Disclaimer: I own no turtles, let alone fictional, adolescent ninja ones. I just have a ridiculously large cat who likes to shed. A LOT.
Well, here's the last Advent prompt (Seriously, February? I am ashamed…) It's a combination of "Rest" and "Love". I hope you enjoy this terribly late and slightly unfestive instalment!

Rest and Love:

The remnants of the previous night's merriments was a sight to behold, a mess of silly string, board game pieces, empty cups, streamers, various snack foods and confetti coating the floor. Helium balloons that had once bobbed merrily at eye level now drooped and skulked across the floor when agitated by the air, resembling rainbow-colored tumbleweeds. At the centre of the mess were four slumbering figures, so tangled they formed a mound that rose and fell at irregular intervals with their breath.

Master Splinter, refreshed after a good sleep, padded silently toward the pile of turtles on the floor of the pit, not wanting to disturb his snoozing sons.

The boys had, despite their father's warning, insisted upon staying up the entire night to ring in the New Year. Since the time-honoured tradition of watching the New Year's Eve festivities on their flickering television set was rendered impossible due to the passing of the old appliance (Michelangelo still wore a black arm band in mourning), the teens decided to have their own Times' Square celebration in the lair.

Even after Miss O'Neil's departure at 11:00 – she had a curfew to observe – the party continued. The four boys managed to sustain themselves on a combination of caffeine, sugar and each other's energy until the wee hours of the morning. Now, they were paying for their partying. The four brothers had all dozed off at some point after 5:00am, dropping out of their whispered conversation one by one. They had haphazardly arranged themselves atop each other, still fully clothed and wound up in blankets.

Splinter paused once he was a few steps from the turtle heap and smiled fondly, reminiscing about when his sons were much younger and would sleep curled up together in his small nest. Then, their pudgy arms and legs would wrap around the closest object – whether a blanket, pillow or brother's limb – and Michelangelo's snoring would slice through the air, punctuated by the occasional dream-induced whimper from Donatello or Raphael. Contrastingly, Leonardo had slept in almost perfect silence, so still it was impossible to tell by sight alone if he was breathing.

Few things had changed since then. Michelangelo still snored loudly enough to wake up the entire East Side, Donatello mumbled scientific monologues in his sleep, Leonardo slept deadly still, and Raphael often drooled. In fact, a thin trail of saliva was presently trickling from the corner of his mouth onto the top of Donatello's plastron, which the hothead was using for a pillow. Donatello, unaware of the liquid collecting in the ridges of his upper plastron, lay on his carapace, one arm splayed out above his head while the other rested lazily over Leonardo's rounded shell. The eldest son, still sporting his blue mask, had fallen asleep plastron down, his cheek squished against Donatello's stomach. The leader's hand rested on his taller brother's kneecap, his opposite arm stretched to its full length across Donatello's lateral plane. This uncomfortable sleeping position was courtesy of Michelangelo, who had a vice grip on Leonardo's wrist. The youngest, Splinter was amused to see, had snuggled up against Raphael, his head wedged into the niche between Raphael's shoulder and neck.

Warmth swelled in the old rat's chest as he regarded his sons, taking advantage of the precious moment to closely observe his children without interruption or complaints.

They were growing up, now in their teens and pushing for independence at every opportunity. While Master Splinter maintained his authority over the four young ninja, he knew there would come a day when he would no longer exert this power. Hamato Splinter would have to let his students go. They would have to face the world on their own, exercising all the skills they had honed under his critical, practiced eye. The Sensei in him understood this, anticipating the day with an equal measure of concern and pride.

But Master Splinter was more than a Sensei. He was a father, who was afraid of the simultaneously beautiful and dark world above that fascinated his sons. Having spent many decades as a human himself, Splinter – Yoshi, he often reminded himself – was no stranger to the flaws of the world. He trusted his sons, knowing they were brilliant, talented, kind-hearted individuals…but would it be enough? The world, Splinter acknowledged, was an unforgiving place, differences often met with adversity, hatred and fear. Fear of what is unfamiliar and an ignorance toward things not understood.

Splinter knew fear. He feared that his sons would be crushed by the darkness of certain humans, emotionally unprepared for the bleak reality awaiting them above ground.

As adolescents, his boys could show great maturity one moment and seem entirely child-like the next. Their innocence was, in certain respects, something that Splinter admired; however, it raised concerns for his sons' wellbeing. There would come a time when his sons would rush off to face danger, returning with wounds that could not be healed with medical supplies, soothing words or a fatherly kiss on the brow. Spiritual wounds that would tear at their souls.

At that moment, Splinter was snapped out of his reverie by the sudden absence of Michelangelo's incessant snoring. The young turtle arched himself in a sleepy-stretch, swiftly bending back into Raphael's side and nuzzling his brother subconsciously. In response, Raphael's hand lightly batted at the leech's snout, his movements sloppy and anaemic in his sleep-drunk state.

The father exhaled in a sigh, the corners of his mouth turning up in a faint smile. That morning was not the time to worry about what was to come; it was the time to find joy in his beautiful family. He did not want to take for granted this second chance at parenthood for a single second.

Splinter closed the gap between himself and his sons, kneeling to the ground. Slipping effortlessly into father mode, he adjusted Donatello's blanket so it draped over the majority of his gangly form, suppressing a chuckle as the purple banded turtle sleepily muttered something about enthalpy. With a gentle thumb swipe, the leaking corner of Raphael's mouth was clean, the previously constant stream of saliva stayed for the moment. Master Splinter stood and retrieved Michelangelo's teddy bear from its place at his son's feet, tucking the worn toy into the crook of Michelangelo's arm. Finally, he circled the heap and carefully removed the party hat donning Leonardo's head, his hand replacing the lopsided attire for a few seconds.

Leonardo was most definitely exhausted – his usually light-sleeping son was entirely unaware of his touch.

As he withdrew his hand and absorbed the sight of his sons peacefully sleeping together, Hamato Splinter whispered lovingly, "Rest well, my sons."

And…Done! *collapses in a heap with the sleeping turtles*
I know this is a slightly heavy final chapter, but I was dying for a serious Daddy Splinter moment sandwiched by turtle cuteness.

Thanks to all who read these, I really appreciate the reviews! Special thanks goes out to TimidBookworm, zrexheartz, weirdsib, PenAndInkPrincess, madagascarmaster, and beautiful-sadness for the continuous support!

I guess there's nothing left to do except wish you all a happy Valentine's Day! It's a good thing there isn't a challenge for that too, or I'd never get any work done!