I once again must commend the writers of this game. This dialogue is so hilariously genuine and raw. "... Freaking love salad" killed me. XD And then Casey asking about the turtle's shells and their up and downsides? Amazing. Never got that in any series from what I can remember, so it was a blessing and a half to hear it now. XD If I had more time it would be so much fun to try animating these lines...
Summary: Michelangelo and Raphael have been strangely moody. Leonardo is uncharacteristically reluctant to get involved. Donatello suspects it has something to do with him but isn't sure why. Ultimately it falls to Splinter to settle things.
Splinter wasn’t sure where it had all gone so awry. The shift felt like it had happened so slowly and yet so suddenly, he barely had a chance to examine it beyond a surface level before it was out of hand.
Looking back, it must have started a month ago, maybe two, and shockingly the instigator had been nothing but excitement! Donatello had finally finished the hard work of retuning the blender and installing a number of new modes and attachments; he was ready to reveal it to the lair at large just before breakfast. He awaited the others gathering already puffed up with pride, providing an enthusiastic spiel and a thorough demonstration with every new feature and shining, intricately crafted piece just as usual.
When he offered the first smoothie to Michelangelo to taste test, he didn’t seem displeased with the first gulp. On the contrary his eyes had lit up and he had made appreciative noises through his mouthful, accompanied by a big, eager thumbs up with his free hand.
Splinter didn’t see the appeal of a strawberry, banana and brown sugar pizza in the first place, much less in a blended form, but he could clearly see how much thought and effort Donatello had put into it and if Michelangelo’s enthusiastic reaction was anything to go by, his pride was well-earned.
“There is a lot of exciting potential here, my son,” he said warmly. “I am sure we will all continue to savor the…well, the fruits of your labor, no pun intended.”
“Thanks, Sensei,” Donatello chuckled, pivoting hopefully toward the others for their feedback. “What do you think, guys? With that ‘mean green’ setting you won’t even have to taste any of those pesky vegetables we’re supposed to be getting! Convenient, huh?”
And that was when Splinter had first noticed the rather inexplicable shift. Raphael had folded his arms with a dramatic eye roll, which wasn’t too far out of the realm of expected reactions when it came to any puns that weren’t his own. But seemingly out of nowhere, Michelangelo’s whole demeanor had changed when no one was looking. His beak was wrinkled as if the smoothie had abruptly gone sour on his tongue. He swallowed the remainder of it with audible difficulty and then shoved the cup at Leonardo.
“Convenient, sure. It’s a nifty doodad if you’re looking for the quick and easy street, but it’s no substitute for the hard work of hand tossing a fruit breakfast pizza the old fashioned way,” he announced.
“Hey, I did work hard on this,” Donatello protested, brow furrowing. He seemed just as taken off guard by the change. “I have been all week!”
“And we appreciate it, Donatello,” Leonardo assured with a polite smile, going out of his way to take a sip so as to punctuate the point. “Mm. Like, ah, like Master Splinter said, I’m sure we’ll find plenty of uses for it.”
“Yeah, when we’re not buried elbow-deep in all those parts that are gonna have to be washed after one use,” Raphael griped, elbowing the counter to push himself toward the pantry to grab a box of cereal instead. “If it’s so fancy, maybe we ought to save it for special occasions like the Christmas china.”
“W-Were you not paying attention to my demonstration? It’s self-cleaning!” When the others didn’t respond, busying themselves pulling out bowls, milk and spoons, Donatello shot Splinter a bewildered look, questioning under the cover of their clatter, “What was that about?”
“Sometimes change that you see as entirely positive can be difficult for others to accept,” Splinter mused. “Perhaps this is one such change.”
“I don’t know why…They always complain about how slow this blender is, how easily it clogs and all.” He thinned his lips, watching Leonardo only take a couple more sips before subtly pushing the smoothie toward the edge of the table. “Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned sneaking in vegetables.”
That would indeed make sense of their sudden aversion, Splinter agreed, and they had put it out of their minds.
The dismissal of the blender was nowhere on anyone’s radar when the next incident occurred a couple of weeks later, as this one had nothing to do with their food but their entertainment. Leonardo and Michelangelo were playing a video game, Raphael was hunched over the well-worn joke book he had already read a dozen times, and Donatello appeared deeply engrossed in a magazine from one of his many subscriptions.
Splinter didn’t typically engage with them, fully aware that most of the articles would teem with technical jargon far beyond his scope of knowledge, but when he caught a glimpse of Kyushu on the page, he leaned over the back of the couch for a peek.
“What are you reading, my son?”
Donatello brightened at his interest. “Oh, it’s this really fascinating interview with some of the top technical minds in the music industry; they’re debating whether or not there should be an update to the fully programmable drum system Ikutaro Kakehashi developed a handful of years back! Did you know he purposely installed faulty transistors in the TR-808 to create its sort of ‘sizzling’ sound?”
“Oh? Most intriguing.”
“It sure was! It may not have been the biggest commercial success on launch but that sound makes it so unique, it’s been picking up speed in the industry! Now you know I’m all for technological progress but switching that sound up now would strip it of its—”
“I got one for you: how is Donatello’s technobabble like a drum solo?” Raphael quipped over him, with no warning and without waiting for anyone to hazard a guess before dropping the punchline. “All you can do is cover your ears and wait for it to be over.”
“Hey!” Donatello bristled, crinkling the pages of his magazine as he slapped it down in his lap to glare at him. Raphael barely looked up from his book in return, idly flipping pages as if he hadn’t piped up at all. Strange, how he was thumbing through them too fast to actually be processing any of the words, but that casual façade wasn’t Splinter’s main concern right now.
“That comment was uncalled for, Raphael,” he reproached. “Donatello did not disrupt your activities by spontaneously spouting this information; I went out of my way to inquire. There is no need to belittle another’s passion just because you have no interest in it.”
“Uh-huh, tell that to Donatello every time he puts me down for a joke.”
“Well, maybe if you had something more than cheap sarcastic shots and lowbrow humor to offer—”
Splinter took an all too familiar breath that often preceded an intervention, only for the attention to be redirected by a large spike in volume from the game Michelangelo and Leonardo were playing. Well, “playing” might be a rather generous term for what was happening; Michelangelo was pointedly jabbing at the buttons on his controller, his avatar slamming its weapon over and over into the other character’s head with painfully loud, bit-crushed thwacks. Splinter’s ears flattened further with every one. Was that at all similar to the sizzling sound Donatello had described from the programmable drums? Leonardo meanwhile was scrambling, not even to retaliate in kind but to backpedal.
“Hey! Hey, we said we were going to team up for this level, remember? We said no friendly fire! That’s not fair! Michelangelo—!”
His obvious dismay as his avatar was knocked off the edge of a platform was then promptly overtaken by astonishment when Michelangelo threw his own avatar right off after him. The Game Over music was even louder in the startled silence but it didn’t drown out the clatter as Michelangelo tossed the controller down with uncharacteristic carelessness.
“Sorry, dude. I’m bored. I got some mondo interesto magazines of my own to get to so I gotta wrap this up fast.” Pushing himself upright, he took note of Splinter and Donatello staring at him and scrunched his beak. (Strangely reminiscent of that moment in the kitchen.) “What? Sometimes the grand ol’ game of life comes at ya fast and unfair.”
Raphael let slip a low, biting sound as if that were an understatement. This would typically be the point where Leonardo would chime in to smooth over or stamp out any barbed mood with either an optimistic word about maintaining their hope or a firm reminder that they were all on the same team. If they couldn’t be fair to each other, who else would?
He didn’t. It could be due to the stinging sense of betrayal in his (albeit digital) defeat—but on the other hand, he didn’t spare a second glance back at the game. Setting his controller aside, he peeked briefly up at Splinter and then averted his eyes.
Perhaps he was hoping he would take point on deescalating this one but Splinter didn’t get the chance before Michelangelo was off to his alcove, no doubt to bury his head in one of the magazines he had mentioned. Raphael still didn’t look up from his book. Exhaling through his nose, Donatello snatched his own reading back up to resume. Leonardo wordlessly changed the channel to a nature documentary, then hurried to turn down the heightened volume, and that was the tentative end of it.
Now what was that all about? Splinter couldn’t help but wonder, even after the majority of the tension had thinned from the air to waft away through the sewer grate as they settled back into their respective hobbies. Where had it come from in the first place?
One of their hormonal teenage mood swings, perhaps; they didn’t happen often but when they did, even the smallest difference in opinion could be blown out of petty proportion—especially when it came to Donatello and Raphael, the more headstrong of the four.
Still, Michelangelo’s mood was odd. When Splinter went to check on him, he didn’t perk up as he usually would upon his arrival. That in and of itself would have indicated a problem if the scene before weren’t enough.
“Is something troubling you, Michelangelo?” he asked, receiving a noncommittal hum as he flicked listlessly through one of his comics, as though taking a page from Raphael’s pretense with his joke book. Hoping to receive something more concrete, Splinter perched on the edge of his bed, running a paw rhythmically down his shell.
It took several passes for the tension to slowly but surely drain out of him, after which he blew out a large breath. “…I’m fine, Sensei, it’s no biggie. Not anymore, at least. Guess I just needed a break.”
“From your game? Did Leonardo’s playstyle aggravate you?”
“Nah, it was nothing to do with him. I’m—I was—” He shrugged a bit more forcefully than he probably intended. “I don’t know, just tired.”
Of what? Splinter could pry further but he could already feel a fraction of that prior tension threatening to resurface in anticipation of the question. He wouldn’t press him for more if he wasn’t open to it…but since when was Michelangelo so cagey about speaking whatever was on his mind? From the deepest emotional insight to a randomly blurted remark about a unique pattern on the sewer ceiling, he was often an open book. But he was also entitled to his privacy.
“Very well. Take some time to rest before dinner,” he suggested, patting his shell, relieved that he wasn’t feeling so withdrawn that he didn’t scoot to lean further into his touch as he always did. “And know that you can always come to me if there is something you want to discuss.” He smiled, prodded him a bit and aimed for a lighter tone. “I would like to believe that like your video games and Donatello’s magazines, I too have some important knowledge to impart, should you choose to take me up on it.”
“Yeah, I know, Sensei…” Flipping his comic closed, he burrowed further into his pillow, his murmur muffled. “You’re a good teacher.”
“Why, thank you, my student.”
And then that strangeness too had slipped away with no other mention of it, no lingering signs that it had even happened as other days wore on. Not that Splinter observed, at least.
Donatello, however…
“Hey, wait! Where are you going? I still need another set of hands!”
His call echoed, drawing Splinter to the open bathroom where Donatello was in the bathtub juggling the hose and pieces of the half-disassembled showerhead. He stared over Splinter’s shoulder with an expression that was equal parts exasperated, disappointed and confused.
“What is the matter, Donatello?”
“At this point I couldn’t even begin to guess. Ugh, all I know is I’m losing this thermostatic cartridge!” he complained, muddling through the parts that threatened to slip between his fingers. “Could you grab it? The worse of those rusted pieces.”
Splinter took initiative to grab all of the similarly rusted pieces to better free up his hands. Once the other parts had been safely deposited into piles on the floor just outside the tub, Donatello sank onto the edge of it with a sigh. “Thanks, Sensei…Raphael said he wouldn’t mind helping me and then out of nowhere he just dropped everything and ran!”
“Did something happen between you?”
“No! We were just making conversation; he asked why I was taking apart the showerhead and I explained what you and I were talking about earlier, how you said you’d really appreciate it if I figured out a higher water pressure and a more concentrated flow so you can really deep clean your fur.”
“Yes…And then?”
Donatello shrugged helplessly. “That’s it! And suddenly he’s throwing the hose over my arm, dumping all the loose screws and washers on me and saying he’s needed elsewhere. Gotta go feed his fish or some other nonsense. I don’t know what happened!”
“Hmm, that is puzzling.”
“I would have asked Michelangelo for help; he would’ve already known what we were doing here, he was in the kitchen when you and I were talking, but I haven’t seen him since then.” After a long, indecisive silence, Donatello fidgeted. “Have the other fellas…complained to you at all, Sensei?”
“About you?”
“I can’t help but get the feeling they’re annoyed or mad at me but I don’t know what I did…If they said something to you about it and you’re expecting us to figure it out ourselves, maybe you could just give me a hint or a nudge toward whatever it’s about? Because I have to admit, I’ve been wracking my brain about it for what feels like weeks and I can’t figure it out!”
“I am sorry to hear that. They have not discussed it with me but if you would like me to speak to them on your behalf, urge them to communicate the issue more clearly—”
“No, no, I don’t want them thinking I tattled to you to get them in any trouble. I may just have to ask them upfront myself. But thanks anyway.”
“Of course. I hope you are able to ease your mind and their grievances soon enough.” Splinter’s eyes strayed to the rusty components of the shower, each darker than the last. “You may not want any trouble but the longer it is allowed to go on unseen and unspoken, the further it may spread.”
Now Splinter wasn’t one to eavesdrop intentionally but considering his sharp hearing and the natural reverberation of the sewers, there were times he couldn’t help it. He would later overhear Raphael informing Donatello that he simply had other things to do, that there was no problem because “I knew you could handle the shower detail yourself.”
“I wouldn’t have asked for an extra set of hands if I could do it all myself.”
“Hey, don’t sell yourself short, boy wonder. Everybody knows you got it all in the bag.”
The words were complimentary…as was the delivery, upbeat, upfront, but he said it with such ease that it sounded a little too practiced. Floating airily in the realm of passive aggression without ever touching down so there was no traceable tone of substance on which to call him out. And some were still under the impression that Raphael couldn’t put on a good act!
“You’re making mondos out of molehills, dude,” was Michelangelo’s response when questioned the day after that. “That’s just Raphael for ya: cool but rude. Didn’t you catch the theme song?”
“There’s a difference between sarcastic and—snide like he has been lately but setting that aside for a moment, you haven’t really been yourself either,” Donatello insisted.
Contrary to Raphael’s light dismissal, Michelangelo’s voice fell unexpectedly flat. “Why? What am I supposed to be?”
If Splinter was taken aback by the change from afar, Donatello found it even more jarring face to face. “…What?”
Michelangelo didn’t elaborate or if he was going to, he didn’t get the chance, as the perimeter alarm went off to send them on an investigation in the sewers. Splinter could only hope whatever this imbalance was, it wouldn’t impact their effectiveness as a unit in the field. When they returned, having thwarted yet another of Shredder and Krang’s highly complex schemes, his relief was probably evident in the smile he sent them.
“As ever, I am proud of your teamwork, my students. Your cleverness, adaptability and determination make you a force to be reckoned with.”
He was addressing them as a whole, of course, so why was Donatello the only one to preen at his praise? Leonardo offered a mild, gracious smile and inclined his head in thanks…but then he kept it down. Michelangelo at least made an effort to smile more widely and nod along, agreeing, “Clutch, for sure.”
“How about that brute strength though?” Raphael was quick to add, punching a fist eagerly into his palm, ready to snatch another compliment in it and hold on tight. Splinter blinked.
“Yes, that too has a vital role to play, when all other options have been exhausted.” That might not have been exactly what Raphael wanted to hear but it was honest and true; Splinter wasn’t sure what else he might have been expecting. Hands dropping back to his sides, Raphael didn’t openly scowl, per se, but he sobered, shoulders setting, tipping his chin up just that much higher, as if to counter Leonardo’s falling lower.
He hadn’t dismissed them yet. This assembly may very well be the best or only opportunity to address the underlying issue, whatever it was, but Donatello must have read his mind on that front just before he opened his mouth. His eyes widened, pleadingly reluctant, and he made a half stifled sound of protest in the back of his throat. Leonardo glanced aside at him without lifting his head, lips tightening. Raphael and Michelangelo did not.
It would come across like Splinter was cornering them, wouldn’t it? And as convenient as it would be with them all here, they were undoubtedly tired on the heels of their battle—not the best mindset for hashing out a disagreement.
“You are dismissed. Rest, rejuvenate yourselves. I shall be in meditation, should any of you wish to join me,” he offered instead. You know where to find me if you want to talk. As he padded toward his room, Raphael and Michelangelo went their own ways. He was optimistic when he heard Leonardo shuffle, tempted to follow him. He often unburdened himself of his doubts and uncertainties when it was just the two of them—only for Donatello to intervene.
“Hey, hold on a sec, Leonardo. Can we talk?”
Splinter maintained his pace as though he hadn’t heard. If Donatello was intent on asking after the problem before he could, so be it. Although as he settled onto his meditation pillow, closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, it was easy to clear his mind of everything except the strains of their conversation.
“…in a mood lately. Do you have any idea what that’s about?”
“I’m really not the right person to ask.”
“Well, I’ve asked them both and I got no comment! Whatever it is, I can’t fix it if I don’t know where to start!”
“…It’s nothing for you to fix.”
“But it’s not nothing at all, which means it’s something, right? Come on, it can’t be good for our cohesion or morale! Help me out here—”
“Donatello, if you want real help, you should probably just talk to Master Splinter.”
“Geez. Way to lead from the front,” Donatello grumbled. “Where’s that determination Sensei was just talking about?”
Splinter winced. Turning a commendation into a critique of him was one surefire way to guarantee he wouldn’t get the answers he was hoping for. Leonardo’s voice sharpened curtly.
“Well, it sounds like you’ve taken more than your fair share! Adapt and figure it out for yourself.”
“I just—ugh, Leonardo!”
Splinter perked up with a fraction of hope that Leonardo would retreat from the conversation to him, to the privacy and safety he could extend to decompress, but the footsteps marching straight past his room dashed that hope. His next measured breath emerged as a sigh.
Meditation was not a peaceful endeavor; he spent the better part of it mulling over what he had heard.
Something about Leonardo’s words nagged at him. He always strove to choose his words so carefully; it was a necessity for clear, succinct communication when he led them.
Well, it sounds like you’ve taken more than your fair share!
Why would he not say, “Well, it sounds like you’ve got more than your fair share of determination?” Why would he say it was “taken”? If the entire team were not as determined, capable and clever as ever, surely they wouldn’t have won the battle today. Perhaps Donatello had gotten ahead of himself in the course of the plan, trying to do both his job and another’s. Perhaps he had bragged about his part in it, as he was wont to do at times, and the others felt he had hogged the spotlight in their victory…? After his meditation Splinter would have to ask him for a full rundown of the mission’s events.
When he did so, ushering Donatello into his room, Michelangelo watched them go, his gaze strangely uncertain. Splinter paused in the doorway, wondering if he wanted to come in too and contribute to the report, but he hastily turned back to his TV show.
As the old saying went: curiouser and curiouser.
Of course, the higher the curiosity bubbled, the higher the tension bubbled with it. If none of them were ready to open up about it willingly, he had a sinking feeling it would find its own way out by bubbling over—and if Donatello didn’t want Splinter to intervene, all he could do was wait and wonder.
Perhaps it was to their credit, a show of their restraint that they left him waiting longer than he had expected, but that didn’t do much to soften the literal blow when it came.
Michelangelo and Donatello were sparring; Splinter and the others observed. Splinter also couldn’t help but observe a difference in Raphael’s running commentary on the match—the lopsidedness of his loyalties.
“Nice shot, Michelangelo! You got him on the ropes!” he whooped, followed almost seamlessly by a derisive snicker. “You call that a block, Brainiac?”
After a few other such comments, Leonardo shushed him lowly, not as authoritatively as usual, and then tensed when Splinter took a firmer approach.
“Right now the focus of the class should be on those actively participating,” he chided, though he didn’t raise his voice any higher than Leonardo’s shush. “It is not your turn to be the center of attention, Raphael.”
Raphael colored, his instinctive protest torn between incredulous and indignant. “I wasn’t trying to—I was cheering ’em on!”
At that Splinter turned to look at him, arching a brow. “Both of them?” Raphael couldn’t answer that honestly so he opted to lour at the floor. “Leonardo, I would expect a little more from you if you notice one of your teammates undermining another.”
Leonardo’s voice fell even lower, nearly drowned out by the impact of nunchaku on bō. “…Yes, sir.”
Sir? Another unusual word choice but Splinter didn’t have long to absorb it. It was true what some said about something going wrong when one looked away for just a second. Before anyone quite knew what was happening, Michelangelo had hooked his nunchaku around one of Donatello’s arms, twisted and pulled, hauling him head over heels to land hard on his shell against the mats. He must have been in a hurry to get the jump on him; typically a landing like that would have only earned a gasp as the air was knocked out of him but twist and turn at just the wrong angle and—
“Agh!”
Everyone jolted at Donatello’s shrill yelp. It certainly stunned the surprisingly stern scowl of sparring-immersion off Michelangelo’s face; he released his weapon as if it had burned him, dropping onto his knees beside him.
“Whoa! Dude, are you okay? What just happened? What hurts?!” he demanded. As the others leapt up to crowd around them, he glanced frantically up at Splinter, stammering, “I-I didn’t mean to—!”
“I—” Struggling to recover his breath, Donatello rolled onto his side to unloop the nunchaku chain and then curl around his arm. “I’m okay, I think. That trajectory just wasn’t great for my shoulder, ow.”
Slowly Splinter helped him sit up, probing at the surrounding muscles. “Does it feel out of place? How is your range of motion?”
“I don’t think it popped out all the way, it’s just twinging,” he hissed, tentatively rolling his shoulder.
“I’m really sorry, compadre.” Michelangelo was shamefaced. “I didn’t mean to tweak you out like that. I wasn’t thinking…”
“Even here in the relative safety of practice, each of you wield the power to wound each other rather grievously in just one thoughtless moment,” Splinter advised him gravely. “The distance between thought and action must always be carefully measured, my son.”
It was entirely tame by scolding standards. More of a warning than a scolding and considering what had just happened, what could have happened, wholly justified—yet Michelangelo reeled back so jumpily, one would think he had just been backhanded across the face. The color drained from it, even as his eyes welled up.
“Michelangelo?”
“Now,” he bit out, his scathing tone cracked just as fast by a ragged sob. A slew of them followed, shaking him head to toe as he shoved himself unsteadily back to his feet, making his next cry nearly unintelligible. “Now you say it!”
“I beg your pardon? Michelangelo? Michelangelo—!” It was Splinter’s turn to stammer as he bolted from the dojo.
Donatello blinked rapidly in equal shock but when Splinter looked to the others, they didn’t seem surprised. Raphael had his fists and jaw clenched, eyes narrowed against their own faint, telltale glimmer. He wouldn’t look at him. Leonardo’s face was pinched with something like mournful resignation.
“I do not understand.” Not something Splinter was forced to admit often but he was at a loss, asking urgently, “What has just happened? What was it I said to upset him?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Raphael muttered, turning on his heel. “We’ll deal with him. Stay here if you want, take good tender loving care of your son.”
If he weren’t so startled, Splinter might have called him right back and urged him to elaborate but he didn’t have to. Leonardo hesitated to follow Raphael, just as much as he hesitated to look at Splinter or Donatello. He simply stood rooted to the spot. Still massaging his shoulder, Donatello glanced nervously between them. At last, by necessity, it was Splinter’s turn to make a move in all of this—but what was all of this?
“Leonardo? Will you not look at me?” Cautious, dim eyes darted and Splinter could only hope what they found in his gaze was all the earnest truth he could muster as he assured, “You are all like sons to me.”
“…I know. W-We know that…” He trailed off without confidence.
“Why then would Raphael place such emphasis on Donatello’s standing?” The silence that followed was obviously, excruciatingly conflicted, and Splinter hurried to add, “I will not take offense to whatever you have to say. I simply want to understand. Please, tell me the truth.”
“Because it…well…we can’t help but notice…sometimes…” Saying a word against his master, even if warranted, was always like pulling teeth. Leonardo had to heave a sharp, hurried breath to brace himself, blurting out more to the wall than to Splinter, “A lot of times it feels like you do. Place more emphasis on—on him.”
“What?” Splinter and Donatello gasped in unison, the latter adding a “You can’t be serious!” for which he earned a pained glower.
“How did you come to such a conclusion? I have called every one of you my sons, each equal to the other.”
“Sure, as a group,” Leonardo countered more boldly, their blatant disbelief spurring him on. “But you say it to just him way more often than you do to the rest of us! ‘Such exciting potential, my son! Most intriguing, my son! Most impressive, my son!’ And then you congratulate all of us on another victory and it’s back to ‘my students.’”
“Wait, wait, wait. Is that why the others have been so weird around me lately?!” Donatello squawked. “They—You guys are jealous?”
Leonardo threw up his hands. “Why should that come as such a big shock, Donatello, when you’re always showing everyone how much you have to offer? How much we all have to appreciate about you? And we do! And Master Splinter does especially. Everything you can do, everything you are—you’ve earned it.”
“I like to think I have,” Donatello concurred with rather unhelpful defiance, squaring his shoulders as best he could. “I try.”
“But we try too! I know, we all know it’s petty and dumb but it’s not untrue and it’s—it’s not fair!” Leonardo bit his lip against his own tone, slumping, folding his arms to better withdraw into himself. “I-I’m sorry, Sensei, I don’t mean to…We’re not…We don’t want to sound like we’re telling you what to do or how to talk or…begging for more than you wanna give us. That’s why we haven’t said anything. That wouldn’t be fair either, that’d be…” He forced a weak, humorless laugh. “…kind of pathetic, huh? Selfish.”
Don’t sell yourself short, boy wonder. Everybody knows you got it all.
“But when you say it to Donatello so easily, a-and always so positively, we can’t help but wonder…” Leonardo swallowed hard, every word smaller than the last. “Why not us too?”
Why? What am I supposed to be?
“I mean…Aside from just now with Michelangelo…do you remember the last time you said it to any one of us?”
Well, it sounds like you’ve taken more than your fair share!
Splinter fought down the discomfort of his heart and stomach turning under the weight of all those mysterious pieces falling together. Obviously this issue was serious enough in their minds and hearts to indulge Leonardo’s question just as seriously, despite the natural first instinct to object or defend himself. Could there be any sort of substance to their claim? Oh, how he hoped not.
He thought back.
And back farther.
…And farther still.
It’s not like he had been consciously keeping track of such things in what he thought was casual everyday conversation but the longer he looked inside himself, the clearer it became that he didn’t need to land on a concrete date. He couldn’t recall an instance within the past month or two and that was a grim answer enough, whereas Leonardo had brought back to his mind the more recent moments with Donatello. Praising his work on the blender. Showing interest in his reading on the musician in Japan.
And then the first Michelangelo heard it since…the last occasion, whenever that was, it came via a correction, not a compliment.
Now it felt like Splinter was the one who had gotten the breath knocked out of him. Judging by the uncomfortable expression dawning on Donatello’s face, he too had done some mental math and didn’t like the conclusion he had reached. Leonardo’s head drooped in a wordless “There you have it” sort of nod, expectant, dejected.
“…Come with me, both of you. We have much to discuss,” Splinter murmured, rising, helping Donatello up after him, “as a family.”
Everyone could hear Michelangelo struggling to calm his shuddering, tearful breaths and Raphael’s tired, fruitless attempts to console him from all the way down the hall. Splinter wasted no time stepping into his alcove, ducking past Raphael to sink onto the edge of the bed and run his paw down Michelangelo’s shell as he had a few weeks ago.
Michelangelo jolted at his touch but to Splinter’s relief he didn’t cringe away. (Why would he when he had apparently been craving more of his affection for so long? Splinter should have known, he should have noticed something!) Splinter couldn’t find it in himself to meet Raphael’s subdued scowl head on but he couldn’t entirely ignore it either. A part of him wanted to stay quiet until Michelangelo was calmer but the longer he waited, the more hesitant or reluctant he might unintentionally come across. He couldn’t wait any longer and they shouldn’t have to.
“Michelangelo, Raphael, Leonardo, I am so sorry. It is clear I have wounded you with my thoughtlessness as of late. I didn’t realize…It was never my intention to neglect you for Donatello or make you believe I prefer him over any of you.”
Raphael scoffed, kicking Michelangelo’s bedframe. “Eh, why shouldn’t you? It’s obvious, isn’t it? You’re both smarter than the rest of us. You two are the only reason we’ve got anything workable down here—providers. Kindred spirits. And whatever doesn’t work for you, he can make it all better. He can fix up the shower just the way you like it. He’s clever. That’s what you were so impressed with after our last mission; that’s what got us through, right, the team’s cleverness? That’s all him.”
“Do not sell yourself short, Raphael.” Splinter knew using his own words against him, however gently, would get his attention. “And do not forget I was addressing all of you when I said such things. Each of you are intelligent in your own right but cleverness alone would not have won the battle. Shredder and Krang are wickedly clever, as we know, but you four have other strengths also, which combined enable you to prevail. I cited your determination and adaptability too, did I not? You all have those traits in abundance. I admire every one of you. I am proud of every one of you. And I love each and every one of you equally, I swear on my honor.”
Michelangelo sniffled thickly, several times, before he could muster the will to peek wetly over his shoulder at him. “S-So why don’t you…?” He gulped. “How…W-What do we gotta do for you to say so?”
“Nothing, my son.” Feeling him twitch to hear it again, Splinter moved his paw from his shell to his tearstained cheek. “It should not be up to you to earn the right to hear it said; you deserve to hear it more often. It was entirely a lapse on my part.”
“Well, don’t start dishing it out all heavy-handed now just because we’re mad about it. We don’t want you saying it just cause you feel obligated or guilty,” Raphael huffed.
“Every time I say it, I do so because it is true. The same goes for the times I call you my students, my wards. These things are true as well.” His throat tightened. “My turtles. I care for you as my own. You have always been my own. Despite your differences you are all my kindred spirits in your own unique ways because…you are each a piece of my spirit. Perhaps because I already know it so deeply to be true, I did not think to continue reaffirming it for all of you.”
“But you thought to keep at it for Donatello? Why?”
“…Because I’m the one who needs the reminder more often,” Donatello admitted. It was the first he’d spoken since coming in; he balked a little as all eyes turned to him, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Well, you know me. I like to…no, I—I need to hear how I’m appreciated. Ever notice me fishing for feedback when I come out with a new invention?”
Raphael scoffed again. “How could we miss it?”
Donatello could have taken offense at his tone but instead waved a hand indicatively. “Exactly. It’s not like I make a secret out of it. And Master Splinter wouldn’t have to be a genius to think getting a compliment not just from my teacher but from my…” His cheeks warmed. “…my father…that makes it mean even more.”
“Which is why I wish one or all of you would have come to me, to tell me how much this was hurting you. As sharp as my senses are, I am not a mind reader…” Splinter paused, considering their mind melds of the past. “…most days. I strive for self-awareness but I am by no means perfect at it. How was I to address this lapse within myself and make it right if no one ever told me what was wrong?”
Sighing tremulously, Michelangelo only ducked away from his paw long enough to scrub the back of his fist over his wet cheeks and roll over to face him, replanting his head more heavily in his hand. “You said I could talk to you if I wanted,” he mumbled apologetically, nuzzling into his palm. “I should’ve fessed up when you offered.”
“I could have too,” Leonardo murmured. “I could’ve joined you in meditation. We could’ve talked then.”
“I guess maybe we were just hoping you’d pick up on something without us needing to say anything.”
“I did notice…but I don’t necessarily think it was realistic or kind to assume I would come to the conclusion that I was the problem when all of your frustrations were seemingly directed at Donatello. I have been unfair to you and for that I am truly sorry. But you have not been treating him fairly either,” Splinter pointed out. “Your grievance was with me all along; you should have brought it to me rather than taking it out on him.”
Michelangelo nodded minutely. Raphael hummed reluctantly under his breath, kicking the bedframe again.
“Donatello,” Leonardo took the lead as expected, “I should’ve been more open with you when you asked. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I was just trying not to get involved; I didn’t want to feel involved, I didn’t want to be feeling this way, but I get how from your point of view it probably felt like I was icing you out for no good reason or…failing to stand up for you. I should have…led from the front like you said. I should’ve done more to help you—well, all of you—no matter how I was feeling about it. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. I was more confused and frustrated than anything, honestly. I just couldn’t figure out what I did wrong,” Donatello admitted, hugging his arm as he fidgeted. Michelangelo couldn’t help but notice.
“I-I really didn’t mean to do that,” he repeated guiltily. “That wasn’t me trying to hurt ya just cause I’ve been feeling hurt, honest. At least not on purpose. I was just…distracted. Frustrated too. I was busy watching Master Splinter and he was busy talking to Raphael and Leonardo instead of watching what we were doing, what I was doing, and that felt like the salt on top of the cherry on top of the whole…being ignored sundae. I got mad so I got sloppy. It shouldn’t have been such a big deal.”
“Deeper down, it was,” Splinter reminded him softly. “This has been a big deal to you and you do not need to downplay your feelings on the matter.”
“Yeah. But we shouldn’t’ve downplayed Donatello or how he’s been feeling either.” Sniffling, Michelangelo propped himself up on an elbow, then pushed himself to sit up so he could better look him in the eye. “You didn’t do anything wrong, dude. I-It was uncool of us to make you think you did, just for being the stylin’, smart, standout you. You deserve all the props Master Splinter gives you. On the fly, on the regular…”
Donatello softened, taking note of the lingering pang of longing lurking in the undertone of his words. “You deserve that too.”
“And I will do my utmost not to let such things fall by the wayside again,” Splinter promised. “If you find me being a tad heavy-handed about it in the days to come, I hope you will believe me when I say that it is not out of obligation, guilt or pity. It never could be. I can only hope to better instill the much-needed habit and prove myself, prove how much care I have to go around for every piece of my heart—each of whom has so much to love about them.”
“Donatello…” Raphael started, only to become self-conscious for piping up so quickly on the tail end of such a touching assertion, such wholehearted apologies. He squirmed, drummed his fingers against his kneepads for several seconds and then settled on “…I, uh, I’m liking the self-cleaning mode on the blender. It’s smooth. Really clears out all the gunk from that ‘mean green’.”
No one had heard or seen him use it once since the demonstration that first day and yet everyone heard what he was really saying. The mean green gunk he was really hoping to clean out and smooth over.
“Oh. Well, I’m glad you approve.” Donatello’s mouth twitched in a wry smile (which Raphael returned faintly in relief.) It always did him good to hear how he was appreciated, after all.
Overt or subtle, more consistent words of affirmation would do all of his turtles, his sons a world of good from now on. Splinter would see to that.
~~~~~~
A/N:
Romans 8:16 <3
People often say the ’87 turtles and Splinter aren’t considered a family because the turtles call each other “friend, pal, amigo,” etc. and Splinter usually refers to them as his wards or students. As I’ve been watching the series, out of curiosity I started keeping a tally of how many times he calls them “my son(s)” and which of the turtles he was talking to.
Having just started Season 8, I’ve found fifteen occasions so far! Splinter does indeed consider them family, it just isn’t said as constantly as it is in other iterations—but that’s more often than some might have expected! I also noticed a trend.
Five out of those fifteen have been said to Donatello personally; it’s even been more than once an episode.
Another five were addressing all of them as a general group and the five left over have been divided between Leonardo and Raphael. Michelangelo hasn’t gotten a single “my son” addressed to him alone so far (or if he has, I didn’t catch it on my first watch.)
I hope he’ll receive one somewhere in the episodes I haven’t seen yet but when I noticed the imbalance thus far, I thought there’s no way the others wouldn’t feel jealous and hurt if they noticed it too. This is the fic that resulted.
featured: raph and mikey having a BLAST in the front seat of the rollercoaster, donatello screaming his fool head off in the back, and leo looking out for his brothers 24/7 and catching raph's hat before it flies off into the stratosphere
I’m actually so happy with these pages I popped off. Not even finished with the first chapter and I’m already seeing so much improvement >:D!
Also if these pages are randomly lower quality than the other ones no they ain’t totally didn’t mess up the pixel size on my canvases and realised too late nuh uh that’s not why my name is OopsieeDaisi at all.
‼️REBLOGS ARE GREATLY APPRECIATED‼️
But please do not take, use, reupload, sell, edit, redistribute, copy, claim, feed to AI etc.... My work without my written permission, Thank you kindly 💗
I love 2012 Shredder so much. I like how he genuinely intimidates you without even a word. The edginess in the armour, his confidence, his delusion, his tendency to play with his opposition like a cat before going for the kill is everything to me.
Whenever Tiger Claw went "Let's kill him already" he always goes, "I want his family to watch him struggle before I end him off". He enjoys the sport, literally. He's seeking absolute revenge (totally not a pun regarding that one Tmnt game).
Him refusing to let go of the Kuro Kabuto (his headgear) feels like a metaphor for him refusing to let go his delusion, ego and obsession with framing Yoshi as the villain in his own narrative. His refusal to change of perspective. He genuinely believed his lies to the point its the reality to him. While knowing hes a MONSTER.
When I first started watching 2k12, I was expecting Shredder to just leave Karai once she refuses to believe in his well structured lies (because cartoons tend to ignore such stuff and make the villain immediately go "Eh whatever, I'll continue my villainy because emotions don't matter to me as a bad guy") but they made him actually care for her, be possessive. They considered how he had grown an attachment after literally raising her most her life. Like the detail and insanity put in the character is so good.
The way they made him genuinely delirious by claiming Karai as his own, pointing Yoshi as the villain is so good. He was asking her to come back to her, calling himself her father during the fight. Injecting mind controlling worms into her!
He genuinely saw her as his and Tang Shen's child. He raised her as a fragment of Shen, as a compensation for the guilt of killing the woman he wanted. Again, obsession.
He literally had to go through a virtual simulation to get himself to hurt Karai.
As the Super Shredder, his lust for power was displayed quite well. He didn't care about how unstable the mutagen was and how it could harm him, he was blinded by his own megalomaniacal want.
Im curious about how he gradually grew closer to Karai when raising her and how his relation was like with Yoshi before the fire.
Did something happen between the two brothers when growing up to cause Saki to be this easily driven to rebuild the Foot Clan and eventually kill his own bother?
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