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A New Lease on Life	By : Ghost-of-a-Chance Category: +S through Z > Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Views: 3159 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own TMNT, any of its characters or devices, or any songs/books/movies referenced. No money is made from this story. I DO own any & all OCs included in the story...and a Woozle.

Chapter List
- 45
- 46
- 47
Warning: some thick accents in this chapter, the worst marked with ♦ and glossaried.

Suggested Listening: Red "So Far Away," Adam Lambert "Can't Let You Go," John Legend "Stay with You"

45: Freaky Dreams and the Farmhouse
'Where am I?' Amber studies the landscape around her in confusion, searching for clues. Rolling hills decked with fog—weed-strewn unkempt yards—the distant smell of mist and manure—a thicket of low green trees surrounding her, each hung with clusters of white blooms…home. She's home, in the Willsdale she left behind. Marveling at this impossibility, she studies the scene in confusion, wondering how she's come back. She's dead in this world…isn't she?
The scene changes with a dizzying speed—the new place is a dark parlor, the heavy floral curtains drawn to block out all light, all but one. Before the only un-shuttered window, a rocking chair creaks back and forth, back and forth, the aged occupant staring blankly out the window before him. His greying beard and sideburns are long past due for a trim, and his normally neat hair—grey with a little black remaining, like damp earth peeking through the fog—is entirely unkempt. Bright blue eyes—once they were lake blue, Amber recalls in dismay, but now those eyes have faded to a murky foggy grey-blue—the eyes are focused somewhere beyond the window he stares out, perhaps on a distant memory.
"Gran'Da?" Amber mutters thickly inching toward the wizened man, caught between hope and fear. "Gran'Da, it's me—ish yer Ahmber, Gran'Da…"♦ No response from the man in the rocker—not even a twitch of once bright eyes. Amber creeps up beside him but still, he gives no response. Finally, it hits her that this is another of her strange dreams—another dream of being home with her loved ones, but unable to make contact.
Resigned to being unable to make any contact with her beloved grandfather, Amber steps around behind his chair, following his eyes. Glen Devon's eyes are focused on a familiar sight: beside her parents' home lay a fallow field, and on the other side of that field, the town cemetery. Slowly rocking in place, Glen stares out beyond the field, beyond the starlings fussing on the phone lines and the trash blowing along the street, all the way to the cemetery his only granddaughter is buried in.
Before Amber can fully come to terms with this, the scene changes again in a whirl of shades of grey. Now she's upstairs in another room hidden from the sun. Dusty grey paisley curtains block out the light—grey, her favorite color in life and in death, and the color she insisted on decorating her bedroom in as a child. The room has not changed since the day she moved out—not a single piece of furniture has been moved.
A large form sprawls across the twin bed still made with old floral sheets—a woman with frizzy auburn hair strewn with blonde, weeping into the musty pillow. Sorrow has stolen the color from the tubby woman's vibrant hair. "Mum…no, not you too!" As before, the living have no ears for the dead, and Ginny O'Brien continues to weep without notice of the ghost in her midst. "This can't be happening—why'm I seein' this?"
This time, she expects the change—the whirl of color and light doesn't take her by surprise. The sudden transition from silence and darkness to noise and light is dizzying—dim overhead lights, blinding neon signs along the walls, bright lights lining the ceiling over the bar—The Staggering Rat Pub, the local watering hole her Uncle Bart owned and operated, and the very bar she, Aaron Willis, and her father all frequented at one time or another.
The stench of stale beer turns her stomach, but even more so, the man hunched over at one of the rickety tables. Half-greyed dark curly hair, worn flannel and faded jeans, an ever-present aura of negativity and 'don't touch me'… "Da?" Amber mutters at the unhearing man, weaving between the dusty tables to reach him. Grey-blue eyes stare down into a tankard of craft beer—Samuel Adams' Boston Lager, from the smell of it, Douglas O'Brien's favorite beer—grey-stubbled always-frowning lips are instead formed in a solemn, hard line. "Da, can ya hear me? It's me…" The lack of response hurts—physically closes off her windpipe and tightens her chest, "Goddammit, say somethin'! I'm right here, I'm—"
"Kin I gitcha a tawp-awff?"♦ The waitress's accent—somewhat similar to the one Amber recognizes from Lefty Jackson—startles the unseen woman. The woman is one Amber's seen before—once in another dream occurring in this pub. Tall, slender bordering on skinny, thick red hair in a fancy updo and bottle-green eyes lined with impeccably drawn black eyeliner—As before, the woman's appearance was both familiar and foreign, and the sense of 'should know her' was suffocating. "Ya had t'a Bawston Lahger, right?"♦
Blind to his unseen daughter's confusion, Douglas O'Brien grunts an affirmation, shoving his half-empty stein at the strange waitress—a waitress wearing an ID badge emblazoned with the name "Kimber." Amber backpedals and, in her haste to escape the woman bearing the name of her counterpart, bumps the empty table behind her. Condiment containers fly as the table falls, glass shakers shatter on the floor, and every eye in the bar fixes on the disaster…the table and the mess, not the unseen woman who caused it. No one can see her—as in one other dream, she was able to physically impact something in her surroundings, but she couldn't be seen. Amber was dead in this world…did that make her a ghost?
Kimber's bottle-green eyes are painfully wide, and they dart around for the cause of the accident but find nothing to explain it…and in those eyes, Amber feels like she can see a hint of recognition. Empowered by this, she creeps around the toppled table and the mess and reaches out to the table her father sits at. With a single focused shove, she knocks over the sugar shaker on the table; with shaking hands, she carefully traces two words in the spreading pile of spilled sugar—a message for her family.
"Ab-dee…biddie…?" Kimber reads in a fearful mumble, setting down Douglas' tankard for fear she'll drop it. "T'is—t'is can't be—"♦
"Ab'dy, bide,"♦ Douglas corrects her without concern, his normally gruff voice low in awe, and he digs his wallet out of his faded jeans. "My daughter said that sometimes, 'ab'dy bides'…it means 'everybody lives.'"
"But—but wit' t'a 'ess' missin'—"♦ Sharp blue eyes pin Kimber in place, their owner shoving the half-full tankard at her.
"'Everybody, live." His face is expressionless, but Amber can see in his eyes that the message has reached him. "Never mind the top-off—I'll take my check now…I need'a get home." As Kimber hurries off for Douglas' check, he stares down at the message in the sugar. "We do bide," he mumbles under his breath, hoping against all hope that the incident is a sign that his daughter is still there…and that she can hear him. "We will bide…we jus' mi'sha, Jeanie-bird."♦ Emboldened by her success, Amber sweeps away her first words and scribbles another message for him. The room begins to turn again as his shoulders slump in recognition and his eyes bulge.
I anaw.♦ "Me, too, Da," Amber mumbles as the world fades away in shades of shadow and light. "…Me, too."
Friday, September 16th, Casey's Van
Amber swatted blindly at the source of the tickling on her nose, growling under her breath. When her eyes finally opened—shooting daggers over her being woken up—she registered Mercy Ross leaning over the back of the seat before her, grinning like a lunatic and holding the end of one of her braids. Clearly, she was tickling Amber's nose with it to wake her up. "Gi'off, Blundie," Amber grumbled at the blonde, yanking her hair loose and settling herself more comfortably in the nook of the van's back seat and the wall.
"Ya slept the whole trip, Scotch-Bright," Mercy teased with a toothy smile. "We're at the farmhouse—the guys've already carried everything inside, even." Amber blinked at the revelation, wondering how she could have slept through an entire car ride with Casey and April—specifically Casey's road rage and bitching or April's crazy driving. "C'mon in a'ready."
Still a little out-of-sorts over the strange dream, Amber collected her carry-on and unbuckled, stretched the kinks out of her spine, and stoop-walked her way from the backseat of the van to the sliding door. She hit the ground with a stumble, shook herself as though to wake herself up more, and took in her surroundings. Mercy hopped down from the van's middle seat with much more grace than her still-half-asleep friend and studied her.
"Y'okay?" Mercy asked lowly, and Amber turned to her in confusion. "Ya slept the whole ride, but yer still practically dead on yer feet…an' you were mumblin' the whole time. Some Scotchness about yer folks…an' ya said somethin' ya used to say to yer Dad, too, 'Ab—'"
"Ab'dy bides," Amber cut her off quietly not meeting the blonde's eyes. "It was just—jus' another freaky dream, Merse…I was just dreamin' about my family." She shot Mercy a forced smile. "Da was gettin' pished♦ again—nothin' normal 'bout that, huh?"
"Was yer Dad ever not drinkin'?" Mercy shot back teasingly. "He drank almost as much as my Ma."
"Yep. At least he could hold it." The two stood silently for a moment, staring at the big red barn before them. "If that's the farmhouse, I'm callin' bullshite."
"The house is behind us, Genius," Mercy laughed, swatting at Amber and leading the way around the van. As she rounded Casey's old van, the farmhouse came into view—old and rustic, but in better condition than she'd expected. She'd certainly not expected siding with peeling tan paint or two stories and an attice. Unlike the farmhouse she could somewhat remember from her previous life—snippets and flashes of memory rather than big details—she expected it to be sprawling, white-washed or bare logs, and either run-down or well-maintained. This farmhouse was built upwards instead of outward and was halfway between shabby and chic. As the two women made their way up to the porch steps, a generator cranked to life out back followed by someone darting from window to window, shutting curtains and turning on lights.
"Speakin' of freaky dreams…" Mercy jabbed Amber in the side with her elbow. "Casey said this place has a pantry." Predictably incensed by the taunt, Amber sputtered and swatted at the blonde, her face red.
"Hey, you two," Casey called out from the doorway. "If yer comin' in, behave yerselves!"
"What if I don't wanna behave?" Mercy shot back, and Casey rolled his eyes. "What? Well-behaved women rarely make history, right O'Brien?" Amber rolled her eyes and stumbled past her without a word. "Wait…I smell cows!—Jason, ya said yer neighbors have cows, right?" Before Casey could correct her on his name or answer her, the blonde took off like a shot to seek out her quarry.
A loud crash rang out from the kitchen, followed by several voices shouting Mikey's name. Already dreading what disaster he was sure to find, Casey lumbered back inside to join the rest. Just inside the doorway, Amber turned back and scanned the cloudy skies. It looked like rain. Rain was hard enough to deal with when she was underground, sheltered by miles of concrete and bedrock. Could she handle being up there with the thunder and lightning? Either way, she'd find no answers on the porch. With a sigh of resignation, she took the last step inside and let the screen door slam swing closed behind her.
The moment all the unloading was done, Mercy went missing, and when he realized this, Raphael started worrying. He searched the farmhouse for her, both stories and the attic, the yard, the barn, and even the swimming pond, but found nothing. It wasn't until he confronted Amber about the blonde's absence that he got a clue; granted, "find the cows" wasn't much of a clue, but it was the best he had. Now, half an hour after the frustrating blonde turned up missing, Raph's heart was finally calming down.
A split-log fence surrounded the sizable corral, and Mercy sat perched on the top rail in a way that made her jeans tighten temptingly over her perfectly plump backside. Following the call of dat ass, Raph crept toward the fenced-in cattle, scanning for threats and finding none. The stockyard was empty of people and the only house was barely within shouting's distance—no one could see them and no one would disturb them. Clad in flannel and jeans, her booted feet swinging girlishly, Mercy murmured praises and affections to the barrel-ribbed jersey heifer munching an apple from her hand.
"So." Startled, she turned to greet Raphael, fingertips still buried in the heifer's coarse hair by her horns; the animal grunted as though to say Who said you were done? Keep scratching! "Cows, huh?" Mercy gave her boyfriend a sheepish grin as he made his way up to the fence and leaned on it with his arms folded along the top rail.
"Cows," Mercy admitted turning back to the huge smelly animal licking apple juice off her hand. "I used to work with cows, ya know—My stepdad owned a ranch, an'e gave me a job as a ranch-hand. The lil' buggers kinda grew on me." Even as she stared out into the listlessly circling herd, Raph studied her silently, marveling at the change he saw in her. Here in the country, Mercy already seemed more like herself—more free. Her grey-blue eyes seemed more blue than grey and her smile less sarcastic, and her always-messy hair looked more windblown than disheveled. Raph learned early on that Mercy Ross was a country girl but now he had undeniable proof; she would never truly thrive in the city like he did. Not even an hour in the country, and already, the side of Mercy he'd only ever heard of was out in the open.
"I guess dey're…kinda cute," he admitted instead of acknowledging the change he was seeing. "Dey still smell pretty nasty."
"Cows're gassy," Mercy laughed, shrugging off the comment even as the heifer she just fed let out a loud, rancid belch. Raph smirked, wondering if that was why she saw nothing wrong with letting out her own belches at top volume; Mercy burped like a man, loud and proud. "Ya spend enough time around'em, ya get used to it—especially if ya ever work with calves like I did." She shot him a teasing smile. "These ladies stink, but lemme tell ya, a newborn calf smells a lot worse. Ellis usually had me workin' with the calves…didn't have to be around the other 'hands as much that way, an' Ma…" The memory sobered her, her smile falling away, but she forced herself to finish the statement. "Anytime I was around anyone other'n her an' Ellis, Ma got it in 'er head I was gonna drop my drawers for any asshole in the county. If Aaron Willis hadn't told 'er to 'er face he wasn't into girls, she'd never 've let me around 'im...he was lyin' but it meant I could at least hang out with one guy between sixteen an' sixty other'n Ellis without gettin' my hide tanned."
Silence reigned for a moment, neither person sure what to say and neither ready to break that silence. Both knew the truth—both knew the story and the secrets—neither needed confirmation of that fact, either. Finally, Raph cleared his throat and started another topic. "My new room in da Barracks is about ready, back home," he revealed snatching up a tall stalk of tasseled grass and fiddling with it. "Donnie an' Amber wanna put in some carpet, den I'm movin' in. Dey put in a lotta work on dat room…not sure how ta thank 'em enough." He glanced at the silent blonde out of the corner of one hazel eye, soldiering on ahead and steeling his nerves. "I' been wonderin' dough…da barracks is opened up mostly now, other'n yer room…an' with me livin' in my new room, I'll—I'll be right next door to ya."
"Yep," Mercy acknowledged without looking at him, a small smile playing on her unpainted lips.
"If—well, when I move out, my old room's gonna be empty. Ya think..." Raph faltered, stubbornly not looking at her, then furtively glanced at her only to hide his eyes again. "Maybe you'd want it? Ya'd be out'a da barracks, an' it's a lot bigger'n what ya got now…but ya'd stuck be between Leo an' Mikey…an' Mikey snores pretty loud." Mercy studied him askance with a teasing smirk.
"Ya know anywhere I sleep's gonna be full'a cows an' plants, right?" she pointed out with a trollish grin. "Would ya really be fine with me tapin' cows all over yer old room an' fillin' it with flowers? 'Cuz I'd do it." The idea rankled him, but not because it meant she'd be changing his old bedroom to suit her. No…it would upset him because she'd be so much farther away from him…and distance wasn't something he ever wanted when she was concerned.
"Dat ain't so bad, I guess," he mumbled, his cheeks heating up with what he was sure was a blush. "…or…or ya could just…ya know…move in with—with me…" He left the invitation hanging between them, and Mercy contemplated the suggestion—and the unspoken reasoning behind it. She always could read between the lines with him—unspoken words were as clear between them as spoken ones.
Raphael loved her like she loved him, and he wanted to keep her close…on the other hand, he understood what it was like to need space, and wanted to make sure she had the space she needed. Someday, she was sure, she and the muscle-bound mutant would wind up in the same situation as Amber and Donnie were in—sleeping together, sharing a room, waking up in one another's arms and stinking up the place every morning with their horny people reek... That time, however, wasn't now—she offered herself to him once, but he realized she wasn't ready and respected it. Their relationship was complicated already—she was fighting a lifetime of abuse and conditioning, he was fighting not to make the same mistake with her that he did with Kimber, and between them, neither of them wanted to move too fast and screw it all up. They weren't ready to take that step yet—not by a long-shot—but Mercy knew Raphael needed reassurance.
"Actually, I'm actually pretty happy in the barracks." She immediately felt his eyes on her and gave him a wide, lopsided smirk. "With you livin' there, too, I'm sure I'll be even happier." She turned to fix a flirtatious smile on him, grinning at his sheepish expression. "Besides—maybe this way it'll be easier to spend time together without the others gettin' in the way. Maybe I could sleep over once in a while to start with?"
Once again, Raph realized sheepishly, she saw right through him—she saw his fears and worries and soothed them without ever once confronting them directly. Dropping the grass stem, he reached out to her, splaying one massive hand on the middle of her back and rubbing circles into it as they watched the cattle together. "I meant what I said." Her words, quiet and affectionate, stilled him, but a strong hand laid on his mask-clad scalp, calmed him. "I love ya, Raphie…ain't nothin' gonna change that, 'specially gettin' closer. Love ain't gotta hurt, right?" She glanced at him for confirmation and he nodded with a rumble of agreement. "So what's the sleepin' situation here, anyway? I ain't been inside yet—had to see the neighbors first."
"Casey's family was pretty big. Dere's three bedrooms on da second floor an' an office on da first floor, an' the attic's finished as a guest room," Raph related with an easy smile as her hand trailed down to his neck, the fingertip rubbing and massaging away the tension there. "Casey an' April usually share da master bedroom, an' da office has a pull-out so Splinta stays dere. Da two other rooms on da second floor've got bunk beds—Leo an' Mikey share one, Donnie an' I share da other unless'e sleeps out in da barn—'e's got a futon out dere in da loft an' crashes dere a lot so I usually got da room ta myself. Da attic's got a bed, but just da one…it's pretty lumpy an' uncomf'terble an' it's always really dusty up there so we never really bothered with it—everyone'oo ever tried jus' got a backache or headache."
"Not sure how well that plan's gonna work now," Mercy remarked seriously. "Donnie an' Amber're sleepin' together back home, ya know— unless someone wakes'er up, she always wakes up with screamin' nightmares when she sleeps alone. It was loud enough havin'er wake up screamin' next door—not sure I can handle bein' in the same room with it happening." She glanced over at him with a 'why not?' expression. "Guess we could stick those two idjits in the attic or the barn…an' I could bunk with ya instead…right?" Pink streaked across her cheeks and she turned back to the circling herd. "It's just for the weekend anyway…an' if those two horndogs shared yer room, I get the feelin' you'd wanna gouge out your eyeballs an' plug your nose."
"Don't remind me," Raph cringed. The genius and the braided other-worlder never went as deep into PDA as Raph and Mercy did, other than sickeningly sweet mushy stuff, but none of the family were comfortable going in Donnie's room anymore. Even with a better oil plug-in and potpourri, the room always smelled like fresh-fucked. "Ya want top bunk or bottom, Blondie?" Mercy hopped down from the fence and turned to head back, swatting him on the rear as she did.
"Both." She grinned, knowing without looking that he was watching her backside, and threw a little more strut into her walk just to tease him.
"Both?" Raph matched her pace, hands thrust deep in his pockets. "So ya wanna take over both da beds an' make me sleep on da floor, right?" He dug one hand back out, reached over, and grabbed one rounded butt cheek, smirking at how Mercy stiffened in surprise but didn't give any sign of disapproval.
"Nope." It was hard enough thinking around him as it was; with his hand slipping possessively into the rear pocket of her jeans to cup her rump, her mind threatened to blank entirely. "Whichever bunk yer sleepin' in, I'm'onna climb in an' push ya out once ya fall asleep." His deep, husky chuckle sent a shiver down her spine and made blood rush to her cheeks. In her previous life, she was always torn between two sides of herself—she was a girly girl who loved wearing dresses, shopping, and painting her nails, but she was also a tomboy who enjoyed working with livestock and working in the garden, hated mush, and often 'rassled' with Aaron Willis. Now, in this life, she was more tomboy than ever, but Raphael's strength, confidence, attitude, and physical affections always managed to make her feel girlier than ever. The hand clutching her shapely rear gave another appreciative squeeze and urged her closer, then swept up her back to catch her by the waist. Funny how such an innocent gesture could send her heart skittering so much more than the sexually-fueled butt-grab before.
"Ya make dose jeans look hot, Kid," he teased, delivering the rumbling compliment right into her tousled blonde hair, then straightened and nuzzled her on the way back up. Determined to not break first, Mercy went in for the kill, but the breathless tone of her voice lessened the impact.
"This from the guy who showed up for our first date in a leather loincloth."

UP NEXT: some troubled times and teeth-rotting fluff in Hard Decisions and Tough Love
Words
♦ Ish yer Ahmber, Gran'Da. – It's your Amber, Gran'Dad.
♦ "Kin I gitcha a tawp-awff?" – Can I get you a top-off?
♦ "Ya had t'a Bawston Lahger, right?" – You had the Boston Lager, right?"
♦"But wit' t'a 'ess' missin"'— But with the 's' missing—
♦ "We jus' mi'sha, Jeanie-bird." – 'We just miss you, Jeanie-burd.' 'Burd' - Scots for 'girl.'
Scots/Blended
Ab'dy - everybody
Bide - stay/live. Remember that Amber tends to twist around phrases and meanings; the common phrase was roughly "ab'dy bides, let it be." Essentially she's saying 'we all live our own lives—leave well enough alone.' (I anaw - Me, too—I miss you too.
Pished / Pissed / Rat-arsed – All Scots slang for drunk.
- 45
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A New Lease on Life