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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
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Brace yourselves, Folks - Amber's about to get smacked upside the face with the first thunderstorm aboveground since her revival in January.
Suggested Listening: Gary Allan "Every Storm (Runs Out of Rain)," Sixx: A.M. "Relief," Snow Patrol "Chasing Cars," Bob Dylan "Lay, Lady, Lay"

46: Hard Decisions and Tough Love
Friday, September 16th, Northampton, the Jones' Farmhouse
The first time Amber saw the big red barn, she was still half-asleep and dreaded that it might be the farmhouse they were going to spend the weekend in. The second time, not an hour after that mistake, she was fully awake and being shown around that barn by the excited genius who used it as a retreat and tinker shop during visits. Donatello's excitement was contagious as he led her all around the cavernous first floor room. From the insulated windows to the small bathroom and storage closet, he showed off all his work, the features he installed for convenience and comfort, and everything else he could think of. The genius was like a little kid showing his playhouse to a new friend and Amber couldn't help getting swept up in that excitement.
The moment she set foot on the staircase leading to the loft, however, a distant rumble turned that excitement to a building terror. One foot on the straw-strewn wood floor, the other poised on the lowest step, she turned to the barn's open doors, searching the sky beyond for answers and easily finding them. As she feared before, a storm was moving in - a big one, from the sound of it, and nearby…she needed to get inside. In truth, it was only a mild rainstorm and she would have been just as safe in the barn as in the house, but in the barn, the thunder was loud, close, and hard to ignore...and even if not, she spent most storms in her other life huddled in the bottom of her closet hiding like a child expecting a scolding. All these months and she was still afraid of storms.
Donnie looked back mid-sentence to see why she wasn't following him. His explanation—that is, how he managed to set up comfortable living space in the loft complete with a functioning woodstove and air conditioner—fell silent at the sight of his girlfriend's terrified eyes. "What's wrong?" he asked, but in his heart, he already knew the answer…and that answer, though it didn't surprise him, disappointed him.
"Storm's a'comin." With every step toward the door, another bolt of fear lanced through her heart. Her heart raced—her blood rushed—her lungs shuddered in quick, shallow breaths—her eyes, wide and dilated from adrenaline—darted from one end of the horizon to the other, scanning the skies for threats, but she couldn't tell for certain whether the threats she saw were real or imagined—present or only remembered. "We need—we need'a get inside, Dee—I—I—" Her panicked explanation fell short as a pair of large, roughened yet gentle hands framed her face, urging her to meet their owner's eyes.
Donnie's stomach churned at the sight of her—fear was evident on her face, fear that was both blinding and illogically intense, and all because of a little harmless thunder. Amber reached up and covered one of his hands with one of hers and squeezed it hard, trying in vain to slow her breathing as they'd practiced. It was easy enough to slow your breathing in a safe environment, and almost as easy to do it when you were only seeing pictures of your greatest fear—pictures couldn't harm you. The rain, thunder, and lightning wouldn't harm her, either, but this was a fear she'd suffered under for years—a phobia she developed long before she died on her knees. Now, faced with the object of her fear, she found herself tipping over the edge into fight-or-flight despite all the progress she'd made.
"The rain hasn't started yet," Donnie pointed out gently, sliding one hand around to her neck to rub soothingly, upward for a certain number of seconds then downward for another in a subliminal reminder of the breathing pattern she'd practiced. Sure enough, she caught the cadence and began fighting to time her inhales with the upward strokes and her exhales with the downward ones. It took a while before she could last the whole several beats before exhaling over several more—could hold that breath instead of letting herself fall to gasping and panting—but slowly she got the hang of it. As much as it disappointed him that his plans were interrupted, Donnie had to admit he was proud of the progress she'd made. When he first began working with her, she went straight from zero to panic too quickly to stave off a panic attack with controlled breathing; now she was capable of working herself from what seemed an anxiety level of high-six and an impending panic attack, even in the face of a real in-her-face rainstorm.
"We can beat the rain if we go back now," the genius pointed out gently. "The rest of the tour can wait, right?" He half-hoped she'd argue—that she'd insist on staying out in the barn and facing her fear head on—but logically, he knew that she wasn't ready for that step. That would be so her, though, starting too big and ending up paying for it…He shoved the thought away and gave her a comforting, confident smile. To everything, there was a time and a place; there would be a time and a place for Amber O'Brien to confront her fears head-on, but now was not that time.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath to center herself, Amber nodded, swallowed hard, and released his hand. The hands on her cheeks slipped away, but one found its way around her back in a protective embrace as he led the way out of the barn. As he turned back to secure the doors against the rain, Amber's eyes shot up to the sky and her pulse spiked; recognizing this, he squeezed her hip to pull her back to herself. "It's going to be alright," Donnie promised as he and Amber made their way back to the farmhouse amidst the rolling thunder with forcefully slow steps. "I'll be right here, every step of the way."
She didn't have to run and hide anymore—even if it meant dragging the stubborn woman out in the rain, Donatello would do anything he could to help her conquer her fears.
Not long after the impending rain chased Amber and Donatello back inside, Casey found the genius in the kitchen putting the kettle on to boil. He was alone; Amber was pacing the living room with all the curtains closed, jumping at every rumble of thunder and just barely staving off a panic attack. Compared to her, the mutant in front of Casey was calm, collected, and completely sane.
"What's goin' on with'er, Donnie?" Casey asked lowly, glancing out the doorway to the wild-eyed brunette pacing like a frightened animal in a cage. "It's just a rainstorm—it ain't even a big one! Da others're out on da porch watchin' da lightnin', but she's freakin' out like da world's about ta end!"
"Big storm, small storm," Donnie sighed digging through a cupboard for mugs, "the size of a phobic trigger is irrelevant, especially when you're dealing with more than just a phobia." He dug a tin of Master Splinter's sedative tea blend from a cardboard box of supplies on the counter; the stuff tasted about as good as Mikey's feet smelled but no one could discount its effectiveness. "She's got Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Casey, and she already had a phobia of rainstorms when she died." The genius paused to measure out loose herbs into a metal tea ball and plunked it into the first empty mug, then buried it in enough sugar to disguise the taste. "She's had that phobia since she was just a kid; by the time she died, it was running her life into the ground. It doesn't make sense, but phobias are illogical by nature."
Casey let the explanation sink in for a moment, curiously glancing out at the woman still pacing the living room. She was terrified beyond reason, beyond rational limits, but she was still trying to reign in her reactions. Right before his eyes, she jumped at another crack of thunder and her eyes grew wild; she stopped in her tracks, closed her eyes and forcibly slowed her breathing, exhaling slower than inhaling. For good measure, she reached out to her opposite arm and harshly dug her nails into her skin, flinching at the pain.
"The human brain cannot process emotions as effectively when distracted by tactile pain," Donnie explained as he dosed the second cup with instant coffee grounds. He saw Amber's reaction too, and recognized it for what it was; if she was already resorting to matter-over-mind, she was losing ground. "When the brain is registering an intense emotion like fear," he explained without looking at Casey, "the introduction of sufficient physical pain can sometimes override the non-physical input in favor of the physical input. It's why some people cut or hurt themselves when they're depressed or anxious—it muffles the emotional pain and replaces it with physical pain, if only for a moment. It can become a dangerous addiction if managed improperly but if a pinch can stop a panic attack, and it's used sparingly and doesn't leave any damage, the benefit outweighs the risk." He turned back to the kettle, mentally urging it to hurry up. "Amber retained that phobia from her last life, and after being killed by her worst fear, her PTSD is tied in with it. As far as I know, this is her first real encounter with a rainstorm in this life—at least the first one without several stories of concrete protecting her from it."
Casey shifted awkwardly in the doorway, glanced out at Amber again, then turned back to Donnie. "I still don't really get all'a dis." Despite the negative words, he lumbered up to Donnie and clapped one hand on the mutant's carapace in a show of support. "I don't get da big deal about storms either…but I know what it's like ta be scared, an' she's scared out'a her wits. If dere's anythin' I can do, ya just lemme know, okay?" He glanced back out at Amber again, his eyes drawn to the hallway leading to the back door, then he brightened. "Hey—I forgot, dis place's got a cellar!" His lips split in a toothy grin. "Maybe she'd feel safer dere!"
Donatello considered the offer silently, watching Amber's pacing form through the open doorway. If he'd worried that she could hear them, her lack of response at the word 'cellar' would have convinced him otherwise. She would feel safer in the cellar—after all, that's where people were supposed to seek shelter when really rough storms came through—but he couldn't shut out the memory of her admitting she spent rainstorms hiding in her closet even into her thirties...and sometimes didn't emerge from the closet until hours later, or even slept in that closet and didn't come out until the next morning. A safe place in a storm could be a great comfort…but when the storm was mild and you were fighting a phobia of storms, that safe place could just as easily become a crutch, and in time, make that phobia even worse. His mind made up, he turned to meet Casey's eyes seriously.
"Listen to me, Casey," he urged quietly, "there is no cellar. Unless a tornado drops down nearby, there will never be a cellar here. The cellar door actually leads to a storage room and it's kept locked. Capiche?" Casey shook his head in confusion, his brow furrowing as he tried to understand the genius' thinking.
"But if it would help'er—" Donnie cut him off sternly.
"It wouldn't help her; it might actually make things worse. That woman out there was so afraid of storms she used to spend hours locked in a closet—long after the rain stopped, long after any real danger was past. That safe place offered security, but it became a crutch." He heaved a sigh, turning back to his pacing girlfriend. "If she finds out this place has a cellar, Casey, she could easily spend entire visits down there, and it would undo a lot of the hard work we've done together. If we never face our fears, we can never conquer them; if she always has the option of running to safety, she'll never push herself to face her demons." The kettle whistled behind them, startling them both, and Donnie turned to pour boiling water into the two mugs. "She needs to endure the rain or she'll never stop being afraid of it…and everyone deserves to live without that kind of fear."
As the mutant stirred the water and coffee grounds into brackish sludge, Casey studied him. The slumped shoulders, the shadow-hung eyes, the tired, defeated expression—Donatello wanted nothing more than to steal the troubled woman away from whatever might frighten her and let her continue to seek him out every time she was afraid, but he knew it was taking a toll on her living like that. Because he cared, he was forcing her to confront her fears and making the hard decisions she couldn't yet make for herself. His mind made up, Casey nodded slowly.
"I'm still pretty confused about dis whole deal," he admitted gruffly, "'specially how she's here in da first place, but I've gotcher back. If ya think it'll help, I'll go wit'it." The vigilante gave the mutant a playful sock to the shoulder on his way past to the far counter and rummaged around for something in a junk drawer.
"Thanks." Donnie stared down into the swirling coffee in his cup and sighed. "Please tell the others about the...closet...before someone says something to her…and please just be patient while we work through this." Instead of answering, Casey returned to his side and held out a small electronic device. The puzzled genius looked it over curiously and fiddled with a few buttons; when he realized just what he held, he finally perked up. "Double-A batteries?" A moment later, Casey plopped four mismatched batteries in Donnie's other hand, grinning at the eager gleam in the genius' eyes. "This'll help, I know it will…thanks, Case."
Thunder rumbled outside, rattling the windows; lightning flickered behind the curtains. With every crack and flash, Amber's pulse stuttered anew and another distorted horror forced its way from her memory into her mind's eye. She paced frantically from one end of the faded rug to the other, with every step losing her grip on the present more and more. Chills raced up and down her spine—rain hammered the rooftop and windows, the sound amplified exponentially by her fear.
Thunder. Lightning. Rain. It was normal for a child to fear them, but when that fear continued into adulthood, a person tended to get awkward sideways glances—bereft of understanding and emotional support, they would instead bottle up that fear around others and drown in it when they were alone. Eventually, that fear would become too powerful, too vivid to be stifled, and the loved ones who never saw the moments of weakness were left reeling and disbelieving. They wouldn't understand, wouldn't see it coming, and might accuse the anxiety-ridden person of acting out for attention or being ridiculous; such disregard of the anxious person's very real emotions and fear could be devastating and could drastically worsen their troubles, adding in the complications of bitterness, anger, humiliation, and self-loathing.
Amber's case was just one of countless others like it—she loved rain as a child, once slept best when it was storming…then she was given reason to fear what she loved before. As a child, she came face to face with a vomit green sky spitting hail and torrential rain. The unexpected tornado siren was disregarded by an ignorant, reckless teacher who didn't realize what the siren meant and refused to follow the safety plan because it would interrupt her lesson. As though it was only yesterday, Amber could still hear the old woman's shrieked threats of detention and still feel the impacts of her sneakers pounding along the tiled floors to the basement door. She glanced at the shuttered windows of the living room, recalling vividly the moment she froze before the tall glass windows lining the grade school's lobby and stared down the approaching storm. Right before her, a sickened sky—a nasty blend of green, grey, and yellow that turned her stomach—split in a mocking, menacing grin of a wall cloud, and the surrounding clouds began to churn violently.
She remembered nothing after that—nothing before coming-to in the nurse's office almost an hour later and hearing her mother shrieking at the ignorant woman who put her lessons over her students' safety. The woman wasn't a native of Tornado Alley—she grew up on the west coast, earthquake territory, and somehow managed to make it three decades in Missouri without figuring out why the sirens were blowing and without getting herself killed by ignoring them. Though the rotation in the atmosphere never produced a funnel cloud capable of descending, there was significant wind damage to the area surrounding the school; the teacher wound up being replaced after that term.
Meanwhile, Amber, the child who loved storms, grew to fear them. Every time rain came down, she remembered the vomit-green sky and the menacing grin in the clouds; fear filled her heart where once she felt only joy. Years passed and Amber grew, but as she grew, so did her phobia. Her family didn't understand—her mother and father couldn't reconcile their daughter's fear with her previous love of rainstorms—and Amber took to spending more time with her grandfather than with anyone else. Now, a lifetime later, she still struggled under that same old fear…how small and weak that realization made her feel! Scoffing angrily at herself, she turned to pace the other way again, but instead, ran face-first into a familiar body—someone with a hard-armored chest and suspenders and a mug of familiar-smelling tea. The both yelped at the impact—and at the hot tea splashed on them—and stepped apart in embarrassment. "Sorry, Dee, I—" The object in his other hand made her fall silent, and she turned questioning eyes up to him.
"Uh…" he gave a sheepish grin and held the small device out to her. "It's a little old, but it's a battery-operated weather radio, fully functional, too—if any watches or warnings are posted for this area, it'll go off to warn us." Belatedly he also held out the cup of sedative tea, wincing when he realized almost half of it was spilled in their collision. "This'll take the edge off, at least, right? And if you know the radio'll go off if something does happen…maybe you'll be able to focus more on keeping your fears in check?"
For the first time since the storm began, Amber couldn't hear the thunder over the sound of her own thumping heart. The lengths that turtle would go to just to help her…how could she ever deserve him? Her eyes stinging, she bypassed both offerings and instead tucked herself into his front and reached up for his shoulders, uncaring that his bare plastron was dripping with tea and she was getting it all over her shirt. Realizing she was too choked up to say anything, he set down the mug and radio and enfolded her in his arms, nuzzling into her hair and hoping she'd forgive him if she ever found out about his newest deceit.
The loudest crack of thunder yet rang out, and this time, Amber heard it plain as day. She didn't even realize she'd jumped straight up in the air until she found herself at eye level with the familiar hazel eyes always a head above her own. Seemingly equally surprised, Donnie stared back at her but his grip on her back and thighs never wavered. "Jumpy?" he asked with a teasing smile.
"Smidgen," she answered sheepishly as he shifted her into a more comfortable grip. "Nice catch." She expected him to put her down and go about his business, but instead, he backed toward the old, lumpy sofa.
"Hang on," he warned, then slowly and carefully crouched down, easing himself back onto the sofa without ever putting her down. It was easy to say it, but much more difficult to accomplish such a thing without a hernia at the least. Settling back into the sofa, he shifted her to sit across his lap and lean back into the arm of the sofa, then dug through the cushions for the TV remote. "Maybe a movie or something will help keep your mind off the storm, huh?" he suggested as she stared at him in disbelief, still stunned that she not only jumped as high as she did but that he managed to catch her with ease. A few moments of button-mashing later, the genius emitted a wordless sound of interest—the station he landed on was showing a documentary about the Nazca Lines.
"Whoa!" Amber blurted out suddenly, her eyes finally wrenched away from his to the screen. "Y'all got the Nazca Lines here, too? Freaky!"
"Yep," Donnie acknowledged as she settled back into his shoulder to watch with him. "Did they ever solve the mystery in your world? We still haven't—a lot of people here think they're related to ley lines or aliens." Amber scoffed.
"Are you kidding?" she teased. "We couldn't even figure out who killed JFK—no way could we figure out something like the meanin' behind the Lines! General consensus back home was aliens or religious ceremonies." Just like that, the storm outside faded into the white noise—blocked out by the fascinating history and the even more fascinating being sharing that history with her. Gentle fingertips smoothed soothingly across Amber's denim-clad thighs where they crossed Donnie's lap; another set of fingertips intermittently petted her hair and back, gradually urging her closer and closer into his neck. By the time the documentary was over, the storm was long passed and the couple on the sofa had no eyes or ears for the television—they'd fallen asleep, Donnie nuzzled into Amber's hair and Amber tucked face-first into his neck, both smiling in their sleep.
"Dat's just disgustin'," Casey grumbled at April. Though his words were harsh, he wore a grin just like she did. The sight before them was, indeed, nauseatingly cute.
Night fell hours before and dinner was long past along with the rainstorm and the documentary. Now, only four people were still out of bed…and two of them were asleep on the couch in front of the TV instead of out in the barn like everyone thought. "Maybe we should wake them up," April suggested softly, inching closer to the sofa. "I don't think I've seen Donnie this happy in a while…but he's liable to get a neckache like that." As though hearing his name, Donatello roused slightly, hazel eyes opening a crack and focusing on April. "Hey," she teased as Casey headed to double-check the locks and latches on the doors and windows before heading up to bed. "You look comfy."
"I am comfy," he rasped. "My neck's killing me though."
"Mercy told me about your arrangement." April's smile was a little awkward, now, but she soldiered on ahead. "We dusted and aired out the attic and the bed has fresh linens—it's all ready for you two if you can make it up there okay."
"You didn't have to do that for us." He rolled his shoulders and neck, sighing in relief at the responding crackles and pops, and blinked away the last of the fog. Gathering Amber closer to his chest and leaning forward almost off the sofa, he slowly eased himself up onto his feet and took a moment to stretch out the kinks in his neck and legs. The old chenille sofa wasn't easy on a normal person's back, but for Donnie and his brothers—people with the added difficulty of a functioning spine and a carapace restricting their posture—it was killer.
With a whisper of thanks and a goodnight, the genius made his way past April up the first flight of stairs, then the second, narrower set to the attic. After shouldering the door open then easing it closed behind him with his hip, he surveyed the small, low-ceilinged room they'd be sleeping in for the next couple days. Moonlight filtered through the eastern and western windows, lighting his way and glinting off of the pair of glass-shielded grey-green eyes slowly opening to meet his. "Sorry I woke you," Donnie murmured as he approached the old brass bed against the far wall and southern window. "
"S'okay,- Speccy." Amber yawned, belatedly covering it, and blinked away the watering of her eyes to look around. "I'll fall asleep again in—" Suddenly realizing something, she fell silent, her eyes opening wide. "The rain stopped."
"Halfway through the show," Donnie pointed out with a teasing smile. "You didn't notice?" She gave a stunned shake of her head. Rain terrified her…yet she was too enthralled with the movie and cuddling with Donnie to even register the rainstorm. Her eyes hopeful, Amber turned to gaze out the nearest window at the sky but found herself falling short at the bed between them and the window—an old bed frame with traditional brass-beamed head and foot-boards, and glass-inset bed-knobs to boot. The queen sized behemoth was tarnished and dented and probably older than her Gran'da, but she was distracted by the borrowed words ringing in her memory.
"Yer kiddin', right?" He shook his head, gently easing her down sideways onto the lumpy, poky mattress. "Feelin' a lil' Bob Dylan, are we?" she teased scooting fully onto the bed, but the taunt fell silent as he crawled up with her.
"That depends," he answered inviting himself into the cradle of her spread thighs with a tender smile. "Do I only get to see you in the morning light, or can I reach for you in the night, too?" Comfortably chapped lips stole away her response before she could speak it, then proceeded to trail along her jaw toward her neck. No matter how hard she thought about it, she couldn't find a way to tell him the truth…she always reached for him in the night, if not in real life then in dreams. She wouldn't change it for the world. She would face down a million storms all for one more kiss, one more nip, one more desperate embrace, gentle nuzzle in her hair, or caress of her cheek or jaw.
Though she still didn't know how it happened, she knew the truth—she traveled across time and worlds to be with this wonderful, gentle, brilliant man, and if need be, she'd do it all over again, as many times as it might take. He was worth the pain of death…and even more worth the uncertainty of life.

UP NEXT: needless drama and much-needed SMUT in Burn with Me
NOTE
"I know what it's like to be scared." – In the 90's films Casey suffered a pretty embarrassing case of claustrophobia, and the '07 series had some hints of a fear of fire as well. This story's Casey draws pretty heavily on those versions of him. Paramount-verse Casey gave the Heebie-Jeebies...he was too...pretty...and clean...and charming. I mean, come on, half his appeal is that he's a manky socially-awkward meathead with no filter, he's not a blonde prettyboy with a swanky car! Urk.
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A New Lease on Life