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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
- 26
- 27
- 28
Precautions for language, alcohol, addiction, and Amber mentally being a pervert. No, that's not unusual, but still.
Suggested Listening: Sixx:A.M. "Are You With Me?"
26: Renovation, Revelation, Realization
The sound of metal on stone rang through the Lair, one loud concussion following another as it had all morning. The first stages of renovations were well underway, starting with the old ladies' room. Amber's first glimpse of the derelict washroom made her realize why it was locked away in the first place. Broken porcelain fixtures, chipped Pepto-pink paint on the walls, and crumbling pink and black tile decked the room forgotten before Beatlemania swept the nation. If a bathroom could cause nightmares, that one could.
On first sight, she couldn't get out of there quickly enough; now, days later, she wanted little more than to be in that accursed pink and black dungeon. After all, Donatello was in there with Raphael, breaking out damaged plaster and fixtures; after all, she was still somewhat crutch-bound and borderline useless. What kept her from volunteering? 'Me, myself, an' Moi,' she admitted with a silent grumble. If she insisted on being present, she'd probably end up in the way and relegated to passing tools…and no way in Hell would she stoop to passing tools when she was perfectly knowledgeable in how to use them!
Of course… She winced. Men had a tendency to do hard work topless—and though they looked different, the turtles were, after all, men. Not for the first time, Amber turned bright red from her inner musings. Donatello…topless…probably sweaty and breathless from wielding a sledgehammer, jackhammer, or some other undeniably masculine tool. In her mind's eye, he dashed perspiration from his brow in a decidedly macho fashion, yanking off and tossing away his bright yellow hardhat. Canvas trousers riding low on his hips he downed half a bottle of water then poured the rest over his head. Water dripped obscenely down his neck and shoulders as he turned blazing hazel-brown eyes to her. Hazel veered more toward green in the suddenly brighter room and she felt her heart pounding in agreement, sure she was about to wind up bent over a horribly tacky pink—
"Is this a bad time?" A polite cough from the computer speakers startled her back to reality; on the other end of the video connection, Dr. Mark Morris wore a deceptively innocent smile and what looked to be a salsa stain on his lapel. Amber cleared her throat and willed herself not to develop a life-threatening nosebleed; knowing her luck, she'd get flung backward from the force and wind up with a concussion.
"Nope," she answered too quickly with a slight squeak to her voice. "N-Never better!" Doc clearly didn't believe her but didn't argue. Just as he was about to pry further Donatello—far from topless and looking more Village People than Macho Man—shuffled through the door headed to the coffee pot, pausing only to glance at her. As so often before, the coffee ran out before his cup ran out and he stared down into his mug in dejection. Amber could practically hear it as though he was saying it: 'Why's the rum always gone?' Of course, Donnie wouldn't get the reference; she had yet to see any sign of Pirates of the Carribean in this dog-forsaken world.
"Donatello, how good to see you!" Amber blanched, shooting Doc Morris a frantic glance. "You seem busy, hm?" Donnie gave Dr. Morris a small smile as he went about setting up the coffeemaker for another run.
"Yeah," he answered with a shrug, "just some repairs, nothing serious. I didn't realize Amber had an appointment today." The shrewd hazel stare he fixed on her managed to make her blood boil in anger and arousal at the same time—how could he always do that, she wondered?
"I didn't." She stared him down just as intently as did her, both waiting for the other to break first. "I just figured a quick checkup couldn't hurt—or do I need to clear all appointments with my guardians first?" Don rolled his eyes sighed, and shook his head. A moment later the coffee pot was going and he bid farewell to Dr. Morris, retreating again to the bathroom repairs. Even after he was no longer visible, Amber stared in the direction he went, recalling how easy their friendship was before they blew it to Hell and back.
"Trouble in paradise?" Mark asked gently; Amber winced, avoiding the LCD representation of his stormy blue eyes.
"It's been three months now," she admitted softly, "three months ago to the day…I miss him."
"You miss him?" the balding man asked with a humoring smile. "How can you miss him? He's right there with you—he even came to check on you." Amber shook her head in denial.
"No, he ran out'a coffee." Mark's smile clearly stated 'Whatever you need to tell yourself,' but she refused to take the bait. "We were closer than close for so long, Doc—I trusted him with my whole heart—with everything—an' it was a mistake." Morris leaned back in his chair and clasped his thick hands together patiently.
"You have the better of me, Dear," he reminded. "I wasn't even aware you two were close to begin with—perhaps you could fill me in?" Her paranoid fears of vulnerability screamed for her to run the other way; her heart, however, was tired of running. Once she'd filled him in—at least as much as she could without delving into the new life new world bullshit she still hadn't told him about—she finally met his 'eyes' again.
"I trusted 'im, Doc," she added barely above a whisper. "I love 'im…I tried tellin' 'im but he didn't understand—he thought I was tryin' to manipulate 'im. It was hard enough lettin' him in to begin with…fightin' like this is killin' me, but I just can't let 'im in again, not yet!" Mark hummed in thought, scratching his double chin.
"Does it occur to you that he's not the only one at fault?" he asked. "True, he betrayed your trust—analyzed your interactions like an experiment instead of simply asking and insisting—but you didn't exactly volunteer the information, whatever it was."
"I know." She sighed, staring through the utility room door. "Honestly, I'm more at fault than he is." Doc's carefully blank expression slipped for a moment in surprise before smoothing over again. "If I'd just told 'im from the beginning, I wouldn't'a been keepin' that secret, he wouldn't'a gotten suspicious, an' we wouldn't'a blown up all over each other like we did! We'd still be thick as thieves...instead we can't even talk to eachother without bitching."
"It's easy to see where we went wrong," Doc reminded gently. "Knowing what to do is much harder in the moment than in retrospect. Instead of focusing on what we cannot change, we must focus on what we can change." Amber nodded.
"Yeah…I'm not ready to try again yet, but not just out'a fear'a gettin' hurt again. Doc," she shook her head, her lip curling in frustration. "I'm a mess right now, I'm fifty shades'a fucked up! I'm stuck halfway between a past I can't erase an' a future that ain't lookin' much brighter, an' I'm still fightin' the same flaws I've always fought! Donnie…" She blushed, turning away in embarrassment. "He deserves better—so much better—an' until I can get my head on straight, can be the sort'a person who'll build'im up instead'a bring'im down, I've just gotta keep my distance…no matter how much it hurts."
Before Doc Morris could reply, Donatello ducked back into the room heading straight for the coffee maker. Amber's heart throbbed in longing but she forced herself not to look at him. A long-forgotten song rang through her mind amidst the sounds of Donnie setting up his coffee.
Pacing the floor, detest,
sweat pouring down my chest,
still, I can't love you less. ♦
Against her will, her eyes snuck away from the portly man on the other end of the video-chat connection and considered the turtle sweetening his coffee. She waited a lifetime for him; she could wait a while longer.
About an hour after her check-in with Doc Morris, Raphael stalked through the kitchen doorway and scanned the room. Startled by his sudden appearance, Amber slapped an arm over her latest journal entry. "Raph, hey," she greeted with a nervous smile. "Lose somethin'?" A tic in his clenched jaw counted down the seconds before he answered.
"Ya seen Mercy today?" Though he was clearly attempting to appear unbothered by the blonde's absence, Amber saw right through it; she closed the journal and leaned back in her chair.
"'Bout an hour ago." She paused for a pull at her glass of Scotch; how she loved that stuff! "She's fine, just off on a piss."• Raph snarled at her answer, gritting his teeth so hard she almost expected his signature toothpick to explode in a spray of splinters.
"I checked da bathroom," he argued lowly, "she ain't gone fer a piss—she's just gone!" For a moment Amber just blinked at him, then realized the confusion.
"Sorry," she sighed, rubbing her neck in embarrassment, "she went for a walk—off on a piss means out for a walk." While he pondered her odd behavior and odder phrase she muttered to herself, though whether she was chastising herself or him he couldn't tell. "So what's goin' on?" she asked pushing the bottle toward him in suggestion; he looked like he needed a drink more than she did. Sure enough, he dropped into the chair directly opposite hers…and took a deep swig straight from the bottle. "Haw, now!" Amber scolded gruffly yanking the bottle away and cradling it against her chest like a child facing doll-stealing bullies. "Whate'er happened it ain't worth roo-nin' the rest—if ya jus' wanna get pished, gitcher own!"•
"Pished?" he repeated in a tone dripping with sarcasm only to shake his head and growl under his breath. "Whateva—I'm wastin' time, I gotta find'er bafore she's gone fa good!" Right as he lunged to his feet, Amber swept one leg out from under him with her foot; he crashed back down into his chair in a pile and stared across the table at the insistent brunette in disbelief.
"Raph, what's wrong? What's got ya worried she'll take off?" Right before her eyes, several emotions swept over his face in succession: anger, fear, angst, then finally, bitterness.
"Ya didn't tell me she's anti-booze," he snapped back at her. "She smelled yer rotgut on me an' freaked out." Finally, things were making sense. The night before, Amber helped Raph and Mikey with dinner prep and shared a nip of Scotch with the former while cutting up vegetables. Mikey, oddly enough, was content to just sit and sniff the cork. Amber was incredibly, ridiculously, stereotypically fond of the stuff but she didn't see herself sitting around huffing it…unless, of course, she ran out. Again, why's the rum always gone?
"Mercy smelled booze on ya," she repeated softly, "an' she freaked out? Surely—don't tell me she called ya Ma?" Raph's disgusted cringe answered her question without a doubt. "Good. Hon, Mercy's not anti-booze but she's not altogether fond of it—she's seen firsthand what addiction can do to folks an' what that does to their family." Amber stared down at her now-closed journal recalling the visit that sparked the friends' 'PTSD ban list.' "Distaste aside…she is an addict, ya know."
"It ain't her fault!" Raph argued his nostrils flaring. "She di'n't have no choice i—" Amber cut him off with a placating gesture.
"I'm not sayin' that," she reassured, "I'm just sayin' she's got more goin' on than any of us knows. If yer worried about 'er, jus' ask'er. As fer where she's gone…" She jabbed her thumb back toward the utility room. "…Dee chipped 'er, remember?" Technically he put a tracking chip in the blonde's right sneaker, but Amber suspected Mercy would have appreciated the irony. She did miss the ranch, after all, and it was common to chip pets and livestock.
"She's just south of the defunct rail yard," Donatello revealed from the doorway; Amber whirled about to stare him down in disbelief, surprised she'd actually pointed right at him instead of in the general direction he'd gone. Finding that words weren't coming to her, she shot him a stink-eye glare and harrumphed into her mostly empty glass.
"Blasted sleekit speccy," she muttered. "Always sneakin' up on me…yer lucky Kimber's got a good heart." Instead of responding, Donnie single-handedly sent the tracking info to Raph's phone and closed the app, all without even disturbing his coffee.
"Go get her, Bro," he teased with a wide lopsided smirk that made Amber's ovaries sing the Halleluiah Chorus. The moment Raphael was out the door, Don invited himself to the table with a refill of coffee. "So." He cleared his throat. "Mercy's off on a piss, my brother's getting pished, and I'm a—what was that?—a slickit specky?"• Amber blushed under his scrutiny, fiddling with the end of one grey-streaked braid; it wasn't exactly a compliment, but it wasn't much of an insult either, not that he'd know it. "You've been behaving…oddly lately."
"I've been behavin' oddly since I hit Junior High, Dee," Amber retorted. "This is the most me I've been since I was a kid." Shrewd hazel eyes—veering green in the bright overhead light—stared her down demanding further answers. "I'm serious—ask Mercy if ya don't believe me." She winced, recalling the litany of unflattering nicknames thrown her way. Mush-mouth and Muttonhead were among the least offensive. "Kids're terrors even when most'a yer family don't talk funny," she added when it became clear Donnie wasn't going to say anything. "Everyone in my family 'talked funny'—everyone but my Da—an' I got bullied for it. 'ventually I managed to squash my different-ness enough to kinda fit in, but I never realized how much I gave up in the process." Green darted away from hazel set off by a mild blush. "I lost more'n I gained…you helped me realize that."
"So this is you not hiding," he summed up when it became clear she wasn't ready to add more. She met his eyes with a weak, almost bitter, smile.
"This's me trying," she admitted. "I'm tryin', Dee, but I'm fightin' literally decades of bad habits here." Realizing what she just revealed, she winced. "Verbal do-over—just ignore the decades part."
"Wha—why?" No amount of staring made him back down; she was trying to quit hiding her less-than-pretty sides, though. After a minute of frantic over-thinking, she did what she did best: she geared herself up to change the subject then blurted it out in one big awkward mess.
"Thirty-five." Once it snuck out, though, she eeped and slapped her hand over her mouth, wincing when it made her healing cheek throb. "Ack! I mean—I mean—Ah, shite!" Funny how Scotch never loosened her lips unless Donnie was around; Freud would probably claim she wanted him to know all the things that slipped out of her mouth, but she wasn't so sure. For a moment, Don sat silently, considering the bombshell she accidentally dropped. Finally, he jabbed his thumb at himself.
"Twenty-five," he announced with a one-armed shrug. "They're just numbers, Amber—age doesn't have to define you unless you let it. Besides, the body you're in is ten years younger, too." That turtle, she decided with a forced scowl, was either going to get kissed or slapped…and she wasn't sure which, yet. Sensing that she was clamming up again, he hoisted himself out of his chair intent on returning to work. "Just be careful, Braids. It's important to be true to yourself…don't let your desire for change make you into someone you're not."
Perhaps she didn't have to worry about him not liking the real her after all.
Thudding bass, screaming guitars, and wailing vocals filled Mercy's ears as she padded along the dark ground, flashlight trained on the path before her. The blonde still wasn't crazy about the new world she found herself in but at least Raph was helping her find music more to her tastes. Already she'd filled the MP3 player from Kimber's locker with a plethora of music—Sixx:A.M., Fallout Boy, Reaver, Thinkin' Dark, Breaking Benjamin—even after all the new bands she'd found, though, she missed her old favorites—especially Quiet Riot and Black Sabbath. Every chance she got, the earbuds were in and the tunes were blasting; earbuds, of course, were also taking some getting used to.
Hey, everybody needs somebody – wants somebody –
Hey, everybody cracks and bleeds,
So hit your knees
And pray that help is on the way!

Everybody pray that help is on the way! ♦♦
Raph was the one who introduced her to the band—he introduced her to a lot of her new favorites. Raphael…the name brought a faint blush to her cheeks. If not for years of abuse, she'd totally have jumped that turtle by now. Back on the ranch, she was always too busy with the livestock and her garden to daydream about her perfect man; now she couldn't fight the suspicion that the hulking ninja fits the bill. He was strong—stupid strong—but he didn't waste time in posturing for her. Outside of training, he didn't push her around, and although he wasn't quite to Donnie's caliber of intelligence, he was no idiot. He was gruff but kind—he was aggressive but he could be gentle—he was impatient but when it really mattered, he always came through for her.
Even though we're damaged goods
I would love you if I could
But you are so unalarmed
By my unfortunate charm,
And now we're screamin' bloody murder as— ♦♦
"I really don't need that right now," she grumbled aloud jamming the skip button. She was already struggling with the tension between them—the last thing she needed was a reminder of how much her body was yearning for something she'd never had before. "GAH!" she snarled shaking her head and skipping song after song; why on earth did so many of the songs on the device have mush between the bass? It just wasn't right! "This is nuts! I'm stronger'n this!" Of course, if she was stronger than her body—Donna Mays' body—why was she jonesing for alcohol when she hated the stuff with a passion?
She'd never liked alcohol—she hated the taste, hated the smell, hated what it did to people when it took control of them—but ever since she woke up under that bridge, every time she smelled booze her new used body physically ached with cravings. That body was an addict and every time she smelled alcohol on Daron's, Raph's, and even Amber's breath, she had to stay away. Every time she smelled Amber's Scotch, Daron's bourbon, or Casey's beer on Raph, she wanted nothing more than to crawl into his lap and steal every last dreg from his lips. It wasn't really spelled out but she and Raph promised to take it slow; at this rate, she'd wind up breaking that promise.
Mercy stumbled—as loudly as she was thinking, she never noticed the gleaming metal rail crossing her path until she wound up face-down in the coarse chat lining the rail bed. Sometime between one curse and the next, she realized where she was—her eyes widening fearfully, she turned first one way then the other searching for the train surely on its way. A distant rumble neared her—a subway tram, she realized frantically—she scrambled to her feet and darted toward the head-height platform at the edge of the rail bed. No ladder, no steps, no quick way up to safety—the tram roared closer and closer, and Mercy's mind raced faster and faster.
Surely she didn't survive an EF-5 tornado only to be flattened by a train?!
As Raphael neared the abandoned rail yard, a blood-curdling shriek split the air. His blood ran cold. "Mercy?!" He glanced at the map projected on the screen of his cell phone and the blinking beacon that marked the blonde's location. "Hang on, Kid!" he shouted ahead in hopes she could hear him, "I'm—"
He skidded to a halt staring in disbelief. Right before his eyes, the blonde was jumping and scrabbling for the edge of the platform, frantically glancing up the tracks as though her doom was about to tear around the corner. Raph peered around for whatever danger drew that ear-piercing scream from her lungs only to come up empty. "What's'a matta, Blondie?" he asked with a blank expression.
"T-Train!" she wheezed even as she leaped up for the edge again. "Rails—move!" Finally, it hit her—the loud rumbling train had passed by without ever coming down the track she was trapped in. Feeling like a complete and utter noob, she slumped back against the wall she'd been trying to scale and fixed a pinched scowl on the smug ninja. Her heaving chest and flushed face weakened the impact but she was too tired to care. "Defunct track?" she deadpanned. Surely enough, he gave her a smirk that she wanted to wipe off his face…with her foot.
"Ain't been a train through here since the fiddies, Kid," he teased.
"Why ya always callin' me Kid, Kid?" she retorted even as her cheeks heated. "Donna's twenty-six, Jerkface!" He bristled somewhat at the idea that she inhabited a body a year older than he was; was he always destined to be the younger one?! "—An' I was eight years older before I died!" The reminder of her death made both of them wince and she turned an abashed stare to the wall of the platform; way to make things awkward, she chastised herself without a word. "Never mind," she mumbled. "Mind gettin' me out'a here?" With a humoring smirk, he snagged the lost flashlight and swaggered over to her.
"Hang onta this, Blondie," he warned tucking the light under her chin and her arms around his neck. This close her scent—clean sweat, floral scented soap and shampoo, and the fresh scent of herbs, soil, and greenery—filled his nose and lungs. Shaking off the come-hither effect the unique Eau-de-Mercy had on him, he latched onto her waist and swept her off her feet.
Her squawk at the sudden change in altitude sharpened into a shriek when he leaped up onto the platform in a single lunge. The moment his feet left the rail bed, she latched onto his neck for dear life, digging her nails into his tough skin as though something was about to rip her right out of his arms. It made him feel inexplicably strong and masculine, like a warrior of old defending his lady; the moment the thought finished, he felt like slapping Mikey, certain the younger turtle was to blame for him getting soft.
Once her feet met the platform—land, precious land!—Mercy shoved away from Raph and glared at him looking as fussy as a wet cat. "You did that on purpose!" she snapped, and he chuckled in reply.
"Ya know it," he teased in return. "Yer neva livin' dat down, ya know dat right?" Clasping his hands by his face in a mockery of the typical damsel in distress, he cried in a squeaky voice, "Oh, Ra-fay-el! Save my weak lil' self from da train! Hurry, please!" The blonde glowered at him as he dissolved into laughter. "Nope, neva livin' it down!" In her previous life, Mercy could make the toughest ranch-hand whine with a single punch; in this life, his bicep nearly broke her knuckles.
"Bloody Mary!" she swore shaking the sting from her fingers while Raph cut up. "What're ya made of, rock?!" Clearly, she realized, she was just embarrassing herself, so she changed the subject. "What is this place anyway? That echo's pretty loud." Raph's laughter faded into a snicker as he ambled over to the far wall and popped open a warped breaker box; a couple switches later, bright fluorescent track lighting buzzed to life lighting the massive, cavernous room. Mercy stared around her in complete disbelief at the treasure she stumbled on.
The whole of the place was roughly twice the size of a football field and intersected with several recessed rail beds and interchanges. Each rail bed was flanked by platforms ranging from head-height to waist-height; some platforms were lined with various bits of obsolete repair equipment. Overhead, soot-stained metal-grate platforms were lined with even more damaged equipment. Electrical outlets dotted the walls, and damaged fire sprinklers and water conduits lined the ceiling and grating; power cords, rubbish, hoses, and broken machinery lay abandoned. Several old subway cars—most burned beyond use—waited in their respective lanes for repairs which would never come.
"Where are we?" Mercy took in her scorched surroundings in naked awe. "This place is amazing!" Raph leaned against a soot-blackened control terminal with a cocky smile.
"Old rail yard," he explained simply. "Dey brought da cars here fer washin' an' fixin' 'til some punk torched da place." He shrugged. "Dey couldn't prove it wasn't an electric fire, so dey closed up shop an' moved on; da station we live in was abandoned a year'a so afta." Even as he spoke of raiding the railyard for building materials over the years, Mercy's mind ran miles a minute. Memories of her previous life inspired her—memories of her vast kitchen garden, local corn and soy fields, neighbors who coaxed produce from vines, bushes, and even trees—Mercy was floored by her epiphany. Raphael realized she wasn't listening but before he could get a word out, she answered his question under her breath:
"It's…It's a greenhouse!" she murmured breathlessly, staring around the cavern and already picturing it overrun by fruits, vegetables, herbs, and even flowers. Amber-golden eyes widened in disbelief.
"Da fuck?" He looked around, searching for what she saw, but found nothing but a ruin. "Dis ain't no garden—it's a dump!" Despite his insistence, Mercy's blue eyes lit up in excitement and she rushed around to the various lanes.
"It's a goldmine!" she argued with a wide grin. "Think about it—this place was condemned an' abandoned—no one'll ever come'ere again! The rail beds're perfect for produce! Gut'em, improve the drainage, pile in enough rock'n dirt, an' you can grow jus' about anythin'—corn, melons, tomatoes—might even be deep enough for fruit trees!" She eagerly inspected the grated mezzanine and the intact portions of the sprinkler system. "With sufficient repair, the sprinkler system could be repurposed as an irrigation system—plants can be grown under fluorescent lighting, too, and ya've a'ready got a ton'a workin' fixtures up there—" Raph's heart raced at the joy and hope in Mercy's eyes and the wide, toothy grin she wore. Her eyes gleamed as she proclaimed in glee, "With a little work, I could grow produce fer us—I could finally pull my own weight around here!"
Raphael wasn't sure what she was suggesting was possible, but if it meant keeping that sparkle in her eyes, he was all for it.
"You know," Donatello remarked rubbing his chin in thought, "it just might work." Not long after Mercy's declaration, Raphael called his brother down to the yard to hear her proposal. After about ten minutes of examining the surroundings with that in mind, the genius was impressed. He and his brothers found the abandoned rail yard when they first found the defunct subway station they now called home, but they saw no further than what they could salvage from it. Several rooms in the Lair were built from tram cars from that yard, but for the most part, everything else seemed as good as scrap. Leave it to a country girl to realize they were sitting on a gold mine.
"Dere ain't gonna be anyone comin' down'ere, either, right?" Raph pressed almost as eagerly as Mercy—not quite, though, seeing as the blonde was darting from one rail bed to the next mentally calculating what plants needed what planting dimensions and light exposure. Don nodded with a slowly spreading smile.
"Yeah—after the fire, the city wouldn't waste any more time on it, even for repairs—the risk was too great. No one's set foot in that place since it was condemned; well, no one but us at least." Eager hazel eyes focused on the excited blonde already lugging debris into the near corner. "It's rare to find something useful so hidden from the public eye, and it's ours for the taking…and with the proper precautions, even the increased electrical and water usage could be hidden or explained away." It hit both turtles at once and they voiced the answer in unison.
"Vern."

UP NEXT: Donnie and Amber boil over in an expanded smutalicious scene in A Taste Without Tears

Glossary
• Off on a piss – taking a walk
• A nip of Scotch – a single measure of Scotch Whisky
• Roo-nin' – Ruining
• Gitcher – Get your
• Pished – drunk
• Sleekit – sly or untrustworthy, or in this case, prone to sneaking around
• Speccy – someone who wears glasses
Notes
♦ The Grass Roots "Wait a Million Years"
♦♦ Lyrics from "Help Is On the Way," by Sixx:A.M.
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