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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
- 57
- 58
- 59
This chapter introduces a couple new characters and sets up some stuff for the upcoming fourth part of the story. Rest assured, we're not there yet.
A quick word of warning for this chapter: there's some real angsting but hang in there, it doesn't last.

Suggested Listening: Welshly Arms "Legendary," Sum 41 "Crash," Celtic Thunder "The Parting Glass," Collective Soul "Burning Bridges"

57: The Parting Glass
Central Park, November 12th, noon
Somewhere beneath Manhattan, three best friends newly reunited after a long separation retreated to the dojo for privacy. Meanwhile, in Central Park, the scenery was a delightful contrast to the somber mood in the Lair.
An older man – stooped in posture and stocky in build – lounged on a pollen-dusted park bench. Faded patches scattered his threadbare coat and trousers with muted color. Grizzled, frizzy hair the color of wet concrete puffed out from the brim of his old felt hat and his weary eyes were an even drearier grey. The little skin not covered was weathered, tagged and liver-spotted and the warm, sturdy color of an age-darkened penny. A thick book hung in his ungloved hands, but his eyes were focused far beyond the pages – beyond the reaches of the bench and across to a colorful calamity of joyful noise.
Children of all ages swarmed the playground and its structures, bundled up in puffy coats, mittens, and pompom hats and uncaring of the chill in the air. They were like any other children one might see in any park in the nation – too-loud, over-excitable, needlessly reckless, and entirely perfect.
The stranger's eyes softened. Children were never bothered by his presence; they knew neither race nor class. Of all the times he was judged by others his age and younger, never was one of those 'others' a child…children were, he felt, proof of the inherent goodness in the hearts of humanity.
A simple child
that lightly draws its breath
and feels its life in every limb.
What should it know of death?≈
He shook his grizzled head as if to forcibly banish the morbid memories. True, those children - his children weren't dead, but with such distance separating them, they might as well be...after all, he was dead to them, and rightly so.
A dismayed squeal split the air, and a heartbeat later, something collided with his shoe. A bit more alert now, the stranger straightened to inspect the cause: a worn, well-loved football in faded green and dirty white bobbled by his foot. A whimsical smile spread on his haggard face as he caught up the toy, silently considering the bearded and derby-clad mascot imprinted on one side. Shortly afterward, a sheepish little boy about five skipped toward him, all smiles, messy black curls, and gapped teeth. "Sawwy," the little tike lisped, sheepishly digging the toe of one tiny sneaker in the mulch underfoot. "Can I have my bawl back?" The stranger arched an eyebrow at the boy, and with a playful grin, drew back his arm.
"Go long." The child excitedly complied and bolted away, then turned to eagerly wait; a chuckle bubbled up in the stranger's throat as he tossed the boy his football as offered. Right before the catch, however, it was intercepted – or, rather, the boy was snatched up by his well-dressed mother and the ball sailed right past, hitting the dirt with a protesting bounce.
"Really, Ricky!" the woman chided her son and carried him away – away from the ball and the stranger who returned it. Despite her feeble attempts at discretion, the stranger easily picked out words amidst her mutterings – 'shouldn't touch—homeless—sick, maybe on drugs—filthy now!' Before, his heart was lightened by the child's innocence and trust, but now it sank in the face of the familiar judgment. These accusations, after all, were ones he was used to; he was, after all, homeless in every sense of the word, though neither sick nor on any drugs. How could he afford to feed an addiction when he couldn't afford to feed himself?
"Bu—But Ma!" the boy whined, squirming on her hip. "My bawl! Brudder gave—"
"I'll get you another," she cut off sternly, "Heaven knows what might be on that one now, you don't need his germs. No, don't look at him, Ricky! If you pay those people any attention, they'll only ask for handouts." Another nasal whine of protest went unnoticed as she turned to fix a scolding glare on the stranger. "I shudder to consider why he's at a playground at all," she remarked more loudly, clearly intent on him overhearing. Please. The pushers in the Bronx could have heard her telling her son he was on drugs, and they'd be just as unimpressed by her calling him a pedophile. "Someone should call the police before he hurts someone."
With a final derisive sniff, she hauled the sniveling boy up to her shoulder mid-tantrum and stalked away to the bus stop. Not understanding what he did wrong, the child settled on his mother's shoulder and watched the stranger plaintively as she carried him away. With a feeble wave goodbye from a chubby mitten-clad hand, the boy and his mother vanished behind a screen of trees.
The stranger turned back to his book, sliding it closed and brushing the pad of his thumb across the slick plastic-encased cover. Another day, another search for peace and hope, and another complete stranger casting snap-judgments on him without allowing him a chance for rebuttal. The good people of New York never cared to hear his story—they wouldn't believe he was once a highly educated and well-paid professor at an Ivy League university, nor would they believe he was suffering this undignified lifestyle through no action of his own. Nor would they ever guess he was once of the same beliefs as they were and prone to casting the same snap judgments. He heaved a frustrated sigh. It was a shame, really, that correcting those mistakes cost him his life.
Mid-rumination, another came up behind him—a tall, lanky man in his late twenties with messy brown hair and big dark eyes with even bigger round-framed glasses. He was clad in rumpled sage green scrubs with a wrinkled black coat over it and armed with an even more rumpled cloth grocery bag. James Peterson, a resident from a Brooklyn hospital, slumped down on the bench beside the stranger without care, unbothered by his presence. "Hey, Teach," he greeted the older man, digging out a paper-wrapped sub sandwich and a bottle of water and passing them over. "What's the news?"
"Hawking's theories are a delight as always, Jimmy," Professor Wilkes replied accepting the offered meal, "but I found nothing in them to support my suppositions. In other news, to my surprise, apparently I'm a vile filthy addict trolling a playground for nefarious purposes." Jimmy snorted, already digging into his own sandwich.
"Baloney," he grinned heedless of the crumbs sticking to his face. "Anyone with eyes would know you're just a grandpa missing his grandkids." Wilkes took the out gratefully and passed the borrowed book to his younger companion; it was, after all, near its due date and the New York Public Library staff weren't too fond of having vagrants borrowing their books. How he missed being able to go out in public without being shamed…
Jimmy sobered, dark eyes fixed on the cover, remembering what he came to share. "I've found another one, Sir," he explained more quietly and with more respect. "A patient at the hospital today – she's been to Limbo, I just know it." He dug out his smartphone and easily pulled up three photos he snapped on the sly: one shot of Amber's file with identifying numbers, one of the visit summary paperwork, and one shot of her face, blurry from being snapped through a glass window at a distance. Wilkes accepted the phone and scanned the images and visible portion of the report, unsmiling and sober.
"Her name is Amber Jean O'Brien," Jimmy continued, "and she's twenty-six years old. When she arrived, she was unresponsive and bleeding out – her skull was crushed inward, BFT compound fracture, little chance for recovery but Doc Lloyd insisted on trying. She went into a-fib and started to code on the table but the team managed to pull her back." He met Wilkes' eyes, then, entirely serious. "When she regained consciousness, her skull was healing and her skin unbroken. I took this photo a few hours later when they released her…all that was left was bruising and swelling. She arrived dying, and in a matter of hours, she looked like she'd been healing for weeks, if not months."
Wilkes hemmed, gravely considering the blurry pixelated photo of the undead patient. The rapid-healing after revival was unusual, true, but... "I trust you encouraged caution?" He met Jimmy's eyes askance. "We cannot lose her, not like the last one—a blunder of that magnitude mustn't happen, not ever again. These lives are…" He sighed, passing the phone back. "They're too precious…there's too much at stake to risk another loss."
"She won't tell anyone," Jimmy promised running his fingers through his hair, disheveling his already messy locks. "I made sure of it…and I told her I'd be in touch soon." A feeble laugh twisted his lips into a grimace. "Not sure how I'll manage, though—the address on file belongs to an unrelated woman named April O'Neil, and she lives alone. There were no other contacts or names in the file, though Miss O'Neil identified another woman as Miss O'Brien's 'sister.' I can't believe someone as scary as that blonde lady could really be family, though—she spent almost ten minutes screeching at the patient and the rest of the time berating and bullying her. She even hit her a few times." Wilkes gave a knowing grin as he wrapped up the remaining half of his sandwich then shoved it into one deep pocket.
"I don't suppose this blonde lady was tall and thin with blue eyes and disorderly hair?" he asked without asking; Jimmy blinked, stunned. "Did she answer to the name Mercy?"
"Uh…as a matter of fact...yeah. Miss O'Neil referred to her as Mercy and I heard the patient, Miss O'Brien, call her Merse when they left for their vehicle. How'd you know?"
"I've met the young lady before." The professor could still remember the day one of his dear neighbors woke without recalling anything about herself. "She was homeless for a time," he explained, "and had no memory of herself or anyone else. She was certain she was someone else entirely, a woman named Mercy Ross, even though I knew her as Donna Mays. I approached her about Limbo but she…" He winced, recalling Mercy's vehement—and more than a little obscene—overreaction. "Well, I lost track of her after that. I'm sure if your mystery woman was familiar enough for Miss Ross to feel comfortable striking her, where we find one, we'll find the other. Birds of a feather do, after all, keep company with their own, especially when those birds have endured what those from other worlds endure."
After a brief sip of water, Wilkes moved on. "I'll see what I can dig up on this Amber O'Brien, and I have faith you can manage whatever portions of the search I cannot. I'm sure Miss Baker will be of some help with sufficient incentive, hm?" A violent shudder clattered from Jimmy's shaggy head down to his bony ankles. Danni Baker, after all, terrified him; still, he nodded in reluctant agreement. "If, by some chance, we find her sooner rather than later, let's give the young lady some time to recover before we attempt contact. The last thing we need is to spook her and lose another body."
Jimmy nodded, clearly remembering the same disaster that still flitted behind Professor Wilkes' eyes – haunting green eyes, cold pallid skin, old, dark, coagulated blood… Jimmy physically shook off the image with a barely audible whine; Wilkes offered a comforting squeeze of the shoulder. "You've done well, my boy – far better than you would believe, and you are quite capable of whatever task you should set for yourself." He paused, then asked, "Now, what progress have you made in your mission? What have you learned?" Jimmy hesitated, fumbled, then, finally, gave a weak shrug.
"Nothing," he mumbled in defeat. "I've found nothing…I can't figure out the answer. I'm sorry, Teach." Wilkes sobered, contemplating the younger man a moment longer, then hoisted himself up off the bench with a pained grunt.
"If you continue in that manner," he warned, "you'll never succeed. Before you can find the answer, you must first discover the question. Discover the question – ask it – consider it in length – then, and only then, will you find the answer." He clapped a comforting hand on Jimmy's still-slouched shoulder and gave him a crooked smile. "Thank you for the luncheon, Peterson, and happy hunting…the Society is counting on you." Without another word, the shabbily-dressed elder slipped away, venturing into the more remote and dangerous reaches of Central Park the way one can only if they have nothing left to lose.
After all, a life was a petty thing when compared to such a treasure as the knowledge of many lifetimes.

Meanwhile, down in the Lair
Not so long ago, perhaps a whole twenty minutes prior, the Lair was full of laughter and joy. The four brothers and their master returned with Mercy and Amber in tow, all high on elation over the brunette's narrowly avoided second death…and, as the brunette in question grumbled, her avoidance of "finally earnin' that Darwin Award, an' in my pajamas no less." Yeah. She nearly died in her sleep, was brought home in her nightclothes, hauled to the hospital in her nightclothes, and finally, sent home in her nightclothes. Now, not yet having had an opportunity to change, she was still in her nightclothes and pointedly ignoring the blood stains on what was once a comfy nightshirt.
All the festivity was brought to a halt, however, with the appearance of a face familiar to some and foreign to others – Aaron Willis, who slipped through the portal behind Donatello and, despite all odds, arrived in the Lair after the occupants rushed to the hospital. Now the air was quiet and those who breathed it even quieter. Almost immediately after the cursory introductions, Amber, Aaron, and Mercy all retreated into the Dojo to speak in private, heedless that their voices would surely carry without a solid door.
Earlier, Donatello ruminated on the futility of pacing; now he again fell prey to the useless occupation, but this time feeling lost rather than frantic. His listless feet led him in an endless circuit – from the living area down the hallway, from the hallway to the living area, and back again, and at every turn, his eyes shot to the curtain of chipped wooden and glass beads shading the doorway to the Dojo. Beyond that vintage drape, his lover and her two best friends were huddled together, all searching for some way to say the goodbye they were once cheated out of.
Seemingly unaffected by the tense mutterings from the room beyond, Mikey sprawled against the old brick wall separating the Dojo from the living area; he leaned back on one bandaged palm, his right knee bent upward and his left leg folded underneath, and his free arm lazily draped over the upright kneecap. He was calm and unusually quiet and seemed to have not a care in the world, a faint smile at his lips. Veering back toward the living area again, Donnie shot an exasperated glance at Mikey. The three people in the dojo were saying goodbye after a lifetime of being inseparable; how could Mikey not realize how much they must hurt when he was usually the one with the most emotional intelligence? Instead of confronting his younger brother, Donnie spun on his toes and lurched back toward the hall again, senses tuned to the soft murmurings in the dojo.
A harsh, strangled sound split the silence – halfway between a choked sob and a smothered shout. Abandoning his pacing, the genius bolted to the beaded doorway; before he could swipe the curtain aside, a three-fingered hand shot out, latched onto his trousers, and yanked him down onto the floor beside its owner. Mikey returned his silent demand with a shake of the head; he shot a pointed glance at the curtain. Donnie, realizing the point, rubbed his scalp in embarrassment and leaned over to peer through between the strands of beads.
Mercy stood leaning back against the far wall, sourly considering the punching bag with wet eyes that belied her supposed anger. Amber slumped on the padded mat at her feet, her knees drawn and feet tucked. Aaron sprawled limply against her front, eyes buried in her neck, both hands feebly gripping one of hers, and his shoulders and back trembling in a familiar manner. Her eyes were red-rimmed and weak but dry, and she held him close, gently petting his hair and his back.
For once, Amber wasn't crying; instead, Aaron was crying and he wasn't hiding it, only forcing himself to stay quiet. Over the four-and-a-half days Donnie spent getting to know Aaron, the genius came to the conclusion the blond was unbelievably strong in spirit for a human. Donnie couldn't even imagine giving up Amber unless she, herself, asked him to; Aaron swallowed his feelings for her, put on as though he wasn't heartbroken over her, and let her go without a word, all because he wanted her to be safe and happy. Now he was driven to tears and clinging to his friend, and Donnie had his answer. Aaron was, indeed, among the strongest in spirit Donatello had ever met. A weaker man might have smothered his feelings and forced himself to 'look tough,' or maybe bawled like a baby, made a scene, and whined about how unfair the situation was. Aaron didn't retreat behind toxic masculinity and deny his feelings, and he didn't throw himself over to his heartbreak entirely—he accepted the feelings, he showed them, and he owned them - he only kept his voice down to avoid drawing attention. "Aaron, Mercy, an' I were almost inseparable," Amber told the genius oftentimes before. "Now we're gone—he's lost both'is best friends, forever. He's all alone now." Alone…losing those he cared about most was heartbreaking, but instead of fighting his emotions, he accepted them. What could be stronger than allowing yourself to be vulnerable when so many others couldn't bear to show weakness?
Choking up, Donnie retreated from the doorway, slouching over beside Mikey in defeat. Mikey patted his knee, offering a small wry smile that both bewildered and hurt. "How can you stand this?" Donnie demanded. "How can you sit there smiling? They're hurting—their whole world is falling apart and it'll never be the same again! What about that deserves a smile?" The sharp censure faded, leaving behind only sorrow.
"The whole thing," Mikey answered, "because it was real." Donnie faltered, eyes wide and watery. "They're hurting because everything they had together, everything they feel for each other, is real; it never hurts to lose something that means nothing to you." The genius looked away, eyes darting back and forth along the floor as though arranging invisible puzzle pieces; to his surprise, the picture he came up with finally matched the box. "All this?" Mikey pointed out with a wide-sweeping gesture and let his other arm drape around his brother's slumped shoulders. "Someday it'll all be behind us—those three will adapt an' learn to live their new lives. Sure, Merse an' Sis'll probably always miss Afro-man in there, but someday it won't hurt anymore…they'll be too busy reliving the laughter to remember the tears."
Donnie's eyes drifted from the floor to Mikey's, blending from brown to gold to green in the changing light. "How did you ever get to be so smart?" he asked in all seriousness. Mikey reclaimed his arm and crossed both in an I know I'm awesome pose.
"Didn't I tell ya?" the youngest teased with a toothy grin. "Brains, brawn, and a dazzling personality." Comforted, Donnie let out a huff and gave him a teasing shove. Mikey had his qualities, but modesty was not among them.
In the dojo, Aaron's cracking voice broke the tense silence between the three friends. "I—I know," he rasped into Amber's collarbone, "ya—ya can't come back...I jus'—I jus'—" Another choked sob broke through. "It wa'n't s'posed to—end like this—it was always us—you, me, Ross, us against the world! We—We were s'posed to g-get old together—" A sharp inhale creaked in his lungs. "Jus' the th-three of us—jus' a group'a ol' f-farts—bitchin' each other out—d-drivin' each other c-crazy—r-rasslin' 'til someone broke a-a hip—" Despite the admittedly humorous image, no one was laughing. "This—it ain't right! It—We—I—" After several false starts he gave up, his voice too hoarse and his brain too scattered.
"Don't forget racin' motor-chairs in Walmart," Amber offered, clearly hoping to make him smile. "Can't skip sittin' on the porch an' wallapin' the lil' wankers trespassin' on our lawns, either—I even had a cane already." No response; the tease fell flat, unsurprisingly. "Wil—" She cut herself off in a sigh. "Aaron."
The sudden silence in the dojo felt deafening; Aaron froze against her shoulder, his still-wet eyes wide at the significance. Amber and Mercy used each other's first names on occasion, but they almost never used Aaron's first name—he was always Willis to them, and to him, they were always O'Brien and Ross or some other teasing insult-name. It was their thing—their little inside joke and their way of showing each other they cared. After all these years, there was no doubt they cared about each other. Now, Amber used his given name to comfort him, but also to remind him of the truth: things would never be the same again, but that didn't necessarily mean they'd be bad. "Aaron…Hon, I know it hurts," she murmured thickly, "I know we never wan'ed this ta happen, but it did, we can't change that. I died in tha' world…I almost died twice…in some ways, death's still permanent. I belong here, now, no matter how much we may wish I didn't."
"Y-Yeah," Aaron rasped and sniffed, and extracted himself from her neck to slouch beside her; he was still a bit of a mess, but he was regaining control. "But…but even if you could come home—an'—an' stay there without—" He trailed off and skipped over the end. "You w-wouldn't…be…"
"No," Amber answered his unfinished question with a bittersweet smile and a thickened tongue, "Ah wouldnae be happy…Ah'd be heartbroken. My heart would always be here…wit' my Dunnie."• Aaron stilled, his eyes still wet but his jaw set firm. Tentatively, as though participating in a luxury he'd never allowed himself, he lifted a shaky hand, fingers curled, and traced the curve of one salt-stained cheek with his knuckles.
"Amber," he almost whispered as though uttering some sweet pet-name. "You stubborn, psychotic, crazy Scotch nutcase." Pet-name? Definitely. Sweet? Though sour to most, to the trio, it was saccharine. He shook his head with a silent scoff, burying both his hands in his armpits. "I love you, ya delusional woman—I've always loved ya—always…even back when we were kids. I didn't drop slugs down your shirt fer nothin'." Amber's lip quirked at the memory, her cheeks flushing from containing a laugh. The confession, long overdue, was Aaron to a 'T'—blunt, sarcastic, and somewhere between offensive and ridiculous. "Still…it wouldn't be enough…would it?"
"Someday you'd run out'a slugs," she pointed out as Mercy rolled her eyes, pantomiming a gag. The bleak mood over the room was lifting, at least a little. "Someday I might actually put pickles on yer cheeseburger pizza. Nothing lasts forever, you know?" He gave a glum nod. "Besides…you waited all these years to tell me—Heck, I spent most'a our childhood thinkin' the sun shines out yer arse—"
"It ain't the sun," Mercy grumbled, "he's naturally fluorescent." Amber snorted.
"Willis' whiteness ain't the point," she snickered as the two blondes glared at each other then, without any sort of warning, crossed their eyes and stuck their tongues out at each other in unison. Some things never changed. "You never told me how you felt for a reason, right? Yer not shy, Aaron—ya had a reason for hidin' it, otherwise you'd have told me, just like that, years ago." Aaron sobered, unable to meet Amber's eyes.
"Y-Yeah," he admitted under his breath. "We just…we're not a good fit, ya know? Yer a bookworm, I'm a redneck—you' got culture, I just cuss—yer—yer fuckin' brilliant, ya know?" He scoffed, his lip curling halfway between amusement and derision. "I ain't smart—I'm just a smartass."
"You're not stupid," Amber insisted hauling his eyes back to hers by his scruffy goatee, "an' you're not a rube. You're strong—you're genuine an' determined—ya know who ya are an' don't try to change that for anyone, ya wear it proud an' slap folks across the face with your sass if they judge you."
"In other words," Mercy offered with a too-innocent smile, "yer a proud redneck in a world full of normal people." Amber shot Mercy a reprimanding glare; the blonde shrugged. "What? It's true." The other rolled her eyes in defeat.
"We digress," she grumbled. "Look, Hon, Merse an' I love ya to bits—" Seeing Mercy's lips part to argue, Amber reached out and poked her on the ankle in warning. "—an' we know ya love us, too, in yer weird little way. It hurts to lose people ya love…no one's ever really ready to lose someone they care about for good, but it's just part of life." She gave him a teasing fist-bump to the shoulder. "Besides, even if I can't ever come home without bitin' the dust, who says you can't visit us?"
Aaron jerked, his eyes darting up to meet Amber's, then flashing to Mercy's, then back again. "You—y'all want me to come see ya?" he parroted back in surprise. "But how—" Mercy pounced on him knuckles-first.
"Let us worry about that, Lightbulb-butt," Mercy teased noogie-ing him relentlessly as he fussed. "I' got the barn, she's got the brew…" She trailed off, eyebrows arching in an open hint. Aaron's nose twitched, but he scrubbed his eyes clean and grinned all the wider.
"I'll bring the barbecue," he finished in a laughing wheeze. Content that the worst was over, Amber exchanged a pointed look with both blondes, and threw her arms open wide, wiggling her fingers in suggestion; when they balked, she latched onto their clothing and yanked them into a group hug. As always, they 'endured, but under extreme duress' and muttered insults at each other over her frizzy hair...at least until something occurred to Mercy. She cringed, craning her neck to get as far away from Amber's shoulder as possible.
"O'Brien?" she grimaced. "Ya know yer shirt's still got blood on it, right? An' now it's covered in Willis' tears an' snot?" Amber yanked her back in with an evil laugh. "Oh, gross!"
"Ross," Aaron grumbled from Amber's other shoulder, his voice muffled by blood-stained fabric, "just friggin' roll with it."
Aaron burst through the beaded doorway with a purpose, startling the two eaves-dropping ninjas by the wall. "Listen here, Nerd," he barked getting right up in Donatello's face without even leaving him room to stand up. He pointed emphatically at the exasperated blonde and unimpressed brunette, never letting up on his scowl. "Ya see those two idjits? They're gonna get 'emselves hurt someday, especially that klutz." Amber huffed. "Yer job's to keep 'em from gettin' 'emselves hurt an' to keep that braided blockhead from earnin' 'erself a Darwin Award. Got it?"
Donnie made to protest the insults but Aaron cut him off again, this time, entirely serious. "I can't always be around to protect those two anymore; I'm passin' that buck to you. I'm warnin' ya though, I find out any of ya hurt 'em—either of' em—there won't be a world y'all can run to where I won't find ya, an' I'll turn all four'a yer shells into fishponds. Crystal?"
"Really, Willis?" Amber drawled as she latched onto his shoulders and bodily moved him out of Donnie's personal space. "Fishponds? That's the worst you could come up with?"
"Yeah," he groused, "well, I'd say feed yer asses to my cats but the lil' buggers have gotten picky. They won't even eat pepperoni anymore – well, Ass-Butt will, but it gives 'er a real rancid case'a—" Two hands lashed out and slapped over Aaron's mouth to cut him off, the owners respectively cringing and grimacing. Clearly, Donnie realized with a blank stare, the threat was empty but the request was the same: take care of my friends even though I couldn't kick your butt if I tried.
"That's it," Amber warned marching Aaron toward the kitchen, "I'm gettin' a fork, yer done."## Shortly after this, she spoke again. "I'm changin'—All in favor of burnin' these clothes?" The suggestion was favored with a several-voice chorus of ayes from every corner of the Lair.
Over the next hour—after Amber finally got a chance to change out of her blood, tear, and snot-tainted PJs—Amber and Donatello filled in the others with their observations about the days leading up to Amber's near-death. After some consideration, the genius came up with a theory: she might be safe in her world so long as she left before 72 hours was up. Mercy, too, was likely subject to the same rules, as she, too, died in that world. Aaron, having never died in either world, was probably free to come and go as he pleased. Everyone knew the theory would remain just that until it was proven or dis-proven but no one was willing to try it just yet. Likewise, everyone knew the surprisingly comfortable gathering had to be broken up soon, but no one was willing to suggest such.
Thus, long after all the questions were asked and the answers were given, the gathering transitioned into other activities—getting to know one another, watching movies, making dinner, eating it, then yet another movie with even more lounging around. By eight o'clock, a contagious yawn started making the rounds through the three world-hoppers, and Splinter put his clawed foot down: the fun was over. Aaron needed to be taken home and Donnie and Amber's luggage needed to be collected from said home. Donatello already missed three nights' patrol and was sure to miss more due to inter-dimensional 'jet lag,' and they weren't sure how much time had passed in Aaron's world without his presence. This, in particular, horrified the blond, who promptly began fretting about his cats, his game system, and his job, in that exact order.
In the end, it was all agreed. Donnie and Amber were ordered to make it an early night. Leo and Splinter vowed to take Aaron home, pack up the couple's belongings, leave word about the developments for Kimber, and return without delay. Mercy made some excuse about 'yard work,' but the validity of that excuse was put into question by her silent conversation with Raphael—a conversation executed with nothing more than facial expressions and discreet gestures.
After seeing and hearing the three friends fall apart in the dojo, earlier, Donnie honestly expected a long, tearful goodbye. Instead, Mercy and Aaron exchanged a shoulder-punch and a couple odd insults that sounded a bit like terms of affection, and both promised to beat the other's ass next time they met. Aaron and Amber, on the other hand, weren't quite so prickly together—she roped him into a hug and they shared a few quiet words the others couldn't quite hear. "Next time," she then promised with a wry smile, "I'll see ya off with a nip'a the good stuff, jus' like ol' times…if'n ya promise not to try milkin' any cows afterward.
When all was said and done, Splinter, Leo, and Aaron were gone, and Mercy and Raphael were off to the Garden, Amber slipped away, seeking quiet. Donnie found her in the dojo staring through the weapon racks lining the far wall. This, of course, worried the genius. She was quiet—too quiet—and despite watery eyes and a croaking voice, she never broke down and cried once in the entire time since they returned to the Lair. When he first met her, she would have been bawling the moment she saw Aaron and would have fallen apart—she would be struggling under memories, seeing images of destruction flashing behind her eyes—the horrors of her previous life would have held her hostage and left her broken long afterward. Now, she was silent, calm, and contemplating the grouping of lesser-used weapons hung along the wall. Was she in shock?
She didn't show any signs of surprise when Donnie came up behind her and gathered her into his arms; she wasn't lost in thought, then. "The worst is over now," he reminded, briefly nuzzling into her hair then tucking her head under his chin. "It'll take some time to adjust, but we'll get through it, I promise." To his surprise and disbelief, she didn't break down—she didn't tremble or latch onto him with every ounce of strength. Instead, she looked up to peck the underside of his jaw then leaned back into his plastron, wrapped her arms around his.
"I know," she answered with a soft smile—a smile that, though hard to believe, didn't seem fake or forced at all. "The world turned on without me, Donnie. I was so sure my family was fallin' apart—that Aaron couldn't handle livin' without me." She gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Some ego, huh? My father was already moving on an' my Ma an' Gran'Da were workin' on it. Aaron was doin' better, too, an' if we hadn't arrived on the anniversary, he prob'ly wouldn't have been so out of sorts." She shrugged, laying her head on his shoulder, content. "Life goes on, even when we feel like it's fallin' down around us. If they can rise above their grief, who's to say I can't rise above my fears?"
"Are you really alright, Honey?" Donatello released her only to turn her to face him and tilt her eyes up to his; she wasn't showing any sign of being upset or hurting, but neither did she seem to be in shock. He cupped her jaw in his hand, brushing the pad of his thumb along her cheekbone – a cheek that would normally be stained with tears. "You're…well, you seem to be…coping with this."
"I've spent a lotta time not copin, haven't I?" Amber admitted and covered his hand with hers. "I've spent far too long livin' in the past when I should'a been enjoyin' the present. Back in my last life, I'd never have been so—so mopey—an' I wasn't a crier…in this life, I've been an absolute mess…an' I've been leanin' on you too hard." She cringed and ducked her head. "I'm sorry for that…I can do better—I will do better. I can't go back an' change that, but I can try harder not to let my emotions carry me away. You deserve better an' I'll do what I can to become better." The silence stretched uncomfortably, so she met his eyes again. He seemed stunned—bewildered and pleasantly so.
"You're…you're really alright?" he asked bringing his other hand up to her other cheek; Amber covered that one with her other hand, heedless of how ridiculous they must look, him framing her face and her holding his hands in place. "You're…not afraid? Or hurting?"
"Of course I'm hurtin'," she corrected with a wry smile, "I just said goodbye to one of the best friends I've ever had, an' I may never see my family again—I'm still sad, I'm just not wallowing in it like I have been. Life went on for them, an' it'll go on for me, too…Aaron an' my family aren't here, but you are...yer worth endurin' all the sorrow an' fear in the world, Dunnie." Donnie's throat visibly clenched, his eyes misting over, and he leaned down to steal her lips. Amber sighed into the kiss, reaching for his neck; that kiss was followed by several more, each slower and more sensual than the last, and she dug her nails into his skin, relishing the soft moan it triggered.
Somewhere between nip and tug, she recalled the moments before she awoke on the operating table—recalled the voice in the Void—and knew she had to tell him. "I've told you about…the Void…haven't I?" she asked haltingly. Donnie nodded, his eyes reluctantly leaving her swollen lips for her eyes.
"I take it you returned?" he asked, and she nodded.
"I dunno how long I was there," she answered, "I only know when I left—that's right before I woke up on the operating table. This time was different, though."
"Different how?"
"The Void…it's…well, it's hard to describe." Amber disentangled herself from his arms, wandered over to the meditation corner and sprawled out on one of the mats. Donnie joined her, listening intently. "It's a world of nothingness. There's no sound, no sight, no sensation of any sort—when yer there, yer nothin', you have no body but you can sense things anyway. The blindin' light an' pitch darkness…the endless ticking an' maddening white noise…the smell of dust an' old books…"
'I'd better not find you in my filing cabinet again for at least fifty years.'
Nope. Not dealin' with that one just yet. She shook off the memory of the whiny voice and carded her fingers into her hair, digging her nails into her scalp as if to remind herself that she was alive and could feel things again.
"The first time I was there, I was alone," she continued, "but this time, there was another – a voice, mebbe the same voice Kimber mentioned. It was sure irritating enough." She shook the thought off and turned a smile to the genius beside her. "I wasn't put here by coincidence…the Voice mentioned lessons—I've learned some already, but I got the feelin' I'm meant to learn more in the future."
"What manner of lessons?" Donnie asked leaning on his bent knees. Amber shrugged.
"The ones they mentioned all pertained to faults from my last life," she explained. "I learned to ask for help an' let myself to be vulnerable—I learned how to accept myself for who I am instead'a hidin' an' tryin' to fit in—I learned that words aren't somethin' to fear an' hold back, an' that sharin'em doesn't have to be like pullin' teeth." She shot Donnie a lopsided grin. "The Voice asked if I was gonna give up an' die again, an' I tore it a new one; apparently, now I'm learnin' to forgive myself for mistakes I've made, like givin' up on life so easy last time." He chuckled, pulling her into a sidelong hug and smoothing his palm up and down her side. "I owe it all to you, ya know," she added, her voice soft with emotion. "You're the reason I've made so much progress."
"Nonsense." Amber startled. She leaned away and blinked at him in confusion, but he didn't look upset. "Our trip made me realize something, Braids," he explained with a fond smile. "I've spent all this time trying to 'fix you,' but you never needed fixing. Fixing something implies it was broken to begin with—you're not broken and you never were—you're a little battered but you won't always be that way." Before, Donnie was stunned by the dryness of Amber's eyes; now, they were shimmering with happy tears. "I can't solve your problems for you," he added as she crawled into his lap, then his embrace. "All I can do is support you while you fight your battles," he summed up breathing in the sweet coconut of her hair underneath the astringent scent of the hospital, "and believe in you, no matter what."
Amber's breath hitched against his collarbone; he nuzzled into her hair and rubbed her back, comforted by her closeness. In just under a year, they came a long way—they became friends, fell apart, and grew together again, and now, they could only grow stronger. His unoccupied eyes drifted along the wall before them, sliding from one grouping of weapons to the next before landing on a familiar sight: an old, age-faded pair of wooden tonfa. His nickname was scribbled on the handles of those weapons before age faded the markings, and despite routine cleaning and oiling, he would bet they both still had traces of his blood in the grain. Last he checked, he still had some scars from them; it would only be fitting for them to also still bear traces of the injuries he caused himself with them.
His eyes dropped to Amber's scalp as he considered his intentions. Ask me about Clayton Gregory. The Amber in his dreams was adamant about this—she insisted that when he remembered, he needed to broach the subject—but as of yet, he still held his tongue. Today, he nearly lost Amber all over again—if he spent an hour more hiking, or if his gamble on moving her despite a head injury hadn't paid off… He shuddered, gathering her even closer. She could have died…the last time he lost her, she still lived, but this time would have been permanent…he couldn't lose her again, not without knowing the truth, not without telling her what she meant to him.
"Amber, there's something I need to ask you." His voice was shaky from nerves—and understandably so—but she should still have heard him. Instead, she said nothing; she just breathed steadily into his neck. "Hon?" No answer. He carefully eased her away, craning his neck to see her, half-afraid her injury was manifesting again. Instead, she slumped with her chin almost to her chest, eyes closed and shoulders drooping. 'Oh man…I knew this would happen,' he thought with a wince. 'She really was in shock—now it's all hit at—'
A quiet snore cut off his train of thought. He blinked. She was…asleep? A quick inspection revealed that her forehead was still healing and the last of the bruising nearly gone; her eyes were shuttered but relaxed and her lips were curled into a small, tired smile. There he was, angsting about his dreams, and she fell asleep on him. 'You nutty woman,' he thought with a breathy chuckle, 'you couldn't wait until I dragged you to bed?' Careful not to disturb her, he shifted her to the mat, stood, and lifted her in his arms bridal style to carry her to bed; she nestled into his neck almost immediately, and gave a contented sigh in his ear. This moment, he decided, was sweeter than the coffee she always left him on Saturdays.
With Amber tucked in their bed, he crawled in beside her, gathering her against his plastron. He knew he needed to confront her about the dreams—needed to find out if she really shared those dreams after all—but it could wait another day. They both needed some rest after the day's drama. His mind made up and his heart lighter, Donatello gave his worries over to the night, eagerly awaiting his dreams and even more eagerly, the much-beloved woman who surely waited in them. From his dreams, she beckoned him, her hair still a little pink and her grey-green eyes weary.
"Remember me—I remember you."

UP NEXT: it's about fucking time! in The Moment of Truth

NOTES:
Title from a popularly-covered traditional Scottish folk song. The song is based on the tradition of offering guests a final drink to bolster their spirits on their journey home, and carries undertones of both sadness and tenderness. My favorite rendition of the song is by Celtic Thunder and it's absolutely haunting.
♦ A simple child that lightly draws its breath and feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death? - from "We are Seven" by William Wordsworth
## "I'm gettin' a fork, yer done."– a variation of "stick a fork in me, I'm done!"
The Lair - I have put together and posted a couple rough floorplans of this lair on the ANLoL Tumblr, Get-a-new-lease-on-Life.

Glossary
• Ah wouldnae be happy…Ah'd be heartbroken. My heart would always be here…wit' my Dunnie. – "I wouldn't be happy in that world. I'd be heartbroken because my heart would always be here, with Donnie."
• Next time, I'll see ya off with a nip'a the good stuff, jus' like ol' times…if'n ya promise not to try milkin' any cows afterward. – Next time you visit, before you leave, I'll share [a couple fingers' worth of quality Scotch] with you first, just like we used to…at least, if you promise not to try milking any cows afterward. Recall that the day Amber and Aaron returned to find Willsdale in ruins, he was hungover. Simply put, he and his cousin got drunk the night before, they challenged each other to a cow-milking contest, and Aaron—in his inebriation—accidentally tried to milk a bull instead of a cow and got peed on. We can only hope Amber hosed his drunken ass off outside.
• Mibbe/Mebbe – maybe, Scots.
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A New Lease on Life