A gap-filler between season 1 and 2 with backflashes by Splinter.

"Hey, Splinter! Are your sons around today?"

The old rat started slightly. Then he looked up at the young reporter with wide eyes. "My 'who,' April?

Long eyelashes flew open. Five-fingered hands waved in front of the startled face. "I mean 'the guys!' The Turtles! Are 'they' around?" She gave a smile but worry wrinkles had formed around her eyes.

He nodded up to her. "They are out in the sewers, playing basketball, I believe."

"Alright then. Thanks!" She pulled a notebook out of her purse as she spoke on in a rush. "I want to do an article on people living in this vast network of tunnels under the city! I figured you guys can't be the only ones! With Shredder gone with that big-brain guy, regular crime and human-interest stories are having a comeback in the newsroom. I thought avoiding other people the way you do down here, you might know where they hang out!"

"Indeed …"

As the human turned to leave, but he spoke up to her back, "April …"

She turned slowly to face him again. Even her bright smile began to turn down at the corners. "Yes?"

"Why did you ask earlier about my 'sons?'"

"I meant the turtles of course! I mean, you kinda treat them like your sons. I mean, you tell them what to do and not do and teach them things, and you fed them when they were turtle tots. Right?"

She gave him another strained smile. Her lack of blinking as she stared back into his eyes told him she didn't want to be there. His own heart relaxed in hope hers would mimic it. He was surprised, but not angry after all.

"Perhaps, I have simply never thought of the turtles and I in that light before. They have always been 'my Turtles,' and when I began to teach them, 'my students.'"

"Of course, Splinter. Now, I have to get going." She made a hasty exit.

He, in turn, shut his eyes. He concentrated inward in thought. Sons?

His own father rarely used the term with his own brothers and him preferring their names and words that reflected their stations in comparison to his and each other's. He had escaped the joined presences of his father and brothers as quickly as possible. Rather than he and his brothers seeming "as one" in their father's presence, "his sons" jointly, it was a time for his brothers to be rubbed raw by their lower status, and he to be reminded of the responsibilities he carried as eldest and heir in their presence. There were very few times he had felt "a unit" with his brothers, "the sons" of their father, but it had happened occasionally.

He recalled the shocked faces of his brothers, as he felt his own visage like stretch and strain, as his father bragged of them before those from other dojos there to challenge the Footclan in a tournament. The honors of all parties were on the line. The air felt more strained than a drawn bowstring.

The old man had declared before them, before all there, none of the other dojos' students could defeat his youngest son. He would punish his eldest if any of the other sensei there could defeat him. He had discovered both things to be true. He had only lost to one sensei from another dojo as well as his father, but his own father had punished him during their bout, in front of everyone for that. No one had beaten his father that day.

He asked why, very carefully, later, why the Foot Clan was the best in the land. His father had replied they were ninja, descended from ninja, true ninja even in this modern age. If they could not defeat all other martial artists, what were they then?

Within a few years no sensei who came could beat him just as his father had boasted. His brothers, however, proved the hardest to keep up with. They had almost never failed to attack him together. No wonder they, and he, had gotten so good.

His father usually only called them his sons, when not addressing them, when discussing more than one of them with their mother, a servant, or a student. Alone with his father, or his father and brothers, he was an individual either shaming or making proud, or at least with the potential to do either, for the whole of their clan past, present, and future, and he should know it. The responsibility was shared somewhat with his brothers but borne mostly by him.

He recalled how proud he had been when his father put him in charge of the design of their family garden. Then his joy had sunk at seeing how livid his brothers had been about it. They had sabotaged his efforts once. While he was punished for not stopping them, his father also punished his brothers.

The gardens were a visible, tangible presentation of their family's ways, abilities, understanding of beauty and harmony. They shamed them all by causing them to look anything, but perfect. He had still had to be wary of sneak attack by them while working in it, but they had been very careful after that not to harm anything there. It had been nice to put effort into something that lasted so long.

His books on art and own art projects, he had hidden more carefully. His brothers knew how much he cared about them anyway. Their father, on the other hand, might have disapproved, but it was hard to know. He had never told him about or showed any of them to him. His brothers had found out by spying on him, had teased him, and threatened to tell. He always suspicioned his father actually knew and left him and his secret treasures along. It … made him feel more connected to his father somehow to believe he knew, he 'was' a ninja master after all, and let him have that. To not mention it would have been very like him …

His students, however, had eventually come to him about everything even personal things. They came to see him as wise about all matters. He "had" taught them that all things they did might harm or aid them later. Rest, peace, strength, discipline all habits formed in everyday encounters and times of solitude could have a cost or a reward when one was later put to the test in some way. While his students seemed disappointed by the lack of clarity of his answer sometimes, they still asked him questions. They were not afraid to do so. That was what he had wanted for his turtles his students. And he had gotten it.

Every time he came home from finding them food, all four would ambush him with questions about rules, about sounds in the pipes, about all things. He would answer them the best he could sometimes after a bit of investigating. They seemed less happy about his answers regarding the rules while he was away, less afraid after most of his answers regarding the sounds in the pipes, and more confused by his answers about everything else.

He let them have their hobbies, their projects, and encouraged them to leave each other be, when they dabbled in them alone. There were fewer arguments that way.

Donatello's time doing things alone had been particularly productive, though dangerous at times. His other students began to give their genius more and more space as he worked over the years. Leonardo had put his alone time to use continuing to practice his ninjitsu more than the others, also helpful to them all Splinter found.

Raphael and Michelangelo's times alone had been more entertaining to themselves than helpful to them all. Still, they did not develop the cold animosity toward one another he had felt from his brothers. He had been glad to see this.

He wanted them able to protect themselves and each other of course. He was glad they had proven themselves capable of defeating Shredder and his allies. He was glad they had developed a friendship with April. He did not need them to defeat other dojo elite. In a way, being shamed and banished had set him free. His father's worst fears had come true years after his death. His dead relatives had been shamed already by Shredder's lie. He had no others, or had he?

April's slip of the tongue echoed inside him. Was it wrong of him "not" to encourage his turtles to call him their father? Had he been wrong not to call them his sons all this time?

Later, when he was eating his sushi, and they were eating their pizza around the table in the kitchen at dinner, he decided to ask them about this. "My turtles?"

They all looked up and into his face. Leonardo asked after chewing and swallowing quickly. "Yes, sensei?"

"Are you angry with me for not having you call me 'your father' all of this time?"

His other three turtles instantly stopped chewing, quite an odd occurrence. Raphael spoke up next. "Where did 'that' come from?"

Michelangelo added in a louder voice while holding his arms wide out. "Yeah, Splinter! Like, what gives?"

"April O'Neil called all of you, 'my sons' today, and it occurred to me, it might be strange that I have never called you thus or taught you to call me your father since I raised you much as a father might."

The turtles looked at each other. Donatello spoke next rubbing his arm with the opposite hand, "Uh, I never thought of it until I got a TV working. Then, I kinda worried about it once I saw shows with kids talking to their moms and dads. But Leonardo said you were Splinter, our sensei, and it if you wanted us to call you 'Dad,' you would have said so."

Dad. That title had never even occurred to him. But here in America it was quite common. Splinter felt his ears go back as he feared he really was unfit to raise American teenagers. Then Leonardo jumped in. "Honest, sensei, it's fine! We know you love us!"

His ears rose and eyes widened. "Do you?"

Michelangelo stared at him as he shouted his reply. "Yeah!" Then there was a pause as the turtle in orange continued to stare at him before asking, "You do, right?"

Splinter took a moment to let the thought rest inside him a moment to see if it indeed belonged there before replying. "Yes, indeed, I believe I do."

Leonardo grinned looking whole worlds relieved. "Well, that's fine then." He took another bite of his slice of pizza. The other turtles followed their leader in this.

Raphael, however, continued to stare at him as he spoke with his mouth full. "Seriously, Sensei, where do you come up with this stuff?"

What do you think?

God Bless

ScribeofHeroes