Raphael's eyes continuously watered as he watched the little ember on the end of the incense stick. He told himself it was from the faint chill of the farmhouse room, from the dry air, from his unblinking stare, but it wasn't really any use. He wasn't any better at lying to himself than he was at sitting in silence.

He flinched at the rattling inhale of breath beside him and reflexively tightened his hand over his father's. The pulse that beat, steady and slow, beneath his fingertips, began to quicken.

It seemed to take effort to tear his eyes away from the incense, the little coal left a spot in his vision as he looked over to his father and found him already looking back. All the hard edges in his expression went soft, the taut lines in his body rounded as he leaned forward and adjusted his grip to hold the thin, chilly paw in his own hands.

"Sensei," he said. He brought the paw up to his chin and closed his eyes, trying to will them not to tear up again. It had been what, four hours since he last spoke to his dad? It wasn't a big deal. It wasn't.

Except it was, because every time he said goodbye, he was sure it would be the very last.

"Raphael," he replied, a smile in his aged voice.

He took a deep breath, bracing himself to look at the silver-streaked face and drooping whiskers. He found himself smiling in spite of it all. "How are you feeling?"

Splinter hummed while he considered it, which lapsed into a little cough.

"The medicine your brother gave me seems effective."

Raph pointedly didn't look at the IV in Splinter's other hand, he did not. "Good, good. That's...good."

Splinter tugged his hand free and stroked it over Raphael's head. Immediately, all his work to not tear up went out the window. No matter how old he and his brothers got, this one sweet gesture of comfort and love had never ceased. Raphael closed his eyes and tried to commit it to memory.

"I know you are troubled," Splinter said quietly. Even his whisper held a hint of that rasp in the back of his throat. "Were it that I could ease your suffering—"

"No, no." Raph cut him off and scooted impossibly closer to his father's bedside. "Sensei, you're the one—" he broke off with a choked sound. "You shouldn't be feelin' bad for us. We're gonna be fine. You worry 'bout yourself, okay?"

He busied himself by tugging the quilt up closer to Splinter's chin and tucking him in, smoothed the thinning ruff of fur around his neck. He ignored how clumps of it kept trying to come away on his fingers.

He could do this, he could do this, he had to do this—

He cleared his throat to dislodge the lump of emotion. "Everyone else is gettin' some dinner, they'll be back up soon ‘n bring you some.”

"Hm. Thank you, Raphael."

"Sure thing."

He settled back in the chair, Splinter's hand in his, and let the silence wash over them again. It made his ears ring.

Downstairs, Mikey and Shadow laughed in unison about something or other. Splinter’s ears angled toward the open door, an idle smile on his face as he listened.

“I will never tire of the sound,” he said.

“What, Mikey’s big ol’ cackle?”

Splinter’s smile grew wry. “Of my children’s laughter.”

Raph let himself smile back. He knew perfectly well what Splinter meant, but he could never resist a dig on his brother, even when he wasn’t around to hear it. Splinter had said something similar probably a thousand times; he had always been a loving father, but in his old age he became downright doting. He doted on all his sons, adults as they were, and on April and Casey. He especially doted on Shadow, who loved to sit beside him and watch her cartoons. She liked to brush and braid his hair, clipping little doll’s accessories into it and grooming him like a regular show pony. April probably had a hundred of pictures of that scenario alone. Splinter had never been anything but a Dad, so of course Shadow was naturally drawn to him.

Raph leaned forward with a sigh, bracing his forearms against the edge of the bed. (Deathbed, his brain helpfully supplied. This will be his deathbed.) (No amount of time in the world would be enough for him to get used to this. His heart hurt. His head hurt. He wanted his dad, and he wasn’t even gone yet.)

"You ever wonder what your life woulda been like if you didn’t take us in? I mean, you sure didn't ask for four lil' squirts to take care of, 'specially not right after losing Master Yoshi."

He shook his head almost absently. “No. I would have been lonely, and I don’t like to think of that.”

“Do you...regret it? Us?”

Splinter laughed. A bright spot in the otherwise oppressive room that made everything feel ten degrees warmer. Raphael looked up, surprised. The mirth remained in Splinter's face as he answered.

"Oh, Raphael, my boy, no. I experienced doubt, perhaps, at my ability to provide what you needed, but I never regretted you for an instant. You were among the first things I ever saw with these new eyes. You—you four—are my entire life's purpose, the thing I was made for." He paused and took a few deep breaths.

Just this was taxing on him. Raphael gave him a moment to catch his breath before he carried on.

"Even though The Shredder was still out there?"

He shook his head a little, a very slight movement against the pillows. "My son, once I saw you, all thoughts of revenge were driven from my mind. From that day forward, you were all that mattered. And trust me, I did not have time to think of any regrets. Four turtles. Four boys." His eyes grew a little faraway, remembering. "I must have been crazy.” He looked sidelong at Raphael, eyes sparkling. “Crazy in love, I think."

Someone dropped something downstairs. Shadow shrieked with laughter. There was a chorus of shushes afterward, Casey's loudest of all—even louder than the original laughter had been. Raph and Splinter both shook their heads, then Splinter murmured another laugh.

In a little while, Shadow would come bounding up the steps to bid goodnight to Grampa Splinter. She was only five. Raph's heart twisted painfully whenever he wondered how much she would remember of Splinter by the time her age doubled, it made him sick to think any kid should have to be without his love. The prospect of losing it forever made it clear enough that there was nothing in the world more beautiful, more steadfast, than his father's love.

The tears in his eyes weren't from the dry air. They were pain and love and fear and everything that had ever mattered to him all at once, streaming down his bare face before he buried it in his father's shoulder. He sucked in a breath of him and tried to write the scent to his memory, tried to memorize every second. There had never been anything more important than this.

Splinter rubbed over the back of his head with one hand and his carapace with the other. The movements didn't last long—he was exhausted. The still pressure on Raph’s neck was more than enough. Being able to hear his sensei’s heart beat and feel his chest rise was enough.

They didn't know if he had hours or days or weeks. Donnie'd called it palliative care, said they could only keep him comfortable now. The cancer was going to keep eating away at him until his body couldn't take it anymore, and they would make sure he wasn't in any pain. He would eventually die of organ failure, likely under a morphine-induced coma, and take his last breath completely, blissfully unaware of it. They had to start the morphine last night, when Splinter's breathing became too labored without it. Knowing the stark reality of it didn’t make it easier to swallow.

They were all trying to grieve away from him, let him have his own final days in peace rather than trying to comfort his sons and do his own grieving on the side, but—but god, it was the hardest thing Raphael had ever done. He'd fight a thousand Shredders, babysit a million Shadows, cry an interstellar river before he tried to mourn like this again. This was his father, this was the backbone of his entire universe, the axis by which everything else moved, the single pillar upholding his sanity in the madness and confusion of his life, and it was crumbling. How was he supposed to keep going after this?

"You will be alright," Splinter murmured.

A wet laugh burst through the tears. Raph pulled back and messily wiped at his face. "You always know exactly what I'm thinkin', don't you."

Splinter gratefully took a tissue to dab at his own tears. "If that were true, you would have gotten into far less trouble as a teen."

Raph sniffled and leaned forward again. There were footsteps on the stairs—Mikey, from the sound of it. "You know how much I love you, right?"

Splinter winked. "You could not hide it from me if you tried. And I love you too, Raphael.” The sheen of tears reappeared in his eyes. “Hopefully enough to last you a lifetime."

While Leonardo put away the stool, Splinter removed the katana from its sheath and examined the blade. It had not been long since the last time he brought the swords down for cleaning and oiling; he could see his own reflection in the flat of the steel. There were some nicks in the sword’s edge that had not been polished away yet, despite many sessions with the whet stone, but he would not have it any other way. Somehow, it felt like the only proof he had of his late master’s very existence; the katana was said to be the soul of a warrior, after all, and this was no exception. He had fought, and lived, and died, and rather than a headstone or a proper shrine, Splinter tended to these swords in his memory.

Leonardo returned, eager as ever and doing a poor job of concealing it. Splinter couldn’t help the smile at his son’s expense. He was a gifted student, careful and hard-working, but he was also a child, and there was no getting around it.

“Are you ready, my son?”

He scoffed and smothered it with a cough. He bowed and, perhaps too loudly, said, “Hai, Sensei!”

Splinter sniffed to disguise his instinct to laugh. “You must be very careful, Leonardo. Live steel is not as forgiving as the bokken—a careless stroke of the blade will surely leave destruction in its wake. You must be swift and decisive, you mustn’t hesitate, but you must always make the right decision.”

Leonardo’s eyes gleamed like stars as he nodded along. Splinter knew he didn’t truly hear a word of what he said. Some lessons can be learned only by doing.

He turned the sword so that the blade pointed behind him, offering the hilt to his young son. “Be careful,” he repeated, distilling the wisdom into something easier to absorb. “I do not want you to hurt yourself.”

Leonardo bowed before carefully taking the hilt in his hands. Splinter noticed a slight tremble.

“Widen your grip. Yes, there you go. Practice some kata and get used to the balance. It’s different than your bokken, yes?”

He nodded, already deeply concentrating as he began moving through basic slashing kata. The little furrow in his brow was impossibly cute.

Splinter moved to the wall of the dojo, where he had left the wakizashi. It had only been a few months since his leg was broken at the Battle Nexus. It had taken some explaining to satisfy his sons’ worry and curiosity, and they had been waiting on him hand and foot ever since then. That, and taking advantage of it whenever possible to escort him above ground, or get out of training on days when it hurt too much to stand. The healers at the pavilion assured him that they could heal it to full usability if he just stayed another few days, but he had to return home to his sons. He’d had faith in his body’s ability to heal as it had before for lesser injuries, but had maybe overestimated himself. Or underestimated the scope of the injury. He could still feel the fissure in the bone when he ran his fingers across it, not set quite right, always swollen and warm to the touch.

Splinter leaned his staff against the wall and tested his leg. It was tender, and almost buckled the moment he put his full weight on it.

Leonardo’s movements halted suddenly. “Sensei?”

“Continue your katas,” he said, a little more sharply than he meant to. “You’re doing well.”

He sensed another moment of hesitation from his son, then the movements resumed.

The leg wouldn’t bear his full weight for very long, if at all, but he had proven to himself many times that he could still best a skilled opponent without it. As it was, it would simply serve as a suitable handicap against his pupil.

He traded his walking stick for the wakizashi and unsheathed it, savoring the familiar song of the blade leaving the saya. The short sword did not see as much use as its sibling katana, thus didn’t bear as many scars. Still, he cared for it the same and his reflection, always older than he expected it to be, looked back at him from this blade too.

He turned to Leonardo, careful how he held his weight. “My student, are you ready?”

His eyes grew impossibly wide beneath that blue mask. “We can spar with the real ones?”

He chuckled. “Yes, my son, but we must be very careful not to hurt each other. Do you trust yourself?”

Leonardo looked at the sword in his hand as if it would answer for him. “I…I don’t know, Sensei.”

“It is good of you to be honest. What about this: do you trust me?”

He looked back up with a confident smile. “Hai, Sensei!”

“Very good. Then we will spar—carefully.”

The smile broke into a brilliant grin as he took up his stance. It was too narrow, it would be easy to throw him off his balance. But this wasn’t strictly a lesson—they had already done their training for the day, his brothers were off somewhere else causing their trouble—this was a reward for Leonardo’s patience and devotion to his training. And, perhaps in part…a reward for Splinter too, to see the excitement and joy on his son’s face.

Splinter took his stance—also too narrow, but it was more important that he kept the weight off his leg. He raised a brow in silent question to Leonardo.

His grin fell away into a look of deep-etched concentration, then he nodded.

As usual when sparring with his sons, Splinter waited for Leonardo make the first move. He watched as his son carefully appraised his modified stance and subtly shifted the grip on his sword—he was going to attack at Splinter’s weak side. He couldn’t help being proud of him for so quickly picking up on the advantage. He’d been trained to do it of course, but true cunning in the heat of battle could not be taught.

His first move was projected well ahead of time, and easily deflected. The swords clashed with a rasping sound like thunder that echoed in the small, enclosed concrete room. It made a thrill run up Splinter’s spine, he could only imagine how it made Leonardo feel. He deflected a second blow, and waited until Leonardo had fully recovered before making his own sweeping motion with the sword. Leonardo blocked it, and in the moment their eyes locked, Splinter could tell he was having the time of his life.

They fell into a comfortable rhythm of slashing and blocking, moving around each other lazily. Well, it felt lazy to Splinter, but Leonardo was putting his all into it. He became more excited and daring as time went on, starting to move more and trying harder to make use of Splinter’s weak leg.

It wasn’t intention, but chance that made Splinter fall. As he stepped away from Leonardo’s strike, his foot caught a gather in the rug. He had only his bad leg to fall back on, and he swiftly ended up on the ground. Instead of dodging the swing of the katana like he intended, he fell right into its path. The blade cut decisively through the edge of his ear.

He winced; not from the glancing pain, but from the way Leonardo dropped Master Yoshi’s sword.

“Sensei!” he cried. He fell to his knees beside Splinter and hovered over him uncertainly.

“I’m alright.” Splinter could feel the warmth of blood pooling at the base of his ear and slipping unseen through his fur. It would need attention before he stained the rug and his robe. “My stick, please.”

Leonardo retrieved it and helped his master to his feet while tears poured down his cheeks. “I’m so sorry Master, I didn’t mean to. I was being careful— I didn’t mean to—”

Splinter pressed his paw to Leonardo’s cheek and turned his face up to meet his gaze. “My son, it is not your fault.” He smiled, but Leonardo’s eyes were not on his expression, only the bloodied ear. “Sheath the swords, please.”

Leonardo hurried to do as he was told.

Splinter took up a cloth to press at the wound before it further stained the rug. When he turned around, Leonardo was folded over himself at his feet.

“Master, what is my punishment?”

Oh, punishment. Splinter wanted to scoff; the little boy sought punishment the same way Michelangelo sought out sweets. He always took it as a blessing, too. It made Splinter worry he was too harsh in training them, that he was an unforgiving and cruel master if his pupils relished in his admonishment, but his parenting books suggested it may have more to do with the child than his own skill (or lack thereof) at parenting. Leonardo was, simply put, an anxious child. Anxious to please, anxious to make recompense for imagined slights.

Splinter sighed. His salvaged parenting manuals did not give him the solution, only the shape of the problem.

“Your punishment…” he mused blandly. There was no blood on the rug, and he did not yet trust Leonardo to clean the blades without hurting himself. He did not want to give him a punishment unrelated to the perceived crime, but Leonardo wouldn’t accept dismissal without a punishment. Last time he tried this, Donatello later confided in him that Leonardo thought he’d been sent away in anger, and proceeded to smother his tears in a pillow all afternoon. This, of course, could not have been farther from the truth.

The warmth of blood began to seep through the cloth and make itself known again. The wound was superficial, but bleeding quite profusely. He needed to clean and dress it—

“Leonardo, you will help me clean and dress the wound.”

“Yes, Sensei,” he said in a thick, tearful voice. And then, more timidly, “will you show me how?”

Splinter smiled. “Yes, my son. It is a good thing to learn.”

Splinter sat before the small mirror in their washroom and guided him through the process of cleaning and bandaging the wound. His small fingers, though shaking, were gentle and nimble as he carefully followed instruction. Splinter gazed at him through the mirror, impossibly full of fondness for this gentle creature that the universe saw fit to bestow on him. Not one, but four of these little turtles did he have to call his own; sometimes the warmth in his breast was almost too much to bear, he loved these children so much.

“Leonardo, this was not your fault,” he said once again. “These things happen sometimes, when training with live steel. I am not angry with you, and this is not a punishment, only an extension of your lesson. Does that make sense?”

He thought about it for a long moment, using his thumb to smooth the adhesive bandage over the thin flesh of Splinter’s ear. “Yes.”

“Do you think that’s fair?”

He shyly met Splinter’s gaze through the mirror, tears bubbling up in his eyes again. “I really didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Splinter drew the boy into his arms, tucked his head beneath his chin. “I know, Leonardo.”

  “When are you going to teach me something I don’t already know!”

  As if the boy aged before his very eyes, Splinter found himself looking up at the shuttered, cold face of Leonardo the man instead of his beloved child. Battle-worn, exhausted, and lost, this man was still his boy...just far from home.

His other sons rushed to his aid and brought him up to his feet. They held him up by the elbows, and he held the wound on his head. The blow wasn’t what stunned him—it was the one who delivered it.

Leonardo pushed his brothers aside roughly, trying to reach Splinter. “Master! Master, I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just… I just lost control.”

Splinter reached out to put his other hand on Leonardo’s cheek, still round with the vestiges of baby fat. Yes, right in front of him, real and solid, but at the same time so very far away.

Leonardo flinched away from the touch. Raphael stood at the ready between himself and Leonardo as if he might have to protect him from his own son. Perhaps it was the blow to the head speaking, but he felt as though he was in a bad dream.

Like one might in a dream, he spoke without thought. “Leonardo. Come, help me dress the wound.”

“Sensei, are you sure?” Donatello said immediately.

Splinter removed his paw from the wound and allowed his son to inspect it. “The cut is shallow, see? It will need nothing more than cleaning and bandaging.”

Donatello’s eyes flicked from the wound to his sensei’s face, hesitant. “Alright. If you’re sure.”

Splinter offered him a thin smile and patted his hand, then touched Michelangelo and Raphael also in passing. The latter offered him his stick, which he took gratefully. Without another word, Leonardo led him to the washroom.

Splinter felt rather like crying as he sat on the stool. Leonardo’s face was so solemn, brow drawn tight while he worried at his lip with his teeth.

Leonardo worked through the process of cleaning the wound in silence. Splinter did not flinch away from the alcohol swabs, nor did he let fall any of the tears that kept rising in his eyes. He ached for his son and this darkness in him that he could not seem to shake, no matter how hard Splinter tried to help him.

Leonardo returned to the first aid kit for bandages and paused, hands resting in the kit and eyes staring at nothing. Splinter gave him a moment to compose himself, then placed a paw on his arm. He flinched away from the touch again, putting a distance between himself and his sensei.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured. “I’m sorry. I lost control—I—“

“You did not mean to hurt me.”

“But I did.” He turned his face away, white-knuckle grip on the edge of the first aid kit. “It’s unacceptable—unforgivable.”

Splinter hesitated. When he said he did— did he mean that he did hurt him, or that he did mean to…? He was too afraid to ask. “Finish wrapping the wound, please,” he said quietly.

Leonardo shook himself and took up the roll of bandages. Splinter watched him from beneath his brow as he performed the task robotically, winding the bandage around his head to hold the gauze in place. It flattened his fur uncomfortably in some places and ruffled it in others. Leonardo’s eyes were steel-cold.

With the task finished, Leonardo left the gauze roll fall to his lap and his eyes with it. Splinter again reached out to hold his cheek in his palm. This time, instead of flinching, Leonardo took his hand by the wrist and pulled it away.

His sons did not rebuke affection. For him to pull away now, when he appeared to need the comfort most…

“Sensei. What will my punishment be?”

“I think you are punishing yourself enough, my son.”

He looked up, surprised, then sobered again. He looked somewhere just beyond Splinter’s face—it puzzled him for a moment, and then Leonardo reached up to touch the notch in his ear. The one left by Master Yoshi’s blade, nearly five years ago. It was nothing compared to the scar in Leonardo’s shell. The burdens that his poor son had to bear…

“I’m sorry,” Leonardo whispered.

Slowly, for fear he would pull away again, Splinter clasped his hand and tried to convey his sincerity through the grip. “My son, you are forgiven.”

A disturbed look passed over Leonardo’s face in an instant, then a sob burst out of him like it was beyond his control. He dropped his forehead to rest on his father’s knuckles, still over his own hand, and sobs continued to pour out of him.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I’m so—so scared, Sensei, I’m out of control, full of anger, I feel like more and more of a—a failure every day,” he gasped in a sharp breath and his shoulders shuddered. “I can’t stop my family from getting hurt, now I’m the one hurting you!”

“Shh, shh, Leonardo, it’s alright—”

“No!” he wailed. His body practically collapsed, he went from kneeling to sitting so quickly. His head still rested on his father’s shoulder, but his arms and legs drooped listlessly. His breaths were too short, too loud. “It’s not okay, I’m broken, there’s something—something wrong with me. I feel like I’m living in a nightmare! When will it stop?” He broke off with a guttural, anguished wail.

“No, my son, no, you are not broken.”

Splinter slipped from the stool to sit on the floor with his son. He wrapped his arms as far around Leonardo’s shell as they would go and held on as tight as he could. He stroked the back of his head and rocked slightly, trying with all his might to comfort the sobbing turtle.

“You are not broken. You are troubled. You are burdened beyond what your young spirit can handle. I wish I could take these troubles from you.”

Leonardo went limp against him, abject sobs still wracking his body.

“You will come through this stronger for it,” Splinter murmured, a promise to both himself and his son. Splinter kept rocking and holding him, holding back his own tears through sheer force of will.

He would get better, stronger, but not without help. It was time to do something about this brokenness in his son’s spirit. Something dramatic.

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