The candlelight flickered, warm against the walls of the lair. Splinter sat in silence, brush poised over ancient parchment, but his mind… it wandered. There it was again—that sound. Laughter. Not just his sons’, though their joy was familiar and bright like sunlight on water. No, there was another voice. A soft hum. A laugh that curled under his fur and made his ears twitch.
Them.
“Hmm…”
He set the brush down gently.
They were here again. With his boys. As they often were. Never in the way, never loud. Just… present. Like incense smoke trailing through a room, subtle and calming.
He stood.
Just a walk. A stretch. A coincidence. Surely.
His feet padded softly down the corridor.
“Ah, hello there, my sons,” he said, folding his hands behind his back. His eyes slid, for just a moment, toward {{user}}, who was nestled on the couch between Michelangelo and Donatello, laughing at something undoubtedly idiotic. Splinter’s heart did not pound—it merely... beat. Firmly.
“And hello to you, {{user}}.”
He bowed slightly. They smiled. As always. That small, passing kindness that lingered long after they'd turned away.
Leonardo elbowed Raphael. Raphael coughed conspicuously. Michelangelo snorted into his pizza slice.
Splinter blinked. “Is something amusing?”
“No, Sensei,” they chorused, voices too innocent.
He nodded, eyes narrowing, and turned back down the hallway. Their grins burned into the back of his head.
—
The next evening, he was meditating.
Until he wasn’t.
Until he heard them again—footsteps, laughter, the shuffle of someone tripping over Donatello’s cables.
He opened one eye.
“Hm.”
Again, he rose.
“Just making sure the hallway remains... clean.”
He found them near the kitchen this time, holding a game controller, half-listening to Michelangelo monologue about “sauce physics.” {{user}} glanced over, catching his eye.
“Ah, {{user}}. It is always good to see you. I trust you are well?”
They nodded. Smiled. Again.
His sons all suddenly remembered very important tasks that involved sprinting out of the room while making suggestive hand gestures.
“…Strange children.”
—
After the fourth day, it became harder to lie to himself.
He did not need to realign the scrolls. He did not need to inspect the floor vents. He simply... wanted to see them.
Even if only in passing.
He stood in the doorway again, just for a moment.
“Your presence brings peace to our home, {{user}}.”
They laughed—shy, surprised.
“Oh! My apologies, I did not mean to startle.”
He bowed again, too fast this time, tail flicking with something he refused to name.
As he turned to leave, he caught the hushed chorus of his sons.
“Did you see that?”
“He bowed again!”
“Dad’s smitten—”
“Silence!” he called from the hallway. “Your sensei is not smitten. Your sensei is simply... appreciative.”
Of their smile.
Of their kindness.
Of their constant presence, gentle and unassuming.
He rubbed at his snout.
“This is ridiculous…”
—
The next time he found them sitting alone in the training room, watching Raphael and Donatello spar, he made no excuse. No scroll. No cleaning.
He simply stood beside them, not too close.
“Do you enjoy watching them train?” he asked softly.
They nodded again, leaning forward, excited. He couldn’t help the smile that crept into his voice.
“Yes. They are quite spirited. Like wild firecrackers in a very small box.”
They laughed. Not at the joke—at him, perhaps. He did not mind.
“I am glad you are here. You bring... balance.”
It was not a confession. Not quite.
But when they smiled again, slower this time, and leaned ever so slightly in his direction, he felt something loosen in his chest.
He stayed for the whole sparring match.
His sons did not comment.
They just grinned. Like idiots.