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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
- 49
- 50
- 51
As of this chapter, no recent edits done, just uploading/reuploading for now.
Suggested Listening: My Chemical Romance "The Light Behind Your Eyes," The Beatles "In My Life," The Calling "Wherever You Will Go," The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus "Your Guardian Angel"

49: The Only Constant is Change
Wednesday, October 26th
Date: 11.9.2016
Time: 17:45:05
A. O'Brien experienced yet another restless night yesterday – she woke hourly from night terrors and could not bring herself to discuss the occurrences in such despite prodding. She has become more forthcoming about her symptoms over the last few months, but details can still be too intense for discussion.
Over the past 5.5 weeks, she has experienced a drastic increase in symptoms, including several that were previously improving.
- 57% increase in night terrors/nightmares; 72% decrease in hours of rest.
- 49% increase in frequency of panic attacks; 56% increase in intensity of same.
- 74% increase in frequency of intrusive memories and flashbacks.
- 60% increase in anxiety and depression, and 74% increase in survivors' guilt-related symptoms.
- 25% decrease in appetite
At this time, there has been no increase in alcohol or caffeine consumption, but she has been experiencing increased fatigue due to nightly dreams of the world she left behind.
Donatello stared down at Amber's home treatment chart, silently contemplating the words before him in resignation. Many years had passed since he last felt so useless—so helpless—and it wasn't a feeling he bore easily. A faint whimper at the darkened side of the lab drew his attention. The exhausted woman tucked into the Lab's spare cot thrashed in her sleep, mumbling and whimpering in a brogue-thick tongue at yet another dream of her loved ones falling apart.
She was already sleeping poorly to start with thanks to all her anxiety and too much caffeine. Now, she was lucky to get an hour or two between nightmares of the world she left behind. Donnie's eyes softened in regret, taking in the weariness evident in his lover's sleeping face; only 5:45 in the afternoon—a scant few hours after the family rose for their day—and Amber was already to exhausted to argue when he insisted she take a nap. If she were anyone else, this mightn't have been cause for worry, but Amber was stubborn when it came to her own well-being. It was something they had in common, but like her, he was a bit overprotective of those he cared for—he'd rather tick her off than let her drive herself into the ground.
"Aar'n," the sleeping brunette muttered thickly, thrashing back and forth as though fighting something her ninja lover couldn't see. "No—no, gi'way—co'way frae thur—co'way a'reddy!"♦ Without hesitation, Donnie abandoned her chart for the moment and crept over to the cot, tenderly easing her hair out of her face and trying to soothe her. The sleeping brunette latched onto him for dear life, still arguing in sleep-thick words with someone she left behind. In all his life, Donatello had rarely felt more useless than he did at that moment.
He could protect Amber from herself if it came down to it, but how could he protect her from her dreams? How could she conquer her fears when those fears were so closely tied to her lost loved ones, loved ones she would never see again? No matter how he searched and scoured, the silence had no answers.
'Wilson's Creek' has run through the heart of Willsdale since before the town even came to be. Never more than waist deep during the dry seasons and clean if not potable, the 'crick' always been a favorite for local youth wanting to cool off in the summer heat.
It is not summer…it's late winter in Willsdale and Wilson's Creek is a death trap. After a short rainy autumn and even rainier early winter, the creek is at its deepest, nearly six feet deep in places. Ice covers the surface of the water, but a scant half-inch below the surface, the water is still running, sluggish and just above freezing. Every local with half a brain knows to stay away from the creek in wintertime—knows that the muddy banks freeze and grow slippery, and that the slightest pressure would shatter the ice and send everything atop it into the swollen and freezing waters. Many a life have been claimed by the creek in the wintertime, and many are those who've chosen that route out of despair.
Knowing all this only worries Amber more…after all, Aaron Willis has no reason to be out on the banks of Wilson's Creek in winter, much less alone. The woods around the creek is silent, still, and the blond's halfhearted mumblings seem loud in the silence. "I've been tryin', Amber," he admits aloud staring into the murky green water below the ice. "I swear, I been tryin'…it just—it ain't gettin' any better…it's jus' gettin' worse." He reaches up to his overgrown and unkempt blonde curls and harshly ruffles them, heaving a sigh. "I lost you…I lost Ross…you were—you two were everythin' to me…how can I keep going on like this?"
"You have to try, Willis," Amber urges softly, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder but flinching when her hand just passes right through it. "Please…ya gotta keep goin' on—ya gotta keep livin' without us!"
"Yer Mom says it's my fault, ya know," he adds without any sign he heard her…after all, he can't hear her. The living cannot hear the dead, not even when they most need it. "She says I should'a kept a closer eye on ya. I should never'a let ya out'a my sight…I should'a made ya go home to'er—"
"Mum's full'a shite, Willis." Amber tries with everything she has to get her hands on something, anything, just to show him she's there. "Don't listen to 'er—My death wasn't yer fault, it was all mine." Her fingers pass through another slimy rock, and she huffs in frustration.
"Sometimes…sometimes I feel you." Aaron draws his knees up to his chest, the confession making him sound so much smaller than his five-foot-seven farmboy build. "Sometimes…it's like I can hear ya—I can feel you near me, close enough to smack me upside the head." What she'd give to be able to smack him upside the head right now… "Are you still here? Are ya really here with me…or…" He sighs, the sound followed by the rustle of rough fingers driving into tangled curls. "I'm losin' it."
Amber turns to unleash another reprimand he won't hear but freeze. His eyes—bright blue and never trained on the same target—are swollen, red, and brimming with tears. Old salt stains trail down his unshaven cheeks and vanish into his coarse reddish winter beard. No…Aaron Willis wouldn't…surely he… No matter how she argues it with herself, she knows the truth. He lost both his best friends—his partners in crime, practically his family—and as if that wasn't enough, he may even have lost his home in the same storm that destroyed hers. This Aaron is nothing like any other she ever saw before because he has suffered more than the Aaron she knew ever did. He's depressed, heartbroken, lost, and unpredictable…Though the Aaron she knew wasn't averse to letting his sorrow show, he would never lose himself so completely that he'd never find his way out.
Anyone who goes to Wilson's Creek in the winter time goes there because they never want to leave; now Aaron Willis, heartbroken and desperate, stares down into the murky water beneath the thin ice, his bloodshot eyes resigned and his knuckles white on his knees. Amber protests—pleads for him to see sense—flails about trying to get her hands on something, anything to prove her presence and fails every time. As the world fades into stabbing shades of black and grey, Aaron clambers to his feet…and shuffles away from the half-frozen river toward town. He is safe…but for how long will he remain so?
The living never hear the cries of the dead; the dead can never defend the living, not even from themselves.
By the time Amber realized where the screaming was coming from, she was already tucked into Donnie's arms and trembling into his shoulder. It took a while before she could fight off the tears—before she could get out a single word that wasn't broken by a sob or hiccough—but eventually, she managed. He didn't ask what happened—this wasn't a new situation, after all—instead, he did everything else he could. He held her, shushed her, petted her mussed hair and rubbed her back, and whispered promises that she knew he couldn't keep. He couldn't make this better, no matter how he tried…nothing could make it better.
"Are you alright now?" he asked when it became clear she couldn't speak. "Is there anything I can do to help?" Amber's eyes burned, and she shook her head; the truth hurt.
"I'm not alright…and there's nothing anyone can do." The genius struggled to swallow back his helplessness; he fought back his despair at the emptiness of his lover's eyes and the broken whisper of her voice. He knew the name she woke up screaming—she was dreaming about Aaron Willis again and whatever happened in the dream was even more traumatic than usual. If this dream was like so many others of late, Donnie was sure Aaron was falling apart, perhaps even in danger. What hurt was that Amber wouldn't tell him about it—she never really confessed her dreams about Aaron and barely shared the ones about her family. Nightmares of her family, he could understand not wanting to share, but Aaron wasn't family; though he was sure it was nothing, Donnie wondered what her reluctance on that front might mean. He met Amber less than a year ago but she grew up with Aaron Willis. A lifetime was plenty of time to fall in love with someone…
"There's no burnin' there." The unexpected statement startled Donnie back to himself, and he found Amber staring him down despite her shorter stature.
"Pardon?" A quick, amused breath heffed from her lungs at his confusion and she gingerly reached up to cup his cheek; he covered her hand with his own, searching her eyes for answers to the questions he couldn't voice.
"Aaron and I are friends," she explained, "nearly family. He an' Mercy an' I were inseparable, an' now he's all alone…he never did well with bein' alone. I love'im, Dee, jus' like I love Mercy, an' Mikey, an' Leo, and yer Dahd…" She wrinkled her nose. "…maybe even Raph…jury's still out, I might just wanna hit'im."
"You love your friends and my family," Donnie repeated slowly but cut himself off before asking. She was a mess right now…she didn't need to be pushed. After all, he'd never told her as much in words, either…she'd tell him when she was ready…
"…an' you too." Three small words—only three tiny, insignificant words—how those three words made his heart stutter! Eyes wide in astonishment, fingers trembling against hers, he searched her expression for any reason to question what he thought he heard. His lips felt dry enough to crack and his tongue dipped out to wet them but they promptly dried up again.
"A-Are…are you…" He shook his head, forcing a swallow and trying not to get his hopes up. Finally, after weeks of being tormented by near-constant dreams and disasters, Amber smiled—granted, it was small and crooked, and her eyes were watering, but it was a smile nonetheless.
"Donatello, ya silly braw speccy,"♦ she teased, "do ya really think I'd be so stubborn about ya if I didn't love ya? If I didn't, I wouldn't be here—I wouldn't be tryin' so hard to do this right…" She released his cheek with a wince and turned to stare down at the rumpled sheets. "I told ya before," she reminded, ashamed, "I made some mistakes in my other life. I had a lotta exes, an' I didn't really love any of'em. It was just physical, emotions were a deal-breaker from the start…when your heart's already taken but yer hormones drive ya crazy, you can make some pretty big mistakes." She met his eyes again, nervous and seeming to consider her words and carefully arrange them before she spoke them. "You're worth takin' it slow…sometimes I wonder if ya grew out'a spores like a mushroom but yer everythin' to me…I love ya, Donnie."
Grew from spores like a mushroom?! The phrase stunned him and his teeth clacked shut in surprise. Granted, it sounded like just another of her odd, off-the-wall teases—they both had many equally ridiculous jokes and nicknames for one another after all—but something about the phrase sounded familiar. He was sure he'd never heard that since she arrived in January but something about the words tickled from the litany of forgotten—then remembered—dreams about her. Instead of acknowledging the coincidence, though, he force away the realization until he could more closely examine it and stole her lips in a slow, tender kiss.
"Te quoque amo, Dearest."• Sure enough, she stared up at him in confusion, one eyebrow arching up almost to her grey-shot hairline. "No? Perhaps ti amo anch'io?"• A sly grin tugged at the corners of his lips at her complete and absolute befuddlement. "Je t'aime aussi?• Watashi mo anata o aishitemasu?"•
"English, Donnie," Amber grumbled without any fire, "or so help me, I'll start spittin' Gran'Da's Gaelic at ya so fast ya'll spin…bloody smart-arsed polyglot." He wasn't intimidated—she already confessed once before that her knowledge of Gaelic was spotty at best and her pronunciation obnoxiously flawed. Content that he'd sufficiently teased her for the time being, he laughed low in his chest, bending to rub noses with her.
"I love you, too, Amber O'Brien…my crazy little Celt."
Another time, in a world that isn't really a world
"It's jus' sex, Dee." The bitter insistence came from a familiar face—an aging face with tired bespectacled eyes trained somewhere beyond the fog filling the valleys below. On the other half of their favorite worn crazy quilt, Donatello stares out across the misty hollers as well, his every sense focused instead on the confusing woman beside him. "If he ain't you, love ain't got nothin' to do with it—it's just scratchin' an itch, nothin' more."
"I don't like it, Amber," Donatello admits under his breath, studying her askance. When they first met, they were children still losing their baby teeth; now he is twenty-two but Amber has been visibly aging faster than him. She's at least thirty, half-crippled and mostly greyed, and for the last few years, well beyond curvy and into obese. She is tired and broken, seemingly little like the braided child he met long ago in these strange shared dreams of theirs.
Partly due to this injustice, he can't fight the doubt anymore. She's probably nothing but a bizarre fantasy...but his feelings remain unchanged. He loves her regardless, for who she is not what she is. Still, he can't be there with her outside this strange dream world…if she even exists outside his dreams. He was the one to push her to find someone else, anyway—someone who could be there for her more than in dreams. He loves her, she loves him, but what good is love you can't act on unless you're asleep? "Did you even give him a chance? What happened with this one, anyway?" He leans on his knees, tired of pretending to admire the scenery; how can anyone be fascinated by trees when someone they love is slowly destroying themselves? "His name was Matt, right?"
"Mort," she corrects with an arched eyebrow. "He asked me to marry'im. No warnin', bought a big-ass man-ring, told all'is buddies we were gettin' hitched, then he dragged me to the cemetery an' took a knee in front'a 'his mama's grave.'" Donnie blinks in surprise, but that surprise becomes a cringe at the last sentence. "His mama wasn't named 'Bubba Brown.'"
"Well, that's weird." Maybe losing this one isn't such a mistake—he sounds like crazy stalker material.
"He's weird," Amber retorts. "I told'im from the start emotions were a deal-breaker, but he was sure I didn't mean it 'cuz I'm female. Apparently, anythin' with a uterus can't know what they mean 'til someone with balls tells'em what they mean. Who'd'a thought?" Donnie face-palms at the sarcastic revelation; yep, this one was better dumped than kept, if only because Donnie couldn't kick his ass for being a pig. "Did I tell ya he thinks he's a werewolf an' he hatched out an egg?"
"Hey—I hatched out of an egg!" He gives her a light shove in mock-offense instead of remarking on Mort's obvious psychotic delusions. "Humanist!"
"Aw, here I thought ya grew from spores like a mushroom." The moment the tease left her lips, her face fell. "I love ya, Dunnie," she reminds him solemnly, "an' I ain't settlin' fer no one else…it's one thing to scratch an itch but…I won't marry anyone I don't love, anyone who can't set my heart on fire like you do…I just…" She sighs, turning back to the misty hollers below—focusing on nothing and seeing even less between the shimmering in her eyes. "I just wish we could someday get past this—that we could really be together, not just in dreams, but in real life." Yet again, Donnie wonders if Amber really is just a dream—if somewhere, in another world, there exists a woman seemingly made just for him. Instead of admitting his doubts yet again, he wraps one long, lean-muscled arm around her back and pulls her into his side.
"Me too, Braids." He nuzzles nose-first into her coconut-scented hair to block out the smell of her unshed tears. At one time, he wasn't crazy about the sickly-sweet smell of coconut; now, anytime he encounters the fragrance, it reminds him of Amber's shampoo and, thus, Amber herself. "Maybe it'll happen someday," he suggests, rubbing her opposite shoulder. "We met, right? We've been able to keep in contact, haven't we? Maybe there's hope yet…?" Hesitant grey-green eyes drift up to meet his.
"What if you've forgotten me, though?" she asks weakly. "I know you've got doubts now…I've had'em myself, but what if—God, what if do someday meet and we've forgotten each other?"
"Then we'll do everything all over again." He cups her full, round chin and brushes his thumb along a spattering of freckles along her cheekbone, then ducks down to press a tender kiss on her still-parted lips. When they part he doesn't feel the smile he wears—a smile purely for her benefit. "How about this," he suggests, "if either of us forgets, the other can remind them. We'll share something we would never tell anyone else as proof. Hm?" Amber hesitates, unsure of how such a thing could work. "Let's see…"
He thinks it over hard for a moment, scrounging his memory for something so absolutely horrifying he'd never willingly share it with anyone, and finally comes up with a viable option. "You know my brothers and I were assigned our weapons based on our strengths, weaknesses, and temperaments, right? Raph was assigned sai, Leo swords, and Mikey nunchaku…but I'm the only one of the family assigned a single weapon instead of a pair." Amber blinks in surprise, clearly wondering how she never realized that before. "We didn't start serious training until we were about nine or ten, but Dad started us on light training before you and I even met. His first choice for me was Tonfa, another weapon used in pairs." Despite the embarrassed burning under his skin, Donnie shoots a cheeky dimpled grin at Amber. "The first time I used them in practice, I gave myself a concussion. I invariably managed to injure myself with them until he took them away." An embarrassed giggle-snort bursts up through his throat and shnerks out his nose. "That's how we figured out I have hyperopia and can't see an inch in front of my face without glasses."
A pregnant pause stretches between them, and finally, he works up the nerve to look over at Amber; she's smiling but not even looking at him. "For what it's worth, far-sighted or not, your eyes are marvelous…" She glances up at him, her smile widening to show a few poorly-aligned upper teeth. "Besides—I'm near-sighted, you're far-sighted—even if we both lose our glasses at the same time, we're set so long as we're together, right?" Her smile fades and she turns back to the distant horizon—dusk is falling over the hills and hollers around them, and shades of grey and lavender streak across the dimming skies.
"You know I don't exactly hide embarrassing stuff like that," she reminds with a weak shrug. "Uncle Bart taught me if ya get caught with yer barn door open, it's better to tell'em 'go catch the cows' than get embarrassed. I don't have any embarrassing moments I can share that I can swear no one else'll ever hear of…there's only one thing I know that might work…somethin' I've never told anyone, not even my Gran'Da. I honestly planned to take it to my grave." She leans closer into his side, subconsciously reaching down to rub her right knee, remembering. "I've told you about the accident—about the drunk kid who clipped me with a van…but I didn't tell ya 'bout Clayton Gregory."
"Clayton Gregory?" Amber nods, her eyes weary.
"I wasn't the only one that guy hit…I was just the one who survived it. Clayton Gregory was a business student in his last year—he came from a pretty poor family an' got in on scholarship—we dated a few times but nothin' came of it, obviously." She pauses, collecting herself. "I was walkin' home after a shift at the campus library an' wasn't payin' enough attention—the van clipped me, sent me flyin' a ways—I survived, but with permanent damage to my knees, spine, an' some other fun shite. It wasn't 'til I got out'a the hospital that I found out the driver hit someone else first—Clayton…" She chokes up, shaking her head. "He never saw it comin'…he coded in the ambulance. A bright kid like him, with so much promise, an' a complete mess like me…an' I'm the one who drew the long straw."
Donnie isn't sure what to say. Finally, he settles for, "You never told anyone?" Amber shakes her head.
"I knew the driver, Dunnie," she admits in an almost whisper. "He was a spoiled rich kid an' my most frequent challenger in that runnin' 'outdrink the crazy Celt' bet…challenged me almost weekly an' I drank'im under the table every time. I never even considered he might'a had a drinkin' problem or that he might'a been drivin' home afterward…I must'a made three hundred bucks off'a him the last time, but when I found out about Clayton, I couldn't keep it—I had someone get it to his parents…for funeral expenses." Haunted eyes meet Donnie's. "I held that challenge to keep the cabinets stocked with somethin' other'n noodles, but if I ever thought it would'a hurt someone, I'd've been happier starvin' an' livin' in a box. No, I never told anyone…they already pity me too much, and if they knew about this, it would only get worse."
All around the hills and hollers stars wink into view as the sky goes dark. The couple on the hilltop soak in the cooling breezes, each wondering what to say and each finally coming to the same conclusion. Silence can be sweeter than the sweetest conversation if only it is shared with the right person…after the painful confession before, this silence they share is the sweetest yet.
Brooklyn, the Hardys' loft, shortly after Sunset
For a while, all he could do was stand there, staring at her, and wondering how on earth he got so lucky. Even so, he couldn't come up with a satisfying answer.
Leonardo's feet were frozen in the open doorway, the dark bedroom lit only by the flickering of the muted television and the dim glow from the hallway; his eyes were fixed on the lovely dark-eyed woman dozing upright tucked in her bed. He and Mikey promised yesterday to come visit this evening, but when they arrived, the loft was practically dead—the only apparent light came from the hallway's ceiling fixture and the only sound outside Bree's room was Bosco's snoring. A mere few weeks ago, Leo would have been disappointed, maybe a little hurt that Beverly wasn't awake to greet him. That, however, was weeks ago—now, he was content just knowing she was there—just admiring the flickering light dancing across her olive-toned skin and dark hair. She was tired and weak, granted, but she was alive…alive, recovering, and his.
"Please close the door." The sudden address startled him from his mushy musings about the flash of bare shoulder peeking up from the neckline of her tunic. Her voice was quiet and more than a little hoarse, and her eyes scrunched shut behind her glasses.
"Did I wake you?" Leo asked just above a whisper; Beverly shook her head. He hesitated, debating whether going along with what she asked was a horrible idea or possibly a good one. He'd been in her room before but never with the door closed. A few months ago, the idea wouldn't have bothered him—there would have been no doubt of whether or not he could be trusted with her and a bed both in close proximity—but now…
"Oh, for Seurat's sake, Leo," Bev grumbled, her eyes cracking open just enough to shoot him a bleary hairy-eyeball glare. "My head's splitting—I'm hurting too much to steal your virtue." He winced and eased the door closed as requested.
"Mine's not what I'm worried about," he remarked under his breath.
"I'm blind, not deaf," she deadpanned as he approached and cautiously, tensely sat on the very edge of her mattress, cheeks a darker green than usual. "Fortunately for you, mine's safe, too, thanks to this bloody migraine."
"You have a migraine?" Leo blanched, already connecting dots that needn't be connected. "Have—"
"It's not a relapse." Bev's sarcasm had faded into gentle reassurance. "I just had my monthly scan last week—the abscess gone, they don't come back like cancer. I've had migraines since I was a teenager; that's why the abscess went unnoticed so long. This really is just a migraine." Leo sighed, turning away. "I could no more expect you to stop worrying about me than expect you to pluck down stars from the sky, but please trust me to keep on top of this?"
His eyes drifted to hers again, pupils blown wide from the darkness of her bedroom and her migraine, and he reluctantly nodded. She rewarded him with a Mona Lisa smile and scooted further toward the opposite side, then patted the spot beside her. After a moment's consideration, he accepted the invitation, first toeing off his shoes so they wouldn't dirty her linens. Without any of his overthinking, she curled into his side, ducking under his arm and laying her cheek over his heart. Despite her propensity for wordplay and reading people Beverly always seemed immune to the overthinking that plagued him. From the day he saved her life in the subway to this very moment, she had the utmost faith in him and his intentions; even now, she sought comfort in his arms without considering that those arms could easily end her. Her trust in him was humbling, if more than a little concerning. "Comfy?" he teased instead of confronting his morbid thoughts.
"Quite," she answered simply, fixing her eyes on the television screen again.
Once he was able to pry his eyes away from the lovely woman tucked into his side, Leo took in the show as well only to grimace in horror. Onscreen, a group of people crowded around a metal table bearing what looked like either a very juicy mummy or a slow-roasted human.
"What are you watching?!" he demanded in disgust, glancing down at the captions at the bottom of the screen. 'Fourteen kills,' the text read, 'all women—drugged, strangled, left to rot near rural, interstate highways. Every one of them missing the toes on their left foot. They were gnawed off.' Leo turned back to the fascinated brunette in absolute disbelief. "A serial killer who eats toes?! Seriously?!"
"What?" Bev asked as though not seeing anything wrong with the idea. "They found that guy in a furnace chimney with a gut full of toes. Good episode, the plot twist actually caught me by surprise the first time." She finally looked back up at him, one elegant black eyebrow arched pointedly. "Some people enjoy romantic comedies and soap operas—I enjoy a nice violent crime drama."≈ Still cringing, Leo turned back to the grisly scene playing out on the screen—now the mummy's severed head was being projected in gruesome detail on a computer screen in a lab that would probably make Donatello swoon.
'I've been rehydrating Smokey the Bear's head since yesterday—it makes it easier for identification.' "
That's not weird at all," Leo muttered, unable to turn away from the train wreck before him.
"Oh quit whining," Bev grumbled. "No one's making you watch it. If you're that squeamish, I could just throw on something less gory—maybe we can find something with talking animals and smiling flowers." He scoffed and turned to fix her with a withering glare but found her smirking up at him over her glasses. "…then again," she suggested playfully, "Netflix just added a new season of Space Heroes." His irritation fading, he chuckled, urging her closer and rubbing his palm up and down her far shoulder.
"Now you're speaking my language," he grinned down at her. "How's this—we'll finish this one, then alternate. Hm?" She nodded, reaching up to tuck away a lock of hair fallen in her eyes; he beat her to it, letting his fingertips linger at her temple then trail down to cup her jaw. A faint but fetching blush bloomed in her cheeks at the gesture, driving him to lean down and steal her lips. After a slow, chaste kiss that ended far too soon, he drew back and turned back to the television, but instead of watching, found himself staring right through it for the most part. Naturally, Beverly noticed.
"What's on your mind, Hogosha?" she asked softly, cupping his cheek and turning his eyes back to hers. "You're tense—more so than usual. Are your brothers and sisters not well?" Not for the first time, the ninja was unnerved by how easily she managed to read him.
"Things at home…" He sighed, unsure of how exactly to put the problem into words. "…well, they've been rough. Something's happening with my family—something to do with Amber and Mercy and the world they left behind—and I have no idea how to even begin to understand it."
"Amber and Mercy came from another world." Bev recalled their conversation so long ago about just that; though she still found it hard to believe, there was the matter of the alien invasion not so long ago. "Are they happier here? Are they wanting to return? –or could they return even if they chose to?" Leo shook his head, subconsciously tugging her even closer as though afraid she would be snatched from his arms.
"Beverly, they died…the dead don't rise once they've fallen. Their presence in this world makes no sense as it is—it goes in the face of everything we're been taught about mortality and spiritual existence." Recalling the rest of the question, he steadied himself and answered, "they seem to be happier here. Mercy won't talk about her past but I've seen enough to suspect she was being abused; Amber was crippled, falling apart, and stagnating in her hometown." He said nothing about Amber's confession that May—of knowing and loving Donatello long before she made it to their world. Some things even he couldn't believe. "I don't think they're homeskick," he added. "They're just worried about the people they left behind." Bev made a wordless sound of understanding, focusing on the dusky brown of his exposed plastron. "Things are changing, Bev…and I'm worried what that means."
"A wise man once told me that change is the only constant in life," the solemn woman reminded as she traced the divots and whorls in the keratin shielding his heart. "He said change is neither good nor bad, entirely amoral and faultless." Leo chuckled.
"You sure he wasn't just a wise-ass?" She abandoned his plastron for his face, tenderly tracing the very edges of the paler skin spreading outward from his muzzle. He fell silent, his eyes locking on hers, sure she could feel his pulse pounding through his skin.
"He is that," she admitted with a gentle smile, "but his heart and mind are much wiser than his temper and mouth would have you believe. I know you can handle this, Leonardo…you know you can handle it." Touched, he caught her hand in one of his and turned to brush his lips against the tender skin of her inner wrist. "There's that smile," Bev teased echoing his version with a wider one. "Don't let it fade away again so soon, hm?"
"If I do, I'll be sure to call you." He shot a pointed glance at the screen still flashing with unfamiliar characters. "So. Who's your favorite?" Recognizing the question for what it was—digging for information—she smirked, snagged the remote, and scanned forward in the episode. When she stopped again, a silver-haired man and an exotically lovely woman stood out in the foreground.
"Gibbs is my favorite—he's the gentleman beside Ziva." Leo studied the actor curiously, searching for clues to explain her preference; Beverly filled in the blanks for him. "His character is strong, sturdy, and incredibly stubborn, but he's a natural leader—he has a remarkable intuition about people and those he leads, even though he tends to be stern and unyielding with them. Underneath all the bluster and bravado, he's just as human as the rest—he swallows his pain and throws his everything into protecting those he cares for, even though they don't always understand or appreciate it."
Leo startled, realizing the connection. He studied the actor on-screen—from his rugged, unsmiling face to his pale blue eyes—and turned to Beverly with a question in his own. "Being a leader isn't easy." Her slow-spreading smile confirmed his belief.
"Nothing worth doing ever is easy," she pointed out with a sly smile, "but the outcome is always worth it…and you, my dear, are worth it."
Later that night, Leonardo woke with a start when the innuendo in her statement belatedly hit him like a sucker punch. Eyes fixed on the warped steel ceiling of his bedroom in a wide, panicked stare, he tried to ignore the obvious and struggled not to wonder how she knew. He loved Beverly…and the simplest antonym for easy was HARD.

UP NEXT: Amber gets the kind of answers she doesn't want in The World We Left Behind

Glossary
♦ "Aar'n—No—no, gi'way—co'way fra ther—co'way a'reddy!" – Aaron—no—no, get away—come away from there—come away already!
♦ Braw – Scots beautiful or good-looking. If ya don't remember what Speccy means after all this time it just means he wears glasses.

NOTES:
• According to the online translator I used, these ALL translate into English as "I love you, too," but I can't guarantee their accuracy.
- "Te quoque amo." – Latin
- "Ti amo anch'io." – Italian
- "Je t'aime aussi." – French
- "Watashi mo anata o aishitemasu." – Japanese
…yes, Donnie's showing off his big-ass brain, lol.
Lastly, the show described here is an episode of NCIS—"Smoked" from Season 4.
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A New Lease on Life