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A New Lease on Life	By : Ghost-of-a-Chance Category: +S through Z > Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Views: 3159 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own TMNT, any of its characters or devices, or any songs/books/movies referenced. No money is made from this story. I DO own any & all OCs included in the story...and a Woozle.

Chapter List
- 11
- 12
- 13
Precautions: references to addiction, alcohol use and abuse, and some pretty insensitive remarks. Mercy's arrived, so hold onto your hats - it's about to get messy.
Suggested Listening: Imagine Dragons, "Hopeless Opus" and Michael Nyman, "Big My Secret" from The Piano

11: Secrets
6pm, April's Loft
"You must be Miss O'Brien."
The cheerful greeting came without warning, and Amber fairly leaped from the sofa. As she reigned in her nerves, her heart calmed and her lungs slowed; between horrid memories superimposed over the familiar parlor, a balding man in khakis grinned in welcome. She blinked away the transient demons at the corners of her eyes and forced a smile she didn't feel. "Y-Yeah," she answered, politely reaching out to shake the hand he offered her. "Dr. Morris?" Storm blue eyes grinned back at her under a thin mop of greying blond hair but gooseflesh broke out along her spine. Stormy eyes and a personality full of sunshine? This man made no sense.
"Yep," the doctor fairly chirped, smoothing back his hair. "You can just call me Mark if you like." Though she still felt ill at ease, Amber nodded, offering her first name as well. "Miss O'Neil tells me you've got some problems ya need help with; would you be willing to talk about it with me?" She studied him a moment, searching for a chink in his armor, a flaw in his façade, anything to suggest he meant her newfound family harm.
"That depends," she said slowly, well-aware April was still gaping at her grey-streaked hair in horror. The 'unveiling of the stripes' was even more embarrassing the second time around; at least the first time, Michelangelo wasn't around to proclaim her 'the world's hottest Granny.' "Before I say anything about anything, I need a promise—and I need to know you will keep it." He studied her as thoroughly as she did him, but his conclusions came with nothing but a knowing smile.
"You've had it rough, haven't you?" She flinched, disturbed that he understood her so easily. Her poker face was never that good, but this was ridiculous. "What with the friends you and April have in common I expected suspicion and nerves, but not to this extent. Wherever you came from, it must be far worse than the Big Apple." She avoided his eyes, but he said nothing of it. "It's through the generosity of your friends that I'm still able to continue my job—if they hadn't introduced themselves, I'd be unfit for my job despite that 'hallucination' being real rather than a fancy. Ask for proof of my sincerity and I'll give it."
For a time, Amber just stared at him. She searched his eyes for any trace of deceit, broke down every facet of his posture and expression by possible meanings, and combed through his words for even the slightest suggestion that he meant her family harm. After all, she reasoned to herself, they weren't just 'the guys' anymore…they were her family now—the only family she had left, and she couldn't bear the idea of putting them at risk. Finally, she allowed herself to slouch back into April's overstuffed armchair; all she could do was try.
"Swear that no harm will come to'em from your hands, or from the hands of others by way of your assistance," she asked firmly. "They're not just friends - they're my family, an' I will not tolerate anyone hurting my family. If I find out ya've hurt my family, so help me, I'll—"
"I swear it," he cut her off with a knowing grin. "No threats necessary, I'm a man of my word, and I'll even put it in writing if it'll ease your mind." Amber studied him silently a moment, then nodded.
"Before we leave?" she asked, her tone hushed from embarrassment. "I mean no insult, but I can't even begin to impress upon you just how important this is to me."
"Miss O'Brien, I'm a professional…I understand." About thirty minutes later, the minimal paperwork was all sorted out and basic introductions were over with; her visits and treatment would be 'off the books,' but he still had to keep records for his own use. "So," Mark began, "Miss O'Neil tells me you're exhibiting signs of post-traumatic stress and that you may not be able to tell me much about it due to the circumstances by which it was caused. I believe, however, that we should hold off on investigating that until you feel ready to trust me. How does that sound?"
"Awesome, actually," Amber admitted, tugging one braid over her shoulder to pull on the tuft; old habits die hard, she admitted begrudgingly. "After all, my story could convince you that I'm insane rather than phenomenally screwed."
"Amber, Dear," Mark grinned widely, "you're speaking with a psychiatrist who's been seeing giant talking turtles; there's not much you could tell me that would surprise me now." The challenge was unspoken, but still blatant. She arched one brow and stared him down.
"Care to bet on it?" she muttered. "Pretty sure I'd win…but that's a story for another day, right?" Mark nodded, his smile still warm and honest.
"Indeed…another time, another place, another story to be told. I look forward to working with you, Amber O'Brien, and I hope I can help you soon regain control of your life." They said their goodbyes, promising to meet at the same time and place next week. Even as she and April ambled down the dark tunnels to her new home, she couldn't help but wonder…how do you regain control of your life after death?
6:25 pm, The Lab
It hadn't been a whole half-hour since he left Amber at April's, Donatello reminded himself as he scanned the salvaged circuit board for loose or damaged connections. She wasn't in danger, she wasn't lost in the sewers chasing friends from other worlds, and she wasn't hiding from legions of Purple Dragons out for blood. Knowing April, Amber was surely sunk into that overstuffed armchair with a mug of hot tea while the reporter watched like a hawk. As he reminded himself to be patient, to not worry about what was surely nothing, he fumbled for the spool of wire beside him and reached for the soldering iron without tearing his eyes from the damaged connection.
"Watch it!" a voice barked from the doorway of the lab; before he could discern the source, Mercy swept to his side and edged the iron away from his elbow. "'nless you just wanna burn yerself." He smiled at the dry jab, switching off the iron.
"Nah," he shot back as he turned to greet her, "not today, at—Mercy!" She cringed, swaying slightly on her feet. "What's wrong—what happened?!" Though she was clearly embarrassed, she accepted his help getting to the nearest chair and fairly collapsed in it when she reached it.
"Shut the door," she mumbled as a wave of tremors swept over her. "Please, Amber can't know—it'd kill'er!" Once they were shut in, he pulled on his goggles to find the cause. "No need'a scan…I know what's wrong." She wound herself up into a tightly coiled knot on the chair, avoiding his eyes.
"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice low in warning; she flushed, though from embarrassment or fever, he wasn't sure.
"First off, let me make one thing absolutely clear, without doubt, no bullshit," she mumbled. "I hate alcohol—hate the smell, hate the taste, hate what it does to families an' what it did to mine. I drank alcohol a scant few times a year in my other life, an' that was just sharing a glass of Scotch with Amber..." The mention of her friend seemed physically painful. "Amber always brought out the Drambuie on holidays, an' she loved sharing it…it was only ever one tiny glass watered down beyond tasting, an' I just couldn't say no to'er…still can't." Pained, dull denim blue eyes met his, full of shame. "When I woke up in this world, I thought I'd gone crazy…turns out I was drunk. This body's an alcoholic."
That Donatello wasn't surprised in the slightest at the odd statement was almost disturbing; when did his life become so bizarre that such nonsense actually made sense? Instead of stunned, he was only concerned. "How have you been handling it?" he asked lowly. "Depending on how long the body's been addicted, you might be having some major withdrawal symptoms—much worse than a little dizziness and fever." She scowled, glaring the floor into submission as he checked her temperature with the back of his hand.
"I hate alcohol," she grumped, "but I hate the DTs more. Ever since the first time, I've been chokin' down enough to keep myself from going into shock…an' I can't stand it. I was hopin' you could direct me to the nearest hospital before Amber comes back." He shook his head as though physically shaking off a disturbing thought.
"They might waive your fees if you can't pay, but Amber's going to notice you're gone. You need to tell her."
"No!" Her voice grew even more strained as a new course of shivers shook her. "I can't—she'll be heartbroken—she'll be miserable! She'll…" Pain laced her scratchy voice. "She's the only person who never treated me like a sick child, like a porcelain doll, but if she finds out about this, that'll change. I just can't take it." He held his silence a moment, scrutinizing her posture and expression with a blank expression. Finally, he spoke.
"Mercy," he said bluntly, "I mean no offense, but she'll figure it out on her own. Only a complete airhead wouldn't realize you're sick." A sudden energetic rapping at the door of the lab startled them both. "Yeah?" he called out. With a bright, sunshiny grin, Mikey swaggered through the door over to his brother.
"Hey, Bruh!" he chirped. "Ya got any tape? One'a my posters fell down." Tape dispenser was in hand, he turned to leave, winking at Mercy on the way and aiming a 'double-guns' gesture at her. "Lookin' good, Angelcakes!"
The moment the door shut behind him, Donatello arched one brow at Mercy. "I rest my case," he deadpanned.
The blonde growled under her breath, straining for another option and finding none. "If it makes you feel any better, ask Amber to show you her tattoo—her body's previous occupant was no angel either."
"You know, in another life, I'd'a punched yer lights out fer talkin' 'bout'er behind her back." Her eyes held a begrudging respect. "Fortunately fer you, I'm not who I once was. Amber's my friend, Donatello—my best friend—an' if ya ever hurt'er, I'm warnin' ya here an' now: you…will…pay." Don sputtered a moment, wishing as so often that his mouth worked as fast as his brain.
"I'd never hurt her, Mercy!" he protested. "Shell, I've been doing everything I can to keep her from hurting herself!"
"I understand, Knucklehead, an' I ain't sayin' ya've hurt'er. I'm just sayin', ya do, ya die. She's got problems out the wazoo an' you've got yer work cut out for ya. The fact that you're tackling her issues without being bribed for it got you brownie points." Mercy's cheeks darkened in a faint blush, though he couldn't imagine why.
Struggling to compose herself, she stabbed her fingers through her short, shaggy hair, digging her fingertips into her scalp. "You ever need help with'er, you just ask…an' ya will need help, I kin guarantee it. The denial an' martyr issues are just the beginning—yer in for a real ride if ya stick to it." Somewhere between the threats, insults, and complaints, her meaning rang clear: she cared about Amber, couldn't stand seeing her in pain, and would do anything to spare her from it.
"I promise you," he reassured, "I won't hurt her and I won't give up on her. What you have to consider, though, is that hiding your troubles from her will hurt her. We'll get you to the hospital, but you have to come clean with Amber and Master Splinter first. Deal?"
Mercy's already dull eyes dulled further, her thoughts turning inward as another bout of tremors wracked her body. "Deal."
8pm, The Kitchen
Sure enough, it took Amber a scant moment to realize that Mercy was very, very sick. In fact, she wasn't even four steps past the front door when she found Mercy seated at the kitchen table shaking like a leaf. Just as Mercy predicted, Amber was horrified that her friend was stuck in the body of an alcoholic after years of despising alcohol, but she wasn't heartbroken. Instead, she was determined and vowed to help out in any way possible. At Mercy's prompting, she even revealed the hated tattoo she still kept hidden, blushing hotly even as she explained the significance behind the coiled purple dragon resting in her cleavage. Though Amber wasn't sure what sort of reactions she expected, Mercy laughing until her face turned purple wasn't anywhere on that list.
By the time eight o'clock rolled around, their tears were dried and their arguments regarding Mercy's treatment and stubbornness were extinguished. A call later, the blonde had an upcoming appointment at the nearest substance abuse center and Amber ducked out to run an errand. She returned with a paper bag from the corner smoke shop…a paper bag with two bottles of Scotch, although of a much lower quality than she preferred.
"God, I've missed this stuff," she sighed into the small glass. Mercy rolled her eyes, focusing on her task; she'd obediently tossed back a couple fingers of whisky to ward off the DTs, but in true Grumpy Cat fashion, "it was awful." Perched in worn mismatched chairs around the kitchen table, the two were preparing ingredients for dinner. Though she felt incredibly weak and tired, Mercy was excited; had it really been a year since she shared a meal with her friend, she wondered? "You're certainly takin' this well, Merse," Amber commented off-handedly as she set aside her glass and took up the knife again. "Ya'd think you were in another city rather than another world."
"Meh," Mercy retorted as she sliced a stalk of celery into strips. "Yer over-reactin' enough fer both of us, I reckon; freakin' out over everythin' ain't gonna help any." Amber shrugged, the smooth slide of knife through meat calming in its familiarity. "Ain't ya worried this'll screw things up?" The sudden query startled Amber from her near-trance, and she fastened confused green eyes on her lifelong friend.
"Huh?" she uttered. "Screw things up how?" Mercy rolled her eyes, tossing a stem of celery leaves at her face. "Hey, don't waste that! I dry those for soup!"
"Nerd. Findin' ourselves in their world, events changin', plots shiftin' to revolve around us, any'a that ring a bell?" Mercy snarked. "We could be screwin' up the timeline just by bein' here." Amber stared back, wide-eyed and silent; a flush spread from her cheekbones outward. "Didn't think'a that, didja?"
"Well," she admitted with a sheepish smile, "…not…really, no. Never occurred to me." The blonde scoffed, tempted to chuck another piece of celery at her.
"It's official," she deadpanned. "The fanfiction addict fails at fanfiction." Somewhere between the ensuing giggles, Michelangelo appeared in the doorway, nervously shifting from one foot to the other just beyond the tiles. "Ya need somethin', Kid?"
Amber smiled encouragingly to him, patting the seat of the stool at her left. "Wanna help out?" she asked.
Mike hemmed and hawed in the doorway, but hesitantly approached the table, eyeing the floor under the table nervously. "Mike?"
"Umm…" he shied away from the table, gripping his neck from nerves. "Donnie ain't in here, is he?" Bewildered, Amber and Mercy shook their heads. "He hasn't been, has he?"
"Mike, what's wrong?" Amber insisted, her tone and expression serious. "Did you two fight or somethin'?" If she didn't know better, she would say he seemed squeamish about something. Silence fell; fastening a determined stare on him, Amber waited for an answer. Finally, he burst.
"Please tell me you an' Donnie weren't doin' it on the floor again! We eat in here, for shell's sake!"
"What?!" Mercy gaped at Amber. "Don't tell me you've already nailed 'im! Ya said ya ain't even admitted that—"
"Mikey," Amber interrupted shortly, "Nothin's happened! Even if we hadn't just met, even if we weren't just friends, I'm not an exhibitionist—the kitchen floor is not a suitable location for…for…shenanigans!" she finished with a dark blush and sputter. Mikey stared at her, surprised by her response.
"But…Donnie didn't deny it," he argued feebly. "He just grinned at me!"
If the table before her wasn't covered in vegetables, raw chicken, slimy cutting boards, and other implements of destruction, Amber would surely have slumped down over it and smacked her head against the worn wooden surface. "You're kidding me," she muttered, digging her fingertips into her forehead. "You seriously asked him if he shagged me on the kitchen floor? Mikey, we just met last month!" She shook her head at his overactive imagination. "I'm not even gonna ask why you thought that happened. My guess is that he was tryin' to dissuade ya from hittin' on me so much, ya flirt." China blue eyes melted into a 'kicked puppy' pout, complete with quivering lips and a faint sniffle.
"It's not just me, then?" Mercy asked offhandedly. "Ya really hit on everyone ya meet, huh?"
"Just chicks!" he almost whined. Amber shook her head, shooting him a lopsided grin. "Sis, tell'er I just flirt with chicks!"
"Mike?" His shoulders slumped. "Git yer butt in here, siddown, an' help us with this before our shoulders go out. Donnie an' I ain't anywhere near that point, and I swear, if we get there, we're not gonna go christenin' every surface in the lair. No need to be freaked out, okay?" He nodded, slouching over to the table. "Maybe you should back off on the flirtin' a tad, okay? I don't mind so long as ya keep it friendly." A sly grin crooked her lips. "An' hugs're okay—I'm a hugger."
"I love hugs!" he crowed, leaping from his chair to steal a squeeze from his sputtering friend. "No complaints!"
Once the prep work was all completed, he was stationed at the rice cooker while Amber manned the stove and oven and Mercy rested at the table. The prep took only half an hour once Mikey arrived, but she was bone-tired—without the chair, she feared she'd simply flop over in a puddle. After the initial awkwardness surrounding Mike's misconceptions about Amber's relationship with Donnie, the group hadn't stopped talking for a moment.
"You guys must'a been friends a long time," Mikey remarked after a humorous recollection from Mercy and Amber's childhood.
"Yep," Amber smiled as she tossed the veggies again. "Willsdale's a small town; we met in Kindergarten an' got stuck in the same classes almost every year after. We became friends as kids an' were almost inseparable from the very beginning."
"Don't forget college," Mercy snarked shaking a fork at Amber scoldingly. "We were roommates…until ya got a wild hair an' jumped in front of a bus." Amber flung her arms up in exasperation.
"Why's everyone always say I jumped in front of a bus?!" she demanded as Mike laughed raucously. "I was hit by a van in the crosswalk—there's a difference!"
Later that night, Donatello ducked into the kitchen for a drink, only to freeze in the doorway. Several filthy, scum-covered towels lay piled up in one side of the double sink on the floor. The newly installed dishwasher—a salvage yard project—was stopped mid-cycle. The cabinet under the sink stood wide open with light spilling out of it. Right in the middle of the mess, a familiar body lay halfway inside the cabinet, the top half grunting and cursing as the owner worked to right something.
"What happened?" Don called out; startled, Amber yelped and sat up abruptly, effectively whacking her head on the underside of the sink and falling back again with a pained groan.
"Oww…Freakin' ninjas!" she muttered, carefully hoisting herself up again. She took a moment to rub at the throbbing ache on her forehead then quipped, "At least now I' got a solid reason for that hurting." Instead of laughing, Don was concerned; he dropped to his knees at her side.
"This has been hurting?" he asked, brushing aside a stray frizz of hair.
"Yeah," she admitted, swiping a somewhat clean rag over arms slick with muck. "Splinter says it's where that glass brick hit me in my other life, but I've never hurt myself there in this one…at least until now. Every time I wake up, it's pos'tively throbbing." Don checked her pupilliary responses and reflexes, but finding nothing unusual, he sat back on his heels.
"Well, you're not showing any signs of concussion," he remarked. "Not sure why that's been hurting…maybe it's psychogenic pain connected to your past life?" Her expression scrunched up.
"Wow. Great. I died an' the best thing my brain can think of is throwin' a this ain't my body tantrum. Whoopee." He chuckled, handing the flashlight back and scooting over beside her. "This looks worse'n it is, really," she explained as she illustrated the problem with gestures and pointing. "The disposal shook the nearest connection loose over time. When I ran the dishwasher this evening, that loose connection finally rattled the rest of the way loose an' it all started spillin' out. Happened a lot at my old place."
As she talked, she fitted the now-clean pipe back to its connector and screwed it back in place. All the while, he watched her silently, struck by her 'been there, done that' attitude. Like the glass of Scotch she savored after dinner, it reminded him how little he knew about her. "Nice work, Braids," he smiled at her as she gave the connector one last wrench. "You surprised me yet again." She shrugged but grinned back at him.
"It's nothing, really. I lived alone—no husband, no live-in, an' Mercy moved out after my accident—her folks needed help on the ranch an' I was done with college for the time. I wound up movin' back to Willsdale into my own place - a lil' place at the edge of town. Bein' alone, I had to know at least the basics of takin' care of it." She hissed as she stood, clutching the small of her back; the edge of the cabinet probably left a bruise, she thought. "My Da was a great teacher an' never hesitated when it came to me bein' independent, but Mum didn't take it well." She snorted and shook her head, unaware her Midwestern twang was slipping. "Asked'im to show me how to install a showerhead an' she accused me of being a closet lesbian. I'm very much not, by the bye."
"I'll bet THAT went well," Donnie grinned as she switched the dishwasher back on. Sure enough, no more water dripped below the sink. Satisfied that the problem was solved, they started wiping the rest of the floor clean. "So you were born there? In Willsdale, I mean." As though startled, she looked up at him, trying to connect invisible dots; finally, it hit her, and she cringed somewhat.
"Guess it's kinda obvious," she admitted as she wrung out her rag over the sink. "I was born there…my mother wasn't. Her family emigrated from Scotland during the late fifties." She gave an embarrassed smile. "After her mother, Granny Devon, died, Gran'Da moved in with us; I spent so many years tailin' after'im, some of it stuck." Pain dimmed her eyes and she held back the rest of the story - he didn't need to know about how her whole family was treated like outsiders for 'talkin' funny,' how Amber forcibly adopted the local 'twang' to fit in, or that it didn't make a difference anyway. Even when she got used to talking more like a local, her neighbors treated her like a stranger - like she didn't belong. Such was the manner of small town life, but it hurt regardless. "I miss'im, really…of all my family, I miss my Gran'Da most."
What could he say? No matter what Donatello said, she'd still miss her grandfather. Knowing that words were pointless, he clasped one hand over her shoulder, giving her a reassuring smile.
"Thanks," she murmured. Though her eyes were starting to drip, she forced a smile. Sure enough, the familiar purple handkerchief appeared in her vision; instead of handing it to her, though, he gently dried the corners of her eyes himself. Her breath stilled in her lungs—her heart pounded. Coffee, grease, and sweat, and softness in his hazel eyes…this turtle was gonna kill her.
"You don't have to be okay for me, Amber," he said softly. "I'm here for you—I'll catch you when you fall." Even as cracked-out butterflies flew barrel rolls in her stomach, Amber could only think of one answer.
"Thanks, Dee," she smiled back. "I'll try not to fall arse-first."

Up Next: it's all about Kimber in Only More Questions

Alcohol, Addiction, DTs: Alcohol withdrawal can KILL YOU. If you have an addiction, don't use my story to plan your detox. I am NOT a trained health professional and could easily inadvertently kill you through bad advice. In my defense, I Googled.
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A New Lease on Life