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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
- 39
- 40
- 41
We've been focusing most on Donnie and Amber lately, and it's high time for Raph and Mercy to shine! Finally, those two idiots get a break…they deserve one.
Precautions for mild UST, some Mikey-torture bordering on exhib., and Amber being a pervert. (nothing new there) Do NOT read the scene with Raph and Amber while eating or drinking—choking on or spewing of your chosen beverage or meal may occur. Scene near the end with Raph and Mercy may provoke nosebleeds, but it's more likely to cause warm-an-fuzzies.
Suggested Listening: Basshunter "Every Morning," Ray Charles "Come Rain or Come Shine," Adam Lambert "Time for Miracles," Air Supply "Tonite"

39: Unheard, Unknown, Unspoken
August 1st, 2016, Manhattan
Normally, someone requesting a large pizza delivery to a dark alley would be a red flag for any delivery driver, much less one on a particularly dorky grey scooter. Fortunately, this wasn't just any delivery driver, and the customer was a regular. Full helmet still in place, she examined her nails as though bored with life in general.
A faint scraping noise changed everything. "Yer late, Mister Angelo," the driver drawled into the darkness. Sure enough, Mikey hopped down from the fire escape and swaggered over to her—that was her cue. With all the seriousness of a fashion model, she leaned back on her scooter in a generic 'sexy on a motorcycle' pose, swept her helmet off, and threw her head back to send her hair flying…only to squawk in pain. Her audience cackled with laughter as she fought to free one of her two grey-streaked braids from the helmet straps. Only when it became clear she was truly stuck did he lend a hand.
"Jeez, Sis," he teased as Amber grumbled into her covered cleavage. "On a scale of meh to holy frijoles, I'd give that an eek!"
"Better an eek than an ick, right?" Amber retorted with an equally playful grin; he laughed, so mission accomplished. Her braid finally fell loose against her back again and she gave a sigh of relief. "I hear ya requested that spunky new girl again—if ya keep askin' for me when I'm about to leave, they'll think we're dating. Ya might get a discount." Mikey heaved a melodramatic sigh as Amber hauled the pile of pizza boxes out of their bag.
"Alas, dear sister, I must turn you down." He gave her a condescending pat on the shoulder. "The dork-mobile's just too much awesome for me."
"Thanks, Dorian," Amber griped at the innocent grey scooter, "ya just cost me the love'a my life. Now, where's my tip, ya heart-breaker?"
There is one girl in my life that makes me love again - as pretty as a girl could be...so beautiful. Every morning she makes me a cup of coffee with a smile on her face…I'm a man in love and she's glorious. ≈
The bouncy techno beat throbbed from the speakers, filling the lab with cheer. Alone with his thoughts and Basshunter, Donatello hunched over his workbench wrists-deep in a large fire-damaged control box. The massive contraption scattered across the table once routed electricity throughout the railyard's extensive fire sprinkler system, and now that he'd opened the beast up, he wondered if the fire actually wasn't arson. By all rights, the control box was a ticking time bomb—how could it have ever been up to code, even decades ago? From the scorch patterns and melted wiring, he could easily see the blaze beginning in that very control box.
He wrenched his hands free from the soot-blackened innards with a frustrated huff. Mercy had vision—she saw a use for the abandoned railyard that none of his brothers saw—but she really had no idea the amount of work it would take to transition the fire sprinklers into an irrigation system. Even with the damaged and obsolete machinery, wiring, and plumbing replaced, the spray mounts weren't meant for high volume or long-term use. It would take countless junkyard runs just to get the control panels running again.
He sighed, scowling down at the aggravating mess of parts spread across the workbench. Maybe it would be easier to just start fresh with a design of his own making…that seemed to work with everything else, after all. It wasn't like the government was going to send an inspector to make sure everything was up to code, either—if it worked and wasn't liable to take anyone with it if it blew up, that was enough…right?
The front door slammed, followed immediately by a greeting joke from Mikey—something about a pizza dude who wasn't a dude—then a familiar sarcastic retort. Amber was home! Donnie's heart skipped a beat at the realization…then he realized what was playing over the sound system. Crap. The wheels of his stool shrieked as he shot over to the tablet streaming music, and after a moment of frantic swiping and scanning to find something a little more mainstream, he dove back into the control panel as though nothing happened.
I'm gonna love you like nobody's loved you, come rain or come shine. ≈
A moment later, two bare arms wrapped around him from behind, their owner pressing a kiss to his scalp. "Hey, Sweets," Amber greeted teasingly leaning around his neck. "How's the hunk 'a junk?"
"Still junk," he retorted meeting her eyes over his shoulder with a playful grin. "How's the scooter working for you?"
"Dorian Grey cost me the turtle of my dreams earlier." She heaved a melodramatic sigh. "Looks like you're stuck with me, Dee." For a moment, all he could manage was blinking at her, nose crinkled and eyes wide.
"I dragged that heap out of the junkyard, got it running, and gave it a sweet paint job…and you named it Dorian Grey?" He shook his head but couldn't hold back a chuckle.
"What?" she asked with feigned innocence. "It's perty an' grey an' it's older'n it looks." He guessed in a weird way it kinda made sense—she did name her old car "after the jackass from Ol' Yeller."
"Sometimes I wonder which of us is the bigger nerd."
"Aw, that's easy—you're a nerd, I'm just a dork." Before he could get out a word in favor of or against that claim she spun his stool around and invited herself into his lap with a succession of gentle kisses and nuzzles. "Ray Charles, huh?" she teased when the singer's voice finally placed.
"Y-You know him?" he stammered sheepishly; he wasn't fooling anyone. "I mean—"
"Yeah, I know 'im." The unspoken bit was that she knew Ray Charles' music in her previous life as well. Ever since she awoke in this new world, Amber was constantly faced with inconsistencies in popular culture. Some examples of literature, music, and pop culture from her world occurred in this one, too, with and without changes and variations—Mark Twain and Jane Austen, Michael Nyman and Ludovico Einaudi, Chess and Jane Eyre—enough for her to assume it meant that genius transcended realities. Then she heard a particularly nauseating Spice Girls song played on a boombox on the subway and about chucked her cookies…and found Barney while channel-surfing…and discovered a particularly stained copy of Fanny Hill in Kimber's novel-porn stash. After that point, she gave up entirely on trying to make sense of why some things changed while other remained the same—there was no rhyme or reason other than to drive her batty looking for one.
"Ya know," she remarked leaning into Donnie's embrace, "where I'm from, folks call this sorta music baby-makers." Donnie flinched, his eyes shooting open wide and locking with hers set off by a deep blush. She really shouldn't have so much fun teasing him. "Ya know what they say about a man who plays crooner jazz durin' work hours?"
"…uh…?" Critical error – illegal operation - reboot necessary. Send report to admin? Seeing the panic in his eyes, Amber went in for the kill with a waggled eyebrow.
"Either he's bangin' the secretary or he's hidin' somethin'." Fatal error – HCF – abandon ship! He almost wept with relief when she visibly let the tease drop and lifted his grease-blackened hands for inspection. "Wash up for dinner? Your pie's got extra tears an' fungus, just how ya like it." Onions and mushrooms…the very idea made his mouth water…the control box could wait.
He hung back to turn off the music and watch her hips sway a few steps ahead of him but she paused in the doorway. Again, there was a tease in her eyes, but this one was sweet rather than sly. "Dee," she said just loudly enough for him to hear, "anytime you think about censoring yerself around me, don't—yer the pretty one an' yer more glorious than I'll ever be."
Boy, was that woman good for his ego.
The mouth-watering aroma of fresh pizza and the chaotic noise of seven voices filled the crowded kitchen. Packed around the table, elbow to elbow, the odd family gorged themselves after a long day in between bouts of small-talk.
"How're the Hardy girls doing?" someone asked.
"Quite well," Leonardo answered with a boyish smile that surprised his brothers. He sure smiled more often now that he wasn't hiding the cousins from them; it kinda freaked them out. "Beverly's white blood cell count's up, as of her last checkup, and she's not feeling as tired. She and Bree should be able to come by Saturday for dinner if that works." He paused for a swig of water. "Has anyone heard from Leon Jackson lately?"
"Still in prison," Mercy muttered back, "still refusin' any calls or visits an' still ain't speakin'. He was on board with takin' out Hun an' takin' the blame, but he didn't sign up fer losin 'is only family—give 'im some time. How's the GED goin', Scotch-Bright?"
"Slowly," Amber admitted. "I still suck at algebra an' apparently I peeved-off the instructor today." She answered Donnie's questioning glance with a shrug. "What? It's not my fault the test he wrote up had more spelling and grammar errors than a kindergartner's Christmas list. I just corrected'em."
"Grammar Nazi," Mercy accused pointing a fork at her. Conversation halted for a moment as the blonde and Mikey ensued in a fork-battle over the last slice of lasagna; Mikey won, and Mercy sulked into her sweet tea. "So what's left of the renovations, D-man? The railyard's cleaned out and gutted—if we get the rest'a the lights workin', we can make do with hose-waterin' 'til the irrigation's ready."
"The lights'll be an easy fix." Inwardly Donnie wanted to shake her for not pointing that out before he tore apart the power supply hub to fix the sprinklers. "I'll have to start from scratch on a lot of the machinery but it'd be easier than fixing what's already there—looks like it really was an electrical fire, too." Raph growled around his pizza; go figure the garden would be put as a higher priority than getting his new room built. Another month of being stuck between Mikey and Leo was liable to drive him insane, especially now that Mikey had a girlfriend coming to visit. "Once I've got the power supply and such sorted out and functioning, we can finish up your new room, Raph—gimme a couple weeks at least."
"Whatever." A belch followed his remark and Mercy seemed to take it as a challenge, but Master Splinter cleared his throat in warning, cutting off the contest before it began. "S'cuse me," the hulking ninja grumbled sourly in response to his father's stink-eye.
"'ere is no 's'cuse fer you—you're a butt," Mercy teased elbowing him in the side. Before she got between Raphael and Lefty in the storage shed, he'd have followed suit with another snarky comment and they'd have irritated everyone with another of their fun little insult contests. Now, he just glared at her, snorted, and snagged another slice of cheese pizza. Her face fell. Mercy missed getting along with him so well…if only she could figure out why he was angry at her!
"How's the job going, Amber?" Leo asked to diffuse the tension around the table. The brunette gave a weak smile.
"It's goin," she answered picking at a pizza crust and glancing furtively over at Donnie; fortunately he was too involved with savoring his mushrooms and onions to notice. "It's actually a lot harder than I expected…never would'a believed it, but dealin' with people and dodgin' traffic is harder'n scrapin' gum off tables an' scrubbin' toilets. Still, it's work, an' once I've got Kimber's GED, I can work my way up to something less obnoxious. Beverly's been helpin' me pitch some of Kimber's junk online, too. Betwixt it all, I've managed to save up enough to get started on my plans." She set aside the pizza crust; the topic turned her stomach too much to eat anything else. "Bree an' I checked out a few places last week an' I've fin'ly found the right one."
Although he'd spent a while zoned out, that made Donatello freeze. Checked out a few…places? Surely not…surely she wasn't…wasn't leaving?! Horrified hazel eyes fixed on the brunette staring distantly down into her iced tea; he hung on her every breath, waiting for her to speak and praying to be proven wrong.
"Oh?" Mikey asked excitedly—also oblivious to Donnie's response. "That's great! I knew my Babycakes could help ya!"
"I'd'a been lost without 'er," Amber admitted with a weak smile. "We're goin' out tomorrow for the preliminary BS—not really lookin' forward to it, but it's gotta be done."
Donnie's chair screeched in protest as he pushed back from the table, lunged to his feet, and rushed off to the lab. In his wake, his family sat frozen in surprise at the unexpected move. Mikey's pizza slice hovered inches from his open mouth in the awkward silence; a large section of cheese slid off and slithered down his bare plastron without notice. Amber and the youngest exchanged confused glances, each hoping the other knew what just happened, and each disappointed with their lack of answers.
Eventually, noise filled the kitchen again, but instead of the cheerful banter and small-talk, it consisted of Raphael and Amber loading the dishwasher. This was a new habit of theirs—sharing a chore while sharing a drink. Though they started this life out constantly at odds, they now got along remarkably well as long as certain topics were avoided.
Ever since their massive fight over Mercy landed them both in hot water with Splinter, the odd pair were dangerously close to becoming good friends. Raph was finally through pretending he blamed her for Kimber's death. Amber no longer felt compelled to be needlessly nice to him, either, which, oddly enough, he seemed to appreciate. Shared drinks coincided with shared insults, and chores were a perfect opportunity for venting to spare their loved ones the brunt of the drama.
"So what's up with you an' Mercy?" Amber asked lowly. Raph fumbled the lasagna pan he was wedging into the dishwasher and it fell into place with a loud glassy clang. "I can't recall the last time I saw you two gettin' along…what'd she do?" Narrowed hazel eyes burned hers.
"Ya sound so sure it's somethin' she did," he remarked dryly filling the dishwasher's bin with soap powder.
"Well, yeah." Amber gave him a duh expression. "If you messed up, she'd bitch at me 'bout it. She ain't said a word, so logically, whatever pooch was screwed, she did it." Raph grimaced at the mental image; some of the two other-worlders' expressions were absolutely disturbing. Still, she called it—the feud was over something Mercy did. No matter how upset he still was over Mercy's actions, though, he was tired of fighting—he just didn't know how to get past it.
"If we're goin' dere, dere betta be booze involved," he grumbled ducking for the cabinet under the sink. Amber was out of Scotch—something that literally pushed her to tears the other day—but despite Jonesing for her favorite poison, she was dutifully saving up instead of purchasing more. Fortunately, Daron took it upon himself to keep the family supplied with plenty of bourbon and decent beer in thanks for the family's efforts to avenge Kimber's death. Amber was a bit of a Scotch-snob but she definitely appreciated the gesture; bourbon wasn't Scotch Whisky, but it wasn't intolerable.
Over the first round, Raphael related the incident that drove him to push Mercy away. The whole time, Mercy's braided friend was silent, listening attentively. "So dat's da deal," the mutant finished up with a humorless laugh. "She got in da way—she knew I wouldn't hit 'er an' used dat against me. As if interferin' wasn't enough, she had ta go an' manip-yu-late me like dat."
It was bad enough confessing that he was still torn up over Mercy's interference; the worst of it was something he wouldn't confess even with a barrel of bourbon in him. If it was as simple as her getting in the way or taking advantage of the vulnerability he shared with her, he wouldn't still be angry. No, the worst part was that he was confused—confused about his feelings for Kimber, confused about his feelings for Mercy, confused about whether or not it was worth it to try again after he screwed up his first chance… Ever since he found himself facing undeniable proof of Kimber's death, Raph's heart, mind, and soul were torn every which way by guilt, fear, regret, and confusion. Before Kimber's death, he would have sworn—and accurately so—that he didn't love her, never loved her, and didn't see himself ever loving her. They were good friends—great friends—but they just didn't get along well enough for anything beyond being friends-with-benefits.
Now that she was dead, that truth was too horrible to accept. If he loved her, it would make his refusal to help her even more of a betrayal. On the other hand, loving her would mean he didn't use her, he didn't take advantage of her feelings for a bout of (admittedly mind-blowing) sex without considering the consequences. It would mean he didn't completely throw her away, and that they may have someday made up and become more than friends and rivals. No matter how much he deluded himself, though, the facts remained the same…as did his feelings, or lack thereof. He never felt for Kimber the things he felt for Mercy, but that changed nothing at all. How could he deserve another relationship when he already blew one to hell and back out of selfishness and fear?
"I find it hard to believe this is all 'cause she didn't obey you," Amber remarked dryly when it became clear no more information would come from him. "That's more Leo's shtick than you. So it's more a matter 'a feelin' like she used your feelings against ya?—that she took advantage of ya?" He wouldn't meet her eyes, preferring to glare down into his glass, but nodded. "Have you asked Mercy about 'er reasons for what she did?" He shook his head in the negative. "Has she tried to get your side of the story?" A nod. "Didja talk to 'er about it, or 'd'ja Raph it all up?" For a Grammar Nazi, Raph thought with an unintelligible grumble, she certainly had a habit of making verbs out of non-verbs.
"What's da point—it wouldn't do any good. She made 'er choice an' talkin' it out ain't gonna change nothin'." Amber openly stared at him, brows knit in irritation.
"So instead of talkin' it out an' makin' up, yer feudin' over it." She gave a harsh snort of disbelief. "Of course. Why not? It worked so well for Donnie an' me, why shouldn't everyone else waste their time fightin' like idiots over their damn pride?" Raph went to argue but she cut him off. "Look, what you do with your relationship ain't any'a my business, an' whatever ya choose, I ain't gonna hate 'cha over it. The way I see it, ya got a couple choices here." She slopped a couple more fingers of bourbon into her glass and bluntly related his options.
"If yer not willin' to work it out, break it off before she gets even more hurt—neither of you knuckleheads deserves this kinda drama, ne'er mind that it's your own faults. I'll be pissed at'cha fer hurtin 'er, but it's better to let 'er off easy before you break 'er heart entirely." Another swig of bourbon down the hatch, and a cringe at the sweet flavor. "On the other hand, if yer willin' to work it out, you man up, deal with it, an' move on."
"I don't wanna lose'er," he admitted sourly, "but I ain't gonna just drop it like it di'n't happen—dis's her fault, why should I grovel over her screw-up?!" Amber fixed a stern glare on him, seemingly intent on making him feel barely a fraction of his actual size. It was highly effective.
"So you don't wanna leave 'er," she repeated sharply, "but you're not willin' to fix things unless she apologizes first? Never mind that she may not even know what she did wrong?" The hothead winced; when she put it like that, it sounded ridiculous. "In that case, ya got a third choice." She tossed back the rest of her bourbon, then snapped, "Strap on a wah-bag, whine it out, an' get over it—if ya really care about someone, ya don't dump'em over a pissin' contest."
Raph gaped at the woman sitting across from him—stunned by her unexpectedly harsh response. When he finally found his tongue, all he could manage was, "A what bag?"
"When a horse is hungry," she explained tersely as she topped off his tumbler, "ya strap on the feedbag so it can eat. When a grown-ass man's poutin' like a toddler, you strap on his wah-bag so he can get the whinin' out of his system." Suddenly realizing something, she winced and turned beet red. "That wasn't meant to sound sexual—just ignore the strap-on part." Raph choked. "Note to self," she added with a suspicious stare into the bottom of her glass, "bourbon's bad for my filter." '…an' I need'a get laid before I start really embarrassin' myself.'
After a long, awkward silence consisting of Amber staring into her drink in horror and Raph gaping at her in equal horror, he finally found his tongue. "An' here I e'spected ya ta spout some mushy bullshit about communicatin' an' fergivin'," he remarked dryly. "Dat was…" he couldn't find a good enough descriptor and so settled for waving one hand in a 'you know' gesture.
"Harsh?" she suggested with a sheepish grin. "Yeah…it's not me—I'd rather'a been all nice an' sweet, but you're not Donnie. Dee takes it hard if I don't buffer these things but if I sugar-coat it with you, ya might just choke on it."
"Damn right."
Dawn was on its way, but still, Mercy couldn't sleep. Too tired to stay awake, to upset to drift off, she stared listlessly at the pitted concrete ceiling overhead, thinking back on things she couldn't change.
She missed Raphael—missed his strong arms around her, his rough fingers digging through her hair, his scarred lips locked with hers. Wistfully, she recalled the times when she had to hide bite-marks on her shoulders and neck and the smug grins he'd shoot her whenever he caught her self-consciously tugging at her neckline. They'd agreed to take it slow, but had they taken it too slow? If she hadn't always stopped him when he reached for the hem of her shirt or tried to slip his hands down her shorts, would they still be together? Would he still care for her enough to not push her away?
With a snort of disgust, she lurched out of bed. This was part of why she never took a chance on anyone before. During college when she wasn't under her mother's roof, she could have taken a chance, could have had a relationship, but chose not to. She'd seen proof enough in her lifetime—love hurt, it always hurt, and any moments of happiness never lasted as long as the pain that followed. She thought she was ready to move on—she thought she was finally more than just a scared little kid who got slapped around too much—but was she really? Was it a mistake letting Raph in like she did?
Mercy froze in the kitchen doorway. How did she make it there when she never intended to leave her stall in the barracks? She didn't even recall opening her door, much less stumbling down the corridor through the utility room. The black and white tiles of the kitchen felt chilly under her bare feet, grounding her in the moment. Maybe this was what she needed…maybe a cup of hot tea or something would help her sleep. This in mind, she padded over to the tea kettle and turned to rummage through one of the cabinets…only to realize she wasn't the only one driven to the kitchen at this late hour.
Raphael sat stiffly at the table, unmasked and stripped down to a pair of loose shorts. Clenching a glass of water like he intended to squeeze answers from it, he stared stubbornly down at the tabletop instead of at her. He never intended to run into her at this late hour—as if anyone ever intended to run into someone they were avoiding. He wasn't sure why she couldn't sleep, but a small, pathetic part of him hoped it was the same reason he couldn't sleep: he missed her. After three whole weeks of being at odds, he missed her so much it hurt.
Though he started with his eyes downcast, they drifted upward against his will, slowly creeping up those damnably long legs to that always-messy hair. With every inch he covered, bits and pieces of the puzzle known as Mercy came together with ones he'd already fitted home. A deceptively feminine nightgown—powder pink with a ruffle at the hem—brushed her calves, defying her tomboyish nature. Forever mussed blonde hair stuck straight up on one side and was plastered down the other—a side-sleeper, then. Her full breasts, unbound by their usual torturous contraptions, hung heavy and natural behind the fabric, their peaks clearly visible through the soft cotton. As though feeling his eyes on them, she crossed her lean arms over her breasts, shifting on her feet.
"Hey." The hesitant greeting tore him from his silent berating of himself for ogling her like she was a slab of meat. "Rough night?"
"Yeah," he answered taking the out she offered him. "Couldn't sleep. Yerself?" She nodded distractedly, turning to stare nervously into the tea and coffee cabinet. Now that he saw her—actually looked at her without focusing on how upset he was—he could plainly see how their fight was affecting her.
He never wanted this, never thought any further than how angry and hurt he was…it was the same mistake he made with Kimber. He swore on that rooftop, the night Mercy's favorite band became the soundtrack for her leap of faith into his arms, that he'd become a better man for her. A better man wouldn't make the same mistake over and over…and he certainly wouldn't sit around and wait for her to take responsibility when they both shared equal blame. It took him awhile, but he got it now—Mercy started the trouble but he was the one who spent weeks being an ass over it.
"Ya seen the sugar?" Her sudden question startled him out of his thoughts, and he looked up in one of his own. She held up the glass shaker jar, wiggling it a little to indicate that it was empty.
"Yeah." Raph hoisted himself to his feet and lumbered into the pantry. Perhaps, he considered as he searched for the giant bag of sugar, lending her a hand would break the ice; perhaps by the time he found it for her, he'd have thought up a way to broach the subject with her.
Out in the kitchen, Mercy stashed the not-really-empty sugar jar behind a fern and steeled her nerves. What she was planning had two possible outcomes—it could go incredibly right and they could get back to being whatever they were before that night in the storage shed, or it could blow everything entirely. She might even lose Raphael for good if it went badly enough…but was losing him entirely really worse than winding up feuding like her idiot friend and Raph's brother? Hadn't she learned her lesson from how much it tore those two up? She glanced over into the pantry—Raphael stood with his back to her, searching the shelves and grumbling to himself. Damn the consequences—doing nothing would get them nowhere, and she was sick to death of being a scared little girl.
One moment Raphael was searching for the sugar and grumbling at himself about being an idiot. Then, with no warning whatsoever, someone tackled him from behind and shoved him into the shelf he faced. Training kicked in and he whirled about swinging up an arm to block his attacker—Mercy?! He jumped backward in his surprise—whacking his carapace against the shelf he'd been searching—and bounced off from the impact.
Next thing he knew they were both on the floor of the pantry sprawled out and tangled up like a pair of abused power cords. Mercy's denim blue eyes were crossed and she clutched her scalp muttering profanities under her breath—great, she hit her head. At this point, Raph realized the worst…she was pinned…he was…was… His face flaming from their scandalous position he scrambled to sit up only to whack his head on the very shelf she banged hers on and fall helplessly back on top of her. This time he decided hiding his face in her shoulder, he would just lie there and sulk instead of proving himself entirely hopeless…again.
Mercy was furious. This was not what she planned—this was nothing like what she planned! How the hell did she manage to screw up what should have been a simple plan, even sleep-deprived and in a nightgown?! "You…uh…okay?" The muttered question drew her out of her thoughts and she blinked away the spots still dancing across her vision.
"I'll live," she answered sullenly staring hatefully up at the shelf that beaned both of them. "It's just my head—not like I was usin' it anyway, right?" Raph carefully eased himself up to his knees and she followed suit, leaning back on her palms. "I just—I just thought if I could get you to stop thinking…and start…feeling instead…" She trailed off in a scoff, shaking her head. "Whatever. It worked for Donnie an' Amber, but clearly, it ain't gonna work fer us."
As the blonde fell further and further into grumbling about herself, him, and everything in between, the mutant between her knees found himself speechless. Earlier that evening, Amber made a similar comment—it worked so well for us, why shouldn't everyone else do it? At the time he thought she was exaggerating. Now, he knew the truth…he needed to fix this, and pronto.
"Why'd ya get between me an' Lefty?" To the embarrassed blonde, his question came out of the left field; she ceased mussing her already mussed hair and stared at him in confusion. "Please." Her hand fell to her side, and she turned to stare at what tripped Raph—the sugar bag. Go forkin' figure.
"I know you…care for Kimber," Mercy admitted with pink tinging her cheeks. "I understand that and I respect it—I'm not tryin' to replace 'er. It's just…she cared about Lefty—he was her friend, Raph—an' I'm sure she wouldn't be happy seein' you beatin 'im senseless 'nless'n he started it." The pink deepened to red, accompanied by an embarrassed cringe. "Even if she wouldn't care, I couldn't stand seein' that—seein' you lose yerself in whalin' on someone who wasn't even gonna fight back." She finally met his eyes—all honesty and no condemnation. "Yer better'n that, Red. I know ya are. You were just so angry you forgot."
"Ya know I'll neva hit ya," he reminded seriously, "an' ya used dat against me."
"No, Raph," she corrected with weary eyes, "I used it for you. I knew if I didn't stop you, you'd regret it when you calmed down—you'd get angry at yerself, start punishin' yerself, an' you'd lock me out because you'd worry that you might end up hurtin' me next." Sometimes it made him nervous how easily she saw through him. Amber stared into blue, neither blinking or shying away, the amber subdued and the blue pleading for understanding. "I know you. I know you'd never hurt me intentionally—that you'd never hit me in your right mind—but you weren't in your right mind, Raph, an' when that happens, I don't know you won't hurt me! When that red haze drops down over your eyes, you can't always see what's right in front of you…I get it, I've been there…it was another lifetime, granted, but it ain't times I like thinkin' about."
"You…" He cleared the creak from his throat and tried again. "Ya thought I might turn on ya fer gettin' in da way…but ya did it anyway?" She nodded, turning away. It hurt hearing that she didn't trust him when he was in a rage, but he didn't really blame her. Heck, he didn't trust himself when he lost control, and he didn't have her reasons.
Her mother was an abusive witch, and the years under her thumb left Mercy afraid of everyone and everything; she was getting stronger, learning to trust and take risks, but there were bound to be moments of doubt. Now, this…despite her fear of him whaling on her next, she threw herself in the way—she willingly put herself in harm's way to protect others—Lefty from Raph and Raph from himself. It was something she and Kimber had in common—that determination to defend those they cared for, even at the risk of their own safety. In Kimber, the trait had annoyed him, convinced him she was just being reckless and stubborn; Mercy, though still reckless and stubborn, didn't elicit the same response.
Six months ago, he first met the snarky blonde only to be thrown for a loop without the slightest hint of fear or apology. Donnie brought her home without warning his family and his musclebound twin threw himself into putting the skinny blonde in her place before she could turn on them. After all, that delusional brunette—Kimber, he'd believed then—was already walking all over him. He didn't need her strung-out friend doing it too, or so he believed. Mercy was completely unimpressed by his posturing, though, and didn't give a damn about him until he badmouthed her friend.
Six months didn't seem that long, but so much had changed in that time. He wasn't sure when he first saw Mercy as anything more than an intruder—when he first started seeing the woman behind the attitude. Was it the day she barged through the front door half-carrying her battered roommate, blood streaking her skin like war paint and blue eyes wild with fury and warning? Was it further back, when he ran across her in the tunnels arguing with herself over how to apologize for throttling him? Or, even before that, was it when she lied to Amber—claimed his insult was actually directed at her instead of the braided imposter—all to spare Amber the hurt of being called a liar? He clearly recalled when he first started getting along with Mercy…but when did that tolerance change into attraction? No…when did that attraction…change into…
The first touch—surprisingly gentle fingers cupping the angular line of her jaw—startled Mercy. She allowed the rough-skinned hand to guide her back to face its owner, all the while feeling her heart racing in both fear and excitement. "Yer right." The admission was quiet, barely a rumble in his chest, but she heard it loud and clear. "I went too far, an' I knew it. I'm—" Red streaked across his cheeks, he cleared his throat, and turned to stare awkwardly off to the side, his hand falling away. "—you know." Mercy snorted in amusement and socked him lightly in the shoulder; as usual, the blow hurt her more than him.
"Yeah. I'm you-know too." He met her eyes again, an arched brow expressing his confusion about why she was sorry; her expression was halfway between blah and deadpan. "I lied—the sugar jar's not really empty." It started as a single snort of laughter, but soon grew to mutual guffaws and wheezing. They really were a pair of idiots, weren't they? The hilarity didn't last long, though, and in its wake, a companionable silence grew. "I mist'cha, Raphie." Though the nickname annoyed him from anyone else, from her, it drew a lopsided smirk; he didn't even care which of his brothers she heard it from.
"Mist'chu too, Kid." Sinking back on his feet, he drew her closer and into his arms; Mercy complied without complaint, the hem of her nightgown riding up as she crawled up to sit astride his lap, her legs spread and resting alongside his. The pantry was silent, but both remembered another moment so much like this and the music it was set to.
Lips locked, tongues teasing and teeth nipping, they reveled in the moment with all they had. Work-roughened hands found the back of Raph's neck and hauled him closer. A rougher, larger pair found their way to Mercy's back, one sweeping up to tangle in her hair. Its partner trailed down to her hip in squeezing caresses, and for the first time in weeks, latched onto the ass that drove him out of his mind in a reverent squeeze. Wait. He felt around the full cheek in his hand, blindly searching for something he'd always felt there. Where was it…something was missing…but what…? Before he could break their sloppy lip-lock and demand answers, a frantic squawk sounded nearby.
"Oh, gross, guys!" Mikey's disgusted shout startled the guilty pair apart and, like deer in the headlights, they turned to stare at him blankly. "Seriously?!" the youngest whined. "We keep food in there! What is it with you creeps and the pantry?!"
"Don't knock it 'til ya try it, Tent-tastic!" Mercy's taunt drove a blush across the youngest's face. He was never gonna live down meeting his brothers on the roof with a raging hard-on, was he?! Finding himself surprisingly lost for a comeback, Mikey stomped out of the room grumbling about the heathens in the pantry.
"I'm tellin' Bree!" he hollered back, then slammed his door in a huff.
In the pantry, Raph and Mercy dissolved into snickers. When the laughter fell to silence, Raph stole another quick kiss and eased her up to her feet, taking his own the moment he was free. Hoisting her up into his arms, he carried her back into the kitchen, through the corridor to the Barracks, then into her bedroom. With only a moment's pause to shove her door shut with his heel, he carried her over to her bed and tossed her onto the mattress, grinning at how she bounced in place from the landing. She giggled—actually girly-giggled!—at his playfulness, but all amusement faded when he crawled up with her.
For a moment, Raph felt uncertain—worried he was going too far by inviting himself into the cradle of her thighs—but her blush and nervous smile told him he was welcome. As though they hadn't just crossed a line they'd avoided from the beginning, he leaned down, bracing his weight on his arms and stealing her lips again. She smelled so good…she always smelled like flowers, thanks to her super-girly taste in personal care products, but anytime they got close like this, her scent changed. It gained a second layer that was more taste than scent, something salty, musky, and earthy—and in his opinion, it was mouth-watering.
Mercy squirmed. This was new—necking, groping, and the occasional heavy-petting and grinding was old news for them, but never once had Raphael allowed her to just lay back and enjoy it. Every time before, she wound up on top, taking everything he had to offer and working for every bit of it. His excuse was that he was too heavy, that he might hurt her, but she always argued he wouldn't; why, then, did he suddenly change his tune now? Of all the times to decide he wasn't going to squish her, why when she was in her nightclothes?! The demand was on her lips when he released them, but it still went unsaid.
Lost in the sight and scent of his Mercy, Raphael cupped her chin, brushing his thumb along the pink blooming across her cheek. His vibrant eyes—that brilliant golden hazel no human could ever boast—trailed along her drooping neckline, up the smooth column of her throat, and fixed on her parted lips. His fingertips drifted to trace them, and he finally met her eyes again. "I won't hurt ya, Merse." The words were simple but delivered like a solemn vow. "I promise ya…I ain't gonna hurt ya like she did."
She. Mercy knew without a doubt who she was. She was the one who taught Mercy to fear love—She was the one who taught Mercy that love hurt and that men would lead her down the path to ruin—She was the one who still came between them every chance she got, left Mercy worried she was making a mistake in trusting Raph with her heart—She was everything Raphael never was and everything he could never be. Even knowing this, though, there were times Mercy had to remind herself of that deceptively simple fact. Even if they didn't work out, her heart was safe with Raphael; even if they eventually crashed and burned, she knew he'd never intentionally hurt her. Still…
"How can you know that?" she asked softly against the fingertips still at her lips. "How can you be so sure…sure you'll never…" She couldn't finish and turned away, but he caught her by the cheek and urged her to face him again.
"Because I know, Mercy." He rarely used her real name, her full name, and the utterance told her he was dead serious. "Hurtin' you like dat…no mattuh what I did, if I eva raised my hand to ya…" His eyes darkened and pulled away, rearing up on his knees again. "…it'd hurt me, too, Merse. Ya dealt wit' enough 'a dat in ya otha life…if I eva put ya through dat again, in dis life…" He shook his head, unable to finish the sentence but sure she could read between the lines. No matter how crazy things got, that was one thing he could always count on—she could always understand what he was trying to say even if he couldn't say it himself. Maybe, he considered with a small smile, she understood because she spoke his language…maybe she just filled in the blanks with what she'd leave out, never realizing how right she got it.
Raphael didn't do anything half-assed—if he did good, he excelled, if he screwed up, he blew it completely. He didn't get angry, he lost himself in rage. He didn't feel sad, he swallowed it up until he broke under the weight of it. Everything he did and felt went beyond the logical limits that others seemed to respect. He drowned in every emotion just like Mercy used to—he struggled under every thought and doubt and threw himself head-first into every action, no matter how much he knew he'd regret it.
For the first time in a very long time, Raph felt sure of something—sure enough to bet his life on it. Horrible as it sounded, and no matter how his guilt and grief tried to convince him, he knew he never loved Kimber—he never felt for Kimber what he felt for Mercy. She was always so sure love had to hurt, but now he had to agree…it did hurt…and he wouldn't change that at all. Without a little pain, you cannot appreciate pleasure; without first feeling sorrow, you cannot fully comprehend joy.
Finally, he met her eyes again though he was sure she could see more in them than he was ready for her to see. If he ever hurt Mercy, he knew she'd probably forgive him eventually—that was just who she was, her very name demanded it—but he'd never forgive himself. Every time he saw her, he'd look into those big blue eyes of hers and recall how he filled them with fear…and that just might break him.
"Hey." Mercy's voice pulled him from the dark thoughts crowding his mind and he looked down at her again. Leaning back on one hand, she studied him silently, fingertips tracing the outside corners of his eyes. She'd never seen him without that scalp-covering mask before, and the faint traces of red were eye-catching; even more so was the network of fine scars sprawling across his scalp. She couldn't wait to hear the stories behind each one and to offer in kind the stories behind all the scars this new body never bore. "I trust you, Raphael…an' I…" She flinched back, visibly struggling with getting her thoughts out. "Are we…okay?" With a faint quirk of his scarred lips, he nodded.
"We're okay." A wide grin spread over Mercy's face and she latched onto his shoulder, dragging him back down with her.
"C'mere, you," she teased settling back into the sheets. "Who said I was done with ya?" The rasp of fingertips on her bare hip ground her thought processes to a shuddering halt, and her eyes fairly bulged out of their sockets; she never noticed her nightgown ride up! "Uh…"
For a moment, Raph just watched her flounder in confusion, unsure what had her so freaked out. Then it hit him. The tantalizing musky scent was stronger than before—much stronger—and his fingers weren't petting some silky girly fabric, but warm, smooth skin. He devoutly anchored his hand at her hip, his cheeks blazing. "Yer commando," he deadpanned; her eyes scrunched shut, she nodded in confirmation.
"I don't wear 'em to bed," she admitted under her breath. "Ya gotta let it air out every now an' then—it's easier to just skip 'em for sleepin'."
"Yer naked unduh dere!" he repeated loudly as though he hadn't even heard her.
"Well, tell the world, why don't ya?!" she snapped at him, her nose wrinkled in indignation; thank goodness she was the only one still sleeping in the barracks, or there'd be a helluvan awkward conversation the next morning. "It's totally normal—some gals sleep naked, ya know! At least I'm wearin' somethin'!"
The bulky mutant shuddered, torn between yanking away from her and possibly getting an unintended eyeful and stubbornly refusing to move despite the naked skin he was lying on. As if he wasn't struggling enough to do the right thing, her scent grew stronger—spicier—and traveled from his lungs to his bloodstream. The flood of scent was accompanied by renewed warmth radiating from the body beneath his own. As though in mockery of his determination to be a gentleman, he felt a damp warmth seeping through his shorts. He refused to consider who the wet spot might have come from. Knowing wouldn't make it any easier on him; either way, one of them embarrassed themselves. He refused to contemplate the reason for Mercy's increasingly horrified cringe, and likewise the cloud of chemical come-ons filling his lungs. The stay or go debate just got a lot harder…and it wasn't the only thing. The swelling downstairs didn't go unnoticed, either, if Mercy's flaming cheeks and wide eyes were anything to go by.
'Please…if dere's a God…make da floor split open an' swallow me up!' His internal panicking ground to a sudden halt at the brush of soft fingertips on his wrist—the wrist clenching her bare hip like a lifeline. He swallowed around the lump in his throat, staring down at the nervous blonde. Her eyes searching his, she pried his fingers loose and eased it upward, inward, and in a final bout of courage she was sure she'd regret soon, pressed it palm-down to the top of her thigh—waiting for him to make the next move. Floored by her actions, her offer, Raphael gaped at Mercy, but she just gave him a weak smile.
"You told me once that love doesn't have to hurt," she reminded catching him by the jaw. "I'm startin' to believe you. Is that wrong?" Hazel eyes narrowed, nostrils flared, and his lips curled into a soft smile that should have looked out of place on his rugged face; he knew what she hid between the lines. Leaning on his right arm, he trailed his fingertips upward to the hem of her nightgown…and tugged it back down. He'd spend the rest of the night fighting his raging libido, but he knew it was the right decision. He already made that mistake once—jumped at a woman's offer for physical union without thinking it over or talking it out—and it brought him only heartache. He knew Mercy wasn't going to let him go if he chickened out like he did with Kimber, but he also knew she wasn't as ready as she'd have him believe. He wasn't a virgin, thanks to Kimber…Mercy never had a Kimber to break her in.
"Dere's a lotta wrong things in dis world, Merse," he answered, his voice low and husky, and shifted off of her to lie by her side. "We ain't one of 'em." Her lungs forgot their purpose; he turned down her offer and pulled away from her, but despite it, she knew he wasn't rejecting her. What that meant, though…. "What we got…" Raph sobered, tenderly brushing her messy blonde hair out of her eyes, his own heavy-lidded and soft. No...no cop-outs. He was tired of letting grief and fear guide him, it had only steered him wrong time and time again. Mercy deserved the truth...he deserved the truth. "What I feel fer ya, Merse…" He ducked down to her, pressing his forehead to hers. "…it ain't gotta hurt."
Love. Love! Like so many of the sentiments that passed between them, it was unspoken but Mercy heard it loud and clear—love—he—he loved— She was floored by the silent confession—thrilled, terrified, torn between laughing, crying, and proclaiming the news to the world above them at the top of her lungs! Her eyes watery and her achingly-wide smile even more so, she lashed her arms around his neck as tightly as she could, unintentionally hauling him down into her cleavage.
"Me too, Raphie," she confessed hoarsely as he nuzzled along her clavicle to her neck. "Me too." A teasing growl, a pinch of teeth on her neck, and everything was right in the world; this time, though, Mercy contemplated leaving the bitemark visible the next day.
Love was too precious to be hidden.

UP NEXT: a kick in the pants in Tattoos and Memories

≈ Music in the Lab: "Every Morning" by Basshunter - Canonically, Donnie prefers classical music but that's more than a little stereotypical. Anyway, HC maybe, but Donnie always struck me as a closet-fan of electronica, techno, and jazz along with the usual classical attributed to him. Second song is Ray Charles' "Come Rain or Come Shine."
Michael Nyman and Ludovico Einaudi are two of my absolute favorite modern classical composers. You can hear Nyman's piano work on the soundtrack of the movie "The Piano," and reportedly Einaudi contributed to the soundtrack for the movie "Dr. Zhivago." A recommendation for each would be, in order, "The Heart Asks Pleasure First" and "Nuvole Bianche." Also, Fanny Hill by John Cleland…because porn isn't a new concept at all! ;D
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A New Lease on Life