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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
- 31
- 32
- 33
Precautions for potential nosebleeds during Raph and Mercy's first date - Raph fans will want to read this with a hanky handy, or at the very least not eat or drink anything while reading that scene. Author is not responsible for anyone suffering traumatic cerebral exsanguination while reading this story. I've always been a Donnie fan and probably always will be, but Raph's leathers from the first Michael Bay movie...DAMN...just...DAMN...that loincloth should come with a warning label.
Suggested Listening: The Grateful Dead "Box of Rain," Sixx:A.M. "Better Man"

31: Strength and Weakness
Friday, July 1st, 2016, The Lair
Amber slowly drifted awake to sounds and smells both familiar and strange. A familiar blend of coffee, sweat, and grease nearly drowned out the smell of vanilla air freshener and in the distance, she could hear coffee percolating. Amidst everything pulling for her attention, one thing rang clearly: she did NOT wanna get up. Nuzzling nose-first into a pillow that smelled strangely like a certain tall, gangly mutant, she let herself drift off…only to be woken again, this time by the smell of spices and the distant sound of a timer going off. Eyes barely open, she silently took in her surroundings.
She was once again in Donatello's bed, this time cuddled up against his pillows, and as every time before, fully dressed. It probably shouldn't have surprised her, seeing as she went to bed alone every day the past week but always woke up in that same spot…another slew of nightmares must've sent her crawling into Donnie's bed at the crack of dawn, AGAIN, and history repeated itself. "Fark me," she grumbled sitting up and trying to smooth down the sex hair she did nothing to earn. "This's gotta stop."
Before she could delve any further into her self-lecture, the bedroom door slowly swung open. A tall, gangly ninja bearing a tray of dishes, two empty mugs, and a full carafe of coffee crept through backward and eased the door closed as quietly as possible without setting anything down. Donnie let out a sigh of relief at the accomplishment and turned to set the tray on his desk. He didn't expect to see her sitting up in bed watching him with bleary eyes. A yelp of surprise ripped from his lungs and he rattled his cargo. "Uh…morning?" he greeted sheepishly. Amber's initial attempt at a reply was cut off in a loud yawn she just barely managed to aim into her cleavage.
"E'ry man 'oo goes aboot wi' gu'mwornin' on 'is lips," she grumbled tiredly, "sh' be fried wi' 'is own bacon an' buried wi' a stalk 'ay cel'ry through 'is heart." It took a minute for his befuddled expression to register; funny, it made sense in her head. "Mwornin'."
"Sleep well?" he asked with a smirk; while she blinked and tried to goose her mental hamster into doing its job, he unloaded everything onto the nightstand and set about filling the mugs. "Brought breakfast…and coffee." If she'd had the energy, she would have perked up at the last word; unfortunately, she barely had the energy to keep her eyelids aloft much less recognize the bacon, eggs, and cinnamon rolls piled on the two plates.
"Brek…fus?" she asked as though she couldn't recall what the word meant. Donatello was laughing at her, she was sure, but she didn't have the energy to do more than blink at him; maybe after a cup of coffee…or two…or twelve...
A knock at the lab door broke Donnie's concentration; Amber stood in the doorway, avoiding his eyes and fidgeting with the end of one frizzy braid. "Thanks," she mumbled, a flash of pink streaking across her cheeks. "I didn't…didn't expect breakfast in bed…was really sweet." Chuckling under his breath, he beckoned her over, and she perched obligingly on the edge of his desk.
"Coffee and Pop-Tarts don't just magically appear on a person's nightstand," he pointed out teasingly, and sure enough, her blush darkened. "Even when we were at odds, I still found them on mine every Saturday morning. What's that phrase, what's good for the gander's good for the goose?"
"Somethin' like that," she admitted shyly. "Figures you'd be good at baking. Those cinnamon rolls were sinful—I feel like I need'a confess'em."
"Heh. Cooking's an art, but baking's just chemistry—nothing to it." No wonder she was so skilled at baking pig feed, Amber realized with a wince; she was almost as horrible at chemistry as she was at math.
Not really noticing that her mind was off in other places again, Donnie stood and led her by the shoulder next door to the needle room. "It's been six weeks since those fractures happened," he reminded as he guided her over to the exam bench. "You've gotten the all-clear on your fibula and your cheek should be healed as well; if you don't mind, I'd like to have a look at them." It took a moment before the request registered.
"Yer worried they didn't heal properly?" she asked, his resulting blush confusing her even more.
"N…Not really," he admitted. "I know how fractures feel—how to identify them by manual examination in the field and how they register on my goggles' bio scanner. I just don't have any data on healing fractures." Feeling incredibly awkward, he focused on powering up the lights over the exam bench and laying out a clean sheet over it. As though it was only yesterday, he could still recall vividly the day Northpaw gave her those injuries—could still recall her blank expression while he stitched up the deep gash in her side without so much as a local anesthetic. The memory gave him pause, and for a moment, he almost felt he could still smell that hated stench of blood, salt, and antiseptic that had burned his lungs for days.
Focus, Donnie, he reprimanded himself silently when a comforting hand touched his bare shoulder; losing himself in things he could not change never accomplished anything. "My brothers have broken bones before," he explained soldiering on ahead, "but our healing rate is highly accelerated—approximately 5.087 times the rate of the average human of our age and body type." He finally met her eyes with a shrug. "By the time it's safe to remove a cast, there's really no discernible sign the injury ever occurred."
"So you're askin' permission to feel me up?" Amber teased, then grinned when he physically choked; she really shouldn't have so much fun teasing him. "—jus' for science?" If anything, she realized with no shortage of amusement, that only made him blush harder. While his eyes were averted from her, she discreetly reached down and smoothed her hand down one thick bare leg; she had a little stubble, but nothing worth hiding… "Go for it."
"Wait, what?" He gawked as she clambered gracelessly up onto the exam bench and winced at the cold metal under her bare thighs. Already she was regretting breaking out the jean shorts. "You—"
"I consent, Dee," she shrugged. "Knowin' my luck, I'll break somethin' again in a month's time—it'll be easier if ya know what yer workin' with, right?" He blinked a few times, seemingly stunned, then shook himself out of his stupor and got to work. Once the cheek and leg scan were over and his goggles were properly calibrated according to the new data, he pushed them up and tentatively reached out for her right calf.
Dear Lord. A full-body shiver swept over Amber as strong callused fingertips studiously examined the area around the healed break. With his eyes closed, he sought out each tendon, bone, and sinew in the vicinity and took note of its location and their proximity to the fracture, mapping out the injury in his mind's eye. By the time those talented fingers found the previously cracked portion of her fibula—still tender and just a hair thicker than the rest—Amber felt ready to melt into a puddle of goo.
"Fascinating," Donatello mumbled smoothing his fingers down her calf. "The cracked area's slightly thicker now like there's another layer of protection against future breaks!" …and now the nerdy talk, Amber thought staring at his lips in dismay; at this rate, she'd wind up leaving a puddle on the bench—or at the very least in her underwear.
"The human body's strongest in the broken places," she admitted instead of acknowledging that his curious examination had softened into gentle caresses ranging from her bare knee down her thick calf all the way to the cuff of her sock. "Scar tissue's tougher'n regular tissue to deter re-injury; other'n a couple wildcards—namely the spine an' coccyx what rarely heal properly—bones're a prime example'a that." The genius stared up at her as though she had spouted something unusually obscene, his hands yanking away from her leg.
"The what now?" he squeaked. "I know vertebral injuries are prone to complications, but people actually have…bones…in their…?" he trailed off, muddy brown streaking across his cheeks. It took an awkward silence but finally, it hit her.
"Dear God no!" she almost squawked her entire face beet red. "See-oh-see-see-why-ex, the human tailbone!" The brunette visibly shuddered. "Boners don't actually have bones in 'em!" The silence in the room was almost painful in its awkwardness; curse her broken filter!
"So that's how that's pronounced," he muttered almost to himself. He knew what the coccyx was—knew the basics of human sexual anatomy—but the pheromones slowly saturating his lungs had firmly seized control of his normally impressive brain. Ever since he started his examinations, the tangy non-scent had grown stronger and stronger to the point where he was swimming in it and all the blood from his more intelligent head had flown south for the winter. It seemed to take next to nothing to provoke that response from her; was she just frustrated and needy from a long dry spell, or was she a nymphomaniac? He no longer doubted that she was attracted to him but surely she wasn't that attracted to him!
"Yeah…'at's how it's pronounced." Get it together, O'Brien, she reprimanded herself silently. Y'a'ready made things awkward—'nless'n yer gonna put out, grow up an' gitcher head out'a the gutter! "That little section of vestigial bone rarely heals properly—if it's bad enough, it may never heal." Just the idea sent a ridiculous pang through her upper behind; Kimber's body was never on the business end of a drunken frat-boy in his mama's minivan, but the remembered pain was vivid regardless. "Mine never did," she added with what she hoped was an unaffected shrug.
"The van?" Donnie asked remembering what she'd told him of the accident.
"Yup…an' the drunken idjit drivin' it. Fused vertebrae, a broken tailbone, an' a beater with bad shocks is not a good combination, trust me." He seemed lost in thought, she realized, so she added, "Were ya jus' checkin' the leg?" Hazel eyes widened slightly in realization.
"Oh, right—your zygomatic fracture!" Standing up he adjusted the lamp over the bench and the hands that were torturing her right leg swooped in on her left cheek. This time Amber wasn't lost in what she felt; instead, she was distracted by what she saw. Intelligent hazel eyes veering green in the bright light studied the angle of her cheek and jaw, comparing it to the uninjured side of her face. Nostrils flared in even deep breaths. Bare brows decked in violet cloth pinched and arched at every new bit of information. Once he located the exact location of the fracture—triggering a wince—he met her eyes.
"Still hurts?" he asked softly, and though it wouldn't help any, she nodded. "I'm sorry…I'd have…I'd have given anything to take this injury on myself…it shouldn't have happened."
"Consider it karma," she suggested with a wry smile. "I slapped you, Karma slapped me—it's only—" Chapped lips against hers cut her attempted smartassery short.
"You had a reason," Donnie admitted once she was sufficiently silenced. "Northpaw didn't."
"Reason doesn't equate right." Moss green eyes darted away from his full of shame. "No one's gotta right to slap people for hurtin'em…I know that, but I did it anyway. I'm…I'm sorry, Donnie." It was a shame she usually addressed him as 'Dee' or one of several other nicknames; his name sounded tempting on her lips and drove him to steal hers again. In the distance, the soft ticking of a clock drew nearer and nearer.
The moment Donatello released Amber's lips, a glimmer of light caught his eye, and despite her protests, he bolted back through to the lab to search out the cause. When he reached the source it was entirely dark…just as it had been since the day its contents faded away. Amber found him staring at the empty FSG vial in disbelief, wondering what just happened. For the second time in as many weeks, though, he decided she didn't need to know what happened; she had enough on her mind without worrying about the Freaky Space Glitter coming to life again for only a second.
"I've got to talk to Dad," he stated instead, then brushed the pad of his thumb along her kiss-swollen lips with a shy smile. "To be continued?"
"Helluva cliffhanger, Hotshot," she teased staring at his lips only to meet his eyes with an impish smile, "but somethin' tells me the sequel's worth it." Boy, was that woman good for his ego.
If Mercy ever suspected Raphael wasn't serious about the whole 'date' thing, that suspicion was completely shattered when he met up with her that evening. For a moment, all she could do was stare in disbelief and take in the sight of him. Finally, she found her voice again.
"A loincloth?" she asked dubiously. "You're seriously wearing a leather loincloth?" Though muddy brown streaked across his cheeks, he bristled.
"Yer s'posed ta look ya best on dates, right?" he demanded shortly. "Dis's da fanciest clothes I got!"
"—but a loincloth? Seriously?" Despite the teasing, she had to admit he made the beaded leather monstrosity look obscenely good. Her capris, camisole, and checked button-up seemed perfectly fine when she met him at the door, now she felt underdressed. The leather straps dangling from the wide belt tempted like fringe on a vintage lampshade; it was all she could do to refrain from sweeping the fringe aside to turn on the lamp. Unfortunately, she was certain it wouldn't be a wish-granting genie popping out to say hi.
Raphael told her before that he had a place in mind—somewhere they could watch and hear the show without being bothered—and led the way through the tunnels. Every now and then someone would break the electric silence with a wisecrack or verbal jab to disguise their nervousness…they were both pretty nervous. A short while after they reached the surface, they paused long enough to pick up takeout, then took to the rooftops. Mercy handled roof-hopping better than Raph expected and it was only a matter of time before they reached their destination.
The rooftop hadn't changed a bit since he and Kimber took in that classical show together. He could still recall it all with painful accuracy—her moss green eyes shimmering with happy tears, her punch red hair spilling down her bare shoulders, her scarlet-painted lips smirking around the multitude of smoggy suggestive taunts she threw at him—he remembered everything. Not for the first time, he wondered if he was making a mistake starting a relationship with Mercy when he'd already fucked up the one with Kimber.
"Ohmigod, I think I jus' saw Nikki Sixx!" Mercy's sudden outburst left Raph blinking in surprise.
"Duh," he finally managed laying out their blanket and pillows. "Da concert is Sixx:A.M., Blondie." She shot him an exasperated frown over her shoulder.
"I know, I know," she grumbled leaning on the high stone widows' walk, "I just can't believe this is happening—that I'll actually get to see a live concert!" The hulking ninja looked up to fire off a smartass retort but the sight of her made him draw a complete blank. Suddenly, he was very glad he wore the loincloth instead of pants; pants would have put his reaction to the sight on display.
That…ass… He blinked as though expecting to find he'd hallucinated. Nope, still there, still full and firm, and still sticking out from the oblivious blonde's slightly stooped posture. When he first met Mercy, she was too skinny for her own good—wasted away from addiction and living on the streets—but the last few months, three full meals a day, training and exercise, and sobriety had all been very good to her. She was still thin but now she was developing curves, the kind of curves that could turn men into blubbering morons. Even with her perpetually messy hair, she'd become more beautiful than her mouth would ever have anyone believe.
"Take a picture, it'll last longer." Crud, was he caught staring at her butt?! A glance upward—to grinning blue eyes—revealed that yes, she caught him checking out her backside. "I'll take your silence as a compliment."
"Uh…uh…" He had to physically shake off his stupor. "Get away from da edge, ya maniac—we ain't s'posed ta be up 'ere!" With a disapproving sniff, she sauntered back toward him and dropped to sprawl out on the blanket.
"Killjoy." As the opening band played their sets, Raph and Mercy ate their meal and talked to pass the time. Both were surprised they had so much to talk about, both having expected the other to be full of awkward silences and blustering. The night rolled on and the opening band worked toward their last number, and by the time they started in on it, Mercy had made up her mind. Raphael deserved to know the truth...and she was tired of pretending she was alright.
"Thanks, Red," she mumbled into her soda bottle. The hulking ninja shrugged, missing the point.
"It's nothin', really—da city puts on free concerts like dis all da time, no biggie." Mercy blustered, her cheeks burning with irritating heat.
"I meant…for the date," she admitted under her breath. "I've never…That is…uh…" She couldn't finish and sat up, wrapping her arms around her knees and bracing her chin onn them. Raphael studied her silently a moment, hazel eyes confused and doubtful, but something, whether the blush she still wore or her sudden inability to string two words together, convinced him he hadn't misread her.
"Ya neva been on a date?" he asked her, giving her a more than thorough once-over while she wasn't watching. Damn, that ass…he was being driven to distraction by it, so how could anyone resist it? How had she gone her entire life without someone being driven crazy by that ass?! "Ya tellin' me no one eva took ya out nowhere? –no one eva bought ya a drink, dragged ya to da movies, no one even walked ya home?" ...or grabbed her ass? His fingers itched at the very thought and he busied them with cracking open another bottle of soda.
"No." The admission hurt more than she'd care to admit. "Not for lack of offers, honestly…I just couldn't…just couldn't do it." Neither noticed the opening band wrapping up. Raphael set down his drink and scooted closer to her, resting a supportive hand on her back. She was terrified—terrified of what, though?—and he hated seeing the confident, mouthy blonde look so small and helpless.
"Ya wanna talk about it?" Frankly, nothing sounded more horrifying to him—he halfway feared that one small step would lead down the path to ruin, a path lined with makeovers, painted nails, and all sorts of creepy girly-bonding crap—but this was Mercy—Miss Anti-Mush, don't make me hork, keep yer damn girly shit away from me Mercy—and though the very idea of talking it out made his nads shrivel, he knew she needed it more than he didn't need it.
"Honestly," she admitted with no lack of bitterness, "I'd rather just keep pretending everything's fine—there's nothin' I want less'n to face it…but I gotta reason to face it now…" Denim blue eyes nervously met his over a checker-sleeved shoulder. "I'm tired'a bein' afraid…an' you deserve the truth." Over the next several numbers, Mercy poured out her past life for Raphael in mumbled explanations.
Charity Barret was a bright, gifted young woman who went hurtling headfirst down a path she couldn't return from, only to wind up dying a single mother of a drug overdose. Clarity Flint, Charity's widowed twin sister, took her sister's failures personally and leaned too heavily on alcohol after her husband's death. By the time Clarity remarried a soft-spoken rancher by the name of Ellis Ross she was fighting rapidly worsening alcohol addiction and couldn't stand the sight of her own daughter—a daughter who suspected she was actually Clarity's niece. Clarity's distant treatment of Mercy worsened with her addiction and when Mercy hit puberty, things took a drastic downturn.
Mercy was innocent and well-behaved—barely more than a child—but she bore a deadly resemblance to Clarity's dead twin. This resemblance coupled with small town gossip bred paranoia in Clarity's heart. Everywhere she went, she heard people gossiping about the youth of the town—of some young woman being caught with a neighbor's boy, or getting knocked up, or even just seeming slightly pudgier around the waist all of a sudden. Even the most innocuous rumors convinced Clarity's sick mind that her daughter, Mercy, was the one everyone was talking about. Mercy was trouble—Mercy was fooling around with the neighbors—Mercy was sleeping around and probably even pregnant—Mercy, who had never even been kissed, was suddenly traveling down the same path Charity Barrett chose.
When Mercy first started talking, Raphael expected something awkward and unimportant in the grand scheme of things—maybe she had a childhood boyfriend who cheated on her, maybe the neighbor boy pulled her pigtails or teased her, maybe she even was just too shy to risk a relationship. He never expected to hear about her bitch of a mother smacking her, hitting her, even throwing her into furniture and walls for things she didn't even do. The longer he listened, the more he wished he could find a way to Mercy and Amber's world, if only to show Mercy's mother in person just how that sort of abuse felt. By the time the blonde wrapped up the story with how she died—driving home from her best friend's funeral, terrified of what her mother would do when she found out she snuck out and crying too hard to see the streets—Raph felt like his teeth were about ground to sand. When there was no more to tell, she fell silent, seemingly dreading his reaction.
"Where was ya Dad, Kid?" he asked wrapping his hand around her opposite shoulder. She shook her head and gratefully leaned into his side, comforted by the strong arm holding her close. "Why din't 'e stop dat shit?"
"I never knew my dad, Raph," she admitted wearily. "Ma's first husband, Ernie Flint, was KIA in 'Nam…" Her denim blue eyes met his gravely. "…that was two years before I was born…Ma still insisted I was hers." As she shook her head her spiky blonde fringe fell into her eyes and she swept it away again. "Charity Barrett overdosed the year Ma married Ellis Ross…I don't remember ever meetin' 'er, but I'm pretty sure she was my real mother. Asked Ma once...she nearly broke my jaw."
For a time, neither spoke, one allowing the upsetting revelations to sink in and the other fighting to get past them. Finally, Mercy couldn't handle the silence anymore. "I din't tell ya so you'd feel sorry fer me, Raph," she pointed out. "I din't wanna tell ya 'cause…well, I was afraid ya'd treat me differently if ya knew."
The pale blue eyes that met his weren't weak or afraid—if anything, they were antagonistic and determined. The story she told painted a picture of a woman-child too afraid to live, but those eyes—those eyes were an entirely different story. "I'm sick'a bein' broken, Red—I'm sick'a lettin' that bitch run my life! I spent my whole damn life afraid'a her an' I'm fuckin' sick of it! She treated me like a whore my whole life, but when I died…" She finally looked away, her cheeks pinking. "…when I died…I'd never even been kissed."
The moment the admission left her lips, she cringed, staring out over the rooftop toward Central Park. She didn't see this situation getting better—after all, what sort of man wants to date a woman with no experience?
I wanna let you know these scars are here forever—Heaven, help me be a better man!
Wait…she did a double-take to the stage across the way. When did the opening act finish up? When did Sixx:A.M. take over?
I really hope it shows—I'm mighty cracked and broken—Heaven, help me be a better man! ♦
A large rough-skinned hand caught her chin between two thick fingers and an even thicker thumb and turned her to meet a pair of eyes the color of molten gold. "Ya neva been kissed, eh?" Raphael's voice was low and husky as he traced the pad of his thumb over Mercy's lower lip. "Now dat's a damn shame, Merse—maybe I ought'a fix dat." Before she could respond—to agree or protest?—he went in for the kill.
Hot chapped lips met and fused with Mercy's; as she melted against him, the hand cupping her cheek swept back into her short shaggy hair, tangling in the messy blonde locks and urging her even closer. The world around them faded into snippets of sensation—heavy bass and heavier breathing, wide lips tugging at hers, a strangely alluring smell of sandalwood, leather, and musky sweat over the smog and exhaust of the city below—Mercy was lost in Raphael, hopelessly lost, and she hoped to never be found again.
This was what she was missing—this was the connection she'd always longed for but never been brave enough to make—and it was worth every moment of waiting. Rough hands settled at her hip and threaded through her hair as she clambered over to straddle Raph's lap, latching on and anchoring her in place. After what seemed at once to be mere seconds and an eternity, he broke away trailing open-mouthed kisses along her jaw and up to her ear. "Lemme in, Babe," he urged, his voice dropped to a murmur that rumbled in his chest; when he met her lips again, she did just that, taking everything he had to offer and giving it back in spades.
Raph couldn't believe what was happening; he couldn't believe she was accepting his advances, much less encouraging them and returning them with her own. He was lost—lost in the wonder that was Mercy Ross, her soda-sweet tongue, her greedy hands, her surprisingly feminine whimpers, the sultry, musky scent of womanly arousal clouding the floral scent of her shampoo and soap—everything she was, everything she did, drew him in like siren-song. Everything in him wanted her more than anything he'd ever wanted before.
All his life he was different and different wasn't accepted. He could still remember the expressions of horror and disgust in the police station—could still hear the harsh screams of human women who assumed the worst even after he fought off their assailants. After a lifetime of being feared and hated, a beautiful young woman returned his hungry kisses with equal fervor, clung desperately to his shoulders, and ground against his swollen leather-clad groin with abandon, unbothered by his otherness. He never expected this to happen…and though he never said a word, he vowed right then and there…he wouldn't give up until he felt truly worthy of the affection she had for him.
I'll do the best I can—trying to be a better man—for you.
As so many nights before, Amber stubbornly retired to her empty cot in her corner of the barracks; as every night for the last week, though, night terrors drove her from her self-inflicted solitude. Staring down Donatello's closed bedroom door, she berated herself for being weak—for relying on Donnie's presence to chase away the bugbears plaguing her dreams—and silently listed out every reason why depending on him for a good night's sleep would only come back to bite her in the arse.
"Lurking much?" With a squeak of surprise and what felt like a five-foot jump straight up in the air, she turned to acknowledge the genius who caught her staring at his closed door. A glass of water in hand, he wore a humoring smile, and other than a pair of loose cotton shorts and his glasses, nothing else. No mask…Dear God…that turtle was gonna kill her. Of the few times she'd seen him without the ever-present violet fabric she hadn't been able to see much for lack of light; in the light from the kitchen, though, she could see everything in startling detail, including some faint streaks of reddish brown and paler green at the outer edges of his remarkable eyes. He and his brothers really were red-eared sliders, huh?
Unable to think of an excuse she simply stepped aside to let him past; a steady hand at the small of her back guided her through first then its partner closed—and locked—the door. "You know," he reminded as the brunette sweated over what that last action might imply, "we've established that sleeping in here helps you avoid night terrors—instead of forcing yourself to try sleeping in your room then crawling in here at the crack of dawn, why not just sleep here, to begin with?" It took a moment of staring at his lips—and vividly imagining them occupied with certain needy parts of her anatomy—but Amber finally managed to drag her mind out of the gutter long enough to answer.
"What happened to facin' my fears?" she asked instead of admitting where her thoughts led her. "If I just rely on you to chase away the boogunses, how'll I ever stop bein' afraid?" Donnie blinked at the unfamiliar colloquialism but easily worked out its meaning.
"That's why you're doing exposure therapy, remember?" he pointed out sitting on the edge of the rumpled bed and drawing her into his arms; finding herself eye-to-eye with him threw her for a loop until his arms enfolded her. "Exposure therapy will help in the long run, but in the meantime, it can lead to nightmares, and recent nightmares can affect how you handle triggers when you're awake. If you get a good night's rest, you'll be more capable of handling your day-to-day stresses." Amber sighed and tugged at the end of the loose braid she'd pulled her hair into.
"Ya make it sound so easy," she admitted softly, "like it's just a matter of takin' precautions…but if I get used to you chasin' off nightmares, what'll I do when yer not there?" A slight pop on the nose sent her cross-eyed and smoothed the worried pinch between her eyebrows; the genius smirked at seeing that his new secret weapon still worked.
"One day at a time, remember?" he teased discarding his glasses on the nightstand. "Don't get ahead of yourself, Braids." This time when he held the sheet and blanket up for her she didn't hesitate—instead, she set her glasses on the stand next to his, crawled up onto the bed and burrowed into his chest, and tucked her head under his cleft chin.
"G'night, ya sneaky speccy," she yawned into his collarbone. With a tender smile, he reached overhead to switch off the lamp, tucked his arm around her waist to keep her close, and pressed a lingering kiss to the top of her head.
"Goodnight, Honey…see you soon." With the room was again bathed in darkness, Donnie nuzzled into her loose hair, reveling in its coconut fragrance and rendering it messier than ever. He wasn't about to admit it aloud but Amber wasn't the only one benefiting from the new sleeping arrangement. All his life, he'd fought intermittent periods of insomnia. It was an unfortunate byproduct of having a brain that never stopped working, and while his projects always profited from that insomnia, his body paid the price. Nothing he'd tried had ever made any difference. The first time he invited Amber into his bed, however, he discovered that her slow, even breathing on his neck worked better than any sleeping pill.
When Leonardo and Michelangelo slouched through the front door not long after, weary from a long road trip from upstate, the two lovebirds were sound asleep, one dreaming of unobstructed hazel eyes, the other dreaming of long-faded fiery highlights.

UP NEXT: Amber really needs to learn how to not inhale her drinks in Bridges Burned and Tides Turned

Notes
♦ Song snippet from Sixx:A.M.'s "Better Man."
• Amber's Morning Muttering - "Every man who goes about with good morning on his lips should be fried with his own bacon and buried with a stalk of celery through his heart." Amber is a morning Scrooge…Charles Dickens must be rolling in his grave.
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