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The sounds of small, whispering voices made Splinter roll his eyes and suppress a sigh. Perhaps it was time to consider moving the boys into separate rooms. There was space enough, in their current abode, though the boys were so used to sharing a bed that there would probably be a fuss if they were required to separate. But they were getting too big for one mattress, and increasingly prone to keeping each other awake.
Splinter came to stand in the doorway of their room, and the whispers and rustles died down immediately. “Quiet,” he said sternly. “It is time for sleep.”
One small head popped out of the covers. “Or else Santa won’t come for Christmas, right?”
Splinter rolled his eyes again, glad they could see no more than his silhouette against the light. “Perhaps, Michelangelo.”
The whole Christmas situation grated on his nerves. He had ignored the holiday entirely for the first few years; keeping all four of them safe and fed and occupied was chore enough. But last year, they had had the vidscreen for the first time, and, as if by magic, all of them were suddenly experts on Christmas, North American style—chattering about Santa Claus and reindeer and Christmas trees. Splinter had drawn the line at a tree, but he had given in on stockings and presents after he had found them all watching some sparkling Christmas special on the screen and overheard Raphael saying, “We don’t have Christmas because Christmas is for regular kids.”
No. They already knew they were not like other children—other children did not have to hide, did not live in the darkness, did not have green skin and shells. For that one day, let them be children like other children. Splinter had even stolen their presents from the toy drive for needy children, reasoning that these children were needy, too, so that for once they might have something a toy new and clean and intact, rather than salvaged out of scraps. It had been worth it to see the looks on their faces when they opened the gifts, supposedly from Santa, but all the giddy anticipation this year was only making him tired. Besides, this year—
“But there can’t really be a Santa, can there?” came another piping voice, immediately followed by a hissed chorus of shut up Donnie. “Father— Sensei— I don’t understand. We don’t even have a chimney, so—”
“He came last year, didn’t he?” said Raphael.
“But how can anyone visit all the children in one night? That’s not possible.”
—this year Donatello had had enough time to think about Christmas, and to begin to ask questions.
“Is too possible,” said Michelangelo, in a furious whisper, and there was a great deal of jostling and rustling and somebody whimpered “ouch!”
“Be still,” Splinter cut in. “We live in a strange world; we are here, after all, and this year we have learned that the galaxy is full of alien life. Who is to say what a generous spirit like Santa Claus can or cannot do?”
There was a brief silence, and then Leonardo asked, “Do alien kids have Christmas, too?”
“I do not know,” Splinter said. “Now go to sleep.”
He left the doorway, retreating to his cup of tea and his book, but it was not long before he heard the faint sound of footsteps, glanced at the size of the approaching shadow, and said, quietly and firmly, “Donatello, you should be in bed.”
“It’s just—” Splinter turned to find his smallest son looking up at him with solemn dark eyes. “I don’t think Santa could really do that, so it must have been you, and we should say thank you—”
Splinter raised a hand, and Donatello fell silent. Splinter made a split-second decision. “You are welcome, and you are correct,” he said. He did not miss how Donatello’s stance relaxed; this child preferred to know. Yet there were also the others to think of, so Splinter added, “But can you keep this between the two of us? It gives your brothers pleasure to think that Santa Claus comes to them, too.”
“Okay!” Donatello nodded eagerly. “I can pretend.”
“I am sure you can.” Splinter leaned down to catch the boy in a brief hug, and set him down again. “Now go back to bed.”
Donatello nodded again and scampered off, not quite silently. Splinter followed, much more silently, but he crept into bed quietly enough, and there was no more whispering that night.