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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
- 29
- 30
- 31
Cliffhanger-sensitive people might need to wait until the next chapter's out to read this one…just sayin'.
Suggested Listening: Lifehouse "Hanging by a Moment"

29: Only Time
Not for the first time, Donatello marvels at just how greatly the dream world can differ from the waking one. As far as the eye can see, blooming heather and wildflowers pattern the rolling hills around him in a patchwork of white, lavender, yellow, and pink. Every now and then the pattern is broken by a thicket of low thorny trees decked with grape-like clusters of small white blossoms, each surrounded by golden daffodils nodding in the breeze. Donnie rolls onto his back, pillows his head on his crossed arms, and stares up at the powder puff clouds overhead, soaking in the scents and sensations.
After so long of being stuck underground, unable to bask in the light of day, the strange blend of warm sun and cool shade feels like coming home…of course, his isn't the only face soaking up the sun from the faded crazy quilt in the grass. A familiar chunky brunette sprawls out on her belly beside him in denim cutoffs and a comfortably-wrinkled tanktop. Beyond that - and the impressive cleavage on display - he has no need to examine her closely. He knows this woman...he'd know her anywhere, even in his dreams.
"I ain't seen ya here lately," Amber says with an awkward shrug. "Usually you're content to hide in the shadows—why the sudden longin' for sun?" She trails the tasseled end of a tall grass stalk along his bared chest, diligently mapping out every whorl and divot before moving on.
"I'm not really sure." His voice is steady, as though he can't feel the faint vibrations through his plastron. "It just feels right for once—things have been so stressful lately in—"
He startles, lurching upright to study the young woman lounging beside him. Traces of red gleam from unbound brown tresses spilling out of a crown woven of heather, clover, and tree blossoms—warm fiery red, not the steely grey he's grown used to—and unless he's mistaken, she seems younger, more petite, less voluptuous, and entirely unburdened by a lifetime of troubles. It's Amber, alright, but not the Amber he's come to know and treasure—this Amber is one he's never met outside of dreams.
With a sudden wave of sound, much like the ticking of an army of clocks, the tides turn. "It's time to remember, Donnie," the younger Amber urges with a hopeful smile as the ticking grows ever louder. "You must remember…"
Saturday, June 25th, 2016, just past 9 am
Even as the strange dream faded, Donatello grasped for the rest of the warning. Remember…remember what? As he contemplated the bizarre occurrence, he began to notice things that had slipped his mind until then—the sweet perfumes of coconut and mango over the cloying scent of vanilla air freshener, the warmth of a curvy body pressed tightly to his chest, a pair of soft lips brushing his collarbone between breaths…and, unfortunately, a barely restrained giggle from a certain nosy younger brother.
"You should see this, Babe," Mikey whispered into his phone creeping closer to get a better shot of the content smile on Amber's face. "They're so stinkin' cute together—and she slept all night—she never sleeps all night!" Mikey's running commentary was suddenly cut off by a squawk and someone scolding him under their breath; the phone seized, someone dragged the whining turtle back out of Donnie's bedroom—by his cheek from the sound of it. One lazy hazel eye drifted open and registered Leonardo standing beside the bed, smiling and shaking his head as he sent the video to Donnie's phone and deleted it from Mikey's.
"Take it easy today," Leo ordered, "you've earned it." A moment later, the room was silent again and Don was alone with Amber once more. Remember, the woman from his dream urged, but she never said a word of what he was to remember! Stranger still, he could have sworn she was Amber—he was sure it was her and he had the déjà vu to prove it!—but though she was entirely familiar she seemed nothing like the Amber he knew!
As he silently sifted through the dream and his various theories, the body curled up against his own shifted slightly. Right before his eyes, Amber slowly worked her way back to the world of the living. Though they refused to open, her eyes squinted reflexively, her nose scrunching along with them. Her content smile widened and she nuzzled closer and managed to work her way under his chin with another absurdly content little sigh. If not for the questing lips that began trailing along his jawline and Adam's apple, he could almost have fallen back to sleep.
"Mis-shu, Dee," she slurred into his collarbone, completely unintelligible from brogue. "Wilcam hame—be'n 'way too long 'gain, ya sook—nae be'n by fer a nip'er a bo—" •
Suddenly her eyes flew wide open. Once they'd taken in the sight before her—his dusky-colored plastron and the pulse racing in his throat. She leaned backward and her eyes inched up to meet his, and when their eyes met, her cheeks burned. That was unexpected, Amber thought with her head spinning. She fell asleep alone—didn't she?
No...no, she remembered now—she had a whopper of a nightmare and went to him for comfort like a little girl inviting herself into her parents' bed! This was just all kinds of awkward…How far did they take it? Donatello wasn't the sort who'd take advantage of a woman during moments of weakness, Amber knew without a doubt, but she couldn't really say the same about herself—after all, the last time she had a major moment of weakness around him, she nearly banged him in the pantry! Despite knowing Donnie would have been a gentleman and kept his hands to himself, she found herself frantically taking stock of everything she could feel to get a clear idea of how naked she was. Soft cotton bared most of her tattooed cleavage—the several sizes too large Knicks jersey she slept in was still there but drooping. She could feel a dull pinch at her right hip—clearly, she still had her panties and they were literally in a twist. Itchy cloth tangled around her legs—that would be the frumpy grey cotton pajama pants that always made her legs itch when she needed to shave. Nightshirt, slacks, skivvies, yep, that's 'bout it. Of course, she was still fully dressed, but what about him? Was he already naked when she crawled into his bed last night?!
Without warning, the calloused pad of a fingertip popped her right on the tip of her nose; the impact sent her eyes crossing. "Morning," Donnie teased as she blinked away her disorientation. Though he didn't mention it, he felt a little smug about finding a way to make her stop over-thinking things. "You slept like the dead—didn't wake up once."
"Wh...eh?" she asked eloquently. "N—no nightmares? No trains?" Now that she wasn't wrapped around his right arm, he propped his head up on his palm, the arm that held her during the night still draped loosely over her hip.
"Trains? Plenty'a those—they just didn't wake you up." Before she could demand whether the trains' racket even reached his room, a ridiculously convenient subway tram rattled past somehow sounding much closer in his room than in the lab. The sound made her skin crawl but a gentle hand soothed it. "I rest my case."
Amber couldn't wrap her head around it—it just didn't make sense! Every day since she came to stay with this wonderful family, she was disturbed by every single train that passed nearby—more often than not, their passing tore her from her sleep or triggered horrific night terrors. How, then, did she manage to sleep through the night without a single nightmare?! "Maybe we ought'a try this again, huh?" Donnie suggested with a lazy dimpled smile. "Next time you can't sleep, come on in; if you sleep better in here, you're welcome to do so."
She wasn't about to admit it aloud, but she had an idea of why she slept so well. In his arms, she felt protected and strong enough to defeat whatever weakness held her down, and those arms held her all through the night. "I…" A bright blush stained her cheeks but she soldiered onward. "I guess it's...worth a shot, right?" Instead of agreeing, he dipped his head lower searching out her lips with his own. "Oi! Yer honkin'a mornin' breath, Sunshine—No' happ'nen!" •
"Hm, what a coincidence," he teased, "you have morning breath, too." He caught her by the cheek and urged her back into his reach. "Remember, though…I grew up in a sewer—I've smelled worse." She put up at least a half-assed fight but the end result was the same: a gentle brush of chapped lips over her own followed by a teasing nip. "So. We slept together. I've just got one question…" He gave her a teasing wink. "Do you still respect me?"
Just outside, Raphael and Mercy passed the shuttered door on their way to the kitchen, startling at the sudden onset of loud giggles and snorting laughter from within. The blonde and the beefcake exchanged a confused glance—Raph shrugged—Mercy rolled her denim blue eyes, socked him in the arm, and to the best of her limited ability hauled him away from the door. She hated mush, but she had to admit if anyone deserved a mushy moment, those two idiots did.
When the door finally opened again—about an hour of dozing and cuddling later—a wolf whistle split the air courtesy of the youngest ninja. Just like that, Amber's mood soured, and she aimed a dark glower at the turtle flipping pancakes while wearing a frilly yellow apron.
Amber knew how it looked—no matter what she did, she always woke up with sex hair, even if she did nothing to earn said sex hair, and her eyes always had more bags than a baggage carousel. All that and she had a full audience for the walk of shame…good thing she was shameless. Luckily for Mikey, a sudden brain-duster from Raph deterred her intention to bawl him out. While Mike whined and protested his innocence, she shambled past the living area to the barracks, gathered some fresh clothes, doubled back to the utility room for towels, then retreated for a shower. Shortly afterward water rattled in the pipes and a crash echoed through the bathroom.
"That klutz," Mercy grumbled abandoning her chair to go make sure Amber didn't manage to break her neck somewhere between the linen storage and the shower. If ever there was such a thing as an anti-morning person, Amber was it, and the show was just getting started.
Mikey's snickering suddenly fell silent when he turned to pass another pancake off onto the platter. Donatello, fully dressed and thoroughly unimpressed, leaned back against the countertop, a mug of coffee already steaming in his right hand and his left hooked into a belt loop on his trousers. Though Mikey could've sworn he slept through the incident that morning, the genius stared him down across the kitchen without so much as a 'good morning.' Mike winced and gave the stern genius a sheepish wave hello. Don brought the mug up for a long, slow sip, his warning glare never faltering. The moment the cup was clear, his other hand swept upward then outward in an "I'm watching you" gesture.
Perhaps, Mikey considered with a nervous titter, he should warn Amber to put a sock on the doorknob next time.
Breakfast passed without much more spectacle unless one counted Amber downing nearly an entire pot of coffee all on her own. With the dishes put away and early training over with, Donatello sat listlessly in his desk chair staring down his cell phone. The video Mikey shot was heart-warming—Amber seemed so comfy and content in his arms!—but one thing worried the genius.
Who was his hyperactive brother intending to send it to? The clip started in the vacant kitchen and transitioned to the barracks where Amber's door hung wide open revealing her bed to be empty but rumpled. As Mikey checked the bathroom, the kitchen, and even the dojo, he narrated the basics of her usual routine to someone he referred to by a wide variety of pet names. Babycakes, Sweetcheeks, Sugarplum, and Honeybuns were only a few of the options he used. By the time he reached Donnie's bedroom door, a nickname the genius didn't recognize came up—Bree. Shortly afterward, the clip ended when Leo and Raph barged in and interfered.
Who was Bree? Donatello searched his memory but to no avail.
"Hey," Leonardo greeted from the doorway with the toaster held awkwardly in his arms. "How's it going?" Translation, 'Donnie, I broke it again—please fix it?'
"Do you know of anyone named Bree?" Don asked instead of answering. Translation, 'Sure, lemme just drop everything and fix your fuck-up.' Leo seemed concerned at the name but quickly gained control of himself.
"Don't think so. Why?" In response, Don played the clip for him. Through the entirety, Leo mentally scrambled for options. Finally, realizing his brother had been staring at him curiously for a long silent minute, he suggested, "It is Mikey—maybe he was just making a cheesy joke?" Donnie blinked at the pun but said nothing, stunned both that Leo made a joke and that it was so horrible.
Right as he was about to point out that Bree was often used as an abbreviation for several women's names—Brianna, Sabrina, Bryony—Amber stumbled past the open doorway, presumably for yet another coffee refill. Suddenly it hit him that she wasn't exaggerating about being woken up every time a train roared past—she was a night owl at heart but was always awake long before he was. How much caffeine was she ingesting to stay awake all day? Perhaps, he considered, his bare brows pinching together, that excess of coffee might explain her continued jumpiness and daytime nausea.
"Amber doesn't need to know," he stated as the brunette fought not to doze off against the counter. Inwardly he felt a little guilty for hiding something from her—after all, hiding things was what spawned the rift between them in the first place—but as Leo once said, compartmentalization of information wasn't technically lying. Amber was under enough stress already without having to worry about Mikey sharing her story with a stranger. "Right?"
Unaware of her audience, Amber chugged her entire cup of coffee in one breath then went back for another; Leo cringed. That could not be healthy. "Right." Without a sheepish smile and a mumbled 'Please?' he passed off the abused toaster and retreated before Donatello decided to chuck it at him instead. Maybe, the genius considered with a sour expression, he shouldn't have asked Mercy to move the plants blocking the appliance; when it was buried in ferns, Leo couldn't reach it to kill it.
Leo was interrupted halfway to the Dojo by a soft voice from the couch. "Ya know, if ya just told'em, ya wouldn't have to lie to your brothers."
Mikey's comment stung, and it reminded the born leader of a similar incident the year before. Where's da honor in lyin' to yer brothers?! Raphael had demanded then. The crisis was over and the team was working together more smoothly, but now Donatello was picking up on Leo's bad habit…where was the honor in setting a bad example for those he led? Though the eldest was plagued by these uncomfortable realizations, the only thing that came out was a familiar warning. "Stay out of it, Mikey, or we're not going back."
His normally cheerful brother wilted right before his eyes, eyes even blueer than Leo's downcast. Leo retreated to the dojo without another word, feeling like a complete heel. As he settled down on his favorite meditation mat, he wondered if maybe he was overthinking things—maybe he wasn't being reasonable. Maybe he really should seriously consider letting his brothers meet Beverly and Bree.
It wasn't a new thought nor even a rare one. It seemed every day he wondered if he was doing the right thing by keeping their families separate. Beverly, despite her insistences that she was doing just fine, would be slowly dying without the several-times-daily antibiotics being pumped into her blood. A bad enough relapse could even kill her - Bree could wake up and find her cousin died in her sleep. Until Bev was healthy again, Leo couldn't bear to introduce his brothers to her, lest she pass away and they come face-to-face with the loss of a friend.
Once, Leo pushed Beverly away because he couldn't fathom any human being capable of loving someone like him—like his family. Then Amber blew that theory out of the water. She loved Donatello—truly, madly, deeply loved him—and she never once treated any of them as less than human. Even though the two idiots spent months fighting, wasted so much time being stubborn and sullen, there they were that morning—sound asleep in one another's arms and showing no signs that their feelings ever waned.
Love was possible…love could happen, even between a human and a mutant…and despite his best intentions, Leonardo feared love was precisely what he felt for the sickly woman who seemed entirely blind to their differences.
Around Noon
Mercy stood silently before the long slab mirror in the bathroom, considering her reflection. Despite a thorough washing and double conditioning almost every day that week, her hair was still a shaggy feathery mess. Perhaps, she considered swiping her boar bristle brush over it again, it would improve once it grew out again? She didn't have high hopes, though; every photo she found of Donna Mays showed her with messy blonde hair that frankly resembled a haystack. Mercy was always picky about her hair in her last life and spoiled it rotten with hot oil treatments, lemon juice and vinegar lightening, and regular trimmings to keep it sleek and shiny. Now she was stuck looking like a scarecrow; she wanted her penny back.
Raphael didn't seem to mind. Her cheeks darkened in an annoying blush at the thought. Ever since he started training her, he'd been taking every opportunity to get closer to her. He'd ruffle her hair, chuck her chin, correct her posture while training—he even let her doze off on him during movies without complaint. Mercy knew it was somewhat ridiculous, but she...kinda...liked it.
"This is crazy," she mumbled chucking the brush back into the storage bin under the trough sink. Stubbornly refusing to think about the ninja she was rapidly falling for, she stalked out of the bathroom and back to the barracks only to freeze in her open doorway. The room never really seemed small to her, but the red-clad ninja silently appraising the decor made it seem no larger than a closet.
Mercy suddenly felt rather embarrassed. She missed the ranch—missed her stepfather's livestock, her garden, her home in the country—and the multitude of clipped pictures tacked to the particle board walls proved it. Horses and chickens, fields and pastures, barns, farmhouses, haystacks—she even had a few pictures of fields of corn and grain—and of course, an entire herd of cows hung spread across her walls. Besides the army of makeshift posters, she'd also managed to pile several potted ferns and ivy plants in the various corners of the room, many dangling from makeshift metal brackets and rope hangers. She was stuck living in a glorified cupboard but by God, she made it her own!
"Cows, huh?" Mercy suddenly realized she'd spaced out and shoved past him to sit on her bed.
"Problem?" she demanded. "I happen to like cows—I was a ranch hand, Asshat!" Raph's massive three-fingered hands raised in surrender but his lips split in a shit-eating grin around his toothpick.
"Ya know, I heard more people die from gettin' stepped on by cows dan by shark bites."
"More people die from bein' idiots than anythin' else," she retorted. "Even cows get rough if ya piss 'em off!" Raph chuckled, shaking his head at her.
"Nice one," he granted and took a seat on the foot of the cot; Mercy's eyes widened at the way the metal groaned under his weight but she didn't say a word. "Look, I came ta ask ya somethin', Kid. Dat band ya like is playin' Summa Stage next week an' I know a great place ta catch da show from." The blonde visibly perked up.
"Sixx:A.M.?" It started out as an awed whisper but quickly rose to an almost squeak; she followed it with an almost-shrieked, "They're playin' in Central Park next week?!" His amber eyes were bright in the dim room, and the white teeth exposed in his smirk were nearly as bright.
"Yep. So whaddaya say? Wanna catch da show with me?" Mercy froze, her heart pounding and her heart racing. Was he…was he asking her…on a date? Nah, surely not…right…? She turned to the nearest wall to feign interest in her cut-out herd.
"As what?" she asked, her eyes darting from one paper cow to the next. "As a…a date?" She glanced at him askance; to her disbelief, the smartass averted his eyes, a smudge of brown streaking across his green cheeks.
"If ya want it to be." He pulled at the back of his neck in embarrassment. "If not, it don't have'ta be—could just go as friends." Mercy hesitated, thinking it over and studying him closely. The air in the room room hung heavy with the scent of him—a tantalizing medley of sweat, musk, sandalwood, and Old Spice that made her head spin—and though she still feared to take that risk, still struggled against a lifetime of emotional abuse, she was getting tired of letting it rule her. She was always so sure that love only hurt, that it wasn't worth the risk, and it would go sour at the slightest provocation.
Whether or not love hurt, she was tired of being afraid of it.
"Ya got a preference?" She ran her fingers through her still-messy hair. "Friends or—whatever?" Raphael met her eyes over her shoulder and the intensity of his stare sent tremors down her spine; a hot, burning want bloomed in her belly and spread outward, downward. As though he could smell her, his nostrils flared, his eyes narrowing and darkening at what that breath told him. Those eyes of his could turn a nun into a nymphomaniac.
"I think ya already know da answer ta that." Raph's voice was husky from hormones, almost a growl but without any threat; his eyes strayed lower to her lips as he reached out to cup her jaw, the pad of a roughened thumb tracing over her lips. "Ya know I care about'cha—ya know I ain't gonna push ya, eitha. Whateva ya decide, I'll go wit' it." Lost in thought, he traced her lips again; finally, she had her answer.
"It's a date, then." The solemn ninja startled, his eyes wide and blinking, but a wide grin slowly split his face. If she didn't know any better, she'd have compared him to a kid who was pulled out of school for a doctor's appointment but wound up being taken to the circus instead.
Fear, she decided with a matching grin, could kiss the darkest part of her skinny white ass.
5:30 pm, The Hardys' Loft
Briallen croaked out an aching, ear-popping yawn as she shambled through the front door. Another day studying, another afternoon at the daycare, another evening of feeling so worn out she could barely keep her eyes open…she really didn't want to cook dinner tonight. If she and Beverly hadn't already ordered in last night, she'd totally call for Chinese...or Thai…or pizza….
'Pizza,' she whined internally as she dropped her backpack in the entryway, cast her keys into their bowl, and shuffled to the kitchen for a drink. Until Michelangelo came into her life, she wasn't that crazy about pizza, now she had it at least weekly. She poured herself a glass of bargain brand red wine and stood staring out the window he used as a door. What he was doing tonight? Maybe he was glued to the television or a game system…maybe he was doing whatever ninja stuff his family did…or maybe, just maybe, he was lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, and missing her as much as she missed him.
Right…dinner. "Bev?" she called out to her cousin; no answer. Bree scanned the room for any signs of her housemate's whereabouts. Bosco's bright vest and bandana hung by the door; Bev's purse sat on the shelf below it and her keys lay in the heavy glass bowl next to Bree's. The parlor was dark. The bathroom was vacant, the door hanging wide open. This...was problably nothing. Still, she set her glass on the counter and took to searching.
A loud whine drew Bree to Beverly's bedroom. The door was closed, the lights off, and other than Bosco's whining and pacing, the room was completely silent. She tapped at the doorframe. "Bevvy?" Bree asked through the door. "You alright in there?" No answer. Every hair on the nape of her neck shot to attention as she tapped again then pushed it open a crack. "You okay in here?" Bosco shuffled over with a loud whine, his mismatched eyes wide and insistent. A quick glance to his kennel revealed that he hadn't been out since that morning and had been left to relieve himself on the training pad at least twice; the dark, silent room reeked from the stench.
Something was horribly wrong. All hesitance gone, Bree rushed over to her cousin's bedside and gently shook her awake. "Wh…Wha…?" Bev croaked clutching the back of her head. "Wha-zit, Hon?"
"Bevvy, are you alright?" Bree demanded as the other woman winced from pain. "What's wrong?"
"Jus…juz' my head," she answered hoarsely whimpering as another spasm of pain ripped through her skull. "Juz' a hea-ache." After a full nine months of watching her cousin slowly deteriorate from a brain abscess, the situation was setting off red flags. Bev was tired, her head hurt, she was talking like she was drunk, and she'd apparently slept the entire day without tending to Bosco…something was horribly wrong, Bree knew it. "Tu…Turn off heat?" Beverly slurred.
The AC had been cranked up for a solid two months. The red flags were gone—now Bree's brain rang with air raid sirens. She reached out to check her cousin's temperature but yanked her hand back with a hiss. "Bevvy, you're burning up!" she yelped. Bev didn't respond, she just stared blankly through her.
"Leo?" she asked softly. "Whe-you ge' here?" Shit. Shit, shit, shit! Bree wasn't the cursing type—she spent too much time around kids to pick up that habit—but right now she felt like swearing at the top of her lungs. Not only was her sick cousin tired, achy, and slurring her words, she was burning with fever and hallucinating! For a moment the younger woman's mind raced as quickly as her heart rate, but finally, she took a moment to steady her nerves. Her pink-polished fingers shook as she dialed 911.
"I need an ambulance," she explained followed by a rapid-fire description of Beverly's illness, treatment, and sudden drastic downturn. Midway through, Bev leaned over the side of the bed and retched into the trashcan; her stomach was already empty but she couldn't stop dry-heaving. "—please, hurry!" Bree wanted nothing more than to stay at Bev's side until the paramedics got there but time and trial taught her she had to prepare. Even as she unlocked the front door, snatched their purses and go-bags, harnessed Bosco, and kept the dispatcher updated, tears streaked down her cheeks and her hands shook beyond use.
Why must time always drag slowest when time is of the essence?

UP NEXT: Leo gets a much-needed kick in the ass in Desperate Times, Desperate Measures

Title from "Only Time" by Enya.

Amber's Scots translated
• "Mis-shu, Dee. Wilcam hame—be'n 'way too long 'gain, ya sook—nae be'n by fer a nip'er a bo[sie]" — So often in fiction, the characters wind up talking in their sleep and somehow manage to enunciate perfectly regardless. I don't know it that's how it is with some people, but I've never seen it happen—honestly, a certain family member of mine is well-known for having entire conversations in his sleep composed entirely of grunts and grumbles, and I sometimes wonder if my hubby Cold speaks German in his sleep. He enunciates so precisely… :| Translation: "Missed you, Dee. Welcome home—you've been away too long again, ya [big softy]—you haven't even been by for a [kiss] or a [cuddle.]
• Honkin'a mornin' breath – she's saying his breath reeks.
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A New Lease on Life