Disclaimer - I don't own the TMNT or Splinter.

A/N - Again, they're about eight at this point.

Michaelangelo: Problems and Pizza

Michaelangelo crossed his arms, sulking. He lay on his bed, one leg propped up on pillows. He sighed. I can't believe I'm such a klutz.

He groaned as he heard his brothers, laughing and joking, coming from practice. Fine. He grumbled silently to himself. Let them have fun and be happy while I'm laying here, hurt and alone.

He waited for someone to come into his room, ask him how he was. But no one came. No one cares about good ol' Mikey. He thought to himself. Just the stupid class clown. Had to go and do something stupid again…

They'd been training, learning a new move and maneuver. Mike had picked it up rather quickly, so while the others were trying to learn it, or perfect it, he'd gotten bored. He tried a few jumps and kicks that he'd seen Master Splinter do, and he'd landed wrong. And twisted his ankle.

He groaned to himself. They were all supposed to go out on a walk, probably to the dump, maybe above in an alleyway. He'd been excited about it for a week. And now he couldn't go.

Stupid, stupid… He repeated silently, hitting his head on the pillow. His ankle didn't even hurt that bad. They could all go. He lifted his ankle up, but gasped when a sharp pain went through it.

"Mikey." Don opened the door, walking in. "You know, you really shouldn't move it around, or you'll just hurt it more."

"I know." Mike sulked. Of course his brother would have to come in at right that second.

Don smiled. "I just came to see how you were. Oh, and to bring you this, too." He handed Michaelangelo a book. "Just something for you to read, so you're not totally bored in here."

Mike looked down at the book in his hands. 'Computers and You: A Detailed Guide to Writing Your Own Programs'. He sighed.

"Donnie, no offense, but I couldn't read this. I can't understand the words that come out of your mouth sometimes."

Donatello's face fell, and Mike instantly felt bad. Donnie was only trying to help. Mike smiled at Don.

"But thanks, you know, maybe I can learn. Maybe I can write my own computer games!"

Don's face brightened. "Yeah." He nodded vigorously. "But that's not until the third book of this series. I'll get you that one next. I finished it. The second is more for specific problems you would encounter, but I could help you with those."

Mike nodded slowly, hoping for a change of subject.

"So," Don said. "How is your ankle?"

"I bet I could go." Mike grumbled. "It doesn't hurt that bad."

"It might not," Don leaned in for a closer inspection. "But if you stand on it too soon, you could really damage it, and then you wouldn't be able to train with us anymore."

Mike snickered, despite himself. "And then what would Leo say?"

"What would Leo say to what?" Both turtles turned quickly to look at Leonardo, who'd just entered the room.

"Uh, nothing. Nothing." Mike said quickly, while Don suddenly found Mike's bedspread fascinating.

Leo shrugged. "OK."

He sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Mike, you really shouldn't have been fooling around like that during practice." Leo began, and Mike tensed himself for a speech. Leo'd already become very good at them. "But," Leo continued. "I guess you've already learned that. How is your ankle?" He peered down at Mike's leg.

"Not bad."

Leo nodded. "Good. Too bad about the trip, though." He shrugged. "No big deal. We can always go another day."

Don nodded.

Mike sighed, finding himself both relieved and angry that they weren't mad at him. He was angry at himself, why couldn't they be mad at him too? Why'd they have to be so understanding? He'd ruined their day, too. Because they care. The thought ran through his head, making him regret feeling angry at them. He sighed again.

"I am sorry, guys." He said softly.

Both turned to look at him.

"Mike, it's OK. I kinda wanted to catch up on some stuff anyway." Don said.

Mike almost laughed at this. Don was forever catching up on things; when he wasn't starting something new. He almost lived in his workshop corner of the lair.

"Yeah," Leo began. "Stuff happens. We'll just go another week."

Mike nodded, glad now that his brothers were so understanding. Then he cringed. Raph wouldn't be so understanding. He was probably ticked…

Don took the cringe to mean Mike was in pain, and looked at him in concern. "Mikey, is your ankle still hurting…?"

"Don't tell me he's still faking hurt." They all looked at the door as Raphael walked in.

"He's not faking Raph." Leo began, but Raph waved him off.

"Keep your shell on, Leo." He cut him off, and Leo frowned.

"Well, now that the afternoon's free…" Leo shot Raph another dirty look, which he ignored and continued talking. "Maybe Master Splinter'll just take us three."

Leo sighed. "Raph, if Mikey can't go, then none of us are."

Don nodded emphatically.

"No." Mike shook his head sadly. "It's my own fault and if you guys want to go…"

"Leonardo is right." They all jumped as their sensei's voice entered the mix. Splinter stood in the doorway, looking at them. "It is more important that Michaelangelo's ankle heals properly. We will be staying home." Raphael groaned at this, but Splinter ignored it, turning instead to the others. "Donatello, I require your assistance."

Don nodded, then jumped off the bed and followed Splinter back out of the room.

The others all looked at each other, questioning looks on their faces.

After a moment, Splinter reappeared, followed by Donatello, pushing the TV cart into the room. "I thought, perhaps," Splinter began. "That instead, we would try out Donatello's latest project." He nodded to Donatello, who walked forward eagerly.

"I got it to work yesterday! Now we can all test it and see how well it works."

Mike looked at the cart, with it's old television and… a VCR?

"A VCR?" Mike looked at Don, who nodded happily.

"I thought, perhaps, that a quiet afternoon would be a good time to test this out, and keep Michaelangelo company while he rests." Splinter said, then stopped. "Oh, and one more thing…" He left the room, reappearing a moment later, holding a few boxes in his hands. "What is a movie without the snacks." He smiled at his sons, who gasped happily.

"Pizza?" Mike looked at Splinter, who nodded, smiling softly.

"I hope I ordered correctly." Splinter said. "There were so many choices."

Mike looked at his sensei, as they all settled themselves around the room. He knew Splinter had never called for pizza before; that he didn't even really like it. But he'd gotten it for him, after he'd messed up during practice, and ruined their outing.

Splinter caught his son's eyes, and, taking a small bite of the pizza, winked at him. "Not bad." He said, and Michaelangelo grinned. He looked down at his own piece, noticing the different combinations of toppings. He brought the piece to his mouth and took a bite. It was the best pizza he'd ever eaten.

**********************************

Michaelangelo walked back home, carrying their supper for the night. He often thought about that night, all these years later, but especially when it was his turn to get supper. His brothers didn't understand sometimes why he loved pizza so much, why he enjoyed everything about it. It was just food for them. But every time he smelled the cheese and sauce, every time he looked down at the toppings, he was reminded that, years ago, an understanding father got his son a treat to make him feel better. No matter that it was the boy's own fault he felt terrible. It didn't matter that Splinter hadn't liked the pizza. That Splinter had never called for it before, and the toppings were odd and mismatched. None of that mattered.

It might have seemed trivial to the others, that night. It was just a pizza. But as young Michaelangelo watched his sensei eat the pizza and watch the movie, laughing although he didn't share their own sense of humor, he knew how much Splinter really cared. He always knew he had, but his young mind hadn't ever really comprehended it. It was the sacrifice. Mike still sometimes smiled at that thought. As if eating pizza was such a huge sacrifice. It didn't seem like it now, but to an eight year old who'd spent the day feeling sorry for himself… it was huge.

His brothers might not understand it. Sometimes he, himself, didn't. It was just a pizza. The thought would sometimes break into his thoughts, and he'd shake his head. It wasn't. Not to him. And it meant more now, than ever before. It wasn't just a pizza. Because every time he breathed in that first whiff upon opening the box, he thought of him. Every time he took a bite, he could see his father, so understanding that day, looking over to him and winking. And, a lot of the times, he'd wink back.