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A New Lease on Life	By : Ghost-of-a-Chance Category: +S through Z > Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Views: 3157 -:- 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
- 18
- 19
- 20
Precautions: explicit adult references and alcohol, there's a trigger for past-tense child abuse, blunt references to addiction and recovery, and mild references to mental illness.
Suggested Listening: The Beatles, "Help," Meatloaf, "I'd Lie For You (and That's the Truth)"

18: Running, Hiding, Lying
Saturday, March 11th, 3:25 pm; Brooklyn, Beverly & Bree's Flat

Into each life some rain must fall.
Beverly Anne Hardy first heard these words far back in her youth, perhaps in a song, or poem long lost in her memory. Much as she may wish to deny it, the truth in the words never faded. After so many years weathering Life's downpour, though, she'd become too used to rain to really recall a blue sky. The mail fell slack in her grip as she stared listlessly out her front windows; New York City, even in Brooklyn's suburbs, is always nothing but grey, grey, and more grey.
Of course, the mail brought bad news…when didn't it? Much as it pained her, she'd seen the notice coming a mile away; her future in the School System became jeopardized the moment she took off a semester without advanced warning. It wasn't like the abscess in her brain gave her advanced warning, but the school board didn't see it that way. Just like that, her cushy job as the head of the Music department was gone, kaput…she, Beverly Hardy, was officially unemployed.
As if having a hole in her head wasn't bad enough. She scoffed, mentally shaking off her self-pity. Sure she deserved it, sure she'd been dealt a bad hand, and sure she could still—God forbid!—die from the cursed pus-pocket in her brain, but she refused to give it any more power over her than it already had. She was a lot of things, but a quitter wasn't one of them.
Stashing the dismissal notice away from Bree's prying eyes, she checked the plastic bag of antibiotics still dripping away into her veins. Perhaps this latest bout of grey skies wouldn't last long. As another wave of nausea swept over her, her 3:30 appointment—a violin student struggling to catch up with her peers—knocked at the door. Bosco grinning away at her right side, Beverly pasted on a welcoming smile, resolved to meet her future head-on.
Perhaps retirement wasn't such a horrible idea after all.
Underground, about half a mile from the Lair
"I can't do this." Other than Mercy's own voice echoing back to her, the tunnel was empty and silent. It was a good thing, too; she'd never live it down if someone happened upon her in such a vulnerable moment. She had enough of vulnerability in her previous drama-packed life—more than enough!—and now that she had another chance without the troubles that had held her down, she refused to let herself become that vulnerable again.
A week ago, she visited Master Splinter to apologize for the explosive incident which led to her unofficial eviction from the Lair. The more time passed, the more she realized that she was truly out of line, and the more she became convinced that Amber had done her a favor by sending her away before Master Splinter got the chance. It still stung that her best friend took the turtles' side over hers, but Mercy didn't really fault her for it. Perhaps, if the situations were reversed, she'd have made the very same choice. After their meeting, however, Splinter left her with an ultimatum: she had to apologize to Raphael in person within a week. Too much time had passed since she attacked him, the elderly rat warned, and the longer an apology is put on hold, the harder it becomes to make at all. Too long, and all hope of reconciliation may be gone.
Mercy wasn't so sure about that; it may be just her, but the elderly rat seemed far too uptight for her tastes. That in mind, she wasn't at all surprised Amber got along so well with him. All through their childhood, the brunette was bullied mercilessly, for countless reasons—her father was unemployed, her mother and grandfather 'talked funny,' even the simple act of choosing friends by merit rather than popularity was a subject of scorn. No matter what happened, though, she was too mature to retaliate. Mercy couldn't understand how a person could simply smile at someone who intentionally hurt them, say "I forgive you," and walk away without even bloodying the bastard's nose. Amber always denied it and spouted her usual 'live and let live, love the sinner hate the sin, an eye for an eye leaves the world blind, peace, love, and harmony' bullshit, but Mercy knew the truth: she had some major martyr issues. Nothing else made sense.
Of course, Amber's martyr issues weren't going to help Mercy figure out her problem with Raphael. How could she apologize to him when she could barely keep her head on straight?! "God a'mighty this sucks," she groaned falling back against the cold tunnel wall and sliding to the ground, flashlight falling slack in her grip. "How d'ya 'pologize fer throttlin' someone ya just met?!"
"Ya could just spit it out," a gruff voice suggested across the tunnel from her. Had Mercy been standing, she might've gone right through the roof.
"GAH!" she shrieked articulately clutching her racing heart. "Damn' ninjas! Ya get off on spookin' people, don't ya?!" Raphael shrugged, his shit-eating grin revealed by the puddle of light from her flashlight.
"Maybe," he teased evasively, "maybe not. Could be just habit, ya know. So ya got somethin' ta say?" Despite her best attempts to hold it together, Mercy felt a blush tugging at her cheeks. If the gods had any mercy, Raphael wouldn't see it in the dark tunnel; unfortunately, a deep husky snicker told her his night vision was plenty clear.
Stalling and searching for a witty comeback, she speared her fingers through her uneven blonde hair, tugging harshly at the roots. The adrenaline from being startled had worn off but her heart still pounded, and she felt as though every hair on the nape of her neck stood at attention.
The tunnel around them stank of dust and mildew, but beneath all that was a different scent—sandalwood, leather, and musky sweat. Any other time, she'd have described the combination as bizarre and unpleasant—similar to the reek of an unwashed biker working to earn a black eye—but to her complete dismay, Mercy's skin wasn't crawling...It was burning. The moment she realized what was happening, a memory broke out of her past and shot down her fledgling resistance.
"Answer me!" Another slap rings through the air, compliments of the short black-haired woman flinging hurtful, slurred words without regard. "I know they're talking about you—They must be! Tell me the truth, Angela!" Mercy cringes away, clutching her stinging cheek; against her will, fat tears stream from her downcast eyes.
"It wasn't me!" she whispers weakly. "I swear, Ma, it wasn't me—I'm not pregnant, I di'n't sleep—" Another backhand sends her falling backward again, this time narrowly missing the wall.
"No, I'm sure you didn't do any sleeping!" her mother rages at her. "You're just like her—You shame this family just as she did!"
"Clare'ty!" Mercy's stepfather bellows from the open doorway. "She ain' done nothin' wrong, she was helpin' me. Leave!" Clarity and Ellis Ross fight a silent battle with their eyes, unspoken words passing between the two. Words will be spoken later, Mercy's sure—the two adults will fight over Clarity's drunken tantrum and Ellis' butting in, but of what matters most, not a word will be said. Ellis never knows how to approach his wife on that subject; how can you tell someone you love beyond reason that they're wrong, that they're projecting their anger onto an innocent party? He'll stay to calm Mercy down and make sure she's not hurt, but nothing ever changes. Clarity will still drink herself into a stupor, will still hear rumors of an unplanned pregnancy around town and convince herself they're about Mercy. She'll still take all her hatred for her deceased sister out on an innocent teenage girl who's too terrified of her to consider even talking to a boy without someone else around.
Finally, Clarity breaks contact and turns to leave, but hesitates on the threshold. "Angela," she warns Mercy venomously, "you mark my words—If you follow in that—that whore's footsteps, it'll be the last thing you do—you remember that!"
Against her will, Mercy shuddered under the onslaught of hurtful words that still taunt her from the shadows. Whore—slut—tramp—her mother had an entire arsenal and used them with abandon, never caring about the damage they left. When Mercy Ross died, she'd never even been kissed much less experienced physical love. Her mother couldn't be bothered with innocence; her diseased mind convinced her of the worst and insisted the truth was a lie.
Across the tunnel, Raphael watched Mercy curiously, searching for answers in the blonde's behavior and posture. A moment before, she was as big a smartass as he was, ready for anything and willing to take no lip; a flare of the nostrils later, she seemed nothing more than a scared little girl. He settled back against the clammy wall, idly gnawing his toothpick. What happened to the blue-eyed powder-keg who tried to kick his ass just for calling her friend a liar?
"Can we jus' punch each other an' call it good?" Mercy grumbled finally, denim blue eyes fixing hatefully on some distant object down the tunnel. Raph gave a snort of amusement and took his feet again; maybe this 'Mercy' chick wasn't half-bad after all. Mercy stared at his offered hand as though it would bite her, but accepted it regardless.
"Sounds good ta me, Blondie," Raph teased and ruffled her shaggy hair. All the way to the Lair, her eyes shouted obscenities and threats her lips knew better than to voice.
The Lair
Donatello locked himself in the lab first thing that morning; come 3:30 he was still locked away and didn't seem ready to come up for air. Amber knew he was (again) scouring for answers regarding the Freaky Space Glitter, or as she'd begun calling it, the "FSG." The strange glimmering powder in the vial was long gone—dissipated like mist, just as Donnie predicted—and its impossibility was clearly driving the genius out of his mind. Amber was worried for him…and a worried Amber was, frankly, a careless Amber.
After half a day of worrying about Donatello, she'd amassed a disheartening collection of what Aaron had called 'blonde moments.' She forgot to add water before microwaving a paper noodle cup and set it on fire. She dumped fabric softener on the laundry and detergent into the softener cup. She tried to use the vacuum without plugging it in first, mopped the kitchen floor without adding anything to the water, and swept dust off the blades of dojo's fan right into her face—at that rate, Mikey wouldn't be the only one checking her roots. There was only one choice left if she didn't want everyone convinced she was a walking Darwin Award…Thus, after great contemplation and brain-wracking, she swept into the Lab armed with a basket packed with food and drinks…
…and promptly froze in the doorway. Anyone who saw the goofy lopsided smile on her face would probably think she was watching puppies, kittens, or some other insanely cute and fluffy animal doing something incredibly cute and funny. In reality, it was just Donatello slumped face-down on his keyboard snoring to beat the band. Not one word in the English language could adequately describe the warm-an'-fuzzies that turtle gave her!
If not for the half-eaten plate of pop-tarts—breakfast!—abandoned on the desk, she wouldn't wake him for the world. As it was, he was probably starving. Resigned to disturbing his sleep and apologizing later, she crept to his side, reached out, and gently jostled his bare shoulder. "Dee," she murmured softly. "Donnie, ya gotta wake up an'—"
A startled squawk ripped from her lungs when he jackknifed out of his chair, lost his balance, and—tangling his arms with hers because of course he couldn't not humiliate himself!—fell into a heap on the Lab's concrete floor.
For the second time in less than thirty days, Amber found herself on the floor with Donatello tangled up in a stunned blushing heap. This time, however, she wasn't on top. Instead, she found herself pinned to the dusty concrete, her legs splayed and tangled with his, and his face level with hers only inches away. Before she could experience a massive filter failure like last time, though, she found herself confronted by something new, fascinating, and delightful.
When his glasses fell off during the tumble to the floor, they left nothing to shield Donnie's unique eyes. Right before Amber's eyes, the shadow cast by his desk chair made his murky hazel irises darken to golden brown. A moment later Donnie blushed darkly and averted his eyes, and the introduction of bright light reflection made them change again, this time to a pale golden green. In her astonishment, Amber forgot her embarrassment—forgot that she was pinned to the floor by a mortified mutant turtle—and forgot everything she'd convinced herself about not letting her feelings for him show. One hand caught his cheek, turning it back to the desk, and as warm brown shone back at her, she beamed.
Donatello forced a noisy swallow, glancing every which way out of nerves. He knew his eyes were different from Leo's and Mikey's; he knew they refracted light even more than Raph's and that the effect was ridiculously obvious when his glasses were off. Finally, realizing she was making him nervous, Amber let go, but still watched his remarkable eyes in silent wonder. Pointedly ignoring her staring, he disentangled their legs and sat back on his heels to get his bearings. Amber, too, sat up and leaned back on her palms. "You've got nothin' to be ashamed of, ya know," she pointed out when it became clear he wasn't going to talk.
"Who says I'm ashamed?" he mumbled, meeting her eyes in a pointed stare. "I don't stare at your hair, you know." Finally, it hit her; she winced, her cheeks darkening as she broke the staring contest.
"I'm sorry." –sorry for making him uncomfortable, but not for staring. She couldn't help feeling horrible for the realization. "I've never seen yer eyes uncovered…they're…" Astounding? Fascinating? Beautiful? She paused, sifting through her considerable vocabulary for a single word that could even begin to describe her sense of wonder and admiration.
"Bizarre?" he supplied dryly. "Disconcerting? Freakish?" She shook her head and caught him by the cheek, anchoring his eyes on hers.
"Marvelous," she corrected with a soft smile, and collected his glasses from the floor nearby, handing them over as a peace offering. "They're simply amazing, Dee, just like the rest'a you. I'm sorry I embarrassed you; it was not my intention."
Of all the ways he'd have expected her to react, this was not among them. Really, he more expected her to be speechless with horror—but when had she ever reacted to any of his family's oddities with horror? Even that time in the kitchen, when they both wound up tangled up on the tiles after a poorly-timed bout of clumsiness on his part—she hadn't reacted with anger or fear. The way she was left straddling his lap, she had to have felt his body's autonomous reaction to her soft body draped across his own—Hell, if he hadn't kept her from sitting back when he did, he might've embarrassed himself and her!—but even when faced with, well, a horny turtle poking her in the rear, she wasn't disgusted or afraid. For a moment, he'd thought she was about to launch herself at him and start snogging him to death, but a moment later, she'd retreated within herself again.
'Marvelous?' he wondered as he affixed his glasses back to his snout. 'Amazing? She thinks my eyes are…what?' When a lopsided grin stole over her face, he knew without a doubt he was blushing.
Once everything settled down again, Amber and Donatello sat across from one another at a steel workbench covered with random bits of clutter, for all intents and purposes, ignoring each other over lunch. Unbeknownst to Donnie, however, Amber was giving herself a silent pep-talk. Despite their breakthrough almost two weeks ago, she'd barely held up her end of the not being a closed book bargain. She wasn't hiding things on purpose—she just wasn't used to talking about herself and never felt comfortable being in the spotlight. Still, the turtle across from her was being ridiculously patient with her, and she couldn't keep putting it off. 'It's nothin' ya ain't done before,' she reminded herself sternly. 'Jus' pretend he's Aaron callin' ya Goodie Two-Shoes.'
Finally, his sandwiches and her crackers and meal shake choked down, Donnie thanked her for lunch, preparing to return to staring down the FSG's impossibility. At the last minute, though, she latched onto one of his suspender straps and tugged him back into his seat. "Amber?" he asked dubiously as she went about pouring him another cup of coffee; before she could dump in another pile of sugar, he snagged it and offered a quick apologetic smile. Still holding his eyes, she refilled her own mug—from a Scotch bottle pulled from the basket. Finally, she spoke.
"I've never called you an arsehole." All Donnie could do was blink at the bizarre statement. What? A moment later, she added, "I've never worn grey," pointed to her grey shirt, and took a small sip from her glass. "Your turn."
For a moment, Donatello considered that their fall to the floor might've knocked something loose in her brain. Finally—and he blamed Mikey's ramblings for it—he figured it out. "Um…I've never…been human." A moment later, he added, "I've never called you Braids," and took a sip from his mug. Her shy smile told him yes, he'd figured it out.
After half an hour of tossing admissions and proclamations back and forth, Donnie was buzzed from all the caffeine he'd downed and Amber was nursing a pleasant warmth that had nothing to do with the Scotch she nursed. After all, she had drunk numerous frat boys under the table in college in an ongoing bet, and Kimber was her counterpart. She could hold her liquor with the best of'em. "I've never seen my best friend naked," she lied, then after a sip—and a wince—shook the empty glass in emphasis and added, "an' that's why ya never jus' show up at Aaron's place—he streaks." Since his answer was true, Donnie moved on.
"I've never caught myself wondering what would Einstein do?" After he drank his penalty, he added, "Every…single…day." Amber laughed into her glass as she refilled it.
"Usually I wind up wonderin' what Socrates would do," she admitted teasingly, "Socrates or Gandhi, kinda depends on the day. I've never had entire conversations with myself without realizing it." It was a lie. "Bein' alone can drive ya nuts."
"So can being the only one who can speak on your level," Donnie added once he swallowed. "Never taken anything apart only to realize I can't put it back together." To Amber's surprise, he immediately took a deep swig of coffee, his cheeks visibly darkening.
"No way!" she muttered in disbelief. "I refuse to believe it!"
"I've never lived it down," the genius retorted dryly. "Just ask Mikey about the first Xbox." Despite his offer, Amber knew she'd never do it.
"I've never killed a houseplant without even touching it." After a long, deep pull on her refilled Scotch, she explained off-handedly, "It's a skill, really."
"You're kidding, right?" Her expression never changed as she shook her head in the negative. Don paused, searching for ideas. So far, they'd covered all sorts of deep dark secrets, but he'd never asked the one thing he really wanted to know most. Would…if he asked it, would she still answer? "I've never—" He hesitated, staring into his coffee and gathering his nerve, then stammered the rest. "—never fallen in love with—with someone who…might not love me back." Even as he drank to betray the lie, his eyes never left her; sure enough, she sobered, stared through her amber liquor, and drank...deeply.
"And I," she added softly, falsely, "have never kept secrets to spare my loved ones." Though it was a lie on both their parts, neither drank; they knew without a word that the game was over.
7:15 pm
A knock at the lab door drew Donatello's attention from the empty FSG vial; clearly through visiting with Amber, Mercy hovered in the open doorway, one fist still poised to knock at the frame again. "Hey," Don greeted tiredly.
"Hi," she answered approaching the desk; Donnie found himself disappointed by the absence of the teasing hey yerself Amber usually shot back. The realization made him feel quite pathetic.
"So," he asked and cleared his throat. "How's recovery been? AA treating you well?" She dropped into the nearest chair—the very chair Amber vacated—and heaved a stressed sigh, scrubbing her too-long bangs off of her forehead. She was building a headache.
"It sucks," she answered honestly, "but at least it's workin'. Group's been pointless at least an' entertaining at most. Really, I've gotten more help from my plants than from whinin' at other addicts."
The two spent some time catching up, Mercy filling him in on her battle with Alcohol and Donnie filling her in on Amber's fight against PTSD. He had to admit that Mercy might not be quite what he was expecting. When he first met her, she seemed full of fire and ice—unstable, sullen, and incapable of seeing beyond the end of her own nose; her subsequent assault on Raphael hadn't improved his opinion of her, either. Now, he found himself questioning that opinion. She was still far too skinny for her own good—a side effect of reviving in the body of a homeless addict—and she still seemed uncomfortable with allowing others to see her vulnerable, but she'd mellowed out. A smell of fresh herbs and lush greenery surrounded her now, and he could see potting soil under her nails. Could missing the country have so greatly influenced her instability and anger, or was the bulk of the problem her new body drying out?
While Donnie reflected on Mercy's change in attitude, she considered all he'd told her about Amber's progress…what little progress had been made. Dr. Morris had finally convinced her to try anti-anxiety medication and written her a prescription for an emergency tranquilizer, and Amber wasn't handling the change well. Mercy understood completely; she spent almost all her previous life on an insane cocktail of medications to keep herself stable but she never got over her hatred of it. Even now, with that blasted illness gone, she nearly came unglued when the doctor at the substance abuse clinic put her on a full regimen of drugs: anticonvulsants, a beta-blocker, an antipsychotic and antianxiety medicine to relieve agitation…she was on almost as much medicine as she'd been for her bipolar disorder! The medicine was keeping her clean and alive, but she couldn't help hating it with a vengeance.
"She's a stubborn one," Mercy admitted aloud once Donnie's report on Amber was finished. "Ya gotta keep an eye on'er or she'll bottle it up. I love'er to death…" She frowned over at the lab door, her spirits low; even in here, they could hear Amber grunting and grumbling in the kitchen, clearly scrubbing the floor on her hands and knees again. "She's my best friend, was the only one willin' to stand up to my Ma, but sometimes I just wanna slap'er. She can't stand seein' anyone hurt, an' she'll do anythin' to spare'er loved ones pain. Ya can't just trust'er to tell ya when somethin's wrong…She'll hide it, deny it, refuse to deal with it, an it'll eat'er up inside before she'll ever admit it."
Never realizing the mistake she just made, Mercy turned rueful denim-colored eyes to Donnie. "Thanks fer takin' care of'er, Don. I owe ya one…anytime ya need help with'er, you gimme a call, 'kay?" Her aim accomplished, she staggered to her feet and turned to leave. "Make sure she takes that blasted medicine. If she starts skippin' it, she'll regret it—she's seen what it did to me, so she knows better. Good luck."
Their goodbyes exchanged and Mercy gone, Donatello sat tensely in his desk chair, staring through the empty vial before him. He couldn't get Mercy's warning out of his mind…Amber wasn't above hiding things to keep her loved ones from hurting. His mind ran miles a minute, pulling incidents and evidence from his memory. Inexplicable expressions, sudden changes in attitude, inability to discuss her past life in detail, reluctance to share her history and personality with him…
Amber was hiding something—something big—something she felt would hurt him and his family. I have never kept secrets to spare my loved ones she'd admitted during their game of true and false—a declaration Mercy just revealed was as untrue for her as it was for him. Amber, however, hadn't been coerced into silence by a controlling brother—she chose to keep secrets out of a misguided sense of protection.
A sudden scuffle at the door drew his attention; the greying brunette consuming his thoughts bustled into the lab with a plate heaped high with pizza and breadsticks. Dinner already, he wondered vaguely? A glance at the clock confirmed the time, and he wondered how long he'd stared off into space.
Amber stayed only long enough to set the plate before him and give his shoulder an encouraging squeeze, then turned to retreat again. She's always running away, he realized with no small amount of disappointment - always running, hiding, and refusing to face her fears. In the doorway she paused; out of the corner of his eye, he saw a conflicted, pained expression cross her tired face. No sooner had it appeared, though, she forced on a bright smile, bid him goodbye, and ran away again, presumably to work herself into exhaustion as she always did. In the lab, fear and doubt wormed its way into Donatello's over-sized brain, the seed of suspicion planted by Amber's own friend.
'Amber O'Brien,' Donatello wondered with a noisy swallow, 'what are you hiding? What have you done?'

UP NEXT: there's a bad moon a-rising in Dreams and Disasters

⇒ "Into each life some rain must fall" is from a poem called "The Rainy Day" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and the line has been used in more than a couple songs over the years.
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A New Lease on Life