"Pizza! Pizza!!"
The rat lifts his head in surprise, quirking a slightly greyed brow at the unexpected antics of the youngster. Splinter knows they are changing, as is he. But he hadn't known just what to expect. In truth that was one of the reasons he had kept them, in the beginning. In the hopes any detrimental changes would affect them first, give him some warning. But it hadn't occurred to him they would pick up how to speak so quickly. Language was a skill he was still learning himself, and he had the advantage of listening to his Master talk fluently for years.
However, he cannot deny the hatchlings have grown on him. They give him the comfort of no longer being entirely alone. His chores in caring for them a welcome relief from the pain of the loss of his family.
Stirred by their rambunctious sibling, Splinter quiets all four turtles with a low but firm "Hush now". His attention soon returns to the battered book upon his lap as the last of the pizza vanishes without a trace.
Sated, the turtles gather together in the rag-filled corner of the den that serves as their bed. It's not long before they are dozing in a loose jumble, limbs intertwined. Except for one.
Licking his lips to savour the memory of that awesome taste, the restless turtle crawls over to Splinter, the rat happy to lift his book to accommodate the little one curling into his lap. Absently he strokes the little turtles' head, hoping to soothe him to sleep. Splinter continues with his practice, softly sounding out the text,
“Ro-ma. Sic… No. Sis-ti-ne Char-”
“Da-da” the little turtle murmurs happily, giving Splinter pause. The sudden tightness in his throat as much a surprise as the new word. Confounded by the strange emotion threatening to overwhelm him, a glance at his book and the image depicted there resonates with him deeply; makes sense in a way it failed to mere moments before.
Compelled to know more about the picture, Splinter continues his attempt to read the text beneath it.
“Sis-tine Cha-pel. The Cre-a-tion of Ad-am. Mi… Hmm. Mi-kal-ang-leo.”
The little turtle stirs, lifts his head to give his benefactor a sleepy grin.
“Mikal-angelo?” murmurs Splinter, curious. With a soft little sigh the turtle snuggles back against his fur, a contented smile on his beak. Resuming his slow, gentle stroke upon the turtles’ brow, Splinter finds himself smiling broadly. A light snore escapes the little one, and Splinter chuckles softly.
“Michaelangelo.” he nods with certainty.
