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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
- 28
- 29
- 30
I don't own any of the songs mentioned in this chapter, or the scant lyrics used. Credit, as usual, is given at the end under "Borrowed Words."
Suggested Listening: Kodaline "The One," Sixx:A.M. "Are You With Me Now?"
28: Love Amidst the Loss
University of Glenville, Missouri, February 14, 1999
Mercy hated Valentine's day with a passion. Everywhere she went, everything was dripping with pink, red, and purple, decked in satin and lace, and couples were humping and slobbering all over one another in public. Some probably assumed she hated the holiday because she was single—they couldn't be more wrong—and often times, she found herself on the receiving end of some sympathetic (read "lonely and horny") guy or gal asking her out to assuage their own conscience and libido. Every single time, she said no thanks; every single time, they presumably went to cry in their beer while cursing her for being bitter.
She wasn't bitter—she just hated being reminded of something she'd never have. Not for lack of offers, no, but for lack of trust, courage, and willingness to prove her mother right. Mercy wasn't a loose woman—she wasn't a whore—but so help her, if she so much as talked to a man she wasn't related to—at least anyone between the ages of sixteen and sixty—she paid for it when her mother found out. Her mother always found out. Shaking off her gloomy attitude like a dog shakes off bathwater, she fitted her key in the front door's lock, yanked it open then slammed it shut, and stalked through to the living room…
…and into a horribly awkward situation involving her naked roommate, her naked roommate's equally naked boyfriend, and their hideous, uncomfortable sofa.
June 24th, 2016, Dinnertime, the Lair
As she had on that horrifying February afternoon years before, Mercy froze, half in the pantry and half out of it. The moment she stepped into the recessed nook for a can of soda her nose was assaulted by a familiar smell—the smell of desperate people, she'd once joked—and no obvious explanation of how it got there. For a moment she kidded herself that maybe someone left a jar of cumin open but then recalled Amber felt the same way about the spice that stank like BO and dirty twat. No way would there be cumin in that pantry!
Amber. It hit Mercy with the force of a sucker punch. She slowly turned to the brunette passing out pizza at the table, her blue eyes sharper than Raph's sais. Donatello was conspicuously absent from the scene and Amber's hair notoriously frizzy hair was suspiciously neat for having been in a loose braid all day. As though sensing the blonde's accusing stare, Amber turned to meet her eyes, horror washing over her face. For a moment she just stood there, frozen like a deer about to become a hood ornament. Then with a stammered apology, she piled two plates high with pizza without even looking at what she grabbed and beat a swift retreat to the lab, all at record speed.
Mercy glared through Amber's back until it vanished behind the steel door, certain she just experienced Valentine's Day of '99 all over again. As if it wasn't mortifying enough the first time!
"Hey," Donatello greeted as Amber burst into the Lab; the moment she cleared the threshold she shoved the heavy door shut with her hip and flattened herself against it as though expecting it to be suddenly kicked in. He stared; what on earth happened out there? Finally, sure Mercy hadn't chased her down to force the truth out of her, Amber passed her plate off onto the nearest surface and turned the deadbolt.
"Hey, yerself." The words brought a goofy grin to Donnie's face; how he'd missed their strange little greeting! "Brought dinner—mind if I hide in here?"
"Hide?" he asked as she passed him his high-piled plate of pizza. "From what?"
"You mean who," she corrected planting herself at the workbench they usually ate lunch at. She couldn't help smiling at the memories of that table—memories of long drawn out conversations, "never have I ever" sessions, and many a shared lunch. "Mercy's onto us—the pantry didn't air out very well." Donnie choked on his pizza and proceeded to beat it out of his lungs.
"What?!" he croaked. "She—She smelled—?!" Amber cringed and nodded.
"That burd could smell salt all the way from the barracks," she pointed out avoiding his eyes from embarrassment, "an' horny people smell stronger'n salt." As though realizing how awkward she just made everything she gave a weak smile and a shrug. "She probably won't blab about it, but I'm gonna be payin' for it fer years—Hell, I'm still payin' fer Valentine's day of '99."
"Do I wanna know?" Amber blushed.
"Let's just say first times're awkward enough without yer roomie walkin' in an' seein' yer ass in the air." Donatello halfway expected to hear crickets in the awkward silence. Finally, in hopes of salvaging their appetites, Amber joked, "So how's about them Rams?" He gave a nervous laugh and returned to his pizza only to notice her picking mushrooms off of her slice of supreme.
"Not crazy about mushrooms?" he asked, triggering a bright blush.
"Mildly fungus intolerant. I'll live." Without a word, Don joined her at the table, passed off a piece of Hawaiian from his pile, and held his plate out for the half-butchered supreme and the pile of mushrooms. When she looked up to protest that she'd be fine, he winked; blushing heavily, she fell silent and scooted the lot onto his plate anyway. "Thanks."
"No problem." He took a bite from his own supreme, relishing the mushrooms with closed eyes, then suddenly realized something and swallowed. "How intolerant? If we—I mean—well, you know…" Amber smirked over at him, pausing only for a sip of soda.
"If we what?" she teased. As he sat and squirmed, she latched onto his suspender strap again and pulled him closer, planting a single peck on his lips; though the pull tugged on his shoulder, he found he kinda liked it. "Even if ya gorge on shrooms, it won't kill me—I just get indigestion if I eat any." They fell silent, both lost in thought. Finally, she broke the silence again. "If Mercy knows, yer brothers prob'ly do too. You regret it?" Hazel met green, neither flinching away from the other.
"Do you?" he asked in return. "I don't—well, maybe that—it—happened in the pantry, but I don't regret anything else." He looked away with a noisy swallow. It. How perplexing it was, that such a momentous event could be boiled down to a single word and still hold the same weight in his mind. "I'm sick of fighting, Amber…I still wish you'd tell me what you're hiding, but I'm sick of fighting over it." She nodded, her eyes distant.
"I just regret havin' to back off," she admitted, "an' I'm sick'a fightin' too…sick'a feelin' like we're livin' out a Shakespearean tragedy." She gave a bitter laugh. "I can't give ya what ya want, though—I can't tell you what you ask—an' honestly, I still think yer a sleekit bastart• fer what ya did." Though the words hurt, the wry smile that followed soothed the sting a little. "I can't blame ya much, though. 'Sides, my Gran'da's a bit of a bastart himself—love him nonetheless."
"You're not ready to tell me the truth," Donatello summarized dryly, "and I'm not ready to give up on getting that truth. Aren't we a mess?"
"That we are," Amber chuckled. "We can't keep fightin' like this, though—I'm liable to jump your bones if we do." He gaped at her in disbelief; she gave a 'What's the big deal?' gesture. "What? Yer cute when yer mad." Donnie shook his head, sure he was blushing. For a moment, he contemplated intentionally continuing their feud in hopes she'd rescind her 'we gotta wait' insistence, but decided against it. If and when they went to that level, he didn't want it to be spur of the moment and thus regrettable.
"Agree to disagree, then?" he asked, then added with a slight cringe, "about the fighting, not me…being…cute." With a lopsided smirk, she held out her hand for him to shake.
"Agreed." For a time they both focused on their dinner, but after three months of fighting like idiots, there was still too much laundry to be aired out. This time, though, Donatello broke the silence.
"You really feel that way?" he asked, nervously glancing from his pizza to the brunette staring through her plate. "You really…really like me?" A dark blush exploded across her cheeks as she contemplated his question. She was well beyond liking him—all the way to loving, cherishing, wanting to screw like rabbits. No, like wasn't how she'd describe her feelings at all!
"Like's a lil' weak," she admitted. "Ya don't have any reason to believe otherwise, but it takes more'n likin' someone to make me nearly shag'em senseless in the pantry." He gave a nervous titter, fidgeting with a pizza crust. "Sorry…I'm making things awkward." She flushed, avoiding his eyes. "I'm kind'a bad about that, huh?" He didn't agree, but she noted he didn't disagree either.
"So it's more than like." His brows drew tightly together as he stared down at the crust he was tearing to pieces. Amber could practically hear his internal processor humming as he worked through her words. Hazel veered upward then darted away again. "How much more?" Amber hesitated, torn as so often before between her feelings and her difficulty expressing and sharing them.
"Dee, I..." She winced. "I know how I feel, but I don't know how to say it—I know the words, I know the order they go in and all that nonsense, but I can't express it—I can't spit it out. It's like…" She searched her memories for any sort of comparison that might make herself more clear. "My emotions are like a password protected document file, I guess," she attempted. "They're all neatly typed out, formatted properly, and to a certain extent, they make sense, but only if you have the password. If ya don't have a password, it'll all just show up as a bunch'a weird symbols."
"That's encryption, Amber." She shot him a weak glare. "Pardon."
"Point to Donatello," she grumbled, "Amber sucks at technology. Moving on. The whole point was I can access those encrypted files all I want but I can't share them with anyone else without…uh…fixing the encryption?" He facepalmed; there would no joint hacking with this one. "Whatever. I'm emotionally stunted an' can't spit it out but I still feel it." The touch of a soft hand on his drew him out of his dismay at her technological ineptitude. "Dee, you deserve better'n that—deserve to be told you're—" She froze swallowing forcefully and fighting the fear rising up her throat and choking her off.
"Told I'm…what?" he asked even though he had a feeling he already knew. Remembered words, borrowed words he heard on the radio recently, rang through his memory.
You make my heart feel like it's summer
When the rain is pouring down.
You make my whole world feel so right when it's wrong.
That's how I know that you are the one. ♦
"Words aren't my friends," she reminded gently, "but if you look between the lines, listen behind the lyrics, you'll understand. Until I can say it to yer face, until you can accept that I won't be able to tell you everything, there's no point in starting anything." Suddenly realizing something, he looked up at her in surprise.
"You're starting too big again, Braids," he pointed out. "You're refusing to meet a stranger because they might not like you, refusing to take a bus because you might get stuck next to the sweaty dock worker. You realize that, right?"
"Maybe," she admitted, "but my point remains—until I've got my head firmly out'a my arse, I'm no good for ya. Even if the emotional closeness bit isn't a problem, I don't wanna rush things." That, Donatello decided stubbornly, was quite enough. His appetite gone, he shoved back from the table, circled to her side, and pulled her up to stand before him.
"Amber's no good," he parroted back. "Amber doesn't wanna rush things, Amber's issues take precedence." He shook his head in disbelief. "Does it even matter what Donnie thinks? –What Donnie feels?" She tried to cut him off, to explain and protest that he mattered more than he realized, but a callused fingertip on her lips stilled her. "Amber, I care about you—If you're just not ready, then say it—don't use me as an excuse! Don't push me away anymore." Her eyes shimmered but she nodded agreement.
"Kin…" Her voice cracked and she coughed to clear it. "Can we…take it…slow? Ah dinnae—I don't wanna screw up." He nodded agreement and held his arms open for her; just like before their feud began, she dove headfirst into them, latching on like she would be ripped from his embrace. With the brunette tucked face-first in his shoulder, Donatello rubbed her back and buried his nose in her fragrant hair. Just like that, Amber mused as his scent filled her lungs, all was once again right in the world. All the noise in her head was fading away; all the hurt, anger, frustration, and bitterness that piled up during their feud was fading away with it. Good grief, he smelled good.
She'd missed her Donnie.
"How slow?" he asked when her shuddering lungs soothed. Green eyes, vibrant from a sheen of tears, met his.
"How slow?" she echoed with a weak smile. "Just…Let's just take it day by day. I've waited a lifetime for ya…I'll wait even longer if it means keepin' ya." Don tried puzzling out her meaning but when he went to voice his confusion, she cut him off with a yank on his suspenders. "Hawd yer haverin', ya numpty—geez'a nip!"•
Donatello had no idea what she'd said. As their lips met again and again in soft, brushing kisses, though, he decided it didn't matter. Actions speak louder than words and her actions were speaking volumes.
"Lu-cy." Mercy's voice from the kitchen doorway made Amber freeze in horror. When she ducked in to put up their dirty dishes, the kitchen had seemed deserted, and thus, safe. Donatello's plate shaking in her hand, her heart racing, she turned to acknowledge the irate blonde menacing her. "Ya got some 'splainin' to do."
Shite. That one word was the only one Amber could think of at the moment and it manifested with flashing lights and air raid sirens. Mercy spat out only one more word—railyard—then stalked off leaving Amber rooted in her spot in horror. By the time she finally got up the nerve to meet Mercy in the railyard she was quaking in Kimber's hoochie boots and dreading the tongue-lashing to come.
"H—Hello?" she called out inching through the doorway.
"I take it you two idjits finally made up?" Mercy drawled behind her sending her through the roof again. Amber whipped about with a screech, wondering how Mercy was managing to sneak up on her so often. Was the blonde taking lessons in ninja from Raph?
"Eheh…" She faltered, avoiding her friend's eyes. "…mibbe?"• Mercy paced toward her like a cougar stalking a wounded deer, her blue eyes hard.
"I remember that smell, ya twat," she pointed out dryly, "an' I highly doubt you an' Sir Geeks-a-lot had angry sex in the pantry."
"There was no sex!" Amber blurted out. "We—It just—I just—Gah!" she burst out and yanked on her braid again. "We just got carried away, but there was no sex, no nudity, no missing clothes even!" The blonde stared her down, scrutinizing her expression for any sign of a lie. "In my defense, I ain't gotten laid since April of 2011!" The moment the year was out of her mouth, Amber paled and her jaw dropped, the year difference finally hitting her. She left behind the year 2011 and woke up in 2016—did she seriously endure a five-year dry spell in Limbo?! No wonder she nearly screwed Donnie against the shelves!
"So ya just 'humped against the Heineken,'" Mercy summarized. Amber winced but nodded. "Good thing I don't drink. 'Bout time you two quit fightin'—I'm sick'a chewin' ya both out all the time."
The next hour or so was passed with a long-overdue heart to heart between the two friends while they worked on scrubbing one of the lanes clean with steel wool. It was hard work and would be easier with power tools, but those tools were required for the second bathroom renovation. It would still be quite a while before the railyard was ready to be called a garden, but the humans were making progress. Somewhere between another old 'remember when' and another of their fun little insult competitions, Mercy's cell phone suddenly started blasting a number by her new favorite band.
Are you with me now? Come back from the dead - You've been inside your head for too long! ♦♦ Blushing like mad, she scrambled up the ladder out of the recessed railbed and bolted for the battered bar phone dancing a jig on a folding chair. Are you with me now? Find the places that scare you - Come on I dare you! Are you with— "Hey Asshat," she blurted into the speaker, sure her face was on fire. "What? No, no I just dragged Miss Guilty down to the railyard—needed—ugh—girl talk. Yeah, yeah, I know, I'm'onna need therapy."
As the blonde conversed with Raphael, Amber studied her silently; Mercy, she realized, was behaving in a very 'Un-Mercy-like' manner. Every now and then her denim-colored eyes would soften and an unbelievably gentle smile would appear. Her shoes scuffed the floor restlessly; her long slender fingers ran through her shaggy blonde hair as though trying to make it look less messy. When she laughed at something he said, she didn't cackle or guffaw—she almost giggled.
Amber couldn't believe it! As she did the day she met Donatello, she reached up to her cheek and pinched as hard as she could. "Fark!" she swore afterward, drawing a strange look from Mercy; probably shouldn't have pinched the cheek she broke. Still, it proved her point—she was not dreaming. Finally, Mercy and Raph hung up and the blonde blustered her way back to the railbed to pick up where she left off.
"So," Amber asked slyly, "you an' Raph, huh?" Mercy dropped her hunk of steel wool and, burning red, crouched to find it again. "I knew it!—I knew it, I knew it, I knew it! You two're perfect fer each other!"
"Not touchin' that bullshit with a ten-foot shovel," Mercy grumbled. "Quit talkin' trash, O'Brien." Despite her prickly attitude, Amber elbowed her in the arm, grinning like a loon.
"So—cummoan,• gimme details!" Mercy remained tight-lipped. "Uch. Fine, spoilsport. I'll still kick 'is arse if he hurts ya."
"Ya'll break yer foot," the blonde retorted snidely. "B'sides, you an' Donnie're bein' dramatastic enough—someone's gotta have it easy!" As they argued as only best friends can, Mercy couldn't help worrying she just shot herself in the rear by not denying Amber's assumptions.
A mere hour after Amber and Mercy crawled back to the Lair, sore and tired from scrubbing away several more years of gunk and grime, the blonde found herself once again in the dojo. The punching bag Raphael split thirty days ago, now patched up with a scrap of red-stained leather, taunted her mercilessly. Since that day, Raphael had taken hours of his own time to help her build up her strength. She had to endure Raph's smartassery, Leo's dirty looks, and endless Kung Fu Kid references from Mikey, but despite the price, she had to admit it was worth it—she was getting stronger every day. Perhaps, she wondered pulling her right fist back with a smirk, she could even get the punching bag to move now?
"'ey." As often before, the sudden greeting made her miss the sandbag but this time she caught herself instead of face-planting. "Nice progress, Blondie," Raph teased lumbering toward her. "Ya're ready fa da next step, huh?" The musky sandalwood scent of him surrounded her, tantalized her, and she was sure she was blushing. Instead of answering, she spouted,
"Ya don't say." A massive hand on her shoulder made her tense but its owner simply guided her to another part of the dojo. There in the middle of the cushioned mats, he gave her an almost boyish grin.
"Ya've a'ready been liftin' weights, runnin', an buildin' up ya muscles." Without a sign of the nervousness she felt, he cracked his knuckles and popped his neck. "If ya don't keep ya muscles limbah, keep ya joints loose, it'll all be fa nothin'. Dat's da next step."
Over the next twenty minutes or so, he guided her through some basic stretches and, though he didn't tell her, a few not-so-basic ones as well. Every now and then he'd reach out to correct her form with strong, skilled hands, every time, driving her out of her mind. A sure grip on her bare knee, a tap on her wrist, a coaxing prod at her lower back…Mercy wasn't used to that sort of physical contact with men. Sure, she'd spent many a summer evening 'rassling' with Aaron and even more summer mornings taking boxing pointers from her stepfather, but neither had ever touched her so gently, so carefully. It almost seemed, she realized as he once again corrected her posture, that Raphael couldn't keep his hands off her but was afraid she'd break.
"Amber thinks we're fucking." Mercy wasn't quite sure where the blurted admission came from but it sent Raph pitching face-first toward the mat. Catching his balance at the last moment, he gaped at her and, as though just realizing he still had his palm on the small of her back, yanked it away like she'd burned him.
"What brought dat up?!" he blustered backing away a pace. "Dat was dem stinkin' up da pantry, right?!" The blonde nodded, flushing.
"Yeah…she an' Donnie finally pulled their heads out'a their collective asses, apparently. Not sure why she thinks we're together…" She winced, unable to meet his eyes; Raphael froze, his nostrils flaring and his golden amber eyes wide but with what emotion she had no idea. "Sorry…I didn't exactly argue with 'er…was kinda dumbstruck. Ain't even sure how to set 'er straight, really." She faltered, scruffing up her already scruffy blonde hair. "I just—I just froze." With a sly smirk, the hulking ninja reached out and ruffled her hair, earning a half-hearted glare in return.
"I'll set 'er straight, Kid," he teased. Without another word, he swaggered out the door, knowing full well Mercy was watching his ass every step of the way.
"I'll get more lovin' from that dum, dum, dummy than I-yevah got from you!" Only a few paces through the bathroom door and already Donatello's ears were ringing...painfully. It had been a long tiring day between family drama, convincing Vern to help them out, and construction work on the second bathroom...and Amber… Donnie decided to leave that source of exhaustion titled exactly as it was. Amber was explanation enough. Despite his weariness and the off-tune caterwauling emanating from the furthest shower stall, he couldn't help but smile.
Amber. Although it wasn't the best idea, he found himself mentally reliving those moments in the pantry once more—every brush, every scratch, every push, pull, and buck—they'd wasted so much time fighting and avoiding one another, he supposed it wasn't so hard to believe that one day they'd break down and find a way back to one another. Clearly oblivious to his presence, the subject of his musings continued jamming out under the water spray, vocalizing her way through an instrumental bridge complete with horribly off-tune imitation trombone blasts.
Ah, what the Hell. He was gross from long hours of work and still too riled to go to sleep, why not remedy both at the same time? After ducking back out for a towel and some clean clothes, Donatello let himself into the stall next to Amber's, got the water warming up, and proceeded to strip down. He hung glasses and towel on a hook and his mask over the door, stepped past the changing area to the shower, and pulled the vinyl curtain closed. Amber never even noticed his presence; it took every bit of self-restraint he had to not laugh aloud when he saw two pale feet dancing (poorly) just past the divider between the stalls. Suddenly he didn't feel so lazy for leaving the shower floors untiled—rough concrete had more traction than tile, and traction was entirely necessary if one was to consider busting a move.
"I'll take the legs from some ol' table! I'll take the arms from some ol' chair! I'll take the neck from some ol' bottle an' from a horse I'll take the hair! I'll take the hands an' face from a clock an' baby when I'm through, I'll get more lovin' from that dum, dum, dummy than I-yevah got from you!" ♦♦♦
As the steaming water rushed down over him, Donnie draped a washcloth over the top of his head to cover the two thin patches of cartilage protecting his inner ears; huh, he realized with a lopsided grin, she didn't actually sound that bad with a barrier in the way! Who'd have thought? Before he knew it all the stresses of the day were melting down the drain with the fruity suds from the next stall over. His weary hazel eyes slid closed as he took in a deep lungful of the scents around him—mango body wash and coconut shampoo, his own spicy soap, and the tangy pheromones of the warm, willing woman next door. Clearly, she was still riled up from their encounter in the pantry even hours later, just as he was.
"Mikey, if yer out there recording me again, I swear ta bog I'll kick yer arse!" The sudden warning made him break out in an up-to-no-good grin.
"Don't," he teased back, "he might enjoy it." It would certainly explain why the youngest turtle was always getting in trouble. A squeak, and the pair of feet jumped then scrambled away from the metal divider.
"Donnie?!" In his mind's eye, he could see Amber wrapping herself up in the blotchy blue shower curtain as if to prevent him from seeing her through the layers of painted metal between them. If only—behind those walls, he was as blind as she was.
"In the flesh," he answered only to wince at how that might sound. They were, after all, both naked. "Renovation's dirty work—hope you don't mind sharing a drain."
"N-No," she admitted, probably blushing. She was always blushing around him. Why did he find that so...cute? It was pure anatomy, nothing special at all, but inexplicably adorable. "I don't mind," Amber elaborated, "long as you don't mind yer feet smellin' like the tropics threw up on 'em." He chuckled pulling the washcloth away to scrub his neck with it. She seemed to be through singing so he didn't have to worry about hearing loss.
"Nah. It's not that bad." If anything, he'd become quite fond of her sugary-sweet blend of coconut and mango; if his feet smelled like her, would that really be a problem? A massive grey and brown mass circling the shared drain cut off the witty remark on the tip of his tongue and replaced it with a yelp.
"Sorry," Amber piped up awkwardly and crouched to retrieve the horrifying object. "Mammals shed." A hairball?!
"I thought it was a spider! A huge one!" His brother Raph was the one afraid of bugs, but who wouldn't be startled by a spider nearly the size of a golf ball? Amusement followed adrenaline.
"Of course," Amber teased, "it's a new species! Aranae Rodent Nidum! It lives in shower drains and preys on toes!" With the hairball presumably set aside for disposal, Amber cleared her throat. "Sorry fer blistering yer ears…if I know I'm not alone, I shut up—no point in torturing folks, right?" Red flags flared up in Donatello's consciousness—this was a no win situation! If he agreed, he wouldn't be lying, but he'd be insulting her—if he disagreed, she might feel better but he'd be lying! Clearly realizing his struggle for a polite way out, Amber laughed aloud as she rinsed another wave of coconut-scented suds down the drain. "Dee, it's okay to say it—I sing like cats fucking."
"That's a little harsh." Despite his protest, he couldn't hold back a nasal snicker; the sound made Amber's heart melt…among other things, unfortunately. For a time, the two simply chatted over the sound of the water, one fighting her reaction to his nearness and the other fighting his reaction to the pheromones drifting next door. Though they were both present in that steamy bathroom and separated only by a double wall of steel paneling, both repeatedly found themselves mentally back in the pantry during their brief stolen moment. Neither was ready to give up on that feeling of abandon - that hope for more - and neither was ready to call it a night, not when they could lie awake together and greet the dawn as one. Even so, they both arrived at the same conclusion as before: don't rush it.
"W-Well," Donatello cut in as he toweled off and dressed, "I'd better hit the hay soon—don't stay up too late, okay?"
"Yeah," Amber answered staring through the dingy tiles, "I'll probably be out here in a minute myself…a'ready had a shower but I didn't wash my hair an' I needed to scrub off the subway gunk. Mercy's a slave driver, ya know that?" With the last of the suds out of her hair she took a final rinse off and shut off the water. As she worked on drying and dressing, she could hear Donatello going through the usual nightly routine—face-washing, teeth-brushing, retainer-soaking, the works—soon to retreat to his own room for the night.
"You make my heart feel like it's summer," she half-sang half murmured, too lost in thought to register the startled clatter of a fumbled toothbrush hitting the trough sink. "When the rain is pourin' down. You make my whole worl' feel so right when it's wrong…'s'how I know you are the one." By the door, Donatello hastily stowed his toothbrush in its holder and ducked out the door, but hesitated on the threshold. Damn the consequences, he decided stubbornly. Before she could finish off, he took the words right out of her mouth.
"That's why I know you are the one." ♦
Perhaps he shouldn't have whispered the confession...Amber never heard a word.
Death and destruction ran rampant through Amber's dreams that night. The moment she fell asleep, her world began crashing down around her. Blood stained the lawns and roads—trees and houses toppled like dominoes—an evil wind howled threats and warnings above the stinging rain. All through the night terror, Amber was rooted in her place as though chained to the dead decaying soil.
As so often before, she woke with a shriek of terror. She lurched up in her cot and focused on slowing her breathing, slowing her heart rate, and stilling the panic filling her thoughts. In the distance, a late train, rumbled past, its passengers unaware of Amber's fear and frustration. By the time the tram was gone Amber felt more tired than when she first lay down that night.
With a shaking hand, she reached over to the rickety bureau beside her and switched on the tacky desk lamp that should have died in the seventies; its warm glow filled the cramped room and lit up the multitude of papers pinned to the particleboard walls. Scribbled sheets of lyrics and research, hand-written reminders, copied charts and diagrams, journal pages she couldn't bear to share and ripped out for her own personal torture… She shook her head in disappointment. Once, she was a free and productive member of society; now she was trapped underground and her life was an endless refrain of stuck.
She knew she needed sleep—she knew she needed to keep trying to sleep—but it seemed every time she managed to drift off she was woken, whether by a nightmare, a passing train, or Daron's obnoxious snoring next door. Life in the barracks wasn't glamorous or even pleasant, she had to admit, but it was better than life on the streets and she had more privacy than she'd had in the Lab. She actually had a door she could close rather than a musty moth-eaten curtain strung between the shelving units flanking the cot. With the increased privacy, though, came isolation...and isolation was the last thing she needed with her fears banging at the door.
Lost in thought, she tugged down a page of handwritten verse just overhead; not long ago, Donatello acknowledged that her journal was almost entirely formed of borrowed words—poetry, music, literature, the only bits that were hers were the parts that made no sense to him. Initially, his realization made her feel horrible but that soon turned into empowerment. If she hid some of her own words among the army of borrowed ones, would he even realize they were her words at all?
She hadn't written anything worth a damn in years, much less poetry; before she died, her muse was comatose from neglect and her few fan readers were beyond fed up with waiting. "Heart of a Kappa," the Donatello-centric fanfiction she'd worked on for years, was dead long before its writer was. Despite the overwhelming odds, though, she managed to eke out a few lines—a few verses—all in hopes of breaking her silence without saying a word. "'Why must a'thin'• change,' I asked?" Amber read under her breath. 'Why must a'thin' end?'" As though waking from a convincing dream, she blinked in surprise. Right before her eyes, the truth stood for all to see just as it did the day she put the words down: because it must.
She wasn't sure how or when she got there, but the next thing she knew, she stood outside Donatello's closed bedroom door, the scribbled poem clenched in her fist like a lifeline. The rest of the Lair was silent, its occupants long asleep; the only source of light came from the kitchen and dojo, which were at various levels of overtaken by Mercy's plants. No one would know of her moment of weakness or witness her struggle for control.
She could turn back—there was still time—but turn back to what? –to tossing and turning all night? To nightmares full of death and fear, and to a cold, lonely bed? What could she possibly hope to gain from this foolishness—this stupid, impulsive, inconsiderate decision to reach out for his company? Donatello wasn't a teddy bear—he was a grown man with a grown man's wants and needs, wants and needs like sleep! He had better things to do than calm her stupid arse down after a stupid arse nightmare!
Despite all her internal raging against it, though, her knuckles met the doorframe in a hesitant tap. A moment later she steeled her nerves and rapped a couple more times. Just beyond the closed door, she felt sure she heard someone mumble come in—they did say come in, right? She thought it over, her head spinning, then in a fit of bravery she felt sure she'd regret in a moment, she eased the door open and crossed the threshold.
The first thing to register, as always, was the sweet scent of vanilla from an oil plugin buried beside the laundry hamper; the second was the tiny LED nightlight projecting a clear path to the door. Donatello, she learned early on, had the weakest night vision of his brothers and wasn't too fond of fumbling around in the dark. She wondered if he wasn't also secretly uncomfortable with darkness. A whisper of memory from her previous life suggested he was afraid of the dark—it wasn't an uncommon fear, but like many others, it tended to be a more convenient mask for the root of the problem. Donnie's fear of the dark was likely also fear of the unknown; Amber's fear of storms was also fear of things she couldn't control.
Enough of fear, she reminded herself firmly, still unsure why she was standing in Donnie's room, watching him sleep and listening to him snore. He was snoring. He hadn't invited her in, he was snoring! If she hadn't felt like a stalker before, she certainly did now. Still, as silently as she could, she laid the sheet of paper on his tiny cluttered desk and crept closer, both hoping and fearing he'd wake and find her in his room. She tugged her braid—she gnawed her lip—she glanced furtively from his closed, unobstructed eyes to the door as though unsure whether to stay or flee.
"Huh..wha?" The sleep-husky voice startled her and she instinctively sprang away from the bedside. "Am...ber?" Donatello greeted softly as though disbelieving she was really there. His squinting eyes immediately focused on her hair. The liberal streaking of early grey was proof beyond all doubt: he wasn't dreaming. When he dreamt of Amber, her hair was warm brown with fiery highlights, just like she once told to him only somehow more; this Amber's highlights faded long before they met, the fire long cooled to ash and charred wood. "What—why're you here?" The moment she had an excuse wrangled together, her wretched weakness intervened and she clammed up; tears pricked at her eyes and she shook her head.
"Ah dinnuw,"• she croaked. "Ah jus'—I just—" Fully awake now, Donnie sat up on one elbow and reached the other hand out to catch her chin. Amber's lungs shuddered to a standstill at the rasp of a callused thumb brushing away the salt crusted on her cheeks; how long had she been crying without realizing it?
"Hey, it's okay," he soothed hoisting himself upright and pulling her into a gentle hug. The moment his strong arms enfolded her, Amber remembered why she crept to his side in the middle of the night. It was the same reason why she always dove headfirst into those arms in moments of weakness. In Donatello's embrace, she felt stronger—strong enough to conquer her fears and weaknesses. "'D'ya have a nightmare?" he mumbled as she sniffled into his shoulder, his normally clear and concise words slurred from sleep. She nodded weakly, all her senses tuned to the hand petting her hair and the other holding her close to his hard plastron.
"Cannae sleep," she admitted into his neck. "Keep wakin' up screamin'…cannae sleep when I cannae stop feelin'…rememb'rin'…fearin'…"• He pulled away with a soft rustle of sheets, scooting back almost to the wall; for a moment Amber gaped, but then that bright blush took over entirely.
"Maybe some company'll help," he suggested with a wry smile. "C'mon." She hesitated, visibly debating with herself and glancing repeatedly, nervously at his closed bedroom door. "They'll understand, Hon…you need some rest." The unexpected endearment was the last straw and it sent her pitiful resistance crashing down like a matchstick bridge. Suddenly feeling the weight of months of interrupted sleep, she crawled into bed next to him and burrowed headfirst into his open arms, taking a moment to soak in his musky scent, then letting out an absurdly content little sigh. She felt more than heard the chuckle rumble through his chest, and a pair of slightly chapped lips pressed a chaste kiss to her brow. The arm she wasn't cozied up to tugged the sheet and blanket over her then tentatively draped over her side, anchoring her in place and in the present. "All you ever had to do was ask."
That time when she drifted off, no nightmares awaited her, only dreams of strong arms, stunning eyes, and love amidst all the loss.

UP NEXT: the writer risks her life for the sake of plot in Only Time

Amber's poem (of which you just read a tiny snippet) has been turned into an abstract comic. It can be found on DeviantArt as "Dream Lovers - a poetry comic" and on the ANLoL Tumblr "Get-a-New-Lease-on-Life." There's also a one-shot featuring it, entitled Dream Lovers. I can't recall if I cross-posted here yet or not; if not, you can find it on FFN and AO3.

NOTES and Borrowed Words
*Aranae Rodent Nidum - Latin, roughly "Rat's nest spider." No, it's not a thing.
♦ Kodaline "The One"
♦♦ Sixx:A.M. "Are You With Me?"
♦♦♦ Louis Armstrong "The Dummy Song"
Glossary
• Burd – Girlfriend or just a woman in general.
• A nip – A kiss or a single measure of whisky.
• A sleekit bastart – A sneaky bastard; bastard is sometimes used as an odd endearment, especially with smartasses like Amber.
• Ragin' – very angry.
• Hawd yer haverin', ya numpty—geez'a nip! – Quit talking nonsense, you idiot—gimme a kiss! OR roughly, you idjit, shut up an' kiss me! Note that while 'numpty' means idiot it denotes affection—they're not just any idiot, they're YOUR idiot.
• Cummoan – roughly, come on.
• A'thin' – Everything
• Dinnuw – a twisting of dunno meaning I don't know. Consider that when Amber first made friends with Mercy [see 23: The Truth Can Hurt] she pronounced do not/don't as "dinnae" and you know as "ya knuw," and also consider that her version of her Gran'da's brogue is twisted at times by the more common Midwestern accent she was surrounded by. She's not supposed to be an accurate depiction of Scots-speakers as her version has been tainted by the speech of her surroundings.
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A New Lease on Life