Adult-FanFiction.org : Cartoons

A New Lease on Life: Time to Burn	By : Ghost-of-a-Chance Category: +S through Z > Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Views: 1220 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own TMNT, any of its characters/devices, "Time to Burn," or any songs/movies/books/etc mentioned here; they all belong to their respective copyright holders. No money is made from this story; no copyright infringement is intended.

Chapter List
- 1-A New Lease on Life: Time to Burn
- 1
Hey, Folks! Ghost, here. Recently, all you awesome readers have pushed my story "A New Lease on Life" past 1,000 views on FFnet—for me, a new record! Instead of goin' all Sally Fields over how much y'all've made my year, I wanted to give something back. Have an ANLoL one-shot about Donnie and Amber! The song this is based around is on my ANLoL playlist and is ALWAYS the first I play when I need to get working on it, and I feel like it really fits Amber. Set in mid-March, and can be read as a standalone but makes most sense if you first read the published chapters of "A New Lease on Life."
Dedicated to the awesome readers who've taken time for "A New Lease on Life." THANK YOU so, so much, and I hope y'all enjoy!
Suggested listening: The Rasmus, "Time to Burn"
A New Lease on Life: Time to Burn
Come on!
Another long, miserable night, Amber ruminates as she stares through her tar-thick coffee. How long has she gone without a decent night's sleep? How long has it been since she could rest easy through the night, unmolested by nightmares of the days when the sirens sang? She shudders at a memory of tattered green skies running rampant through her mind, relishing the acidic burn of her coffee. Pain, she's found, is the most effective way she can shut down the mental assaults she falls victim to more and more.
Pain…She scoffs into her mug, recalling the days after a minivan ran her down in the crosswalk halfway to the dorms. The impact flattened her to the hood, revealed that the driver was passed-out-drunk, and the vehicle careened into a retaining wall with her still attached. Pinned between the out-of-control van and crumbling concrete, she barely survived and was lucky to avoid paralysis. Between a shattered knee, broken ankle, several cracked ribs, abundant internal bruising, and permanent spinal injuries, she was in constant pain. She yearned to be no longer reliant on pain pills and physical therapy; now, pain is the only way to get any peace.
'That life is over,' she reminds herself sternly as she gazes around her new home…the home of a family who welcomed her with open arms even despite the mess she clearly is. Down the hallway her new family sleeps soundly, their dreams unhaunted by the terrors of her own. Somewhere in the distance, a subway roars past, the familiar grinding growl triggering a panic that has become as familiar as her own name.
Fear of the dark tears me apart,
won't leave me alone, and time keeps running out.
Just one more life, I'm so sick and tired
of singing the blues, I should turn my life around.
Shouts and grunts echo from the dojo as her new family train. Outside the doorway, Amber watches intently. The brothers' skills in hand-to-hand combat never cease to amaze her. Even the simplest, most basic of katas remind her of just how unremarkable she is in comparison.
Unshed tears burn her eyes at a memory from her previous life—of her best friends Aaron and Mercy wrestling in a vacant pasture littered with pokeweed and fallen Hedge-apples. Always too weak to join in, Amber perched carefully on a fallen tree, certain the split-rail fence would topple under her weight. Her two grey-streaked braids hung in a comforting weight against her back as a spasm of pain ripped through her lower back. Despite the pinched nerve, she fought to keep a grin on her face; she always hated having them worry about her. A pair of glass-shielded hazel eyes meet hers across the dojo floor and from force of habit, she forces on a smile that she doesn't really feel.
That life is over, she chastises herself; she can't return to Willsdale, to her friend Aaron, her job, her little shotgun shack and her yard full of roses and black locust trees. It's best to move on, to give up any hope of seeing them again, and make the best of the second chance she has been given. Her boys' father and sensei calls a halt to their repetitions and the four ninjas separate, the eldest and youngest pairing off for a one-on-one fight. Her smile becomes more genuine as Donatello approaches, standing confidently at her side to observe his brothers' match and verbally critique the match for her benefit. His brilliance never ceases to amaze her, and this tactical explanation is no different. Though he explains everything with his usual efficiency, she can focus on nothing more than the soft tenor of his voice and the racing of her heart.
Tell me why do I feel this way?
All my life I've been standing on the borderline.
Too many bridges burned,
too many lies I've heard.
I had a life but I can't go back—
I can't do that, it will never be the same again,
and I know I don't
have any time to burn.
Come on!
Donatello stares through the doorway of the lab in trepidation, eyes glued to the fitfully slumbering brunette tucked into the spare cot. Amber is always tired, rarely able to sleep more than a few hours at a time, and ever since Spring arrived, she sleeps even less. Every night her dreams are plagued by shattered homes, splintered skies, broken lives, legions of battered, marching corpses… Even during their grittiest discussions and darkest desensitizing sessions she tells him barely a fraction of the nightmare she's lived, but what she does share seems straight out of a horror movie. Though he's never seen the small town she still calls home, he can sense her crippling homesickness every time he catches her staring off into space.
Amber is lost—a woman without a home, without a life, trapped in a world that has never been hers and living the life of a woman she's never met. No matter how much effort he piles into comforting her, protecting her, calming her, helping her conquer her demons, he knows it is but a drop in the barrel. Every time she wakes in the night, screaming and crying in the grips of a terror he can only imagine, Donnie wonders what he can possibly do to help. She isn't a broken machine; he can't fix her.
As she tosses and turns in her sleep, her blonde friend creeps up beside him. Though Mercy's skin no longer hangs on her bones like an oversized leotard, her blue eyes are dull, hung with shadows; between Amber's nightly awakenings and continued complications from reviving in the body of an alcoholic, Mercy isn't sleeping much either. "You're doing your best," she reminds him as always, "and you're accomplishing more than you think." Still, he feels that his best isn't good enough…as long as he is unable to fend off Amber's demons, it will never be good enough for him. On the cot, she whimpers in her sleep, an endless stream of whispered pleas cracking her lips.

They follow me home, disturbing my sleep,
but I'll find a place, place where they cannot find me.
Maybe I'm lost, and maybe I'm scared,
but too many times I've closed the doors behind me.
Donatello sits before his desk, meticulously poring over a multitude of subterranean maps of the area. He's spoken of expanding the lair and wants to do so with the least amount of impact on the sewers' structural integrity. From her place by the door, Amber drinks in the sight that haunted her dreams long before they met. Bright hazel eyes shift from green to gold as they dart between the backlit monitor and the pile of maps scattered before him. A small, confident smile heralds progress—subconscious wetting of wide lips relays concentration—he subconsciously stoops forward 'til he's almost hunched over the keyboard, a sure sign he is tearing through challenge after challenge like Occam's Razor through Mikey's explanation of why the sky is blue. With an adorably excited grin, he jots down another formula on the pad of paper beside him. A pang clenches her heart—she ducks around the corner, clutching her stomach to calm the frolicking butterflies.
When did she fall for him? Sure, she's dreamt of him for years, has crushed on him for even longer, but when exactly did she fall in love with Donatello? Silently digging through another life's memories she searches for answers but finds none. He had hold of her heart long before she died and is still its sole possessor, but he has only known her a few months. To him, it would be too early, too much, too soon, and she can't stand the idea of ruining the close friendship they have formed. She is lucky—so lucky to have even met him, and even more so for him to find her worthy of his time. To ruin their ever-strengthening comradery with her obviously-as-of-yet unrequited feelings…
"Never," she spits with a determined scowl as she stalks into the kitchen. Without another word she tackles the mountain of dishes, hoping the work will silence her mind for a time.
Tell me why do I feel this way?
All my life I've been standing on the borderline.
Too many bridges burned,
too many lies I've heard.
Had a life but I can't go back—
I can't do that, it will never be the same again,
and I know I don't
have any time to burn.
Stifled whimpers echo through the lab though she tries to smother them in her knees. Another panic attack, another memory, another reminder of the life she left behind…Amber slumps wearily in the foot-well of the desk, wondering why she can't get her fears under control. Her whole life she's feared the turning weather, feared the murky skies, feared the shower that became a storm, and now, she fears even the smallest, fluffiest cloud and the lightest misty rain.
'What's happening to me?' she wonders hopelessly, tears streaking her cheeks. 'I've never been so weak…so fearful…I've gotta get this under control!' A soft scrape at her side draws her attention; the sight of Donatello crouching down before the footwell sets her cheeks aflame. Even as she blushes, he passes her a soft kerchief to dry her eyes and settles on the floor beside her with a welcoming smile, waiting for the inevitable. As so often before, she creeps over to sit across his lap, hiding her eyes in his shoulder. Though it's offered out of platonic love, no more romantic than it is unwelcome, his embrace always offers safety, security, and comfort. Until she's ready, until he's sure, until they actually have a chance, she'll take every bit of affection she can get, no matter how painful the wait may be.
"It's okay to be upset, Braids," he reminds with confidence, gently petting the twin plaits he'd nicknamed her for. "There's no shame in fear, no shame in pain—only in letting them rule you, and you aren't." She turns to him, her eyes watery and dubious. "Take your time—We're here for you, as always."
"That's jus' it, Dee," she admits tiredly. "At this rate, I'll run out'a time."
Leave it all behind—
Cross the borderline—
Face the truth, don't have any time to...
Have any time to burn.
The sun hasn't yet risen when Amber crawls from her cot to the couch, her mind bogged down with another night's lingering dreams. Painful memories and endless tears, soothing caresses and murmured pleas, it's all become a blur. Never before have her dreams been torn in such different directions, never before have they left such a deep mark on her waking mind. This night's dreams were even worse than usual, not full of fear but heat. Passionate cries, sweaty limbs, strong arms and yearning eyes…if not for a sudden slam of a nearby door, who knows how far the dream might have gone? Torn apart inside, she slumps to the worn sofa, never even noticing Mercy stumble a drunkard's path to the bathroom, grumbling under her breath about too much coffee and too little balance.
"Why's this happening, Lord?" Amber mumbles, finally breaking her long spiritual silence; has she really not asked His guidance since the day she died? "Why've you put me here—why'd you decide I deserved a second chance when so many others were more deserving? So many died, so why do I live?" Searching for answers never whispered in her ear, she recalls the fateful day she slipped away from City Hall and died on her knees in the school library. Suddenly, she flinches in horror; finally, everything makes sense. "You heard me!" she groans into her hands, fighting a fit of tears. "I died in regret—regret that I never found love worth living for! This is your answer?!" Her voice is shrill as she glares in disbelief at the concrete ceiling. "Dropping me in another world where I have that love but can't do jack shit about it?! God, that damn book was right! We ARE in the hands of infinite power AND infinite sadism!"
"Ya know," Mercy grumbles as she stalks past. "yer the only churchy-type I've ever known to full-out bitch when you pray. Yer mother'd be horrified, seein' as—" Abruptly remembering something, she cuts herself off. "An attitude like that'll get ya nowhere…just be thankful you may someday have a chance." Amber doesn't even have to ask; she knows Mercy's referring to Donatello.
"'Someday?'" Amber murmurs, sinking into the worn upholstery. "Better than 'never,' I guess. Thanks, Mercy…What'd I ever do without you knocking sense in'ta my head when I need it?" As her lifelong friend sulks off to bed again, Amber casts her eyes to the ceiling again. 'Sorry,' she thinks awkwardly at the likely irritated deity she just bawled out. 'Who'd have believed Mercy would be a good influence?'
Tell me why do I feel this way?
All my life I've been standing on the borderline.
Too many bridges burned,
too many lies I've heard.
Had a life but I can't go back—
I can't do that, it will never be the same again,
I can't do it 'cause I know I don't
have any time to burn.
A mere two layers of steel away from the living room, Donatello stands frozen behind the bathroom door. The friends' conversation wasn't for his ears, he's sure, but he can no sooner drag himself away than relieve himself of a limb. Surely it's a coincidence, he reasons silently, sliding slowly to the floor and sprawling out on the cold unfriendly tile.
Mere moments before, he ducked into the lab to locate a misplaced charger only to find the room heavy with pheromones and Amber mumbling in her sleep. It took every ounce of strength he had just to tear himself out of the room without responding, even more so after his name fell from sleep-slurred lips. The moment he was free, he tore through the lair to the bathroom, intent on a cold shower.
'It isn't that strange,' he reasons to himself as the cold tiles freeze away his reaction to the potent scent. Amber lives with his family, spends much of her time with him, and they're only growing closer as friends—and it's not like she can control who she dreams about, any more than he can. Like any young, healthy, red-blooded male, Donatello is no stranger to dreams of the sort and has even seen Amber in some of them; he does find her physically attractive, after all. For any of that to mean love, though? After a few scant months? 'Ridiculous!' he reminds himself, staring through the tile floor.
'I died in regret,' her words echo hauntingly in his thoughts. '—regret that I never found love worth living for! This is your answer?! Dropping me in another world where I have that love but can't do jack shit about it?!' Could there be more to his dear friend than he's seen, he wonders nervously. Though they've not been acquainted long she has an uncanny, inexplicable way of knowing just what he's thinking, feeling, and other things she shouldn't know. Not for the first time, he wonders if his master was wrong—wonders if perhaps his family did exist in the world that Amber came from. Did Amber know his counterpart in that world? Did he know her? As always, he's left with more questions than answers.
Tell me why do I feel this way?
All my life I've been standing on the borderline.
Too many bridges burned,
too many lies I've heard.
It's surely too soon to tell, but perhaps someday the truth would be clear to him. For now, he wonders if he's misreading the situation. Could Amber truly, deeply, honestly love him, and not only in the way one loves a dear friend? Or, perhaps, when she sees him, is she more seeing the other version of him she left behind? She doesn't seem the sort to fall prey to petty infatuations or snap judgments. She always rebuffs Michelangelo's blatant flirtation with nothing more serious than a hairy eyeball or teasing jab, and insists on being considerate to Raphael no matter how rude his behavior toward her becomes. She frequently goes to Leonardo and their sensei for guidance and is making a concerted effort to befriend April. Even Casey, who holds nothing but contempt for her, is for some reason treated with a varying mixture of respect, regret, and when he pushes her too far, annoyance.
No matter how he turns it, her behavior around Donatello consistently differs. Only around him does that bright spreading blush flare with reliable regularity. She never fails to seek him out for comfort and contact, either. Even the day they met, she seemed more intrigued and beguiled by him than worried and repulsed—a surprising but very much welcome change, in his mind. Surely she hasn't attached herself to him so thoroughly simply because she trusts him? There must be something he hasn't seen, for how could she know him so well without meeting him before? One thing remains certain among all the uncertainties clouding his mind and quickening his heart: there's more to Amber than appears, and he is only now scratching the tip of the iceberg.
I had a life but I can't go back—
I can't do that, it will never be the same again,
And I know I don't have any time to...
Outside the door, Amber curls up on the lumpy sofa with a sigh. A foul, musky funk born of old cheese crumbs, grease and soda stains, years of dust, and numberless sweaty feet burns her nose, but just beneath them is a fainter pleasant smell: Coffee, grease, and clean sweat. Curious at the source, she digs through the cushions, emerging triumphantly with a scrap of vibrant purple fabric: a spare mask, she wonders? Maybe a bandage? No…the memory settles like a summer night. It's the very arm-wrap she was blindfolded with the day she arrived in the Lair. Comforted by the surprisingly soothing combination of scents she's always known were Donatello's, she curls into a lump with the cloth tucked securely under her cheek. As evening draws to a close and she drifts into dreams, gentle hands tuck a worn green afghan over and around her; though their owner knows not, nightmarish memories are held at bay by familiar hazel eyes, a voice humming soothingly in her ear, and the hope that even when her secret is outed, Donatello will not push her away.
Amber's last life ended with the beginning of another and the demons of her past still have her tightly in their clutches. Though he cannot yet love her back, Donatello would never leave her to fight them alone. For the first time since she awoke in this new life, she feels certain…
Time is on her side.
Don't have any time to burn.
NOTES:
Pokeweed: A very toxic plant that can kill just about anything that eats it raw; despite this danger, there are people who DO eat it - without being threatened with dismemberment! - as it's not quite as toxic if you, A, pick it at the right time, place, and size, B, boil it in fresh water about a dozen times, (used water reportedly makes a great insecticide/vermicide/neighborcide) and C, prepare to have the worst case of the OMGMYSTOMACHs you've ever endured. Oh, and D, have a driver on call for a rush trip to the ER because it's liable to poison ya anyway.
Hedge-apples: A slang term local to the Midwest; essentially, a Hedge-apple is a large, putrid, approximately five-ton green cannonball that resembles an acid green brain-fruit, and it falls from the Osage Orange tree, which is traditionally used in building fences. Hedge-apples are best used in a schoolyard sport called 'ultimate dodgeball' - Unlike rubber balls, they don't bounce off harmlessly, leave serious bruises and may crack ribs, stain clothing beyond repair, and splatter in smelly chunks when they hit hard enough. They're also very good substitutes for kickball and perform magnificently when used in conjunction with teenage therapy: just pick a good solid one, mark it with the name of a person you're angry at, give it a good hard punt, and watch 'Billy' explode into slimy green shrapnel. (Say THAT five times fast!)
Black Locust trees: These trees grow pretty quickly, spread by roots, cuttings, and seeds, and one healthy tree can quickly cover miles in every direction with its seedlings and off-shoots. Black Locusts have thorny trunks and limbs, generally grow to medium height, have odd round leaves in palmate branches. When in bloom, the flowers are grouped in large, grape-like clusters of ivory-white blossoms that somewhat resemble a cross between catalpa, lilac, and redbud blossoms. Seeds are spread by bean-like pods.
Occam's Razor: Simply put, 'Among competing hypotheses, the one with the fewest assumptions should be selected and is most likely the correct one.'
Infinite power and infinite sadism: A direct quote from "Inferno," Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle's modern take on 'The Inferno' from Dante's Divine Comedy. If you recall, when Amber found herself in Limbo in chapter 2 of ANLoL, her nerdy tendencies convinced her she was actually in 'a little bronze jar in the vestibule to Hell' and would be released if she recited the words that were the frantic main character's saving grace: 'For the love of God, get me out of here!' Needless to say, it didn't work until she added a 'please.'
- 1
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

A New Lease on Life: Time to Burn