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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
- 52
- 53
- 54
A quick disclaimer for this chapter, Folks: LOTS of SCOTS. Beware the Scots. (...or just hit the glossary.) Absolutes part 1 of 4
Suggested Listening: The Rasmus "No Fear," The Piano Guys "Perfect," Nickelback "Far Away"

52: Absolutes 1
Crossing Worlds is Impossible
Another world, Willsdale, Missouri
Day 1
The first thing to register was blinding light; the second was an unparalleled stench that tripped Donnie's gag reflex. By the time he was sure exhaling wouldn't lead to vomiting, the yawning portal behind them was fading into crumbling, soot-stained brick. At his side, Amber cringed, her nose wrinkled in disgust. "CRY-min-IT-lee!" She clapped both hands over her nose and mouth. "I don't remember it smellin' this bad!"
"This place normally stinks?" Don asked through his own hand.
"Unfortunately…" Amber winced. "…yeah. Willsdale's a farmin' town, an' the state it's in is sometimes called the meth capital of the country. The Missouri Ozarks are a beautiful an' amazing place, but there're enough morons cookin' crank to make the whole state reek." Still grimacing from the oppressive odors in the air, she scanned their surroundings for any sign they were spotted. They were alone, as she expected, but something was off about the space.
In utter disbelief, she stared at the ruins around them—barely visible concrete foundations, a few scattered stones, a pile of moldering wooden shake siding… "What happened to this place?" she muttered as she wandered around inspecting the deris dappled with sunlight from above and shadow from neighboring trees. "This ain't right…there was a whole wall left last I saw—an' that pile'a wood was a shed, still half-standin'! What—" Having turned a full circle, she fell short, staring at the queasy mutant half-crumpled in front of the only standing remnant of the long-burned cabin: the fireplace and mortared brick chimney. Amber gave a wide, crooked grin. "Harry Potter, eat yer heart out!"
"Really, Amber?" Donnie muttered dryly. "You seriously went there?"
"Well, someone had to." Her shit-eating grin faded into confusion as she scanned their fog-hung surroundings more closely. "Still, somethin' just ain't right here…" She wandered toward the stand of trees just beyond the ruins, and as Donnie slowly acclimated to the stinking, humid air and wandered over to her, she stopped to examine a blossoming tree. Menacing thorns littered the trunk and branches; palmate branches of odd round leaves swayed in the breeze, and long bunches of small pinkish-white blooms dangled like grapes on the vine. She reached up and caught one of the bunches in her fingertips, easily twisting off a single tiny bloom.
"This…this is a Black Locust." Her face pinched in bewilderment as she inspected the blossom closely. "But they...they—it shouldn't—!" Before Donnie could get out a single word, she bolted—sprinting through the thick tree-cover off into the distance with a surety of step that only living in the hills could bring.
"Amber, wait!" She neither waited nor answered; he took off in pursuit. Even with the way well-lit, he struggled to find his footing—the earth was hilly and rocky, thick with years' worth of fallen leaves and debris and marshy from recent rains. It seemed every step he stumbled over a rock, a hole, or an up-thrust tree root. "Hey, slow down! —hold up!"
Unhearing, deaf in dismay and disbelief, Amber sprinted through the close-growing Locust trees, ducking thorny branches and side-stepping fallen limbs. All around her were signs she recognized—signs that made no sense considering how much time had passed since her death. Though thinned, the massive grove of Black Locust trees was full of pale, pendulous blooms, interspersed with flowering Pawpaws and pink-decked Redbuds. Fog hung heavy along the lower ground, every now and then interrupted by blooming umbrella-shaped May-Apples. Off in the distance, familiar wildlife called—woodpeckers hammering and knocking, the musical trilling of Gray Tree Frogs, the raspy comb-striking bark of a grey fox posturing for its mate—No…no, this couldn't be, it wasn't possible, it—
"Amber!" Donnie's sudden shout finally broke the horrified woman from her thoughts and she turned to acknowledge him. The very sight of him, scratched and bleeding from the thorny trees and slightly limping from a twisted ankle, reminded her that he wasn't used to the terrain—he was used to the city and this hilly, rocky deathtrap she called home wasn't easy for non-natives to navigate.
"Sorry," she muttered carefully picking a few stick-weed seeds and bramble burrs from his clothing. "Something doesn't make sense, Dee…I don't understand it." He waited patiently, for once unable to fill in the blanks she left him. "Black Locusts, May-Apples, Pawpaws, an' Redbuds bloomin', tree frogs singin'…" She scoffed scanning the overgrown tree stand around her. "None'a that happens 'til late spring or early summer, but when we left home, it was late fall! I've been in yer world about ten months, Dee, it should be about February, here! There ought'a be ice-storms all over the place an' it ought'a be too cold fer much to be bloomin'!" A pair of strong hands latched onto her shoulders, grounding her.
"Honey. Breathe." It took a moment to see his point, during which she could do nothing but stare at him in dismay, but she finally conceded. "Now think about it," the mutant continued in a low, calming tone, "maybe time moves differently between different worlds. What exactly has you so worried about us arriving in Spring?" She avoided his eyes, glancing nervously to the patches of hazy sky visible between the trees overhead.
"If…If I'm readin' all this right then it's probably May…" Haunted green eyes met Donnie's again. "Willsdale's smack-dab in the middle'a tornado alley, Dee, an' May's the middle'a the first tornado season!"
"Wait, the first one?" He finally released her.
"Yeah." Amber reached up to her shoulder to latch onto one of her braids, only to remember she left her hair in a tail instead of braiding it, and her hand instead fell to tightly grip her opposite wrist. "Officially there's only one season, Spring, but unofficially there's a second, milder one in Fall—anytime ya got enough hot an' cold air collidin', ya got a chance of tornadoes, an' the transitional seasons are full of that. I'm…Dee, I'm not ready fer another May yet…"
The unspoken, hidden between the lines out of embarrassment and shame, hit Donnie like a sucker punch. "May fifteenth," he muttered under his breath, unable to meet her eyes. "You died on May fifteenth." He tugged at his neck. "Surely we didn't…arrive before then? –or shortly after?"
"No," Amber insisted. "World-hoppin's weird enough, no way can time travel be possible. That's just ridiculous…but so's the idea that I've only been dead a few weeks." She shuddered at the very thought and turned to lead him up a steep forested hill to the North. "Aaron's place isn't far, just outwith• the edges of the Locust grove…if we haul-arse, we'll make it out in no time. Stay close an' ya won't stumble as much."
After only a few paces through the underbrush, a harsh, raspy chittering noise split the air echoing as though coming from every direction—something almost like a dog coughing, rapid-fire scoffs interspersed with wheezing ku-ku-ku-KWAAY-KWAAAY calls. Several more followed in swift succession from seemingly every direction and Donnie nervously scanned the surrounding area for the source. "What on earth? That's an annoying bird call!"
"'at's not birds," Amber explained with a teasing smile. "Jus' squirrels. Ya never gotten cussed out by a squirrel before?" It took a moment for him to register that she was teasing him, then he gave a sheepish grin.
"We don't exactly frequent the same bars."
Shortly afterward, they reached the crest of the hill and drew up short. As far as the eye could see, the land bucked and dipped with tall hills, some heavy with trees and others nearly bare of vegetation; between each hill stretched low valleys swimming with thick misty fog. About a mile to the northwest lay Willsdale proper, centered on the Town Square and surrounded on every side by sprawling farmland and rippling, jutting hills and hollers. Most remarkable of all, up on that hilltop as Amber and Donnie were, they seemed on top of the very world—almost high enough to reach out and touch the blistering surface of the star just above them.
"They say that he got crazy, once, and he tried to touch the sun." Amber's voice, relating borrowed words from her last lifetime, was hushed with wonder. "John Denver was singin' 'bout Colorado but the meaning's the same here—when the sun rises over the river an' sets over the knobs an' hollers, it seems close enough to reach without the aid of wax wings."
"So this is your home," Donatello remarked in quiet awe. "It's…it's incredible…and it seems—familiar…"
Amber hesitated a moment, debating asking for an explanation, but ended up deciding against it. "See that white box at the edge of the trees?" she pointed out instead. Donnie nodded, his eyes quickly fixing on a small structure flanked by two smaller outbuildings; it wasn't far off, maybe half a mile away as the crow flies. "That's Aaron's place—we should be there in about fifteen minutes tops if we follow the path right." As they made their way down the steep side of the hilltop, though, Amber's thoughts weren't so much on Donnie or Aaron as on the world they were now in. 'Well O'Brien,' she thought to herself with a grim expression that worried Donnie, 'welcome home. Try not to gitcher arse killed this time.'
The last time Amber was in the dark, shabby trailer home, she, Mercy, and Aaron Willis were piled around his living room with takeout and the two blonds were engaged in a particularly vicious Halo match. That was a lifetime ago—Easter Sunday 2010, if she recalled correctly—and the room was entirely different. Before, the room was full of clutter but clean; now it reeked of dirty cat-boxes, cheap beer, household garbage, and unwashed bodies, dishes, and laundry. Other than the towering shelves of water-spotted game cases, the furniture, and an old, cheaply-made flatscreen TV with a spiderweb crack in one corner, the room was unusually empty...perhaps, she considered, because Aaron's trailer received heavy damage from the two storms that ended her life in Willsdale. If his belongings were damaged, he wouldn't have been able to replace much of it; he was among the stubborn sort who believed maintaining insurance was a sure-fire way to end up needing it, then suffered for it when shit hit the fan anyway.
Though he never admitted it aloud, Donatello was appalled, partly because the back door was unlocked and propped open, partly because he saw no less than three cats lounging on the sofa alone, and partly because of the state of the mobile home. Empty beer cans lined the surface of the coffee table like sloppy soldiers bombing a surprise inspection. Empty pizza boxes and beer cartons were stacked on top of the trashcan. Dirty clothes littered the floor and draped over furniture. Amber froze in the doorway to the living room, her eyes instantly locking on the sofa and the unmoving lump half-buried in cats and a familiar black and green afghan.
Aaron. Amber hesitated, one foot on the kitchen's grubby peeling linoleum, one foot on the living room's raveling and stained carpet, stunned by the sight of her dear friend fallen so far. Finally, she got herself together and crept forward, a cautious glance reminding Donnie to stay in the shadows. "Hey, Numb-Nuts," she greeted the fluffy black tomcat, reaching out to teasingly pat its backside; when it snorted and began ignoring her—his way of accepting her presence—she turned to scratch the perpetually-itchy cheeks of the twin calicoes curled up on the nearer armrest and the couch occupant's hip. "Asshat, Assbutt, you two been takin' care'a Daddy for me?"
"Why're you insulting the cats?" Donnie whispered.
"I'm not," she cringed. "Those're their actual names…Aaron's a piece'a work. There should be three more around here somewhere—Kirk's probably patrolling for mice an' Barf-Breath an' Dillweed are a lil' wary of strangers."
"I can't imagine why; with a name like that, I'd hide too." Amber rolled her eyes at him—a gesture he interpreted as something like 'preachin' to the choir'—and reached out to shake the shoulder of the body curled up on the sofa.
"Aaron." No response—of course, he stank of stale beer and old vomit, so she wasn't too surprised. She shuddered to think how he managed to reach this point—a level the awkward country boy only ever sunk to after his stepfather died and left Aaron, his mother, and his four younger sisters deep in debt and even deeper in trouble. "Aaron, please wake up."
No response from the man passed out on the sofa. Amber carefully peeled the afghan away from his face only to recoil in disgust; his reddish winter beard was long-since grown into full-on mountain man and his blond corkscrew curls were greasy and matted. 'I take it back—he's never been this bad—even after Ron died he still bathed every now and then.' These were desperate times for Aaron Willis…and desperate times called for desperate measure. "Willis! I brought yer favorite pizza an' it's got pickles on it!"
The result was instantaneous. Off-kilter blue eyes shot open wide and their owner gasped. Without so much as stopping to grab his perpetually-bent glasses, Aaron leapt off the sofa, got tangled up in the afghan and hit the floor, fought free, and took off for the kitchen like a shot. In the doorway he slowed to a stop, silently taking in the dark and empty room that didn't even remotely smell of pizza. His shoulders slumped, his face fell, and to Amber's complete disbelief, his eyes welled up. The sound of his fist impacting the wall rang through the air; Aaron crumpled to the floor, choking. Without a second thought, Amber stalked toward him and did precisely what she'd been longing to since the last time she dreamed about him: she smacked him upside the head.
"Aaron Elvin Willis!" she barked as he turned to her in absolute disbelief. "What'd I tell yer arse about gettin' pished alone?!• Ya can't hold yer liquor worth shite—you stink of vomit!" Aaron gaped at her, silent, disbelieving; his eyes darted around the room, perhaps searching for some proof he was dreaming, then landed on her again, wide and bewildered.
"Amb…O'Brien?" After the false start, the name was soft, hushed, almost reverent despite the disbelief.
"Naw," she scoffed, "I'm the ghost'a Scotch-snobs past, here ta skelp yer arse fer drinkin' without me. Yes it's me, ya honkin' mink!"• For a moment, nothing happened—Aaron stared at her in disbelief, soaking in the sight of her as though expecting her to vanish into thin air. Finally, he reacted…by poking her in the arm. Unsurprised, Amber crossed her arms, arched an eyebrow at him, and waited for the inevitable freakout when she didn't vanish right before his eyes. The realization that his fingertip impacted something solid was followed by a cascade of emotions playing across his face—joy, fear, despair, then, finally, determination.
Amber would later realize that determined glint in his eyes should have warned her about his intents; for the moment, she was taken completely by surprise, both by his sudden launching himself to his feet and the equally sudden way he planted his lips on hers, latching onto her like he'd never let go. Sputtering and cringing from the feel of his greasy beard and the smell of old vomit and older beer clinging to his clothing, Amber frantically pushed at his chest. Finally, satisfied that she was actually there, he relented and backed away a pace. Massive paws gripping her arms with surprising gentleness, he drew his eyes from hers down to her feet then back up again, reassuring himself that she was unharmed.
"How's this possible?" She led him back over to the sofa to sit, already anticipating the countless questions he surely had. "Amber, how're ya here? You—ya died! We buried you!"
"It's a long story." Amber nervously brushed a stray tendril of hair back behind her ear—raspberry blue to hide the grey. Aaron took a deep breath and flopped onto the sofa, sending up clouds of dust and cat hair.
"I've got time."
The explanation seemed simple in her head; in reality, it took the better part of an hour. By the time the whole story was told, Donnie's presence was revealed, and Aaron was off to get himself cleaned up, the sun was beginning its slow descent. His initial return was greeted by a startled shout from Donnie. "Don't diss the white 'fro," Aaron grumbled smushing his bouffant blonde curls flat to his head; in defiance, the locks sprang right back up again. His already dry hair stood out almost straight, surrounding his head with a frizzy woolly puff roughly the shape of a beach ball.
"...afro...right..."
Now, clean if not clean-shaven, the blond stood silently in the doorway, good eye locked on the woman silently loading his dishwasher. "Yer really here," he muttered shuffling over to help her. "I thought…well, ya know what I thought." Amber uttered a wordless sound of agreement and gave him a fond smile. "You look different…younger, healthier…" He hazarded a quick once-over and his nose crinkled in distaste. "...skinnier..."
"The body I snatched is younger an' healthier." She refused to acknowledge what Aaron's cringe might mean. "Kimber dropped out, ran away, an' joined a gang, but she never got hit by a Mom-mobile. Ya win some, ya lose some, right?"
From the doorway, Donatello studied the older man curiously, particularly curious about the blond's pale blue eyes—eyes that were visibly trained on different targets. The genius didn't realize he was caught until Aaron turned toward him, pointedly focusing first one eye on him, then the other, then repeatedly switching back and forth. Ruddy brown streaked across Donnie's cheeks in embarrassment and he averted his gaze to the floor. "Sorry," the mutant mumbled. "Amber never mentioned you have Strabismus…I just wasn't expecting it."♦ Aaron smirked, amused by the other's embarrassment.
"I didn't think it mattered." Amber paused to elbow her friend in the side in reminder of his promise to be at least halfway polite. "It's not like he's blind in one eye or something." To her disbelief, Aaron winced and turned to haul another load of plates out of the sink. The Aaron she knew would have had a dozen smartass remarks to follow up with and wouldn't have hesitated to use any; this Aaron was hiding something and she had a feeling she knew what it was. "What?!" she demanded bodily turning him to face her again. "When'd that happen?! When I died ya could still see out'a yer right eye!"
"It was a'ready goin' to shit when ya died, O'Brien," Aaron grumbled. "About a year an' a half ago it finished the job." Amber stared at him, brow furrowed, and shook her head in denial; Aaron busied himself with breaking down the boxes piled next to the trashcan, arms and shoulders tense.
"How's that possible?" Amber glanced to Donnie for confirmation. "That can't be—I haven't even been in his world a whole year!"
Aaron froze. His stubbled throat worked around a forced swallow, the motion visible now that his facial hair was trimmed back to his usual handlebars-and-goatee. For a moment he seemed to work himself up to something—seemed to gather his wits and steel his nerves. Eyes weary, he turned back to Amber, setting aside the cardboard to catch her by the shoulders in a steadying, calming grip. "Amber…you died two years ago tomorrow. It's May 14th, 2013."
It was hard enough for Amber to think she was back in Willsdale shortly after she died there; to find she arrived just before the second anniversary of her death was nearly as horrible. By the time she managed to process this she knew there was only one thing to do—there was only one way to cope with such an insane situation as she was in…she needed to get rat-arsed.•
After a nerve-wracking ride to town on Aaron's handlebars without a helmet, Amber and Aaron crawled into the local watering hole—the Staggering Rat Pub—and seated themselves at a dark corner table. Up at the bar, a pair of dove-grey eyes noticed them, widened in surprise, then darted around the room for some sign their owner was hallucinating. Bhaltair Devon studied the young woman and the older blond in confusion trying to wrap his head around the occurrence, with or without his ponytail of white curls. Only the arrival of a familiar face—the solemn green-eyed waitress he hired going on a couple years ago—broke him from his thoughts.
"Hae ye been by table five yet?"• Bart asked under his breath. A mere couple years ago, his thick brogue would have stunned Kimber Bryant almost as much as finding out she socked a mutant turtle in the jaw during a gang war. After almost two years working for him, though, the other-worlder didn't even bat an eye; after all, Bart's father Glen Devon had a much thicker accent and Kimber herself had a pretty thick Jersey accent before her death – an accent she was attempting to fade just like the twang she eradicated as a teenager. Never let it be said she didn't appreciate a challenge.
"Naw, I haven't gotten to 'em yet," Kimber answered with a chagrined half smile. "I had to duck into tha powder room." Bart waved her off with one hairy mitt, the other snagging a pair of menus from behind the bar he manned.
"Ah've got 'em. The lahss looks a wee familiar." Before Kimber could question him, he brushed past to Amber and Aaron's table and set the menus on the old oak surface with a disarming smile. "Efternewn, Wellis." From the horrified look on Aaron's face, his younger companion was likely kicking him under the table in reminder to keep cool. "Who's yer lahss?"
"I'm not his lahss." Amber never realized that her pronunciation of the word—the use of a flat-a instead of a sharp-a—gave her away completely. She spoke like someone used to the word rather than a local hijacking the term…and her observant uncle recognized it instantly. "I'm just a friend—name's Kimber, I'm from up North." The white-haired older man gave a wide, disarming smile that seemed all crooked upper teeth.
"Funny, tha'," he remarked with an easy laugh. "Do ye see tha' burd at th' bar? Her name is also Kember, an' she's a northerner, tew."• Amber froze, struggling to keep her nerves from showing.
"I-It's a common name up there," she stammered hoping to throw him off. The middle of a bar during lunch rush wasn't the time or place for a dead woman to reunite with her family, and there was sure to be drama when that reunion occurred. Right now all she wanted was a moment to process the passage of time and enjoy a glass of her favorite poison with her friend. "There were three of us in my graduatin' class alone—drove the professors insane." The staring contest with her uncle spanned a few moments longer, every breath of which passed with the brunette poised for flight. Increasingly frantic, she cringed and added onto the mistruth in hopes of derailing his suspicion with humor. "They ended up callin' us by our last names to keep us straight, so I was just Butz. It was awkward." Finally, Bart gave another wide grin and laughed as though imagining the young woman hiding her face at roll call.
"Ah'll say!" he teased nudging the menus toward them in a silent hint. "Ah'll send th' other Kember yer way in a wee fer yer orders. Welcome to Wellsdale, Kember Butz, we're glahd to hae ye."• The moment the white-haired owner was out of earshot, Aaron gave Amber a hard kick under the table that made her curse in pain.
"Kimber Butz?!" he demanded.
"I panicked!"
"I'll say! And professors?! This ain't Europe—no one here calls'em professors, we call'em teachers!"
"Not everyone does!" Amber insisted feebly, "my…" She fell silent, realizing the truth with dismay.
"Yeah," Aaron agreed sternly. "Your family called 'em professors because yer family ain't from around here. Ya totally blew your—"
He cut himself off suddenly, eyes locking on the tall, slender redhead approaching their table with a confident sway in her step. "Hey there," she greeted with a coy smile. "Can I take yer order?"
Amber looked up. A pair of glass-shielded grey-green eyes locked with a pair of bottle-greens lined with impeccable smoky eyeliner; the owners of both gaped, Amber recognizing the waitress from dreams and the waitress recognizing her from the mirror. The air crackled with tension as the Jersey Nut-Job locked eyes with her old body and the Crazy Celt stared up at the owner of the body she unintentionally snatched. Bewildered by the intense stare-down, Aaron glanced back and forth between the two women, searching for answers.
Finally, the standoff was broken. By the time he realized what happened, Amber was already out the front door, sprinting toward his bike like the Jersey Devil was on her heels.
Not twenty minutes after Amber and Aaron headed to the bar for "a sesh,"• the front door of the trailer wrenched open with a screech and slammed shut so hard the windows rattled. "Remember what I said about time travel bein' ridiculous?" Amber called out to the mutant sprawled out on the lumpy sofa. "It's back on the ta—" Upon seeing the old photo album open on Donnie's lap—from the look of it, propped up by the head of one of the clingy calicoes—she pulled a verbal about-face. "What're you doing?"
"I found it under the sofa." Donnie turned another water-spotted page with an audible crinkle. "Your smelly friend doesn't have cable and I couldn't see a router. I got bored."
"The router's in my room." Aaron's retort was accompanied by a narrow-eyed scowl that made him closely resemble his cantankerous counterpart. Donnie brushed it off, scooting over for Amber to sit beside him. The moment she did, she caught sight of the page the album was open to…or, rather, the only photo on that page.
"Oh jeez," she groaned, slapping her palm over her eyes and shaking her head in disbelief. "Willis, I told ya to burn that photo an' salt the ashes."
"What?" Aaron's expression was entirely innocent—as innocent as Mikey's puppy-dog eyes when the last soda went missing. "It's proof ya had a rack under those tents ya wore."
"The resemblance in earlier photos is striking," Donnie muttered. No way was he going to admit he agreed with Aaron on the impressiveness of the cleavage displayed in the photo; he valued his life. "Kimber's hair is more brown, though—you were almost auburn." He considered the photo a moment longer, inwardly comparing it to the Amber he only ever saw in his dreams, then closed the album and set it aside. "Now what do you mean time travel's back on the table?" She seemed lost for a moment but soon caught up.
"Kimber's workin' at my uncle's pub," she explained holding Donnie's eyes over the rims of her glasses. "My uncle hired my counterpart, Dee, an' she recognized me—I mean her—I mean—" She gave up on finding the proper term and gave a flailing screw it, you know what I mean gesture with a loud, frustrated utterance the mutant could only interpret as "GACGH!"
"Kimber's in this world," he repeated slowly. "She died in 2016…"
"…an' now she's in 2013…just like I died in 2011 an' showed up five years later. Whatever's responsible fer this travesty's got a sick sense of humor." The couple avoided one another's eyes, both deep in worried thought. It was already going to be difficult to make sure everyone was safe and get home without being found out, but with Kimber there, too…
Donnie was the first to speak. "This…complicates things."
Amber slumped back into the cat-hair-covered sofa, shaking her head weakly. "Now I really need that drink."
Memory was a fascinating thing—sounds, smells, sights, all manner of sensation came together to save moments for future recollection. Every now and then, though, the process could go awry, convincing people they recalled something that never happened. This moment was one such instance—a memory without a moment to fall back on.
Soft Spring breezes rippled tasseled grass. Cotton-tail clouds drifted across a field of forget-me-not blue. As far as the eye could see, bunches of white and powder pink blossoms carpeted the hills all the way down to the foggy hollers. Willsdale…this was Amber's Willsdale, the world she came from and the world she just made it back to. Perched in the middle-most branches of a familiar gnarled Pin Oak, she admired the landscape, ruminating, recalling a dream she almost forgot.
"Amber?" She startled, losing her grip on her freshly-plaited braid and nearly falling from her limb. Down below, Donatello waited with arms crossed, lips spread into an amused grin. "Now how did you get up there?"
"I climbed, ya silly speccy," she teased but her smile fell away. Haven't we been here before? Footsteps lead down to the open front door. How have I come here once more? If the writer of that song ever heard about this, they'd probably assume she was under the watchful eye of Timothy Leary rather than a mutant ninja turtle. When did her life become so bizarre?
Easily recognizing that she was lost in thought, Donnie latched onto the lowest branch, swung himself upward, and skillfully made his way up to settle along the limb nearest hers. It took a moment of staring her down but she finally spit it out. "It…it feels like we've done this before."
"It's probably just déjà vu, Braids," Donnie reassured with a small smile. "I know for a fact I've never seen this place before, much less climbed this tree. The likelihood we have done this before isn't even worth calculating." She shot him an mildly irritable glance.
"I know we haven't been here before," she muttered. "It was a dream, months back. You found me here, we were chatting…and you kept playing with your phone." Donnie froze, wide eyes torn from the screen of his cellphone to fix on Amber. …she couldn't have seen him pull it out…could she? The tender scales at the back of his neck tingled, a sensation he mentally compared to what hair standing on end might resemble. "We talked a while." Amber never noticed him ease his phone back into its pocket, wary eyes fixed on her as though expecting her to spontaneously combust. "A storm hit…we ran for shelter but…you…"
'Everything will be okay—I swore to protect you, and I will!' Screams—bloodcurdling screams and the sound of an oncoming train.
Amber forcibly shook herself from the memory, took a moment to regulate her breathing, and reached out for Donnie's hand. The gentle, encouraging squeeze was just what she needed to regain her grip on the situation. She wasn't the same person she was when she had that nightmare—she was stronger now, capable of stopping panic in its tracks and steering herself back to confidence.
"Even if the first part of the dream was true," she insisted with a wry smile, "the rest was absolute horse-hockey. It's not unheard of for multiple tornadoes to touch down in the same place an' time, but hundreds at once is farkin' ridiculous." Still... Despite her insistence she felt for the tree branch Aaron carved the trio's names into as teenagers; her hand closed over thin air. "Huh?" She turned to investigate. Sure enough, the branch was broken off and from the weathered, splintered wood at the trunk, it wasn't anytime recent. "That's different, too—limb's gone. Maybe we're not gonna croak after all." At first, all Donnie could manage was staring at her but he finally came to the conclusion she was making a morbid joke. "You're about to say this seems like a great place to grow up."
"I wasn't about to say anything," he countered. "I was just...thinking."
"About?" A trace of muddy red darkened his cheeks.
"That photo," he admitted, "the one in the album under the sofa." Amber cringed into Kimber's cleavage, her cheeks flaming. "You were so worried I'd find out how you looked in this lifetime and I'd be disgusted. Do you know what was on my mind when I found that photo?" Moss green darted toward him—nervous eyes meeting his askance with an obvious question. "How did you manage to get down from that tree limb without breaking your neck, especially with your shirt falling off?"
"No idea." Amber nudged him in the side with her elbow. "One minute Aaron was bein' a smartass an' takin' that picture, next minute he was bleedin' an' cryin'." Donnie stared her down, waiting for her conscience to kick in. "Limb broke. I landed on'im. He makes a good pillow." Chuckling at her overly innocent expression, he wrapped one lanky arm around her shoulders; Amber leaned into his one-armed embrace with a sigh. One thing was certain…even with her worries about her family, she was glad to have a chance to show Donnie the world she called her own. "Do you have any idea how much I love you?" she asked into his neck.
"Not a clue." The genius nuzzled into her hair. "I look forward to finding out a little at a time, though…and I suspect it's about as much as I love you." Drowning in sappy feels, Amber tipped her head intent on stealing his lips, but a holler from the house stopped her in her tracks.
"Oi! O'Brien! Nerd!" Aaron stood on the back porch, grinning and waving them over with not a metal spatula, but a folded takeout menu. "Quit neckin' an' git in here – I ordered pizza!" Another thing that was different from her dream; at least she wouldn't have to keep Aaron from burning his house down.
Donnie hopped down from his limb and held his arms open to catch her; no matter how far she fell, he always caught her. His arm around her waist and her head on his shoulder, the couple made their way back to Aaron's trailer. About halfway there, Amber paused, turning to scan the skies; recognizing the significance, Donnie squeezed her opposite shoulder. "It's alright, Braids," he reminded his nervous lover triggering an embarrassed blush – a blush he gently nuzzled away. "I'm right here with you—I'll be here every step of the way." Grateful green eyes met his, then turned instead to the setting sun.
"We're doin' a Karate Kid marathon over dinner," Aaron declared as the couple followed him into the kitchen. "No arguments accepted—an' if I catch you two spit-swappin' durin' the movies, I'm'onna barf in yer laps." The blond was already tearing through the pizza boxes on the table.
"Aw, but Willis," Amber teased, "we did it all fer the glory of love!" Aaron snorted, his whiskered lips quirking into a smart-assed grin.
"Heh," he sniggered with all the maturity of a ten-year-old. "You said did it." Never again would Amber take Aaron Willis's childish nature for granted; for that reason, she gave him an extra-hard brain-duster, all the while rolling her eyes. However long it would last, it was good to be home.
Day 2, just before dawn
Aaron Willis couldn't recall the last time he was woken by a blood-curdling scream. Had his youngest sister dropped by without warning and found him napping on the sofa naked? Had Kirk caught a mouse while Amber was staying over and left its furry little carcass on her pillow as an offering? Whenever it happened, whatever had caused it, he didn't care much—this scream came from his living room where his somewhat-deceased best friend was sleeping on the sofa.
In record time, Aaron yanked on a pair of shorts, smushed his glasses onto his face, and bolted out the door of his bedroom. In the hallway, he froze, taken aback by what he was seeing. Amber and Donatello sat facing each other on the short sofa, the mutant murmuring gentle reassurances as the brunette worked through a dream-triggered panic attack. She inhaled slowly, held her breath, then exhaled twice as slowly, all the while focusing on the sensation of Donnie's fingertips rubbing circles into the skin of her upper back. Once her breathing was steadied and her pulse slowed, Amber tugged Donnie down by his suspenders, stealing his lips in a slow, gentle kiss. Right before Aaron's eyes the genius cupped her salt-shiny cheek in one massive hand and returned that first kiss with several more – each more tender than the last – then followed up with a nuzzle. Her fears fully calmed, Amber gazed up into Donnie's eyes, beaming like he was the best thing that ever happened to her. She never noticed Aaron frozen in the hallway, watching from the shadows and wishing he could unsee it.
Can you really lose someone you never had? Aaron had no answers…if he ever had Amber to begin with, it was clear that somewhere along the way he lost her. His whiskered lips slanted downward into a confused frown. Why didn't that realization hurt as much as he thought it should? Perhaps he knew from the beginning that he and Amber weren't good together…perhaps that was why he never told her he loved her. Whatever the answer, he wouldn't find it watching her necking with a supposedly fictional character on his sofa, especially since he was still struggling to wrap his head around that fictional character being not-so-fictional after all. What a mind-fuck his life had become.
The blond turned to retreat to his room, but at the last moment, looked back. Hazel eyes, veering brown in the dark room, met Aaron's over Amber's hair—Donnie held her tucked into his plastron, a rueful smile at his wide lips. It's alright, that sympathetic expression promised. Don't worry, I'll take care of her. A bit rankled that Donnie thought he needed reassurance—even though he really did—Aaron rolled his eyes, snorted, and stalked back to his bedroom. The moment the door creaked shut behind him, though, the front disintegrated and left sorrow behind.
He loved Amber, so he let her go…she came back, but when the time came, he'd let her go again. He loved her too much to cage her and he knew he wasn't the one she needed. Still, it hurt that the one she needed was so little like him.

UP NEXT: family can be deadly in The Living Cannot Hear the Dead

Glossary
(Hang in there, this one's a doozy, lots of Scots)
• Outwith – 'outside of.'
• Gettin' pished or Rat-arsed / A session/sesh – Getting drunk. / a night out drinking or a visit to a bar.
• I'm here ta skelp yer arse fer drinkin' without me. Yes, it's me, ya honkin' mink! – I'm here to (swat your butt) for drinking without me! Yes, it's me you (smelly/filthy) (unhygienic person)!'
• Ah've got'em; the young lahss looks a wee familiar. – I'll take care their orders – the young lady looks a little familiar.
• Efternewn, Wellis, who's yer lahss? – Good afternoon, Willis, who's your lady-friend?
• Funny, tha'. Do ye see tha' burd at th' bar? Her name is also Kember, an' she's a northerner, tew. – That's funny. See that lovely young lady at the bar? Her name is also Kimber, and she's from the Northeast, too.
• Ah'll send th' other Kember yer way in a wee fer yer orders. Welcome to Wellsdale, Kember Butz, we're glahd to hae ye. – I'll send the other Kimber your way in a while for your orders. Welcome to Willsdale, Kimber Butz, we're glad to have you here.

♦ Strabismus is a vision disorder characterized by the eyes being unable to focus on the same target at the same time, rendering the eyes perpetually crossed or, as in Aaron and my hubby Cold, facing opposite directions. If not corrected, eventually all vision may be lost in the weaker eye due to disuse.
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A New Lease on Life