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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
- 40
- 41
- 42
Suggested Listening: 3 Doors Down "Here without You," Skillet "Comatose," Ravenscode "My Escape," Cyndi Lauper "Time After Time"

40: Tattoos and Memories
August 2nd, 2016, about 10 am
The first thing to register in Donatello's mind was warmth; the second, something soft trailing across his skin. At first, he wanted nothing more than to return to his dream—it was a good one, after all, featuring a certain brunette, a clear creek on a hot day, and not a stitch of clothing between them. The gentle touches making their way down his plastron insisted, though, and by the time they reached the waistband of his boxers, his eyes were blearily cracking open.
"Wondered when you'd wake up," Amber teased tracing along the gathered cotton as he blinked at her. A mere month ago, he'd have been embarrassed as heck to see her so close to his lap in the morning, especially after a dream like the one still dancing behind his eyelids. Now, however, he knew her secrets—intimately—and he didn't worry quite as much. "G'mornin', Darlin'."
"Morning," he replied somewhat hoarsely, reaching for her cheek; she leaned into the caress, closing her eyes. His breath caught in his throat at the hand cupping the bulge in his boxers; a pair of moss green eyes opened and met his, smirking. "Come'ere."
"When're you gonna let me return the favor?" she asked but didn't resist. Not long after, the question was forgotten entirely, along with all other capacity for speech. After all, it was hard to even remember her own name when Donnie threw himself into spoiling her.
Eleven o'clock found the genius and his well-sated lover at the kitchen table, flirting over coffee and cereal. Normally, Donatello was adept at keeping his eyes on hers as opposed to other more interesting body parts, but today, he was really struggling. He fully blamed her shirt—a very low cut garment that bared the entirety of Kimber's hated tattoo—and couldn't stop blushing into his coffee. Amber normally kept the ink covered, and he couldn't help but wonder what caused her to abandon that modest habit.
A sudden flash of light and click startled him from his preoccupation with nuzzling her neck. A quick glance revealed Michelangelo toting a battered digital camera and grinning like a lunatic. "We need a picture for posteriority!" the youngest exclaimed, and before his brother could inquire—or correct his pronunciation, added, "Say pizza!"
Over the next few minutes, the couple shyly went along with Mikey's demands, one lost in thought and the other blaming the event on Mikey's longtime meddling. After all, harmless flirtation aside, the youngest had been trying to throw them together practically since the beginning. Snap after snap rang through the air, each flash marking photos of the couple in each other's arms, flirting, and generally being a pair of sickeningly sweet goofs. Finally, the last photo hit the LCD screen: Amber seated at the table, chin pillowed on one hand and dragon tattoo clearly visible, and Donnie standing behind her, leaning on the back of her chair with a wide grin.
"That's perfect!" Mikey beamed viewing the photo on the display. "Absolutely perfect! Now when this all done, we'll have the pics to remember it by!"
Donnie's every thought process screeched to a staggering halt. Unbidden, he suddenly recalled the reason he fled the dinner table the night before. Amber was leaving today—she checked out places with Bree and was leaving this afternoon for the preliminary paperwork. Mikey and Amber were already onto other subjects, bantering about something or other, but Donnie felt frozen inside. He could still taste her on his lips, could still hear her soft moans as he drove her out of her mind. He could still feel her warm arms wrapped around his neck as they lost themselves in one another…but she was leaving as though it didn't even matter.
For the second time in as many days, Amber and Mikey were startled by the older turtle retreating to the Lab without a word. "Was it somethin' I said?" Mike asked.
"I don't think so," Amber answered softly, eyes trained on the closed door her lover disappeared behind. "I don't know what's goin' on…but I'm'onna find out."
A soft rapping sounded at the Lab door, jarring Donatello from his thoughts. "Yeah?" he called out, not really up for company but knowing the person on the other side would likely invite themselves in anyway. His Lab was his retreat, after all, but it wasn't held sacred by anyone but himself. Sure enough, the door creaked open, and he forcibly kept his eyes on the mangled collection of parts scattered across the workbench. Perhaps if he looked busy enough, they'd leave without bothering him.
"Hey, Speccy." Go figure—this one wouldn't leave unless he shoved her out the door himself, but she was the very person he was currently hiding from. The realization made him feel childish, but he couldn't shake off the hurt and dread swamping him.
"Hay is for horses," he retorted instead of following their usual greeting. Amber blinked at him in confusion, shifting nervously in the doorway. "Well, come in—you're already halfway there."
"R-Right," she mumbled and hurried over to his side, dropping a paper bag on the workbench beside him; it landed with a hollow thunk and he shot her a raised eyebrow. "Bree dropped this by the pizza parlor yesterday after Kid Practice," she explained softly perching on the edge of the workbench. "I forgot to pass it along last night—she called it Mocha-spresso bark, said it's in thanks for fixing her computer last week."
"I told her no thanks were needed," he commented dryly staring down into the age-pitted shell of the power control box. "It just needed a good defragging—nothing to it." For a time, no words were spoken—he avoided her eyes and put on as though tinkering with the wiring, she stared down at him in blatant confusion, trying to puzzle out his odd behavior. Finally, the silence was broken.
"What's goin' on in that head of yours?" she asked reaching out to brush the pad of her thumb over his cheek. He shrugged off the gesture, and she winced, clutching the edge of the table instead. Usually he loved being touched…maybe he just needed some space today? "Talk to me, Dunnie—you're being very…passive aggressive, an' I don't know why! What'd I do?"
"You know very well what," he retorted finally meeting her eyes. "You're leaving today Amber—How do you expect me to feel about that? " Any other person might have seen the unspoken, but Amber always was, and probably always would be, a complete idiot where Donnie was concerned; she didn't understand what was left unsaid.
"I leave every day," she reminded him, bewildered. "I leave every time I head to work or run errands and I always come back—what makes today any different?" Donnie broke eye contact, scrubbed one palm over his scalp and down his tense neck, and heaved a frustrated sigh.
"You know very well why it's different," he insisted, but couldn't keep the anger in his eyes. "You don't have to go, Amber," he reminded, hating himself for how weak his voice sounded. "Stay here—stay here with us—with me!"
"I've got to go, Dee," she argued, still missing the obvious entirely. "We talked about this before—until I've gotten this over with, I'll never be free—It's gonna hurt like Hell but I've gotta do it!"
"Then just go!" he snapped turning away to stare heatedly at the security feed displays. "Just leave already—it's not like there's anything keeping you here!" Amber froze, stunned and hurt. Surely he didn't…did he…? "GO!" The shouted insistence made her jump back. Clearly, he wasn't going to listen anymore, she realized in regret, and stood to leave.
"I'll see you later, Hon," she promised quietly, laying her palm on the surface of his carapace and hating how it made him tense. "Take your time…whatever's bothering you, we'll get through it. Goodbye." Without responding, he silently counted out her footsteps leaving the Lab, listened for the door to close, then for the scuffle and jingle of her purse and keys leaving the shelf outside. Not long after, she showed up on the security feed before him, slowly making her way to the nearest safe street access.
She left…after everything he did for her, she was leaving him the moment she was no longer trapped underground. Why did that hurt so much? Why was he so surprised by it? Could it really have turned out any other way? By the time the hurt and anger started to fade, it was clear that he'd need to start over completely with the control panel. As many pieces as it was in after it hit the wall, not even he could repair it. Lost, heartbroken, he sat tensely perched on the cot she once slept in, his head in his hands, swept under by memories of dreams he couldn't recall ever dreaming.
3 pm, a bar in Queens
Three women walked into a bar: a spunky brunette, a skinny blonde, and a sulking woman with greying brown hair. It sounded like the beginning of a bad joke, but none of the women were laughing—they were there for one reason and one reason only.
"You're sure you wanna go through with this?" Bree asked Amber softly as a waitress approached. "It might be easier sober." The older woman just nodded; she had incredibly high pain tolerance, but this was a whole 'nother ball game.
"What can I getcha?" the waitress chirped, and Mercy sent the other two a scrutinizing glance.
"I'll just take sweet tea—no booze," she answered, and Bree seconded the request for unsweet. "This one," she added slinging one lean arm around Amber's shoulders and triggering an embarrassed blush. "We need'a get'er smashed. She's a Scotch-snob—any suggestions?" Not long after, the chipper waitress returned with a tray of drinks, two completely innocent and one reeking of fruit, herbs, and Jägermeister. The stench curled Amber's nose hairs and made her stomach throw tantrums…but if it did the trick, wouldn't that be worth it?
"If this kills me," she warned Mercy dryly, "I'm'a haunt yer ass."
"Long as I don't wind up spewin' pea soup. Chug it a'ready—it stinks."
"Pea soup's possession, Dingbat," Amber grumbled, fixing the glass with a suspicious glare. "Well," she muttered lifting it to her lip, "down the hatch, be ready to catch." The first tentative sip made her choke, and she had to force herself to swallow. "Dear God!" she rasped staring down at the glass in horror, "this shite tastes like Tussin!"
"Tough noodles," Mercy drawled. "We've got twenty minutes to get you hammered—grow a pair an' hurry up."
Maybe there was something to be said for facing things sober after all…

5 pm, the Lair
A loud scuffling at the front door drew Donatello from his ruminations. The Lab floor was no longer mined with bits and pieces from the control box, but he hadn't had the heart to move on beyond that point yet. Hoping and dreading the source of the racket outside, he hurried to the door and popped his head out to look…only to gape in absolute disbelief.
Amber was back—shambling and leaning on Mercy for support. The blonde led her inebriated friend to Donnie's bedroom, kicked the door open, and they disappeared inside. Confused, he followed, listening in on the hushed conversation.
"Nez-time," Amber slurred as Mercy eased her down onto the bed, "I'm'a stay sober fer it—tha' wiz crap..." •
"No one said it'd be easy," Mercy reminded blandly as she dragged the trashcan over by the bed for easy access. "Don't think I've ever seen ya drunk before—this's hilarious."
"Ah'm no' drunk," Amber argued sourly, "Ah'm foggin' blootert!" • Without further ado, the wasted brunette passed out completely.
"I'm'a just pretend I know whatcha said," the blonde grumbled at her unhearing friend. At this point, Mercy noticed Donnie standing in the doorway, eyes wide in shock. "Sorry 'bout this mess," she teased gesturing to the woman sprawled across the bed. "She's got high alcohol tolerance, so we kinda had to go overboard. Hopefully, she can handle the rest of the appointments sober."
"…appointments?" Donnie asked lowly, his brow creasing behind his mask. "What appointments? Didn't she sign all the paperwork today?"
"What paperwork?" Mercy echoed in confusion. Donnie's eyes drifted down to the brunette already snoring on his bed.
"For…her new place…she said she was doing that today…" It took a while of staring at him like he spoke French, and an even longer while of trying to convince herself he wasn't actually wearing his feud face again—and failing miserably—but the truth became clear to Mercy.
"You thought she was moving out," Mercy grumbled. "Did she say she was moving?" He shook his head but didn't answer. "Did you ask her if she was moving, or'd ya just assume it?" His answer was a wince. As if they didn't go through this enough already. Without another word, Mercy grabbed him by the cheek and hauled his protesting self over to the bedside. Without letting him go, she yanked up Amber's shirt and shot him a pointed glare.
At first, Donatello was horrified by the fact that the brunette was being exposed without her knowledge, then by the fact that she was clearly braless…then it hit him that the dragon in her cleavage looked…different. The darkest bits of black ink were slightly faded, and pale blisters covered the surface of the tattoo. Seeing that he was finally realizing the truth, Mercy filled in the rest of the blanks for him.
The tattoo was an unpleasant reminder for all of them—a reminder of Kimber's bad choices and her eventual death, and a reminder of the ordeal just past. The brunette stuck with it couldn't bear wearing it much longer, and so with the help of Briallen, she searched out a reputable laser removal parlor. "The first session was today," Mercy finished up. "She was so freaked about a stranger seein'er tits she had to get plastered first."
"She's…" He hesitated, unwilling to acknowledge the fear but even less willing to let it control him. "She's not leaving?"
"Dumbass," Mercy snapped at him. "You're stuck with'er. She's too friggin' chicken to say it yet, but she loves ya, she wants to be with ya, an' 'til ya get sick of'er an' kick'er out, she ain't goin' anywhere. You two're stuck with each other, so start talkin' a'ready, the drama's drivin' everyone nuts!" With a final grumbled oath the blonde stomped out of the room, leaving the bewildered mutant staring down at the snoring woman in wonder.
He should have seen this coming…shouldn't he? Or…or did he?
"You've got to be frying in that sweater, Braids." Amber winced, staring through the pile of towels she was folding. Despite his determination to the opposite, Donnie found himself examining her in silence—the baggy shadows under her eyes, the pale grey streaks in her braids, the soft, full curves of her hips, breasts, and thighs, the shakiness of her hands as she went about folding linens—she fascinated him in a way that completely defied logic. Amber wasn't the most attractive woman, at least not according to what society viewed as attractive, but to him, she was lovely—lovely, and so far out of reach.
"It's only March, Dee," she insisted with an anemic smile. "There's a good few months left before it gets hot, right?" Right before his eyes, she reached up, yanked the sweatshirt's neckline higher, and reached for another towel to fold. "Back home, we'd be battening down the hatches right now over thunderstorms…it's nice havin' mild weather this time'a year." Again, she tugged her neckline higher with a shaky hand; Donnie recognized the gesture easily this time.
"It's only a tattoo, you know." She froze, eyes wide and fastened on the faded brown towel in her lap. Her throat worked around a forced swallow, and she shook her head.
"It's more than that," she countered softly, fingers clenching the threadbare terrycloth. "It's a reminder of what happened to—to Kimber—it's proof of her mistakes, and proof that I don't really belong in this world…" Haunted green eyes met his, and she shook her head weakly. "Every time I see that tattoo, I can't keep from wondering how long I'm here for—what's keeping me here…and it's…" She trailed off, cleared her throat, and threw herself back into her task. "It's a reminder to you, too—I've seen how it reminds you that you weren't able to save Kimber. It wasn't your fault, an' I hate seein' you suffer for it. If coverin' it up'll spare ya that, then I'd rather fry in a sweater."
"Maybe you could get it removed?" the genius suggested adjusting his glasses. "There've been some incredible advances in tattoo removal over the last decade or so—especially laser removal. –Or you could get a cover-up done, instead." Heat bloomed in his cheeks as she fixed an incredulous stare on him. "Y-You know, my brothers' tattoos were my work—I could—you know—uh…"
"Are you suggesting I let you tattoo over the lizard in my cleavage?" the brunette teased as the heat in his cheeks went supernova. Of course, he realized belatedly and swallowed noisily, in order to ink over the tattoo, he'd have to see her unclothed chest…which meant…oh dear Lord, surely— "I might just take you up on that someday if the offer stands." Her admission startled him.
"Y-You wouldn't—"
"Honestly, Dee," she admitted with a dry smile, "I'd trust you with my rack more'n anyone else around here."
"I's rude'a stare at a lahss's diddies uninvited." • The sudden remark—gruff and much more brogued than usual—startled Donatello from the memory. Amber stared up at him askance, visibly tired and irritable but too tired and drunk to cover up.
"S-Sorry," he stammered and pulled the sheet up for her. She rolled her eyes but accepted it, draping it over herself and wincing when it brushed her blistered skin.
"So you fergot suggestin' it," she confirmed dryly, "an' I fergot to remind ya…an' Mike fergot to remind me to remind you." He nodded, tugging at his neck and staring awkwardly off to the side. Maybe she wasn't as drunk as he thought; she was speaking pretty clearly now. Maybe he was just getting used to her odd mannerisms? Maybe she always talked like she was drunk? "I dunno about you, but I'm sick'a the fightin'. Kin we just agree to start talkin' from now on? Seriously? I'm an idjit where you're concerned but talkin' it out would'a prevented this whole mess from happening."
"Yeah," he admitted with a weak smile. "We're a pair, huh…I agree we need to start talking more and fighting less."
"Hear, hear." Though it was still early in the evening and they always had a late start to the day, both were exhausted from the emotional arguments. She clumsily scooted over, and Donnie crawled into bed next to her. "I've never been drunk before…think I'll pass on a replay. Tech chewed me out an' he was gay anyway, so no need'a be awkward over showin' the goods. Go figure."
"I take it you're just fading the majority then opting for a cover-up?" he asked, smoothing his fingertips over her frizzy scalp. She confirmed the statement, leaning into his touch.
"Anything to add?" she asked meeting his eyes again curiously. A thousand confessions were poised on the tip of his tongue—confessions, promises, all manner of admissions that he wasn't ready to voice. I'm sorry—I'm an idiot—I missed you, I want you, I need you, I love you—but he held them all back. There would be time to air all those secrets, after all, and that time wasn't now. Instead, he teasingly asked,
"Will the cover-up have a gecko?" She gave a snorted laugh.
"The Gal with the Gecko Tattoo," she chuckled elbowing him in the side. "Sounds like some weird-arse crime novel." The room previously filled with tension echoed with laughter, giggles, and giggle-snorting as the awkward couple cuddled in the darkness. Not long after, one of those voices was replaced by louder-than-usual snores as the owner passed out again, intent on sleeping off the terrible booze. As his perplexing lover snored into his side, Donatello studied her sleeping face silently, thinking hard about how to avoid a recurrence.
He and Amber were used to trouble—used to finding themselves bogged down by unending drama and crises—but was it really always going to be like that? Could there really be a future where they didn't have to fight tooth and nail for every moment of happiness? Maybe…maybe things really were changing for the better…maybe he didn't have to worry about losing her after all. As he dozed off with his lover tucked against his side, he dreamt of another life—another world—and strange dreamlike meetings that he was beginning to recall.
Donatello and Amber first met in dreams but perhaps they weren't destined to always be separated outside of them.
A grassy moonlit knoll
Starlight paints the turf silver and white; moonlight drapes pale light over the naked lovers sprawled out on their favorite crazy quilt. Fire gleams from her hair, and warmth shines in his eyes, both reveling in their freedom and closeness.
"Ah've Mistchu, Dee," Amber murmurs thickly against his lips, her hands eagerly roaming his shoulders and arms. "Wilcam hame—be'n 'way too long 'gain, ya sook—nae be'n by fer a nip'er a bosie…wha's a lass ta think?"•
"I've had a lot on my mind," the genius admits nuzzling a path downward to her bare bosom—a bosom untainted by ink or blisters. The realization gives him pause; why would her breasts be inked or blistered? "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, mi sol y cielo."• The foreign endearment is punctuated by gentle nips to tender skin, and those nips answered with soft sighs. "You've told me I need to remember."
"Yes," Amber answers catching him by the jaw and tracing the dimple in his cheek. All around them, the air cools, stills, and the distant cicadas fall silent. "Until you remember, you'll never know the truth." Donnie falters. What happened to her accent? Before, her tongue was thick with honeyed brogue, now her speech is uncharacteristically careful. "Remembering will lead us on the path toward that truth," she continued without notice of his confusion, "but blocking it out keeps us frozen in place, frozen in time."
"Maybe I like how we are," he points out weakly. "The way you put it, remembering would change everything…but I don't want everything to change!"
"Change is the only constant in life," the brunette reminds gently as his palms smooth up and down her bare legs—legs he's invited himself between. A playful gleam in her eyes triggers a lazy smile in his own. "If we cannot progress, we can only regress. Do you really think knowing the truth could drive us apart?"
"They say curiosity killed the cat," he reminds only half teasing.
"—but satisfaction brought it back." He blinks at the familiar statement. Why is she talking so much? Normally by now she would have flipped him on his back and taken charge, but here she is chattering. "Remembering will change everything, but it won't be immediate—everything will happen at its own pace. We'll be stronger for—" Her insistence falls short in a pleasured cry as he slides home, and a smug grin splits his face. No matter how many times they share their bodies in this strange dream world, she is always stunned, surprised at being able to feel him the way she does. He long ago gave up on trying to understand it—some things logic simply couldn't explain, and the thick thighs locking around his hips and hauling him closer are two of those things.
"Amber…Honey…" He hesitates, poised on the brink of something that could make or break them. Grey-green eyes lock with his, encouraging and pleading; a glimmer of light reflects in them, traces of the rising sun. "I—I want to remember…please help me?" Tears welling in her eyes, she pulls him down to meet her lips—his arms wrap around her shoulders from beneath, and she holds his head tenderly to hers. Brow to brow and chest to plastron, he can feel and hear her heart pounding, and he wonders how much of this is really a dream.
"If you would remember," she whispers as they gently rock together, "you must forget the lies you've told yourself. You must discard your beliefs of our past before the truth can become clear…and when you do, Darlin', I'll be here, just as I always have been."

UP NEXT: an existential crisis on the half-shell in Standing on the Borderline

NOTES
• Nez-time, I'm'a stay sober fer it—tha' wiz crap – Next time, I'm gonna stay sober for it—That was crap! This is an unholy mashup of Ozarks-Midwestern twang and Scots with a little extra slurring for good measure.
• Ah'm no' drunk—Ah'm foggin' blootert! – I'm not drunk, I'm fucking blootered! [Blootered = Scots slang for very drunk]
• I's rude'a stare at a lahss's diddies uninvited – It's rude to stare at a woman's breasts uninvited.
• Ah've Mistchu, Dee. Wilcam hame—be'n 'way too long 'gain, ya sook—nae be'n by fer a nip'er a bosie…wha's a lass ta think? –I've missed you, Dee…welcome home. You've been away too long again, you big softy…you haven't been by even for a kiss or a cuddle. What's a woman to think? Readers may recognize this from Amber's mumblings in the beginning of chapter 29: Only Time. This is a common remark from these dreams.
• Mi sol y cielo – Spanish endearment, literally My sun and sky. Don't know if it's commonly used or not, but it sounded perfect for our favorite mutant polyglot.
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