Adult-FanFiction.org : Cartoons

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
- 60
- 61
- 62
Chapter precautions: More coarse language than usual, some citrusy bits, and possible trigger warning for a couple brief mentions/implications of past abuse, but nothing too specific or spelled out.
Suggested Listening: Our Lady Peace "Somewhere Out There," Toad the Wet Sprocket "Whatever I Fear" and "I'll Bet on You," John Legend "All of Me – Tiesto's Birthday Treatment Remix," The Mamas and the Papas' Cass Elliot "Dream a Little Dream of Me"

60: I Slipped Along the Way
Aboveground
00:45:00 and counting
Some supposed life-changing occurrences in life can have a remarkably brief impact on those they affect. A change in place of employment or address, for instance, will cause varying degrees of turmoil and stress but in time, they can be moved beyond. Someday one might walk into the grocer's they worked for, now a customer rather than a cashier, or sell their home and move across the city for a new start. In both cases, life would go on and, soon, that person would eventually cease to think of that change in everyday life. This situation was entirely different. Kimber didn't lose her job, she lost her life; she didn't just change addresses, she changed worlds. With such drastic changes, picking up lost friendships like nothing ever happened was unlikely
Something between Raphael and Kimber was different now; if either managed to miss it before, by the time Raphael heaved the heavy manhole cover aside, there was no room for doubt. Kimber wasn't quiet or withdrawn—in fact, she was as sassy as ever before—but there was still something missing. Somewhere behind her bottle-green eyes was a wall, and in her smoggy voice, a distance not rooted in reality. Many years ago Raphael and Kimber were close, nearly inseparable; now, in the muck-slicked alleys of the present, the gap between them felt too broad to be bridged.
"Looks like we got a cawld night on tha way," she stated in hopes of breaking the awkward silence. Raphael nodded, eyes locked on the fire-escape overhead.
"It's November." He leapt up to yank the groaning metal stair downward, anchoring it to the ground with one massive—and stubbornly bare—foot. "Gonna be a lotta cold nights fer a while."
With every word spoken, and every thought left silent, the distance between Kimber and Raphael grew wider.
One minute, Daron Williams' world was at the highest and brightest it had ever been. He was in line for a citation after helping his NYPD team bring in a particularly scummy Anonymous-esque hacker – he'd finally paid off all the fines, fees, and damages from Northpaw's attack in May – tomorrow, he even had a date, the first he'd cared to set since Kimber moved in with him!
Kimber...if only she could see him now. Her name once meant an onslaught of regrets and sadness; he still missed her, still hurt from missing her, but at least he was finally able to remember her without choking on the pain. A large part of that progress he owed to Cynthia Devine.
After so many years of watching Kimber hide under a flirtatious mask to manipulate those around her, Cindy's openness confused Daron to no end. The police station's sweet, quirky receptionist was genuine to a fault—she couldn't keep a straight face when amused, she couldn't lie her way out of a paper bag, and she hadn't the slightest hint of a poker face. Her thoughts, feelings, and heart were worn on her sleeves for the world to see, and after so many years of digging for the truth, Daron found he liked it.
Ever-stiff lips tilting into a ghost of a smile, he leaned back against the kitchen counter, smartphone in hand. Onscreen, a lovely young woman with curly red hair stuck her tongue out at the camera while giving him 'bunny ears.' Out loud he'd grumbled throughout the entire ten-seconds of the selfie—after all, he was in the photo, too, and the NYPD had a strict 'no selfies' policy—but underneath that scowl and complaints, he loved every bit of the moment. Cindy felt everything and hid nothing, and he couldn't get enough of it.
Last year, the unexpected sound of a window opening would have been cause for panic; now he had a visitor who liked to drop in at random times and always came in through the kitchen window. Daron swiped away the photo and jammed the phone deep in his pocket, and turned to greet the visitor. Raphael, he expected; the gawky redhead beside him was an entirely different story. "Oh, Hell no!" Daron barked mid-glare. "I don't care what you say, Raph, I ain't taking in another one of your weird-ass friends – the last one nearly burned down my apartment!"
"Ya dumped someone on 'im?" Kimber asked Raph; he grimaced.
"Da others asked 'im to take Merse in for a while." Raph avoided Kimber's eyes. "We…uh…didn't get along at first." Kimber waited for details, staring him down over her glasses. "She tried to choke me," he admitted under his breath. Kimber cracked up.
"I like this chick!" she wheezed. Raph considered, for a moment, explaining exactly why Mercy throttled him on the floor of the dojo, but he shrugged it off. Kimber didn't need to know how long he spent pushing Amber around, especially since he'd believed Amber was Kimber. If Kimber didn't already know he spent a long time resenting her on account of her supposed betrayal, then she didn't need to be told so. Let the dead rest—this one would be going home soon anyway. "So Mercy tried to burn down our dump, huh, Daron?"
Daron stared at Kimber, visibly struggling to make sense of the various cues and hints and failing. The longer he stared, the more uncomfortable the silence grew, and the tenser the three-way standoff became. Finally, Kimber acted: she heaved a frustrated sigh, wrenched her carrot-red hair out of its neat bun and shoved it atop her head in a messy pile, glaring at him over her glasses all the while. It took the blond a minute to make the connection but when he did, it hit with the velocity of a cinder-block through a school window. "Wha—n-no way!" Daron sputtered instead of dodging, "you—you can't be—that ain't possible!"
"It's possible," Raphael deadpanned clapping Daron on the shoulder a bit too roughly. "It's just fer a few days, den she's gotta go back." He turned to Kimber, carefully adding another yard to the metaphorical distance between them. "I'm'a go check on April, give ya some time before we head back—an hour work for ya?" Kimber winced, her eyes dropping to the floor. "Kimbuh, dat's just tonight," he added a little more gently. "I can bring ya by again tomorrow, yeah?" I ain't a monster, he wanted to add, but wisely kept it back; the last thing he wanted was to remind her of the traumatic ending to their complicated relationship.
Kimber's eyes shimmered behind her glasses; her rose-painted lower lip crinkled, gnawed from behind. She sucked in a shaky breath, crushed Jordan's dog-tags in a white-knuckled fist, exhaled slowly, then finally met Raphael's eyes. "Ya'd do that?" she asked in a near-whisper. "I…ya don't…" His hand on her shoulder—tense, yet an almost paranoid level of gentle—cut her off. …and sent those blasted butterflies in her stomach into a frenzy.
"I do," he countered, stubborn nostrils flaring; his nose crinkled as if smelling something odd, followed by a streak of muddy brown spilling across his muzzle. He snatched his hand back, physically putting distance between them. "I owe ya, Kim," he clarified avoiding her eyes. "Nothin 'll ever make it up to ya but I can give ya dis much at least." Kimber studied him in silence, glancing back and forth from one amber eye to the other—both of which were stubbornly fixed on the floor—then she turned away. Brick by brick, the wall behind her eyes grew higher.
"Be safe out there," she ordered, then turned to the cabinet Daron always kept the bourbon in. Raphael hesitated, torn between the two halves of his heart and the two women occupying them, then left without a word. One hand clenched on the cabinet door handle, Kimber glanced back at the click of the window latch and got a brief glimpse of a faded mask tail and battle-scarred shell. Her throat ached—her lungs ached—her stomach ached—her very heart ached. She let go of the cabinet and weakly grabbed at Jordan's dog-tags. 'Don't make that mistake again,' she reminded herself as always, fingertips tracing the letters stamped into the metal. 'Ya didn't get a second chance fer nothin'. Don't fuck up again—this is yer chance to make right—don't blow it, Bryant!'
An unexpected sound drew Kimber from her thoughts—a tinny dial-tone from the smartphone Daron held to his ear, followed by a distinctly female voice. "Cindy, it's me," Daron greeted as Kimber stared. "Something's come up, I've gotta reschedule tomorrow." Kimber arched one fine red eyebrow at him and mouthed the name in question; Daron rolled his eyes and gave a sharp 'knock it off' gesture. On the other end of the line, Kimber heard Cindy's voice grow quiet, perhaps hurt, followed by asking for an explanation. Yet another surprise: "Ya know that sister I told ya about?" Daron asked dryly; Kimber cracked up, smothering her laughter behind one hand.
"The one who died?" Cindy's voice echoed from the other line.
"Yeah," Daron answered pinning Kimber with a warning glare, "well, apparently not. She just crawled through my fucking window."
"Like the Beatles song!" Cindy squealed. Daron yanked the phone away from his ear, cringed at it, then put it back to his ear.
"My God, you're a nerd," he deadpanned and got a giggle in response. "Look, she's only here for a few days then she's leaving town again. Next Saturday work instead?"
By the time Kimber could breathe without hiccoughing and her eyes were dry, the call was finished and Daron was pouring the first of two bourbons. "None for me, thanks," she interrupted before he could pour the second.
"No?" he asked, the bottle still tipped to pour; she shook her head.
"I don't touch tha stuff anymore. Ya got somethin' else?" Daron scrutinized her a long while, once again comparing this 'new' Kimber to the Kimber he remembered. The appearance wasn't the only change—she was older now, calmer and dressed more conservatively, and from what he could see, less confrontational…and that wasn't the half of it.
"There's always Dew in the fridge." He stoppered the bourbon and took a deep swig from his glass, coughing away the preliminary burn. "Kimber Bryant declining booze," he muttered as she pulled a two-liter from the fridge and filled her glass with Mtn Dew. "Where's the pod?"
"Sahrry, Daron, there ain't a pod." She shrugged, a wry smile tilting her lips. "I started drinkin' too early. Every time I drank, I drank too much, an' my life went to shit. Figured there was prob'ly a connection; I don't drink anymore." The soda burned on the way down, not from alcohol content but due to her still tight throat. She cringed off the discomfort and added, "Besides, I work in a bar now. Even I hadn't quit, tha stink of all that booze would'a done it…smells like my D…" She shuddered and cut herself off, downing a deep pull of soda instead.
"So how are you even here?" Daron didn't acknowledge the unspoken admission. Kimber's father, after all, was an abusive alcoholic, and the strongest memories were tied to smells. "Last I heard, dead was dead and you weren't coming back, not even to visit."
"Let's jus' say I'm cleanin' up my messes," Kimber muttered tilting her glass and dragging it in a circle on the table. "Tha bawdy-snatcher tried goin' home an' almost died. That nerd of hers thought maybe there's a time limit on how long we can be home without buyin' tha farm; I'm here ta prove it." She answered the unspoken question in Daron's eyes by tugging her collar aside; insulated wires trailed from her armpit up to a small device hung from her neck. "Donnie-boy says whateva killed us is what'll kill us again if we stay too lawng. I get too cawld, this thing's gonna go off, an' when it does, I gotta go back, warning or not."
The uncomfortable rambling, too, was part of this new Kimber. Before, she was obstinate, stubborn, brazen, and had a chip on her shoulder the size of Jersey itself. Now she was visibly older—she seemed ashamed, embarrassed, and subdued, and she was actively putting her life on the line to help someone she barely knew. Could this be what she would have eventually become, had she not frozen to death that January? Maybe, Daron considered as he stared through the contents of his glass, Kimber was finally maturing…maybe he didn't need to shelter her anymore…or should he have sheltered her so much, to begin with? Perhaps…well, it was worth the chance, right?
"I'm hitting the prison tomorrow for visitation." His announcement caught Kimber off-guard; mid top-off she fumbled the two-liter bottle but caught it in time to prevent a spill.
"Lefty?" she asked, carefully recapping the bottle, and he nodded.
"He's there, too. He won't accept visitors but he always had a soft spot for you; maybe you could reach him." The redhead across the table stared Daron down, waiting patiently and quietly for the other shoe to drop. "I'm not visiting Leon, though." He paused; again, she held up, not reacting, just waiting. Perhaps… "Hun's in the same prison; I'm visiting him." Kimber reflected on the name for a moment, swirling the soda in her glass and breathing evenly.
"Raph said he's paralyzed," she remarked without emphasis, "waist down, wheelchair, tha works. I take it that's why you're dealin' with his nasty attitude?"
This Kimber, Daron admitted if only to himself, made absolutely no sense. He learned early on how to see behind her masks and identify when she was hiding something. Now she was hiding nothing and her calm seemed entirely, honestly, impossibly legit. Only a year before, she would've been screaming obscenities, guzzling his liquor, and spouting vivid, gruesome threats against Hun's genitals.
"It's my fault," Daron answered instead of voicing his thoughts. "After everything he put us through, I couldn't take anymore…shit went down and I…" He faltered. All-too-well, he remembered that night in the alley—the rancid stench of over-flowing dumpsters—the cold metal and warm resin grip of Kimber's stolen revolver—the resistance of the trigger giving way to recoil—the stomach-turning sound of the two rounds that hit their target—he shook the memory away. It was over…it was in the past. Let it go. "Hunter's always been an asshole," he continued weakly, "I handled it fine when he was just screwing me over, but after everything he did…to you, to the others…I just lost it." His knuckles crackled—when did he start clenching his fingers around the glass? "I shot my own brother in the back, Kim…I aimed right at his head and hit his spine. I paralyzed him."
Kimber thought it over a moment, giving him time to chase the shimmer from his eyes and the croak from his voice. Daron always got touchy when people tried to comfort him when he got emotional. "Bein' in a wheelchair don't make 'im any less of an asshole…crippling 'im don't make 'im a saint." For the first time in a long time, Daron was too stunned by Kimber's words to argue. "I know ya, Daron," she reminded without any sign of judgment, "I know ya've taken responsibility for what'cha done an' you're still beatin' yourself up over it. What about him? Has he turned a new leaf, or is he tha same ol' scumbag?"
"Mom…lied to us," Daron sighed after considering the question…and deciding against answering it. "He is my half-brother but he's not...her son…he just came to stay with us when it got too rough to stay with our dad. I never met the old man 'til recently; apparently, the wardens keep him in solitary for his own safety." Kimber winced, easily following the breadcrumbs to the unspoken secret. Whatever Hun's father did, it wasn't anything she wanted to know about; some crimes were too heinous even for hardened criminals to ignore. "It's taking time," Daron added when it became clear Kimber was too repulsed to trust her own voice, "but Hun—we're actually talking now instead of just fighting. I almost look forward to seeing him now; give it a few years and maybe I will look forward it."
"With an attitude like that I'm sure ya will." Kimber reached across the table and patted the back of his hand. "I'm proud of ya, Shortstack."
"Not my fault you're so friggin' tall," Daron grumbled but shrugged off the tease otherwise. Truth be told, he missed her playful barbs. "So you wanna go with me tomorrow, check on Leon? –yeah, he won't answer to Lefty anymore."
Kimber nodded. "Hun knows I'm dead here, right?" She shifted in her chair, already feeling a pinch in her lower back from the long slouching session. "Does he know tha rest? That Ambuh's from another world an' I got tha same treatment?"
"Knows it?" Daron shot back a slug of his drink. "I told him the basics, but believing it is a stretch."
Kimber thought it over a moment, weighed the potential consequences, then took the chance. "Ya think I could have a minute with him tomorrow?" Daron went to object but she cut him off. "You're not tha only one who's growin' up, ya know," she reminded with an unusually civilized smile. "I ain't gonna cause trouble. Just think it over tonight, okay?" He nodded agreement, and the silence threatened to grow stale. "Actually," she added to prevent the awkwardness, "I'm surprised ya actually told me you're goin' to visit 'im—figured you'd panic, try to hide it, then freak out when I found out."
Daron shrugged, lips twitching into a smirk. "Don't get me wrong," he insisted, "I thought about doing just that…seemed like an idiot move though. Better to get it out and over with before we're under armed guard, right?"
A familiar—and overdue—sound cut off Kimber's retort: the window latch creaked open then squealed when the window got stuck in the track. Both turned to address the mutant scowling at the too-small opening, then exchanged a sigh. "I'm comin' a'ready," she told Raphael as she stood up, "stay out there or you'll chip tha paint." His only answer was an irritable huff. Kimber tossed back the last of her soda and turned to offer Daron a tentative—and blatantly familial—hug. "Oil that later an' call me tomorrow—we'll work out tha details. 'May?"
"Will do," Daron agreed as Kimber climbed through the window. Before he could close it again, though, she stuck her head back through with an impish grin.
"Daron's got a girlfriend!" He was so sure she was maturing…then she threw a singsong playground taunt at him on her way out. Maybe she hadn't changed that much after all.
02:15:00 and counting
Dinner in the Lair was normally a relaxed affair marked with good food and better company. It was never quiet—the time was always passed with banter, a little roughhousing between certain brothers, some obnoxious flirting from Mercy and Raphael, and plenty of talking and laughter. This dinner, on the other hand, was anything but normal. It was quiet—a little too quiet—the kitchen table was cramped—a little too cramped—and Leonardo was being…well…a little too Leo.
From his customary seat at Splinter's right side, he kept a steady watch on Kimber at the end seat. Sure, she was seated between Raph and Donnie and sure to be taken care of if she caused any trouble, but so far, she was infuriatingly polite. "Please pass tha potstickers?" Amber obliged, sending the platter by Donnie with a smile; Kimber answered with something halfway between a smile and a cringe, and a "Thanks." Her manners were acceptable and she hadn't started any fights but Leo couldn't relax. A pregnant silence shrouded the room, sparking from a multitude of unvoiced worries.
In his distraction, a lo mein noodle slipped loose from his chopsticks; he didn't realize it until he lifted them to his lips and found empty wood. He looked over at Splinter—nothing—to his brothers—no sign of upset—then to the two women he was beginning to consider sisters. There, at least, was some indication that something was wrong. Amber was much quieter than usual and exchanging awkward side-glances with Donnie. Donnie, in turn, kept turning to Kimber as if concerned about her comfort. At Leo's right, Mercy was completely silent, her nose scrunched and her eyes fixed on her Broccoli Beef and fried rice; ordinarily, the blonde would be on her second plate by now but she'd barely touched it. Lastly, Leo turned to study Kimber again, considering the small amount of food on her plate, her rigid posture, and her still-painted face. He tried for another noodle—it slipped free like the last.
Kimber cleared her throat and turned to Amber. "So…uh…I hear you're studyin' fer my Equivalency—" The screech of a chair shoving back from the table cut her off.
"I need to be excused," Leo told Splinter through gritted teeth; all the while, he pinned Kimber under a stern glare. Splinter thought it over a moment, ultimately waving him out; forcing Leo to stay when he was struggling to bite his tongue would only result in a fight. The younger bowed a rigid thank you then stalked out of the kitchen.
"Hey, where ya—" Mikey's question fell short at the slam of a door—the front door. "Well, that was rude," he muttered helping himself to Leo's barely touched plate.
"He's probably goin' to check on Bev an' Bree," Amber excused gently. "He does worry about Beverly. I keep tellin' those two to come by more often—we're all family in this story but they keep actin' like minor characters." This time the silence was more dead than tense; the occupants of the too-crowded table all exchanged chagrined looks, trying to find some way to follow the odd statement. "Alrighty then," Amber muttered, "no more metafiction jokes at the dinner table."
"I wanna see them x-rays," Mercy grumbled into her sweet tea. "You're even weirder than I remember."
03:00:00 and counting
Immediately following dinner, the group dispersed like silverfish fleeing a work boot. Amber and Mikey hung around to put away leftovers and work on cleaning up from dinner. Raphael took off for the dojo, Donnie for his lab, and Splinter in search of someone named "Kirkland." Kimber hovered on the catwalk, nervously watching the blonde woman carting a watering can from room to room. This wasn't Kimber's home and she wasn't comfortable just sitting on her laurels while the natives worked, even after a long day at the pub. Already she'd offered to help in several different ways and places but was turned down each time. There was only one person she hadn't approached yet…and frankly, that person made her nervous.
Mercy.
Mercy, it turned out, was a skilled gardener, and if the stories were true, she'd managed to set up an underground garden not far from the Lair. Kimber was never very good with plants, granted, but if it meant being able to earn her keep… Mercy hauled the watering can back into the main bathroom a final time, dumped the remaining water down the sink, and swept back out again. Maybe Kimber was overreacting—maybe Mercy wasn't such a frightening person after all—maybe they were both just nervous and waiting for the other to attack first?
That hope in mind, Kimber sprinted down the ramp to catch up with the blonde at the back door. Without even acknowledging her presence, Mercy tensed up, fingers poised at the keypad to beat a swift retreat. Kimber faltered, reconsidered, then shoved on anyway. "Uh...Raph said ya got yard work to do," she attempted. Mercy turned just slightly, fixing the very corner of one narrowed denim-colored eye on her in warning; even if she wasn't going to attack Kimber, the blonde certainly knew how to be intimidating. "…can I…" The redhead scrunched her eyes shut and took in a shaky breath. "…can I help?"
"No." That one word jarred Kimber from her nerves.
"Wha—no?" Kimber parroted back as Mercy rapidly jabbed in the access code with her right hand, hiding the buttons behind her left; she messed up on the last digit and swore under her breath. Someone was definitely having a rough day. "I just—"
"I said…NO." Mercy gritted her teeth and dug her fingertips in between her eyes. "I don't need your help. Go play somewhere." Kimber's initial impression of Mercy's character was now reversed—she thought the blonde was quiet, considerate, and patient, if a little standoffish, but here she was dismissing Kimber like a naughty child.
"What'd I ever do to you?" Kimber demanded sharply. "I've been nothin' but nice to ya an' ya won't even talk to me—I just wanna help an' earn my keep an' yer treatin' me like—" Mercy lurched around to fix a warning glare on her, seething with an anger Kimber never saw coming.
"Baggoff!"• Mercy stalked toward Kimber; every menacing step forward, Kimber took two smaller, quicker steps backward, until they reached the end of the hallway. "You listen to me, an' you listen good," Mercy snarled blocking Kimber from the hallway. "You're here to fix yer shit—I may be toleratin' yer presence here but I am not your friend." Again, she grabbed at her nose, digging two fingers in on either side and cringing. "Stay away from me—an' lay off the fuckin' perfume!"
This time when Mercy stalked off down the hallway, Kimber didn't follow—she was too busy trying to calm down and fight off a crying fit. Why did she have to be brought back in a crier?! Before she died, she would've ripped that Mercy bitch a new one for getting up in her face like that; now she was a mere step away from blubbering like an prom-bound tweenager who found a zit.
The electronic lock beeped to signal the door locking again; Kimber ducked into the main bathroom and hunched over at the sink. Splashing cold water on her face always seemed to help though she couldn't understand why. When she straightened up again she was taken aback by what she saw—even after two years, the sight of a stranger's face staring back from the mirror never failed to catch her off-guard. She wasn't the same Kimber as before, but neither was she someone completely new; she was some previously unheard of blend of two people who, by rights, should never have crossed paths. She couldn't help but wonder if other people in her situation felt the same—torn between two worlds and slowly losing themselves in the process. Would she ever get used to seeing the wrong face in her reflection?
"What'd that bimbo mean about my perfume anyway?" Kimber muttered to her hijacked reflection. "I came here straight from work; she expect me to shower first?!" Fuming, she recalled the way Mercy kept pinching and kneading the fair skin around her nose and eyes, almost like she had a headache. Maybe…maybe Mercy wasn't angry at her, per se, but just angry in general…? Either way, it couldn't hurt to bathe off the lingering smells from the pub. She turned to her shoulder and gave a cursory sniff, immediately cringing; underneath her Warm Vanilla Sugar perfume, she positively stank of liquor, stale beer, and ripe sweat. No wonder people kept sending her elsewhere.
A plan in mind, Kimber made her way up the catwalk to collect her toiletries and fresh clothes. Splinter had put her up in what he called 'a guest room,' but judging by the dents in the metal walls – each roughly the size and shape of one of Raph's oversized fists – she suspected it wasn't always a guest room. The room even still smelled like Raph. She drew in a deep breath of it—that smoky, musky blend of sandalwood and sawdust, leather and sweat that was all him—all the while, silently chastising herself for the audacity. No matter how good he smelled, he wasn't hers to huff.
Now, where would a family of mutants keep their towels?
"Stars shinin' bright above you…Night breezes seem to whisper 'I love you.' Birds singin' in the sycamore tree, 'Dream a lil' dream of me.'" There was no music playing in the kitchen, let alone a recording of the song at her lips, but tone-deaf or not, Amber was never put off by singing without accompaniment. She was visibly tired, forearms livid from the scalding water; a few wisps of fading blue and lavender hair stuck out from her sloppy bun, lazily dancing in the breeze from the overhead fan. A gentle smile on her face, she hummed the wordless parts of the song and swayed in time to the beat, eyes content. Not for the first time, Donatello wondered how he was ever lucky enough to meet her, let alone to find her again in another life.
Leaning against the counter by the doorway, hands deep in his pockets he took this opportunity to admire his quirky lover unobserved. She could get so awkward when she caught him checking her out—her voice would catch and she'd sputter, ruddy color would flood her cheeks and she'd avoid his eyes—she loved teasing him, true, but she was equally fun to catch off-guard. At least, he considered with a lopsided grin, she finally stopped sucking in her gut and clenching her backside when she caught him eyeing her. His eyes slowly, deliberately trailed from her bare neck to her plump rear and wide hips, then down her thick thighs and full calves, and back up again. She really was soft all over...how he loved that softness.
Originally, Donnie thought she'd have company in the kitchen. He expected to squeeze past Mikey's carapace to reach the coffee pot, to spill it on himself when Mikey inevitably decided to bust a move without warning, and to be left dripping his way back to the lab sans coffee. Michelangelo was supposed to be helping Amber with dinner cleanup but he probably hurried off to parts unknown once the leftovers were packed away. The youngest of the four brothers rarely stayed in one place for long…all the better for the cuddle-deprived genius.
"Say nighty-night an' kiss me." Amber crooned as Donnie sidled up and wrapped her in his arms from behind; she must have heard him after all because she didn't miss a beat. "Just hold me tight an' tell me ya'll miss me. While I'm alone an' blue as can be, dream a lil' dream of me." His hands flattening over her soft midsection (so as not to hamper her work) and her rump flush against his groin, he rocked on his feet in time with her. "Stars fadin', but I linger on, Dear, still cravin' your kiss…" Happy to oblige, he leaned over to give her a peck on the cheek. She stilled, aiming a cheeky smile at him over her shoulder. "I'm pretty sure that's not what Mama Cass was talkin' about, Speccy."
"Probably not," he agreed nuzzling the flash of bare skin just beyond her collar; she canted her head to the side in an invitation he gladly accepted. "I actually have something better in mind." He paused to suck in a coconut-scented breath of her hair; was that a splotch of perfume on her collarbone, too? He was getting a hint of vanilla and vetiver from somewhere. "There are…limitations, though."
"Oh really?" Amber grinned askance. The dishes may as well have been forgotten. "Lemme guess: I'm already in the kitchen but I'm not barefoot an' pregnant?" A deep rumble sounded somewhere between his vocal cords and ribs—not for the idea of his Amber subjugated like a housewife of yesteryear, but a much more pleasant vision. Her belly swollen with an impossible child—she sprawled across the kitchen table in nothing but her glasses and faded ink, maybe a length of purple silk at her throat—parting her legs and lifting her knees to his shoulders, he leaned in to feast.
"No," he managed before she decided to lecture him about women's empowerment. "The kitchen's the problem. I was thinking somewhere more…hmm, private."
"Ya don't say?" This time, she shifted in place for a much less innocent reason than music; the contact, while brief, drew another barely-muffled churr and shifted his grip to her hips. "Hawd yer gantin', ijyannen,"• she told him in that now-familiar guttural brogue she was slowly using more and more. "I'm almost done—you can bide a bit longer."• The gruff, foreign words were quickly becoming one of Donnie's greatest weaknesses; a barely-audible whine clawed at the back of his throat. If she kept teasing him like that, he'd end up biting rather than biding.
He quickly glanced over her shoulder into the sink—there were only a couple platters left to scrub and rinse. Maybe it wasn't such a long time to wait…right? With a final teasing nip, he released her, grabbed a dishcloth, and took up drying beside her. Maybe the wait would calm down his libido enough to avoid getting an embarrassing tent-based nickname of his own if they ran into Mercy.
Raphael froze in the doorway to the utility room, confused by the sight that greeted him: Kimber slouched by the linen shelves with an armful of clean clothes and a faded tapestry trunk, cringing at something in the kitchen. He followed her line of sight and choked—apparently the resident nerds in love didn't realize they had an audience. With the amount of fuck-me pheromones those two were pumping out, how on Earth did he not smell them all the way in the Barracks?
"This is even more awkward than I expected," Kimber told him under her breath. "That's my bawdy he's droolin' on." Raph snorted in agreement and nudged her through the door of the main bathroom.
"Yeah," he agreed, snagging a couple towels and a washrag on the way, "it's also my sloppy seconds. Trust me, I get it."
"Yeah, well I don't get it," Kimber countered as the door swung shut behind him. "She talkin' funny 'cause she thinks it's cute? It's weird."
"Your family don't talk like dat?" Raph asked in surprise. Kimber and Amber were, after all, the same soul existing in different realities and different bodies; if Amber's family was made up of immigrants, wouldn't Kimber's be, too?
"My dad was a drunk an' my ma was a Baptist," she deadpanned, "that was tha only thing special about 'em." Raphael let the irony soak in a moment.
"From what I've heard, Amber's da first in 'er Ma's family to be born American—they came over from Scotland when 'er ma was a kid." He averted his eyes when Kimber started brushing the tangles out of her hair, though he wasn't quite sure why. For some reason, watching seemed too…intimate. "Merse says Ambuh talked like dat as a kid, just like 'er family," he added in hopes including Mercy would settle his nerves. It didn't. "She quit 'cause she got picked on a lot, now she's lettin' it out once in a while." Donnie certainly wasn't discouraging it, either—every time Amber brought out the brogue, any mutant in smelling's distance knew exactly what was on his mind.
"They think they're bein' real sneaky, huh?" Kimber had easily recognized the cause for his repulsed expression.
"Yep," Raph agreed with a cringe. "Dey ain't foolin' no one."
Around midnight
08:15:00 and counting
In hindsight, Kimber wasn't sure exactly what woke her. It might have been an unexpected thump from Leo's room, snoring from Mikey's room on the other side, or a burst of residual acid from the night's tense dinner. Regardless of the cause, there she was—wide awake and scrunched up on a rather uncomfortable cot retrieved from some damned place with too much dust. It took a moment to collect herself and remember where she was and why, then everything came back in a rush. "Right," she muttered glaring hatefully at her knees, "I'm back." She still couldn't quite wrap her head around it. Perhaps a drink would help.
She bypassed the ramp this time for the stairs—after all, reaching the ramp meant passing Leonardo's room, and she wasn't so sure he wouldn't barge out and growl at her for being noisy. The stairs, at least, were just past Mikey's room, and his snoring should cover any footfalls. Upon reaching the kitchen she realized she wasn't the only one awake. Amber slouched at the table with a chipped glass, staring into the caramel-colored whisky as if it held the answers to the world's questions. "Rough night?" Amber startled at Kimber's unexpected question and shot her a weak smile before turning back to her drink.
"You could say that," Amber sighed. "I really hoped this whole dreamin' about my family's daily lives shpiel would stop once I came back but it's still happening. Last night Gran'Da left his readin' specs in the fridge an' a pub-goer barfed on Uncle Bart. Tonight my Mum an' Da got in another screamin' match an' I couldn't even knock over a trash bin to shut 'em up." She looked up at Kimber, her face completely deadpan. "It's like a shite soap opera I can't turn off," she drawled.
"You why that sugar jar spilled?" Kimber remembered the scare at The Staggering Rat well—Douglas O'Brien drowning his bitterness in Boston Lager, then furniture and condiment containers flying every which way and an unearthly message drawn in spilled sugar granules. Ab'dy, bide – Everyone, live. The ghostly words made no sense to Kimber but they were enough encouragement for Douglas to tip well and leave without finishing his beer. Kimber's father would never have left a beer unfinished, let alone tipped fairly.
"Yeah." Amber shrugged, topped her glass off then tilted the Scotch bottle in offer; Kimber declined, opting for the jug of sweet tea in the fridge. "Sometimes I can make a difference—leave messages, knock things over, poke people, little stuff. A few days ago I managed to chase Numbnuts off Willis' coffee table in time to save his dinner." She grinned at the memory—the big, fluffy black cat's acid-yellow eyes wide, pupils shrunk to pinpoints at the sight of a fly swatter supposedly hovering in thin air. "It's rare, though; more often than not, I can't do a damn thing or it comes out upside down an' backward." Amber heaved a resigned sigh, swirling her Scotch. "Dahd—I mean, Splinter's offered to help me harness this..." She faltered then continued with a vague limp-wristed waving gesture, "whatever this is. If I can learn to control it, it may help us keep in contact with the folks in my world but we've kinda got bigger fish to fry now."
Kimber nodded and finally took a sip of her tea, immediately gagging on it. "How much sugar do they put in this stuff?" she croaked shoving the glass away from her. Amber grinned.
"A cup-an'-a-half per gallon. It's way too sweet for me, but Ross likes her sweet tea Southern-style." Kimber blanched; her eyes shot up to Amber's in dread.
"Ross?" Mid-hiss, she glanced pointedly at the utility room door—or, rather, the unseen plant-infested bedroom beyond it. "Yer not tellin' me that's Mercy Ross?! Clarity's kid?!" Amber gave a sober nod. "My Gawd…now it all makes sense," Kimber groaned and buried her face in her hands. If Mercy was Clarity's daughter—the same Clarity Kimber was too-familiar with after almost two years living and working in Willsdale—her aggressive, defensive, and bristly behavior was no surprise. How could anyone raised by Clarity Ross not come out with baggage and people-issues?
Kimber well-remembered the countless times the older woman showed up at the Staggering Rat already half-sauced, wailing about her lost daughter. In between despair at Mercy's death and hateful shrieks at anyone who dared tell her to calm down, she launched into long rants about Mercy's supposed transgressions—transgressions which, she claimed, were all the fault of Amber and Aaron. Sometimes Clarity spent hours on end drunkenly arguing with anyone too stubborn to ignore her, insisting that Mercy was still alive. "She ran away and had a fake headstone put in just to hurt me!" was a common claim, along with "That grave is empty—my daughter is just hiding from her sins!" At first, Kimber took the accusations at face value…then she started hearing the gossip left in Clarity's wake. If the rumors were to be believed, Clarity and Kimber's father had more in common than she was comfortable with.
Near the close of Kimber's first year at the pub, Clarity finally went too far: in a drunken rampage, she threw a chair at Bart, missed, and sent an entire shelf of expensive liquor smashing to the floor. It took two burly farmhands to subdue her long enough for the police officer on-call—a friendly pot-bellied sort who seemed straight out of Mayberry—to handcuff and get her in the squad car.
After that fiasco, Bart barred Clarity from ever returning to his pub under threat of being sued for damages. She still swore to anyone who'd listen that he was "just an irrational albino who can't handle the nasty truth about his heathen niece!" Most of what came out of Clarity Ross's mouth made Kimber sick to her stomach; the rest would once have tempted her to bitch-slap the older woman to her senses. Albino. Anyone with eyes would know Bart just went white early. She couldn't comprehend how Bart was able to just shrug everything off with a bad joke and crooked grin; she suspected sainthood was in order. "Lemme guess," Amber said when it became clear the silence in the room was stagnating. "The ol' cow's just gettin' crazier."
"That old cow threw a barstool at Bart's head fer cuttin'er off," Kimber retorted. "If that ain't crazy, I dunno what is." Amber considered the risk for a moment, idly sipping her Scotch and again contemplating ordering a case of Glenmorangie 10-year-old through said uncle. He always did get the best Scotch…
"You know Clarity," Amber summed up almost too quietly to be heard, "so you should have some idea of what Mercy's life was like before the Void." Kimber nodded grimly. "You were right, you know. These second chances don't come free—a new life comes with lessons to learn and injustices to rise above. I revived in a gang-affiliated runaway—no offense—an' you revived in a spoiled adulterous crier. We were both dropped into the lives of people who lived against our personalities an' beliefs." Amber looked up at Kimber over her glasses, serious and weary. "With what you know of her mother, the injustice Mercy was reborn into should be no surprise." It was, indeed, obvious in hindsight.
"An' here I showed up stinkin' like a frat-house," Kimber muttered and took another sip of tea. Again, she cringed at the syrupy sweet flavor but bore it without verbal complaint. "I thought…" Her lips pursed, her eyes narrowed, and her throat contracted as if to deter the rest from escaping. "I thought it was about Raph…that she thought I was gonna try an' steal 'im back. That don't even make sense."
"You were wrong." Despite the harsh words, Amber's tone was gentle, blameless. "Everyone we meet is fightin' their own demons, an' Mercy's no different; you just happen to remind Mercy of hers, an' she's never been very good with reminders. Perfume headaches aside, it's nothin' you've done; just give'er space an' give'er time." Kimber gave a weak nod, staring into her tea. "You don't have to finish the tea—I won't say a word." She responded to the feigned innocence of Amber's tone and expression with a smirk.
"It is pretty nasty," Kimber chuckled.
Amber rolled her eyes and nodded in agreement. "Sour women an' sweet tea, I'm tellin' ya. That's why I keep unsweet next to her tea—if ya mix'em it's tolerable."
Only a short while later the two counterparts bid one another goodnight for the second time that day. Amber cleaned up her mess and crept back to Donnie's room, pausing to collect the small black cat maowing at the door for entry. Mere minutes afterward, a pained yelp rang out behind the door followed by a string of curses; a bleary-eyed Donatello hauled Kirk back outside, unceremoniously dumped him on the floor, and locked him out again. Kimber rinsed out her tea glass and made her way back to the borrowed room that smelled like Raphael.
Almost as soon as she left the kitchen, though, something else caught her attention—a cacophonous blend of muted noise in the dojo. Low, gruff curses, grunts and hisses, and hollow fwumping impacts. Wary of what she might find but too curious to walk away, Kimber crept to the door and peered through the curtain of beaded fringe. At the opposite end of the long, cavernous room, a familiar figure unleashed a vicious and practiced beat-down on the worn red punching bag.
Disheveled flaxen hair stuck to the woman's brow and neck—stormy blue eyes burned in the lamplight—livid color tinted her face red from exertion and sweat shone on her skin. Mercy held nothing back, laying into the patched leather bag with the ferocity of a cage-fighter on steroids. Kimber shrunk back from the doorway, stricken by the other woman's feral appearance…then her shoulders slackened in realization. Mercy was trembling and her lungs were heaving for breath. Every now and then she'd slow and grip the bag, waiting for the shakes to subside, then she'd snarl something to herself and renew her assault on the punching bag. Kimber recognized those shakes…no, surely not…
The unwitting blonde feinted to the left and buried her bare foot in the side of the punching bag. A strangled curse ripped from her lungs as she stumbled, all-but collapsing on the floor and gripping her foot. Clearly, Mercy was too lost in her berserker's beat-down to recall kickboxing barefoot was a bad idea with a punching bag built for mutants. Eyes scrunched shut, even white teeth bared in a pained sneer, she roughly massaged the burning from her abused ankle. What could possibly be wearing on her so heavily she'd—
As if in answer to Kimber's silent confusion, dim light reflected off of something hanging just above the neckline of her camisole—something metallic, vividly colored, round and sticking to her skin. With every pant and hiss, the muscles underneath heaved, the skin retracting and expanding; each time, light reflected off in a purple flash. A sobriety chip—purple for nine months. Kimber's father never even made it nine DAYS without a beer. She never saw the plastic chip earlier, only the beaded chain disappearing into Mercy's shirt; for it to be around her neck at this hour of the night, Mercy may well never take it off. Mercy was revived in an alcoholic's body, and Kimber could think of little worse than living a life similar to someone who abused you. Still, it never occurred to Kimber that Mercy would be left fighting the addiction as hard as anyone who came by it honestly...and here she was, shaking like a leaf and wearing herself out in the night to fight cravings that she never chose. How strong this Mercy Ross must be to bear all this without complaint and to fall apart only when others weren't there to witness.
Without warning, Mercy stilled other than her heaving lungs—her eyes drifted to the doorway and pinned Kimber through the strands of beads, venomous and daring judgment. Despite her unease, Kimber said nothing. She gestured to her neckline, glanced pointedly at the plastic chip hanging just above Mercy's, then gave a thumbs-up and an impressed smile.
Mercy faltered—lost, confused at finding approval instead of derision. Her long, slender fingers raked through her always-messy hair then her hand drifted down to the floor to brace herself; all the while, her breathing slowly evened out and the fire in her eyes faded. Before, she looked ready to jump down Kimber's throat and rip her heart out; now, everything about her was unguarded and uncertain. Perhaps Amber was right, Kimber considered; perhaps Mercy was just as wary of her as she was of Mercy. 'Well,' she decided with an impish grin, 'one way to find out!'
Kimber gestured to the punching bag then Mercy's hands, pantomimed licking one lacquer-tipped finger, then poked herself in the hip with an ember-smothering hiss. Translation: "Girl, you're on fire!" The blonde replied with a gesture almost universally known; the finger she chose needed no translation, but a ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. Kimber could see this blossoming into a strange sort of friendship…at least, it might have if they had the time to build one.
Kimber was a stranger in this place—an intruder, if only for a short while—and she knew better than to expect a welcome. Suddenly, though, it didn't seem quite so frightening. She had allies here, albeit allies who weren't necessarily friends. Having a support group could make all the difference, especially when your own past might soon return to kill you.
Only sixty-three hours to go.

UP NEXT: A brief intermission from the story in A Heart in New York

Notes
- Title – From "Slipping," a track on Geddy Lee's solo album My Favorite Headache.
- "She Came in Through the Bathroom Window," by the Beatles.
- Dad was a drunk, Mom was a Baptist; that was the only thing special about them. – Devout Baptists, by doctrine, don't drink alcohol, hence the term "Dryer than a Baptist [picnic/wedding/funeral]."

Glossary
• Cawld – cold
• Bawdy-snatcher – Kimber's apparent preferred nickname for Amber –Body-snatcher.
• Baggoff! – No, it's not a grocery-bagging competition, she's saying Back off so quickly the syllables blur together.
• Hawd yer gantin', ijyannen - you can bide a bit longer. – Roughly keep it in your pants, Sweetheart – you can wait a little longer. Scots/Scots-English. The last word, Leannan, is a Scots-Gaelic term I've used in other instances, but now with (I hope?) a more accurate pronunciation. The sites I've used have rough syllable-by-syllable phonetics but no audio so I'm probably buggering it up entirely.
• Readin' specs – reading glasses.
- 60
- 61
- 62
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

A New Lease on Life