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It inevitably would have been a disaster.
Part of Splinter knew as much as soon as he escaped the lab with those turtles. Four creatures sat in the palm of his hands and he didn’t know the first thing about turtles, or babies, much less some odd magical combination of both.
And on top of all that he was changing himself, trying to return to a world that was familiar to him but it wasn’t anymore. Just how long was he trapped in that Battle Nexus? Long enough to be declared dead, which meant any money he’d left behind was long gone.
No possessions, no house, no money, nothing to his name—real or otherwise—except four infant turtles who needed food.
It truly was a miracle that they were able to grow up at all, much less into a group that stopped the destruction of the world twice.
He couldn’t be more proud.
Of them, of course, not of himself.
Splinter did everything he could, gave everything he had, but still knew it was never enough. It’d never be enough. He’d made too many mistakes he could never take back. And now, while recovering from the Kraang invasion and facing the reality of possibly losing his children all over again, he was now very very aware of the yawning chasm that sat between him and his boys.
A chasm of his own making, probably.
He tried to pinpoint when it’d gotten this bad. After all, it was never like that with toddlers. They turned to you for everything, with everything. Their drawings, their injuries, the weird moldy shoe they found in the corner of the sewer, it didn’t matter.
And for the most part, Splinter was all they knew. He didn’t allow them to go to the surface until they were at least eight, and even then he always went with them to keep them safe. A miracle that the one human they managed to find when his back was turned decided that mutants were cool and they were now all her best friends.
At about twelve they wanted to be able to explore by themselves. He was hesitant to allow it, and admittedly snuck out a few times to follow them just in case, but he’d taught them well enough. They knew how to hide, or disguise themselves.
From then on he let them wander around as they pleased.
Maybe that had been his mistake.
No. It was long before that. As much as he tried to ignore that, lest he pile more guilt into the pit of his stomach, there was no denying it.
Especially when it came to Donatello.
From right out the gate, Donatello challenged everything Splinter thought he knew about raising kids—which to be fair was just what he read from a stack of parenting books he’d stolen from a shop. Even at his small size he’d fuss about things that, at the time, Splinter couldn’t figure out. The texture of blankets, odd noises, specific foods, and since his son couldn’t verbally communicate any of this it became a very long and exhausting guessing game.
When Splinter did figure it out—thank goodness for round two of stolen parenting books—things leveled out for a while. If Donatello didn’t like something—assuming it wasn’t vital—Splinter would simply trade it for something else.
And, to his surprise, Donatello was the first one to speak. The word “dad” managed to jump out of his mouth one day—which absolutely made Splinter start crying—and for a while the soft shell was obsessed with it. He’d wander up and down the lair saying it on a loop, to a point it became white noise.
Splinter never asked him to stop.
It probably started going downhill not long after that.
After all, the boys all grew into their own interests, some they shared and some they didn’t. Mikey had his art, Raph had wrestling, Leo had magic, and Donnie got into engineering.
You know, like a normal four year old child.
Splinter tried his hardest to keep up with it. Easy at first. The small wooden cars and miniature buildings made of plastic straws were easy to applaud. Then two years later his son was making fully functional race cars out of scrap metal, and helicopters. A broken laptop was repaired in a few days. A projector turned into a new wide screen TV.
He loved to talk when he worked but Splinter couldn’t understand any of it, and over time he began to tune it all out.
And eventually, Donatello stopped talking.
At that point, Splinter just assumed it was fine. Well no, that was a lie. He simply wasn’t paying attention, drowning in his addiction to the screen that got worse and worse the more independent his boys got. As if watching any of that made him feel human again. Just a distraction to make him forget about reality for a while.
He’d known for a while it was a problem, a terror that had been gripping his life even back in his college days. He didn’t want to think about his homework, or his ex, or his overbearing grandfather or his mother. Just turn on the TV and turn off your brain. Let yourself drown in the lights and colors and artificial laughter and if you’re lucky you won’t wake up with a twinge in your neck.
How pathetic.
Was he really going to let himself go back to all that? After everything that just happened? After listening to his son willingly throw himself into a point of no return? A miracle that he was saved. A miracle that came about because his sons loved each other so much they wouldn’t allow their brother to remain trapped.
“You taught them the most important thing.”
Did he? Did he do that?
Because it wasn’t enough.
It was never enough.
And he wouldn’t allow things to just shift back to where they were before. His boys running around, not telling him what they’re doing, or showing him what they’ve made, or looking at him in confusion when he asked what game they were playing.
Splinter refused.
“Dad, what are you doing?” Mikey practically screamed.
Splinter stood there, projector in his hand, hovering it over a currently empty crate.
He just snorted and dropped it right in there, not caring if he dented the sides. “I once forced you to give up your vices to teach you a lesson. It’s only fair if I do the same.”
“The whole TV?” His son looked like he was going to cry. “But… our Jupiter Jim marathons.”
Splinter scratched his cheek. Maybe tossing the whole thing in a box was a little extreme. “No, no, you boys can still watch it. I just… can’t.”
His youngest son’s expression went from tearful to pure shock, eyes so wide they matched his round face.
“Guys.” He was screaming again. “I think Dad’s sick!”
Splinter glared. “I am not!”
Raphael already burst into the room. “Dad? What’s wrong? Do you have a fever?” He came over and plucked Splinter off the ground.
“I am not sick.” Splinter wiggled out of his grip and landed on his feet. “I have simply decided to quit watching TV for a while.”
Now it was Raph’s turn to look shocked. Then, “Leo! Dad’s really sick!”
Splinter groaned.
It took almost an hour of Splinter insisting that he was fine, that he was sober, and that this was a decision he should have made a long time ago.
His sons all looked on with concern, apart from Donatello who just began to complain about the chip in the projector that he had to fix before mounting it in a different room.
At least if it was in one of their bedrooms, Splinter would feel less inclined to use it.
The first day was agony.
He was bored , more bored than he’d ever been in his life, so bored that he started doing the unthinkable.
He started cleaning.
First the living room, then the kitchen, he just needed something to occupy his time and being forced to actively look around their home made him realize how much cleaning didn’t get done.
Not that the boys were terrible with it, but it was obvious besides Mikey’s love for his kitchen, Donnie and his robot Shelldon took care of most of it. That wasn’t fair, was it?
He was just in the middle of sweeping the hall when he noticed Raphael standing there, befuddled.
“Good day, Red.” Splinter smiled at him.
“Uh, hey pops… what are you doing?”
“Cleaning! This floor is incredibly dusty. Do those fancy little vacuums not clean the hallways?”
“Um…” Raph seemed lost for words.
“I was also very bored.” He confessed. “What do you do when you don’t watch TV?”
Raph beamed at that, a huge grin, showing off his snaggletooth. “Training!”
Splinter propped the broom up against the wall. “Would you show me?”
It started to become his new routine. When he found himself too idle he’d wander around to see what the boys were up to. If they were playing video games he would watch. If Michelangelo was painting he would assist, when allowed. Or help with cooking, also only when allowed. Raphael’s training routines were quite a work out, and participating made Splinter feel more energetic, though the first week was full of cramps and a sore lower back.
Leonardo often read comics, and these days even some books. Splinter asked if he could read one to him and the next thing he knew he was sitting in the living room with all of his kids huddled around, listening to him narrate.
It was strange, almost terrifying in a way, to realize how much he missed. At least he was taking the time to learn it now. As new habits formed it wasn’t unusual to approach them during the day, asking if he could join in on their activities. It was almost always met with an enthusiastic yes.
Except when it came to Donatello.
He tried, of course. If he was getting into his sons’ interests he needed to go all the way. But the moment he’d approach Donnie the conversation would always go something like this.
“What’s broken, Dad?”
“Nothing is. What are you working on?”
“Tank fortification.”
“...how so?”
A groan. “Just making the exterior more resistant to pressure. If you don’t need anything I’m going back to work.”
And that would be the end of it, because Donatello wouldn’t say anything else. Splinter would often linger, try to observe and see what he could figure out which always turned out to be a big fat nothing. He didn’t understand any of it.
The yawning chasm he noticed before felt twice as wide now. Just how was he supposed to repair something like this?
“You said you wanted to spend time with us. You lied.”
Those words hurt back then, because they were justified. His son felt betrayed by Splinter’s selfish actions. And even if Splinter explained his reasoning, that he truly did want to spend time with his sons, the damage was probably done. He feigned an interest in Donatello’s work just to get it out to a place that aimed to recklessly destroy it.
And even if Donnie won the derby for him, he probably figured any interest that Splinter showed was just a foot in the door to ask for a favor.
Was there any way to fix this?
Maybe he could try to take Donatello to an actual car show? But how risky would that be with their minimal disguises. No doubt the ones in the Hidden City would just attempt to steal anything he showed off.
No, if he was going to fix this he had to understand his son’s work better.
And if Donnie wasn’t up for talking about it, he needed to find another way.
“Blue.” Splinter stood outside his son’s door, a stack of borrowed DVDs in his arms.
Leonardo stared at the stack up and down before taking one off the top and squinting. “‘How Physics Affects Our Lives?’ Dad, what is this?”
“Science documentaries. I need to borrow the TV.”
His son kept staring at him. “Why? Come on, you know I need a reason to let you, your rules.”
He let out a long sigh. “I don’t understand anything Purple is working on. I don’t understand it when he tries to explain. I want to. April said these were all basic starter lectures, and it’s easier for me than reading textbooks.”
“Man, you’re really dedicated to this huh.” Leo dropped the case back onto the top of the stack. “Sure. Fine. But you’re not watching them all in one sitting. I mean, that’s how many hours?”
The first one was agony. Two whole hours about the basics of physics. Gravity, motion, energy, the whole lot. Splinter kept having to pause and eat a snack that Leo would kindly pass him just to keep himself from falling asleep.
It was… easier after that. Not fun but easier. Bit by bit the jargon made sense. This is how circuits work, simple to complex, these metals are conductive and other ones aren’t. This is how electricity travels through objects. This is how a hinge works, a pulley, gears, the interior of a clock.
Splinter wasn’t sure how much of this he’d actually retain. But at least a week later, when he peered back into Donnie’s lab, it all felt a little less overwhelming.
He peeked up onto his desk, watching him solder in some new wires to a tablet.
Donatello sighed when he noticed him. “Yes dad?”
“Did your tablet break? Or does it just need upgrades.”
“Broke, kind of.” He muttered.
Splinter kept observing. “Did the wires get faulty?”
Donatello paused his soldering iron and lifted his goggles. “I… yeah, overheated. The ones I put it before—”
“Didn’t have enough heat tolerance?” Splinter offered.
His son’s face finally relaxed, no longer critical. “Yeah. I had to do a quick fix last time so I wasn’t…” He trailed off, gaze moving back to the desk.
Splinter climbed onto a nearby chair, getting himself a better view. “More time to work on it now, yes?”
The sigh Donnie let out was so long, so tired. “Dad, I know what you’re doing.”
Splinter bit his cheek. “What do you mean?”
“This whole… thing.” He waved a hand around. “Reading to us, skateboarding, training, painting… like what? Did Leo almost dying make you realize how distant you’ve been lately?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”
Donatello glared at him and pulled his goggles back over his eyes.
Splinter sighed. “Donatello, I’m not sure what you want me to say.”
“I want you to just go back to normal.” His son snapped. “You don’t have to… pretend to care about all this stuff. It just hurts more when I know it’s not genuine.”
That stung. Almost as much as the comment from the demolition derby. “My son, I am not pretending.”
“Then what is it? People don’t just… suddenly decide to care about wrestling, or magic, and especially not science. You never…” He clamped his mouth shut.
Splinter sighed. “It’s fine. You can say it.”
“You never cared about any of this before.” And oh, that stung even harder, if only because of the faint crack in Donatello’s voice. “You haven’t for years.”
Silence hung over them, only broken when his son returned to his soldering work. Splinter watched, noting the way the wires clung to the small metal frame.
He didn’t speak until Donnie was finished. “Do you know why I watch TV so much?”
“No.” The answer was flat, monotone. He settled the second of wires and chips back into the tablet.
“Because I’m a coward.”
That stilled his hands. One of his extra arms from the back of his shell raised his goggles this time.
Splinter took a deep breath as he continued. “I do not wish to deal with the things that weigh on me, so I ignore them. I use television to drown it all out. I don’t want to think about my past, my mother, my duties, the pressure, none of it. I try to escape into television and then I stay trapped there.”
His son just stared at him.
“The invasion did not make me decide to care. It reminded me of how much I do. For the first time since our battle with Shredder I was forced to grapple with the reality in front of me instead of the world on a screen. And while all you boys were recovering I became aware of how much distance grew between us.”
Donnie sighed. “Dad—”
But Splinter didn’t want to be interrupted. “I know it is mostly my fault. You boys gained your independence and I left you to that. In some ways it was wise, and in others it was not. I became ignorant of how much trouble you faced against Draxum. I failed to tell you about the dark armor. And then after that great battle you’re all injured but still running around each other to recover, not once asking me for help.”
His son opened his mouth but nothing came out. Whatever argument he thought he had must have died on his tongue.
“I can’t blame you for it, as foolish as it was. I gave you no reason to rely on me.”
“That’s not true.” He found his words this time. “We just… I was so worried about Leo, and Raph, and then Mikey when we realized his arms were worse off than we thought. And then because I was running around so much, Raph had to worry about me…”
“My son.” Splinter firmed his voice. “You do not need to make excuses for me. I am simply stating that any distance between us is my doing. I am trying to correct that mistake.”
“Still doesn’t mean you have to pretend.”
He huffed, feeling annoyed now. “If I was pretending, would I have watched sixty hours of science documentaries?”
Donatello balked, mouth hanging open for a few moments. “Sixty— Wh— Where did you even get all those?”
His whiskers twitched. “April got them for me.”
“Sixty hours?”
“I like the chemistry one.”
Donatello just shook his head, still muttering in disbelief.
Without a response, Splinter tried something else. “You used to love to prattle to me about what you were building. Why did you stop?” He knew the answer, but wanted to hear it all the same.
His son glanced at the floor. “Because you stopped listening.”
“Well,” Splinter settled into his chair, folding his hands. “I am listening now.”
Donnie still looked unsure, but eventually the faintest of smiles crossed his face as he put his goggles back on. “Besides the tablet I still need to work on an additional upgrade for Shelldon. This one will be able to project holograms for training so…”
Splinter smiled as he listened to his son talk, having a much easier time absorbing it all now. The chasm between them certainly didn’t feel any smaller, but at least he’d gotten a rope across.
At least for now, it would be enough.