no matter where he was. But that wasn't an important question, so Splinter set it aside, kneeling down until he was level with Donatello.

"This is very incredible work, Donatello. You are very smart to be able to come up with this all by yourself."

Donatello grinned, blushing a little at the well-deserved compliment. "I didn't do it all by myself," he said. "Leo helped a little."

"Nah, not really," Leonardo insisted, collecting his various tools and stepping carefully over the wire to replace them on Donatello's workbench. "Donny did all the hard stuff. I just got a few screws out."

"Still," Donatello persisted. He looped an arm through Splinter's, cradling his walkie talkie to his chest with a smile. "Thanks, Leo."

Leonardo smiled back. "Anytime, Don."

Splinter smiled with them. Mostly he was smiling for Donatello, and the amazing mind that proved itself more and more with every passing day. But a little part of him was smiling for Leonardo, too—the first of his brothers Donatello had ever trusted to assist with his projects. It was good for both of them, he thought, to have a little cooperation this way. And much as he enjoyed watching Donatello work, Splinter had enough on his plate that it might be prudent for Donatello to have a different assistant.

Splinter got slowly to his feet, his smile moving between both of his happy children. "This is a wonderful accomplishment, both of you. Perhaps to celebrate, the three of us could—"

"I'm gonna ring your scrawny little neck, Mikey!"

With a rush of air, two green blurs rushed past Splinter and into the dojo, cackles and shouts following their respective forms. Raphael was livid and Michelangelo was still clutching the teapot, Splinter noticed, as the pair came back for another pass—then they were gone, tearing down the hallway toward Leonardo's room with their voices galloping after them.

"Give me my wishes already, you stupid genie!"

"Gee, I would, Raph," Michelangelo said, skidding to a stop in front of Leonardo's door and tucking the teapot behind his back. "You're just not asking right."

"I can ask any way I want," Raphael yelled, backing Michelangelo into a corner. "Now give me my hundred bucks!"

"I was gonna, Raph," Michelangelo promised. "I was already giving 'em to you. I even put by hands up for antlers." The little turtle let go of the teapot with one arm to wiggle his fingers over his head. "Get it? Bucks?"

"That's not what I meant, Mikey!"

"Gosh, I wish you'd said so from the start," Michelangelo replied, his smile far too cheeky for his innocent eyes.

"Michelangelo, Raphael," Splinter scolded, marching toward them down the hallway. "That is quite enough—"

"Who wishes for a hundred bucks, anyway?" Michelangelo continued. "I would've made way better wishes."

"Oh, yeah?" Raphael leaned in, a menacing scowl on his face.

"Yeah." Michelangelo grinned. "First I woulda wished you were smarter."

Raphael growled and swung at his younger brother, but Michelangelo dodged easily, ducking around Raphael and edging backwards down the hall.

"Then I woulda wished you weren't so ugly."

"Michelangelo," Splinter warned.

"And finally, I woulda wished you had a sense of humor." Michelangelo paused a minute for effect, and then a mocking hand rose to his chin, the teapot locked tight within the cage of his arms. "Oh, wait. I forgot. There's no way I'd waste my three wishes on you!"

"I'm gonna rip your bones out!" Raphael howled, chasing Michelangelo toward Splinter down the hallway.

"Michelangelo! Raphael! That is enough!" Splinter's hands swept toward his eternally warring children, but he missed them both, Michelangelo ducking his elbow while Raphael slid through his legs. Either he was losing his edge or his sons had been taking their ninja training too seriously recently—whichever it was, they were out of his hands and heading straight for shocked, unmoving Donatello.

"Donny! Look out!" Leonardo cried.

"Incoming!" Michelangelo shouted. Then he barreled into Donatello and Raphael did the same half a second later, and the combined force of their collision sent the youngest turtle sprawling back into the living room and his precious, irreplaceable radio skittering down the hallway, its momentum multiplied tenfold by a chance brush with Michelangelo's foot.

Michelangelo and Raphael were still running. They were running straight for Donatello's room.

"Get back here!" Raphael shouted.

"Make me!" Michelangelo laughed.

"No! Don't come this way!"

But Leonardo's shout was just as vain as Donatello's screech, and in a second they were at the threshold, only Michelangelo's eyes growing suddenly wider as the wire glinting in their path.

"Whoa—what the heck is—"

With two quick steps and a half handspring, Michelangelo got across the trip wire at the expense of nothing but his balance. Raphael was not so agile. He tripped on the wire and fell hard on his chin—so hard that the walkie talkie lingering under his feet shot straight into the room and the wire came loose from Donatello's circuit, flinging a strip of snapped metal through the air as Raphael hit the ground. The fragment shot straight into Michelangelo's head and nailed him in the ear, and with a shriek the little turtle threw up his hands—hands that were still holding the heavy teapot, and then suddenly were not.

For a moment time seemed to still as Leonardo jumped into the air, arms outstretched as though to grab the teapot midair. Then Leonardo came down and the pot came down after him, and a tremendous crash filled the air as it landed squarely on his shell and shattered into a hundred pieces, the ceramic shards falling all around him.

Splinter took a very short moment to put his head in his hands, and remind himself never to loan Michelangelo anything he wanted back in one piece. Then he rushed down the hallway with Donatello on his heels, stepping over Michelangelo and Raphael's slowly rising forms to reach his next to eldest.

"Leonardo! Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Sensei," Leonardo said, though he wisely didn't move as Splinter brushed the teapot pieces away from his back.

Donatello had his hands over his mouth, worried as he ever was when one of his brothers had come close to injury, and even Raphael had shuffled to his feet with unusual slowness, looking Leonardo over as he did so. But Michelangelo had recovered his humor when he recovered his feet, and he wasted no time in a good laugh, tripping over the fragments of teapot with a gracelessness that made Splinter almost more nervous for his next to youngest than apparently unharmed Leonardo.

"Geez, Leo. I gotta give you a perfect ten there—you had to set that up." Michelangelo leaned over and picked one of the larger ceramic shards from the carpet, waving it in an incorrigible hand. "I've dropped this thing, and Raph's kicked it, and we even knocked it off the counter once when we were horsing around, and it was totally fine. I've got hand it to you, man—all it needed was a little shell action. You must've been trying to break it."

Splinter didn't see what was so funny about any of that.

Now that the majority of the glass had been swept into the carpet, there to await an unsuspecting foot or two, Leonardo got up slowly, frowning at Michelangelo and clutching something small and black in both hands. "I wasn't trying to break it, Mikey. I just didn't have a choice. It was going to land on this, so…"

As his voice trailed away, Leonardo held out his hands. Splinter knew he was not the only one surprised to see Donatello's walkie talkie resting on his next to eldest's palms. He was certainly not the most ecstatic—Donatello gave something not unlike a shriek and scurried forward completely mindless of the glass to pluck the small radio out of Leonardo's hands. Donatello looked wonderingly at the homemade electronic and then gave it a tight hug, and gave one to Leonardo as well, his eyes positively shining with admiration.

"You saved it for me, Leo. You're the best!"

"All that for a little plastic box?" Raphael grumbled, the tension that had held his shoulders so stiff the moment before positively slumping out of him. Michelangelo just kept laughing.

Splinter rubbed a hand against his forehead, and then he bent and continued collecting the shards of his only teapot, picking the slivers of white out of Donatello's carpet with careful claws. Leonardo's heart was in the right place, that was certain—but there had been not a few times when Donatello had made something and then tired of it within a day's time, and Splinter never tired of his tea.

Protecting his brothers' precious interests was all good and well—probably worth encouraging at another time, in another venue—but Splinter had to wonder, with all of Leonardo's training, if throwing himself on top of the radio and under the teapot was really the best he could come up with. Then he decided there would be additional obstacle training on his regiment for the next week—and resigned himself, shaking his head, to a cup of plain cold water.

.x.

Winter always made the city seem grayer than it was. The thick clouds that settled around the tops of endless hotels and skyscrapers, so dense as to blot out even the memory of the sun, pressed down on the world with a heavy silence, muting the parade of overcoats moving along the back streets, pushing two of the overcoats, and the shadows within them, faster along their way.

"Keep up, Leonardo."

Leonardo did his best to nod, though to Splinter's eyes the gesture was abbreviated by the great stock of grocery bags filling his arms. The little turtle, dressed in all the winter clothes his form could accommodate, jumped over a patch of ice to catch up with his father at the curb. Splinter glanced each way down the road in search of cars, and then spared a glance for the sky as he ushered Leonardo across the dirty asphalt, wishing he had a hand free to guide his second son. Unfortunately, their errand had taken care of that.

It was not snowing yet, but it would be soon. Splinter hoped they could get back into the sewers before that happened—visibility was difficult enough behind their stacks of supplies without the weather making things worse.

"Are you all right, Leonardo?" he asked as they moved out of the street again, pausing in the mouth of an alley to let other last-minute shoppers pass them by. Beneath the wide brim of his floppy hat, Leonardo nodded.

"Fine, Sensei," he said, readjusting his bags.

Splinter frowned. "The bags are not too heavy for you?"

"No," Leonardo insisted, even though Splinter could tell his arms were beginning to tire. His doggedness made Splinter want to smile, but the expression was interrupted as they passed through another crush of hurried pedestrians. The old rat shook his head.

"Come. We must get home before the weather worsens—or before your brothers get themselves into any great trouble."

Leonardo sent him a sideways look at that, his skeptical face asking whether Splinter truly believed the latter were possible, but he said nothing and only did his best to keep up with his father's pace, sticking close to the tail of Splinter's overcoat.

It was unfortunate that Splinter had realized how badly they were in need of provisions only today, Christmas Eve. He had meant to go shopping earlier in the week, but Donatello had been sick for several days and he hadn't felt comfortable leaving his youngest to only the care of his brothers. Because of the date, he could not follow his usual strategy of shopping early the following morning—the little shop he preferred to patronize, half for its secluded location and half for the habitual sleepiness of its proprietor, would be closed Christmas morning. He could probably have put the trip off if they'd resigned themselves to eating only ramen for a few days. But there was sure to be no end of trouble if Christmas came without the delicious food his children had come to expect. So Splinter had set out in search of groceries, taking one of his sons with him for help carrying the bags and leaving the rest safely in the lair. Well, he hoped they were still in the lair.

Splinter had not been entirely thrilled to leave Michelangelo, Raphael and Donatello at home without so much as Leonardo for supervision. But he'd had very little choice in the matter, when it came to that.

"Here, Donny?"

"Just a little higher, Leo," Donatello called, stepping back another foot to supervise Leonardo's hanging of Christmas lights along the top of their small, cheerful tree. Leonardo obliged him, rising onto his tiptoes on the stepladder to sling the lights over the top branches. Splinter, watching his children out of the corner of his eye as he pulled on an overcoat, nodded in approval, and Donatello clapped his hands, getting his brother's attention with the sound.

"Perfect. Now let's see if I can get this part right…"

Leonardo jumped down off the stool and Donatello pressed a button on the small contraption in his hands, seemingly wired to an outlet and to the Christmas lights; as he did so, the lights came up and then began to blink, one string after another lighting up in a simple pattern. Leonardo nodded.

"Nice job, Donny. How'd you get them to blink that way?"

Donatello flushed at the compliment. "Oh, it was pretty easy. Just a little reprogramming and the whole thing was taken care of," he said, rubbing a shy hand against the back of his neck.

Splinter smiled at their simple teamwork, and then his gaze shifted in search of his other two children. On the other side of the room, Raphael and Michelangelo were curled up under blankets on the couch, sharing a bowl of popcorn and watching a black and white movie on television.

"Hey, Raph," Michelangelo started. "Do you think this guy really has such a wonderful life?"

"Beats me," Raphael grumbled back. "Looks boring as shell to me."

"So why're we watching it?" Michelangelo asked, stuffing a handful of popcorn—hand and all—into his mouth.

"'Cause it's the only thing on," Raphael reminded him. "It's on like fifty freakin' channels."

"Oh, yeah."

Splinter cleared his throat. "My sons. Your attention for a moment, please?" The summons pulled four more or less attentive pairs of eyes to him as he settled a tall hat over his ears. "I must go to the surface for a few final things. I need—"

"Is it my present?" Michelangelo shouted, lurching over the back of the couch in a surprisingly smooth motion and running to grab his father's arm. "Is it, Sensei? Is it for me?"

Splinter sighed. "No, Michelangelo. Your present I secured quite a long time ago."

"Oh." Michelangelo dropped his hands, immediately losing interest and wandering back toward the couch. "Have a good time, then."

Splinter sent his next to youngest a sharp look before glancing around at his other sons. "As I was in the process of saying. I need someone to come with me, to assist in carrying things home. Would anyone like to come to the surface with me?"

Leonardo opened his mouth to speak, but Michelangelo beat him to it, waving one hand over his head as he clambered onto the top of the couch. "Oh, pick Leo, Sensei. Pick Leo!"

"Yeah," Raphael snickered. "He wants to go so bad he's practically wagging his tail."

Michelangelo laughed and Leonardo frowned at the back of his brother's head. Splinter crossed his arms over his chest.

"Raphael."

"What? It's true. 'Sides, you're not gonna take Donny, since he's been sick, and Mikey and me are in the middle of this great move."

"Wonderful, Raph," Michelangelo said, prodding his brother in the head with one foot. Raphael smacked him.

"Yeah, whatever. Wonderful. Anyway, why don't you just take ninja suck-up over there and get it over with."

Splinter shook his head. "You have been asked not to speak of your brothers that way, my son."

"Look, Sensei," Michelangelo cut in, though Splinter was not sure he was truly coming to Raphael's defense. "What Raph's trying to say is, we don't wanna help. I mean, Raph never wants to help, and I gotta be honest, if this isn't about my present then I'm not really up for it. Plus, if this movie's taught me anything, it's that winter gets really cold topside." Michelangelo pointed at the screen. "It might even be snowing!"

Raphael wrinkled his nose. "What's snow, anyway?"

Michelangelo shrugged. "Beats me. Looks cold."

Had they truly never seen snow before? Splinter tried to recall a time when his children might have been exposed to a New York winter, but he came up empty; the dangers of being spotted by increased foot traffic and the turtles' poor circulation as reptiles had kept the family largely underground in winter. Of course, experience was not the only way to understand the world, as Donatello's bright eyes were already proving.

"It's frozen water," Donatello explained, straightening as he did whenever his science-oriented mind seemed to be in demand. "Water accumulates in the sky in the form of clouds, and then when it gets cold enough—"

"Yeah, whatever, Donny," Michelangelo interrupted him, earning a sulk from his younger brother. "Bottom line: frozen stuff's cold. Thanks but no thanks, Sensei. I've got a delicate composition—I think I'd better stay right here where it's warm."

There was nothing in the least delicate about Michelangelo. Splinter let that go for a moment, attempting to continue with his lesson about manners. "And do you not think Leonardo would get equally cold in the snow?" he asked.

Michelangelo grinned. "Nah. He's got that warm, fuzzy feeling from doing the right thing to keep him warm."

Raphael snorted. "Definitely not a problem for you."

"That's okay, Raph. At least I've got my brains, huh?"

"Watch it."

"Children," Splinter sighed, wondering again whether he shouldn't drag these two along for the sake of peace at home, if not for the sake of karma. But a shuffle behind him held the words in his mouth, and he turned to find Leonardo pulling on a coat of his own, an exceptionally floppy hat wavering over his eyes.

"It's okay, Sensei. I don't mind," Leonardo said, tugging mittens onto his hands. From the couch, Raphael snickered.

"Told 'ja."

Splinter decided that allowing Leonardo to open his presents first in the morning might not be an unfair gesture.

Leonardo finished with his boots and stood up, one hand taking hold of Splinter's sleeve. "Ready, Sensei?"

Splinter glanced at the time. Then he hurried Leonardo toward the door, wary of wasting the afternoon's window and still being without his groceries. "Yes, I am ready. Come, Leonardo. We must go."

Donatello walked them to the door, looking a little sheepish. "Sorry you have to go, Leo," the little turtle said, though his face told Splinter he didn't want to go very much either. Leonardo shook his head.

"Don't worry about it. It's really not a problem."

"Try to get back before it snows," Donatello advised, his voice a little hushed over the weather phenomenon he'd never seen for himself.

"Bon voyage!" Michelangelo called, sliding off of the back of the couch to land at Raphael's side.

"Oh, nice going, lamebrain! You put your foot in the popcorn!"

Splinter made the executive decision to hurry out the door before he got involved in that.

Out in the cold of a season that did not dress the city in its best, Splinter shook his head. For the amount of groceries they had purchased in the end, it would have been better to bring two children along, he realized now—a realization that, if he'd had it earlier, would have given him a good reason to separate Raphael and Michelangelo, always the first measure toward preventing property damage. But the clock had been ticking—he and Leonardo had barely made it out of the small grocery store before closing as it was—and nothing took longer than arguing with Michelangelo, unless it was arguing with Raphael.

The old rat sighed to himself, pausing under a new-lit streetlamp to let Leonardo catch up. It was too late to worry about that now, in any case. He could only hope they weren't using Donatello for a toy again, as they had been the first day the water in the sewers froze. Donatello had taken none too kindly to being pushed back and forth over the ice on his shell, especially when an off-kilter shove from Raphael had pushed him into a wall.

Splinter felt something wet and cold flicker over his nose, and he looked up to find the first flakes of snow sailing down toward them, looking like little more than fragments of the clouds overhead. He shook his head again, resuming his quickened pace.

"Come, Leonardo. We must hurry now."

It took Splinter a moment to realize that Leonardo was not answering, nor could he hear the butterfly touch of little footsteps behind him on the sidewalk. Splinter glanced back at Leonardo to find the young turtle standing motionless beneath the streetlight he had just left, staring up at the whitewashed sky. Splinter turned back to look at him fully, a stitch of worry bothering his forehead.

"Leonardo?"

Leonardo breathed out and a puff of steam rose into the air, floating up until it disappeared against the clouds. "Sensei?" he asked. "Is this snow?"

There was a special look on Leonardo's face—an expression Splinter did not see very often on his second son. It was wonder, he decided after a moment. Leonardo's eyes were open wide, and his mouth was open just a little, too, as if with words he hadn't found yet. Splinter smiled. Then he moved back to stand with his next to eldest child—his most responsible, and the one he sometimes worried was growing up too fast—and looked up at the drifting storm himself, all of his haste draining from his mind.

"Yes, Leonardo. This is snow," he said, and wished he had a hand to settle on the little turtle's shoulder, to cement the moment and the silence between them.

They stood a moment without speaking before Leonardo's eyes turned to his master. "Mikey's right. It's kind of cold."

Splinter found his smile again. "It is cold, my son. But it is beautiful also, is it not?"

Leonardo nodded, forgetting about the weight of his grocery bags under the spell of the snow. Then he shifted his feet, rolling his eyes at a passing thought. "If Mikey was here—or even Donny or Raph, prob'ly—they'd try to catch them in their mouths. Like they do in movies."

Splinter looked at the snow, and back at Leonardo, and his eyes crinkled. With a passing chuckle, he leaned his head back, filling his eyes with the falling flakes. "I believe you are right, Leonardo," he said. "Perhaps we should catch a few in their place."

Leonardo stared at his father as Splinter opened his mouth; and though he didn't extend his tongue, a few snowflakes drifted in all the same, an unfamiliar sensation for him as well. After a moment Leonardo mimicked his father's pose, as Splinter had known he would, and Splinter held his smile—and as the storm built up around them, a moment of silence and wonder for a child quickly losing his childishness, Splinter decided he was glad that Leonardo had been the first to experience snow.

End Chapter 11