#i struggle with sometimes having lapses of apathy as well that make it a bit strange sometimes

[iammissingautumn]

not to be alterous but i was reading a post about someone’s experiences with differences between platonic and alterous feelings and it was so eye opening. I am so fully aplatonic it’s crazy, all of my friends i have different ways of being like. attracted to them alterously but it’s so nice to read something that continues to be confirmation yeah. I’m just alterous. No romance. No platonics. If I consider us friends, especially for awhile, I probably have such an interest in u and I really have never lied when I said I would date my my friends. Because people who are like that are like whoever i would choose to live my life with.

[get-a-new-lease-on-life]

A New Lease on Life - The Clash of the Blonde and the Beefcake

A New Lease on Life excerpt:

The Clash of the Blonde and the Beefcake

This little gem is taken from my story “A New Lease on Life;” it centers around Mercy’s first terrifying glimpse at Raphael’s temper and shows the progress she’s made since awakening in her new life. It’s got some rough spots, mostly on account of Kimber’s thick accent and Amber’s fury-induced speech lapses. (For new readers, Amber’s mother’s family came to America from Scotland in the ‘50s, Amber was raised in a household with predominantly brogue-tongued relatives, and over time, she squelched her accent and adopted the twang of her neighbors’ region in hopes of fitting in. When she gets upset enough, she tends to slip back into the brogue she trained herself out of.)

I honestly consider the scene with Mercy and Donnie in the park to be among the best non-romantic scenes I’ve written. The concept art below, “We Have Faith in You,” isn’t the best I’ve put together but it adequately illustrates that scene. You can find both the artwork and explanation of said artwork’s creation in my DeviantArt gallery. You can find the ongoing story (and its related stories) at both links below:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/10489776/chapters/23140020

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11975613/1/A-New-Lease-on-Life

This came from two separate chapters of ANLoL: “34: Lust, Love, and Loss,” and “35: Collisions, Confessions, Conclusions.” It is rated low-M for coarse language, a brief scene involving situations of a sexual nature, and for some controversial topics including (but not limited to) addiction, and past-tense child abuse, and mental illness. It’s also rated WTF?! for Amber’s Scotch-slang tirade. Definitions/Translations for rough dialogue provided at the end, along with notes.

Suggested Listening: My Chemical Romance “The Ghost of You,” Skillet “Monster,” Adam Lambert “Better Than I Know Myself,” Sixx:A.M. “Are You with Me?"

A New Lease on Life:

The Clash of the Blonde and the Beefcake

July 9th, Saturday, the Dojo

Denim blue eyes shot insults at Raphael across the training mat; scruffy blonde hair stuck to sweat-gleaming skin. All in all, Mercy was tempting him more than ever, and all she was doing was glaring at him.

Almost two months ago, Raph started Mercy on a strict strength training schedule. Before Mercy woke in the body she now reluctantly calls her own, Donna Mays allowed it to go to ruin—she wasted away from drink, malnutrition, and apathy, and eventually passed away in her sleep. If she’d had any idea her body wouldn’t simply stay dead, perhaps she would have taken better care of it…but then wouldn’t we all?

As the two month anniversary loomed, Raphael felt confident that his pupil was ready to move on to the next step…well, technically combat shouldn’t be the next step, but who ever said he was a good sensei? He had no illusions regarding his skill in teaching—or lack thereof—and frankly, he had ulterior motives. Those motives, fortunately, had yet to become clear to the blonde charging across the mat at him, head down and arms braced.

"Bum-rushin’ only works in da movies,” he reminded Mercy with a sneer, easily deflecting her attack.

“Bite me, Meathead!” Mercy spat as she lunged back up again for another attack.

“Mark da spot, Blondie!” Clearly toying with her, he let her get in a hit—only one, a rather weak blow to his plastron—then let out a bark of laughter when she swore and shook the sting out of her knuckles.

“What spot?” she snapped back throwing herself right back into her assault, “Try the darkest part'a my skinny white ass!”

“I ain’t bitin’ yer eyes, Kid."

The insinuation infuriated her as expected, and she completely lost her cool. Outside the door of the dojo, Master Splinter winced at their language, but his whiskers twitched in amusement regardless. It seemed, he considered silently pacing toward the kitchen, his son had quite a bit in common with the abrasive blonde; neither would ever beg for her namesake, and neither had any of their own.

Sweat-slicked skin gleams under the bright lights of the dojo; sun-blonde hair, perpetually mussed, brushes teasingly along Raphael’s skin. He’ll never be able to set foot in here again without finding himself recalling this moment—the sight, sound, scent, and sense of Mercy bodily pinning him to the mat and working her way toward his feet.

  The fluid uncertainty of the situation makes the prostrate ninja wonder—could this be a dream? Surely he wasn’t beaten by the mouthy blonde, surely he didn’t let her win just to reap the—or did he? In this strangely ominous moment, he finds himself unable to swear for or against that suspicion.

  Lips sneer against his suddenly bare skin; work roughened hands work their way under the lip of his plastron and pull his swelling length free of its confines. "Merse,” he protests feebly as she leers up at him, teasing him with her hot breath. “Ya don’t have'ta—I ain’t gonna—”

 His promise falls away in a loud, rattling groan as foreign sensations sweep him under. Hot—wet—soft skin and blunt teeth—unable to resist her, now more than ever before, he props himself up on one elbow. Watching his little minx in fascination and awe, he slips his fingers through her perpetually messy hair. Sleek blonde locks shine vibrantly against his skin—gold against green—as he cups the back of her head with a tenderness he would never believe himself capable of. Everything this woman does makes him want her more—everything she is draws him closer by the day. If she has her way, he’s sure, she’ll have his heart in her hands and his nads in her pocket. She lets him slip free, trailing lips and teeth along every bit of bare skin she can reach.

 "I ain’t gotta,“ the blue-eyed temptress acknowledges as her hands roam. One winds up splayed across his massive right thigh, a half-assed attempt at pinning him down. The other dives between his legs and latches mercilessly onto his tail, her fingers wrapping around it and pulling in a suggestive mimicry of the torture his other length is enduring. Swept away by her deceptively soft touch, he slumps back against the mat with a deep, throaty churr, his eyes falling closed with a shudder and his palm trailing down to her cheek. "Gonna anyway, ya lunk-head. I love ya, ya maw'ron.”

 Something isn’t right; he lurches upward again, his wide eyes registering the change. Right before his eyes, short blonde hair lengthens and darkens to punch red. Denim blue eyes pale to mossy grey-green. Unpainted lips, curled in a perpetual smirk, have darkened and softened, and the sarcastic soprano voice has become a husky purr tainted with the smog of New Jersey.

 No…He shakes his head, blinking in disbelief as if the sight before him would vanish in smoke. Kimber gently releases him and creeps back up to straddle his midsection. “I love ya, ya muck-brained maw'ron,” she swears with none of Mercy’s taunting or sarcasm. Her manicured nails trail along his clenching jaw as though searching for a chink in his armor. “I always have—I always will…yer more'n a rival ta me, Raphie.”

 "Kimbuh,“ Raph winces, averting his eyes from the naked redhead in his lap, his cheeks almost matching her hair. "I’m sorry…I can’t, Kim…yer…yer dead…” His lungs ache from the razor-sharp air filling them; his eyes screwed shut and stinging, he finds himself pulling her tightly to his chest as though she’ll be torn from his arms. “Yer dead, an’ it’s my fault—ya din’t deserve dis!”

 "You don’t di'zerve it eit'a,“ she reminds him gently, seemingly unaware that her skin has been steadily growing cold. Golden eyes finally peel open, and the sight of her—inhumanly pale and fading from view—makes him wish he’d kept them closed. "It ain’t yer fault, Red…sometimes t'ese t'ings jus’ happen, ya know? I don’t blame ya fa t'is.” A feather-light touch brushes along his trembling jaw—fingertips or painted lips?—and he struggles to hold onto the minx fading away before his eyes. “I’m dead, Raphie, but you ain't—stawp blamin’ ya'self an’ staht livin’ a'ready!”

 "Kimbuh, no!“ He denied—he argued—he shook her by the shoulders, willing her to not do this, not to leave him again. No matter how hard he tried, though, all was in vain…like a dream fading in the light of dawn, Kimber Bryant faded away right before, him, her tender smile never leaving her cold blue lips.

 "Live, Rah-fay-el…I’ll see ya on t'a udd'a side.”

Like so many nights before, Raphael woke with a strangled shout, lurching up in bed and grasping for someone completely out of his reach. His lungs heaving, his eyes burning, he stared into the darkness of his bedroom, the dream playing nonstop through his mind. He once swore he didn’t love Kimber—that he never loved her—but with every passing day since her death, he found himself wondering more and more if he was completely delusional. Was he fighting guilt over being unwilling to listen and unwilling to help her? Was he grieving the loss of his best friend? Or worse, was he heartbroken over losing someone he—someone he loved?

He could have helped her…the others didn’t know, and he’d rather keep it that way. When the truth came out, that Kimber was dead and Amber somehow stepped into her vacant body, it nearly broke him…he knew what had triggered the alarms the night Kimber died…he heard her voice on the security feed, begging for shelter and a chance to prove herself…He ignored it. Kimber died. Now, he could no more admit that horrible choice to his family than bring her back to life.

“Hey!” A sudden voice at the door tore him from his self-loathing; golden hazel eyes shot to the blonde hovering in the open doorway torn between concern and worry. “You okay, Raph? You—You were screamin'…” For a single blinding moment, he found himself reliving the dream—found himself seeing Kimber instead of Mercy—and his blood boiled.

“GIT OUT!” he bellowed hurling the closest object—his alarm clock—at the apparition. With a terrified yelp, Mercy dove for safety; the door slammed behind her, the abused appliance shattering against it. Her skin crawling and her heart racing, she found herself back in another time—another place—and facing down another tormentor she should have been able to trust. She bolted for the door, her sneakers pounding the pavement and her cheeks streaming.

In her wake, a horrified brunette stood in the open doorway of Donatello’s room. Amber saw everything…it wasn’t the first time she witnessed it, either, though Raphael was never the cause before. As loud crashes and oaths echoed from his room—many of them bearing the name of her obnoxious counterpart—Amber turned to meet Donnie’s gaze. The answer was clear to them, but Mercy was too blinded by fear to realize the reason behind Raph’s outburst. Without a word passing between them, Amber yanked on her shoes, grabbed a flashlight and her phone, and took off into the tunnels to follow her friend as Donatello rushed to the lab to track the fleeing blonde.

Mercy’s previous life was a nightmare that never ended and Amber was often the only one fully in her corner. Even then, the blonde never let her down…no way in hell was Amber going to leave her to fight her demons alone.

Get out.

It was such a simple phrase, the sort few ever expected to cause more than hurt feelings and wounded pride. Still, it was those very words that would be traced back as the catalyst for a very long, stressful night.

“What?!” Donatello prattled into his headset, double-checking and triple-checking the coordinates of the blinking tracking beacon on the monitor. “She’s not there? –you’re sure? But—But my tracker puts her right in the northeast corner of the Railyard, not three meters from the loading bay—this thing’s got a 99.99991% accuracy rate, I’d wager my staff on its accuracy!”

The voice on the other end of the phone connection—Amber—suddenly broke down in tears, and Donnie’s face fell. There was a reason both women were all-but confined to the Lair without supervision, but they’d never expected anyone to find out about the Railyard… If Mercy was found there, by any of the Purple Dragons, she would be gravely injured…or worse… He swallowed hard around the knot forming in his throat and steeled himself for what he had to do. “I’m coming, Honey, don't—Wait, what?”

Just like that, his expression was back to irritated. “You found the chip, but not her? What’d she do, gouge it out with her nails?!” Her answer left him feeling like such an imbecile he slapped his forehead, accidentally knocking into the microphone of his headset and triggering some horrendous feedback and a pained shriek on the other end of the line. “A box cutter,” he deadpanned his eyes clenched shut in annoyance. “Yep. That’d do it. Come on back, Hon—she’s not there.”

A familiar presence in the open doorway of the lab drew his attention. When he realized who it was, he scowled at his muscle-bound twin. “What were you doing?” he demanded as Raphael approached the screens making up Donnie’s workstation. “You know about her mother, you know what that sort of abuse can do to a person, and you know you scared the living daylights out of her! Now the poor woman’s hiding and maybe even hurt! WHAT were you THINKING?!”

Raphael stared at the blinking icon slowly making its way back to the Lair; Amber clearly picked up the discarded chip. Only a week before, he and Mercy spent hours tearing rails out of the last railbed in the yard, then wound up necking against the pile of salvaged steel rails. Donnie opened his mouth again, presumably to demand answers—again—but he fell silent when Raph answered him, his voice hoarse from shouting. “I wasn’t,” he admitted unable to meet his brother’s eyes. “I wasn’t thinkin’ at all…”

“I’ll say,” a voice snapped from the doorway. Both ninjas whipped about to face the force of nature storming toward them. Donatello didn’t even recognize Amber. He knew her like no other—knew how her cheeks flushed from nerves, how her eyes lit up with laughter and shone with tears, how her pulse raced in fear, even how her lips parted in needy gasps and whimpers—but this was a side of her he never even considered. This Amber was unlike anything he would ever have imagined. Fury twisted her lips into a snarl, threats flashed in her mossy eyes, rage flushed her cheeks and clenched her jaw.

He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Studying her in silent disbelief, he struggled to wrap his head around this unexpected rage. Amber had gotten angry at him before—they spent months feuding, and she even slapped him once!—but now he found himself wondering if she was ever, truly, as angry at him as he thought she was. Of course, he reminded himself grimly as his brother and girlfriend stared each other down, he never hurt Mercy…and Mercy was the closest thing to a sister Amber had. Even if the blonde somehow escaped harm, returned safely, and forgave Raphael for his careless actions, Donatello couldn’t help wondering if Amber would be so quick to forgive.

Amidst the standoff in the lab, a strange sound manifested amidst the white noise—the slow, rhythmic ticking of a legion of clocks. Unseen, unheard, unnoticed, they counted down the moments ‘til disaster.

 “Blundie?” The awkwardly pronounced nickname made Mercy cringe, but she didn’t say a word. Shaking and breathing hard, she buried her face in her drawn up knees, wishing she could just fall right through the crust of the earth. A hesitant hand settled on Mercy’s flannel-clad shoulder triggering an involuntary flinch; Amber gently knelt beside her in the shady grass, saying nothing.

  “D-Don’ touch me,” Mercy croaked—trying, as always, to be brave, to push everyone and everything away before they could hurt her. Despite her words, she found herself buried face-first in Amber’s shoulder, her throat aching and her lungs heaving in ragged, heart-wrenching sobs. The older teen shushed her softly, rubbing nonsensical patterns into her back. As Mercy’s weeping slowed and her shoulders steadied, her friend hummed familiar tunes under her breath, both to soothe and to distract.

  When she was finally able to inhale without choking and exhale without nausea, Mercy settled back against the rickety wooden fence behind them. Involuntarily, Amber sucked in a sudden, harsh breath at the angry red welt across Mercy’s right cheek, the red even more vibrant when framed by bloodshot eyes and salt-stained skin. The friends didn’t need to say anything—it had already been said before, countless times—and simply recovered in the overgrown corner of the O'Brien’s back yard.

“Merse, I’m leavin’ for college this fall.” Amber’s voice, when she finally broke the silence, was weary. “I’ been accepted at th’ University of Glenville…i’s three towns over…” She paused, seeming to gather her nerve. “Come with me…we can be roommates, you can get away from…from   her…”   Mercy didn’t know what to say; what could she possibly say to that? She’d never lived anywhere but her mother’s home, never had any work but helping with the ranch—she didn’t know a thing about being self-sufficient! Clearly recognizing the direction the blonde’s thoughts were turning, Amber squeezed her thin shoulder, her eyes reassuring and confident. “Y'ain’t gotta do this alone, Hon…an’ I won’t be able to go if I don’t know yer safe.”

  Near the end of August, after the shouting and travel were over, two close friends moved into a small apartmnent off campus. One left behind everything she knew, the other, everything she feared most. For four blissful years, Mercy finally felt free, strong, and stable; at the end of those four years, she burned out, dropped out, and returned to her family like the battered woman she was, honestly believing things would be better.

Mercy turned the small plastic coin in her fingertips, staring through it and into another lifetime. Dim lamplight gleamed off of the chip’s metallic purple surface as intermittent flashes and ripples of light danced along the beaded chain dangling from it. Four months had passed since she began attending meetings – over four months of treatment for Donna’s addiction – and seven months had passed since she first found herself struggling with the very vice she couldn’t stand. Now, half a year after she woke up in this nightmare, she found herself back in that remote corner of Central Park, contemplating the sobriety coin with disinterest.

This wasn’t where it all started, per se; that place was an empty back road in Willsdale, Missouri and a twisted hunk of metal that was once her stepfather’s battered pickup truck. Even if one were to ignore that beginning, maybe in favor of where her new life began, it wasn’t the place where Donatello and Amber discovered her. No, her new life began under a dark, crumbling overpass, surrounded by objects and people thrown away by the city celebrating another new year. Those first months were hell; the days bled together in a constant stream of cold, hunger, weariness, and withdrawal, the only interruptions occurring in the form of shared booze that quickly came right back up.

Four months…such an insignificant number when one considered the number of years her mother spent denying she had a problem. Mercy felt more than heard Donatello’s approach but didn’t look up, instead staring through the foiled sobriety chip slowly turning in her fingers. Without a word he dropped to the cool turf and sat back to back with her, offering his carapace for a backrest. “You’re doing well,” he said simply. “Four months is an astounding accomplishment…we’re all proud of you.”

“I hate alcohol,” she admitted softly, her fingers clenching desperately around the chip. “I hate it…but…my body…my body loves it.” The confession physically hurt. She forcefully pried her clenched fist loose again and set to turning the coin again—this time, the disc bounced from one long, slender finger to the next, bouncing across her knuckles. As suddenly as the pattern began, it halted, the chip falling off only to be snatched up by the chain. “Could…” She visibly struggled with the words, torn between admitting their existence and refusing to accept their truth. “Was it like this…for…for Ma?” Donnie stilled, eyes wide at her question, but didn’t acknowledge them; he halfway suspected she didn’t even realize she spoke them.

“Addiction isn’t easily beaten,” he reminded without censure. “Even if your heart and soul detest alcohol, your body is still addicted—you’ll still have to fight as hard as others without that benefit. I wish it were as simple as realizing you’re addicted and deciding to conquer that addiction, but you know what they say about wishes.”

“If they were fishes, the world would feast,” Mercy grumbled bitterly. “I hate fish.” Her sulking tone reminded him of a pouting grade schooler being forced to eat peas. “My mother’s an alcoholic, Donnie,” she admitted, revealing that she was very much aware of her words before. “I can’t stand that woman—I should'a been able to trust'er, to rely on'er, but—but even now, a lifetime later…” A shudder ran through her and she slumped back against his carapace, too weary to stay upright any longer. “I ne'er feared a man alive, ne'er feared a damn thing on this earth or my own…nothin’ but my own Ma. It's—It’s messed up!”

Donnie said nothing. She seemed to be figuring things out well enough on her own. After all, that was one way she and Amber were different—Amber would clam up, freeze up, and have to be picked apart before she could even acknowledge the obvious. Mercy wasn’t prone to hiding her feeling, other than from Amber, and she didn’t hold her tongue. With enough time, she could get it all worked out just from talking it out.

“I don’t know any specifics, Mercy,” he said when it became clear she was getting lost in her thoughts and needed a nudge. “Amber told me very little—that your mother was physically and emotionally abusive, that you endured that mistreatment your entire life, especially during your formative years, and that it left you with some serious scars.” His eyes drawn to the heavens, searching for stars in between the clouds, he sighed. “I don’t know any more than that, and honestly, I don’t need to know anything you don’t want to tell me. My family and I, we know you now, we accept you as you are, and you don’t need to justify anything to any of us.”

Silence hung heavy over them, stretching far too long for comfort. When it was finally broken, it was by a statement barely above a whisper. “I don’t deserve you guys.”

“No,” Donnie contradicted firmly scooting aside to face her, “you didn’t deserve your mother’s mistreatment. Nothing excuses her actions—no matter what her problems were, there’s no excuse for abusing someone who relies on you, much less your own child.” Denim blue eyes darted back and forth across the wilting grass as though scanning a multitude of memories and thoughts; Mercy silently considered her options and the puzzle pieces give to her, turning each every which way and contemplating their purpose. Slowly, the picture was becoming clearer…and the ever-present weight on her chest lightened, if only slightly.

“She had no excuses,” she agreed, finally meeting his eyes. “She chose her poison, chose her path, and refused to admit she needed help…as hard as it’s been fighting Donna’s addiction, though, I know it must have been even harder for her.” The deep furrow between her eyebrows softened just the slightest bit and she turned toward the sliver of moon just over the horizon, spearing her fingers through her hair. “How…how can I hate her now, seeing so clearly what she went through?” The question was a strange combination of bewildered and sullen and it brought a faint smile to his face. “Maybe…maybe I wasn’t the only victim in that situation after all…”

“Your mother may never beat her addiction, Mercy,” He glanced pointedly to the small plastic chip still clenched in her fingers. “but you will beat yours…we have faith in you.” Finally, the Mercy he’d grown to know reappeared with a lopsided smirk.

“Love ya too, Brainiac,” she teased socking him in the arm—and promptly wincing at her stinging knuckles. “Enough'a the mush a'ready—yer gonna make me hork.”

“A little mush never hurt anyone,” he pointed out mussing her already messy hair with a grin. The grin fell away, though, when he recalled why she was out in the park in the first place. “About Raph—”

“Save it, I a'ready know,” she cut him off.

“You…know?” he echoed dubiously. He was all ready to make excuses for his brother—had a whole 'intro to Raph’s issues’ speech mentally lined out—never even considering that those excuses might not be needed.

“Yeah,” the blonde repeated with a slightly impatient expression, “I know. Amber told me 'bout his deal ages ago—b'fore we even met y'all, long story, don’t ask. Honestly, with a temper like his, I’m surprised he’s managed to hold it around me this long…I can be pretty bitchy, ya know.”

“Perish the thought.”

“Bite me, Assmunch. The point remains; I get it, I expected it, I jus’ got surprised an’ backslid. It happens, ya know…” She turned to glare off into the distance. “I’m sick'a bein’ a scared little kid, Donnie—Raph an’ I’ got somethin’ good, an’ a lil’ turtle tantrum ain’t gonna screw that up.” Raphael, the genius decided solemnly, was an incredibly lucky man…and he’d better not screw up again.

Mercy hoisted herself to her feet, swept the grass clippings from her behind, and started back toward the manhole cover she crept out of. Quickly following and falling in step with her, Donnie found himself glancing furtively over at the silent woman beside him. For quite some time, he’d suspected something but had no confirmation; now, after their long, enlightening conversation, that suspicion was even stronger. Still, how could he ask her? How could he honestly just ask for answers that would likely only humiliate her? “Spit it out a'ready.”

“R-Right,” he stammered, his cheeks darkening in embarrassment. “I’ve wondered for some time now…you don’t have to answer, but I still feel the need to ask…” He stared blankly ahead, his other senses tuned to the woman walking beside him. “After your first trip to the clinic, the doctor put you on Carbatrol—for seizure prevention. You had no problem with any of the other medications, but that one provoked a strong negative response. That suggests you once took it for different reasons—reasons that embarrassed you.”

“You’re asking why I took it?” she summed up seriously, her eyes meeting his askance. “Amber didn’t tell—no, of course, she wouldn't—she knows I don’t like sharing that.” She cleared her throat, seemingly working her way up to some horrible confession. “Carbatrol…it's…” A frustrated sigh ripped from her lungs. “Fuck it. It’s also used as a mood stabilizer…I…I had…Bipolar disorder…but Donna didn’t, she was stable, so—” Before she could get too deep in defending herself, Donnie stopped, caught her by both shoulders, and stared her down seriously.

“Mercy,” he reminded dryly. “I’m assisting your admittedly unstable friend with her PTSD. My older brother is a perfectionist with control issues. My younger brother has the energy level of a squirrel on crack and the attention span of a dying goldfish. My twin has a tendency to throw tantrums when he doesn’t get his way. And, to top it all off, our father’s literally a rat and the rest of us are talking turtles.” Finally, the smile in his eyes reached his lips and he gave her left shoulder a friendly pat. “Compared to the lunacy I grew up with, you’re refreshingly average.”

Mercy wasn’t sure what to say. If she was Amber, she’d start ugly-crying all over him and blubbering about how much she appreciated him and how she only hoped she could someday become as accepting as he was. Fortunately, Mercy wasn’t Amber…she was very much not Amber. Denim blue eyes glanced down at her left shoulder—or, rather, the large green hand wrapped around it—then met his again, one blonde eyebrow arching in silent warning. “R-Right,” Donnie answered sheepishly and let go of her, shoving his hands as deep into his pockets as they’d fit.

For a time, nothing was said. They reached the secluded manhole, Donnie pulled it out and offered Mercy a hand down, then switched on a spotlight conveniently situated at the right shoulder of his harness. As he led the way home, never inching ahead of her or falling behind, Mercy repeatedly found herself glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. It hadn’t escaped her notice that the genius and her best friend were sleeping together every night. She’d also noticed that Amber was now sleeping all through the night, instead of waking up screaming every hour or so. During their feud, Mercy gave neither Donnie nor Amber any slack; now, she felt confident that she didn’t have to worry about them anymore.

“Thanks.” The sudden mumble, sounding just outside the front door of the Lair, startled Donatello, and he found himself staring in disbelief at the blonde already tapping her foot at the door. “C'mon, Dipshit,” she grumbled at him, “World War Three’s about to start.”

A brief shining moment…and then that mouth.*

When Mercy fled the Lair in a blind panic, she left behind her lover, her best friend, and her best friend’s boyfriend to pick up the pieces. With every minute she didn’t turn up, the atmosphere and the occupants grew tenser and louder.

Now, nearing an hour of absence, the situation was only getting worse. No one could sleep through the racket going on—no one could have blocked out the shouting and screaming passing between the blonde’s two closest companions. One blustered and threatened to knock the other’s block off if she didn’t quit meddling; the other verbally tore him up one side and down the other for hurting her friend, her words growing more and more twisted and gruff by the moment.** Only Leonardo, physically restraining her in an ever-weakening half-nelson, kept the situation from escalating to violence. Any other time, the leader would have laughed at the very idea that he would struggle to successfully restrain a woman so much smaller and weaker than himself. As it was, he could effectively restrain her, but the slightest miscalculation would be disastrous…and even with the brunette going berserk on their brother, Leo doubted Donatello would be very forgiving if he dislocated both her shoulders.

Michelangelo sat silently on the sofa, one blue eye volleying back and forth between the two combatants. At first, he’d tried to break up the fight. Now his other eye was swollen shut, courtesy of Raphael’s fist, and he steered clear of the fray. Even Master Splinter gave up on breaking it up, if only because no blows were thrown—barring Mikey’s eye.

“Yar a fookin’ yellae bastart, ya knuw tha’?!” Amber spat at Raphael, her face flushed almost scarlet in rage. “She truss'ed ya—she truss'ed ya an’ ya made'er bolt!”

“Come on,” Leo attempted to reason even as Raphael snarled at his interruption; she wasn’t much of a threat, but he was finding it increasingly difficult to restrain the raging brunette without hurting her. “This won’t help any!”

“Ah’ll pan yer heid in!” the furious brunette insisted shrilly struggling in his grip. “Ah’m pure dead scunnert wi'ya, ye shite-breened bawheid! Wha'sher prob’m, aniwae?!”

“YOU!” Raphael’s answer, delivered in a furious roar, seemed to freeze everything in the vicinity. Amber froze. His brothers froze. His father froze. Even the very air seemed to grow suddenly, drastically colder. Like a shaken bottle of champagne, Raph’s cork popped and his emotions boiled over in a vehement rush of hurtful words. “Yer my problem, ya crazy-ass bitch! Yer nothin’, jus’ some nut-job hijackin’ Kimbuh’s body—if you weren’t in it, she’d still be dere!”

“RAPHAEL!” Splinter bellowed to no avail, “That is enough!”

“D'ya think I dunnuw tha’?!” Amber railed on regardless. “Tha’ I dinnae ken tha’ if I wisnae here, Kimbruh’d be?!” With a sudden burst of emotion, she managed to shake off Leo’s grip and stormed right up into Raph’s face.“I didn'ae wanna 'nother shot, ya ragin’ roaster, no’t the loss'f ony'body else! I cannae go back—I cannae ge'er back for ya, e'er! So what’ll ya do’boot it?!”

The hulking ninja stiffened, staring down in disbelief at the woman a head and a half shorter than him—and likely a hundred pounds lighter—blatantly getting up in his face and daring him to react. If not for the tension thick in the air, he would have compared it to a Chihuahua facing off against a mastiff. “Will, gowan'en!” the frenzied brunette spat at him, her face right up in his. “This’s my fees nuw, nae ma'er I wan'it 'er no’! Kimbruh ain’t’ere nae mare—su do summit aboot it!”

Golden hazel eyes widened frantically, their owner backing away like a child facing down a rabid dog twice their size. The rest of the family stared in horror, disbelief, and shock as Amber backed Raph up against the wall—had she a death wish?!—still railing at him to do something about her being stuck in Kimber’s body. Finally, after what seemed like an hour of screaming and butting heads, he did just that…

Right before their eyes, Raphael’s massive arms lashed out, wrapped around the still-pissed brunette, and held her…held her like he never held Kimber, not even when she fought tooth and nail to keep him from shutting her out. To the bewilderment of the rest of the family, save Splinter and the blonde standing in the doorway, Amber grabbed onto him just as tightly…and bawled. Literally cried as though she was being gutted, clinging to Raph as though he was the only thing keeping her upright. What the rest of the family didn’t know, was that Raph was telling her the truth—whispering brokenly into her hair that he heard Kimber’s pleas for shelter, assumed the worst and ignored her, and he regretted it more every day.

As messy as the altercation was, Amber found it proved her point. Back when she and Aaron used to watch the show and movies together, the blond always proclaimed Raphael wasn’t so bad, he just 'needed to get laid.’ At this point in their odd conversations, Aaron always turned to grin suggestively at Amber, who rolled her eyes. “Never gonna happen,” she’d insist sourly. “I don’t screw mirrors.” Now, a lifetime later, she knew her impression was correct…she and Raphael had too much in common to get along well on a regular basis without some serious tongue-holding…or at least booze…preferably booze.

“Dayum,” Mercy mumbled to Donatello, stunned at the mess her friend and boyfriend made of themselves. “I’ never seen'er get that pissed at anyone but my Ma!”

“You’ve seen that before?” Donnie hissed back, unable to tear his eyes from the oblivious train wreck before them. He knew Amber was slightly unstable, knew that Kimber had a helluva temper even before she died, but this was a nightmare he hadn’t expected. Mercy cringed and nodded.

“A lot, actually,” she admitted in an almost-grumble. “I’d wind up hidin’ in'er yard, she’d unleash holy hell on my Ma fer whatever made me run, an’ I’d pay for it later…” Mercy avoided his eyes awkwardly, spearing her fingers through her hair and yanking. “She didn’t know. If she knew, she wouldn’t'a ever let me go home. I told'ja she wasn’t really mad at ya…dumbass…” Despite the grave situation, the blonde found herself smirking over at the horrified genius. “Ya know,” she pointed out only half-teasingly, “we didn’t call'er the Crazy Celt just 'cause she could out-drink anyone on campus.”

Donnie startled, his eyes shooting to meet hers. Crazy…Celt…? He’d used the nickname on her the other day and several times since, but he’d never heard anyone else use it…of course, now that he thought about it, where’d he come up with that nickname if he didn’t overhear it? Clearly misreading his reaction, Mercy pointed out with feigned nonchalance, “Some jackass got sore after I turned'im down. He brought'is little ass-buddies to try an’ change my mind.” A sly smirk split her lips and she met his eyes askance. “Ya’ve never seen a miracle 'til ya seen a short chubby chick take out a trio of jocks with nothin’ but adrenaline an'er purse.” Now that he’d love to see.

His secrets confessed and the red faded from his vision, Raphael found himself working his way back to the real world. A tantalizing scent—a familiar, sweet floral bouquet paired with the even sweeter scent of the sour woman wearing it—drew his eyes to the doorway. Mercy was back…and saw him holding her best friend, who was indeed ugly-crying all over him. “Yeah,” the blonde pointed out with a smirk and rolled eyes, “she does that.”

“…Mercy…?” It took far more effort to get her name out than it should have, but even once he did, he found he had no idea what to add to it. I’m sorry? I’m an idiot? I can’t believe you can even look at me right now? Words were never Raphael’s strong point, and in this moment, that weakness was as obvious as ever before. Denim blue eyes met his over the head of frizzy brown hair tucked into his chest, unspoken words passing between them. She knew he was sorry, that he hadn’t meant to lash out at her, and somehow, despite his actions, she wasn’t angry at him. Clearly tiring of the long awkward silence, Mercy gave a long-suffering sigh and rolled her eyes skyward, stalking toward him.

“C'mon, Scotch-Bright,” she grumbled, poking Amber insistently in the shoulder. “Gi'off my man a'ready.” As the sniffling brunette made a passing attempt to dry her eyes—and dry her tears off his bare chest—Raph found his gaze locked with Mercy’s again. He didn’t understand, not in the slightest, but for some reason, she forgave him; despite his faults and failures, he silently vowed to make it up to her.

Not long after the explosive blow-up and Mercy’s return, the blonde and the beefcake were holed up in her room in the barracks, awkwardly avoiding one another’s eyes. Neither cared to acknowledge the elephant in the room—it was already stomping the shit out of them, after all—but both knew something had to be said. She didn’t need a verbal apology and he didn’t need expressed forgiveness, but something hung between them, invisible, intangible, but immovable. Finally, the silence became too much.

“I—” he started at the same time Mercy attempted,

“You—” This resulted in both urging, “You first,” then going completely silent. Before they could get any further, though, a stern rapping sounded at the open doorway.

“Raphael,” Splinter greeted shortly, the younger mutant flinching at his sensei’s tone. Oh no…not again… “To the dojo.” Without another word, Splinter stalked out of the barracks to locate the other responsible party.

“…what?” Mercy muttered in confusion. “Why the dojo?” Raph shuddered, unwilling to meet her eyes and reveal his weakness.

“Dis wasn’t always da Barracks, ya know,” he pointed out in a sour rasp. “Dis used ta be da Hashi. We ain’t got a Hashi now…” The rest of the sentence, 'so we’re getting our asses beat in the dojo instead,’ went unspoken as he lunged to his feet. “I’ll catch up wit’ ya, Merse.” Before he could reach the door a deceptively soft hand latched onto his shoulder, effortlessly anchoring him in place.

“Raph.” The address, delivered in a soft murmur, made him wince. “I understand…ya got a temper, big deal. Just blow off some steam from now on so we don’t wind up here again, okay?” Golden hazel met denim blue over one bulky bicep, the first doubtful and the second confident. “I ain’t a scared little kid anymore, remember? Quit actin’ like I’m gonna break if ya get grumpy.”

He hesitated, contemplating the events that led them there, then slowly nodded agreement and turned to offer a weak smile. That smile spread into a smirk as his cantankerous girlfriend latched onto the upper edge of his carapace and hauled him down to her level, quickly latching onto his neck and lips. A low growl in his throat, Raph hoisted her up into his arms, one massive hand mussing her already messy hair as the other held her tightly against his plastron. They would need to talk it out eventually, but for the moment, their hearts already knew the truth.

Actions spoke louder than words.

For the last several hours, Donatello sat propped up in bed with a previously engaging book nearly ignored. Several times before, he’d read his way through Anthem all in one sitting; now he found himself reading the same paragraph over and over without realizing what he just read.#

The Lair was quiet now, the chaotic racket from before having faded into a tense silence. Hours before, Master Splinter collected the two individuals responsible for the long brawl—Raphael and Amber—and sequestered the three of them away in the dojo for an hour. Donatello shuddered to think what happened in that room but knew better than to meddle…with the Hashi converted to living space, their sensei was left improvising.

Again, the genius found himself at the end of the same paragraph he just finished, still unable to recall a word he’d read. Hazel eyes darted hopefully to the closed door, but the silence was unbroken. Hours ago, Amber disappeared into the dojo with Raphael…she was officially part of the family, now, and like Mercy, she was receiving self-defense training. As such, she was subject to the same discipline the rest were. Donnie had faith in his father, his master—he knew the aged rat wouldn’t do anything to harm Amber—but Raphael was released over an hour ago! Surely Amber wasn’t still—

“For Shell’s sake,” he grumbled to himself setting aside the book without bothering to mark the page. Distraction and denial were getting him nowhere, and so was sitting and staring through the same pages over and over again. Dawn would be breaking in only a couple hours, and he needed sleep…sleep he wouldn’t be getting without a certain brunette tucked in his arms. She always managed to shut his brain off—how, he couldn’t comprehend—and even though they’d only shared a room for a short time, he’d become as reliant on her as she was on him. With a self-deprecating snort, he stood, stretched a kink out of his stiff neck, and set off to find his missing piece.

He should have guessed he’d find her in the barracks. Standing in the open doorway of her small vacated room, he shook his head at the sight of her slumped face-down across the narrow bunk—clearly favoring sore buttocks and a stiff back. “It ain’t funny,” she grumbled into the musty mattress; huh, so that chuckle wasn’t just in his head. “My everything hurts.”

“You expected otherwise?” Donnie retorted too-innocently. “How’d it go?”

“I am never pissing that rat off again,” Amber swore vehemently, her cheeks blazing against the sheets. “He said I needed to work on my balance…then made me 'bout puke every time I got the hang of it…an’ added time when I fell…an’ I fell a lot. I can’t feel my arse.”

“You will tomorrow,” Donnie pointed out simply, strolling over to perch on the edge of the bed. The mattress groaned under his weight, but not nearly as loudly as Amber groaned when he gave her a 'supportive’ pat on the back. “Any particular reason you’re sleeping in here?”

“You probably think I’m crazy.” They weren’t the words he was expecting, but he wasn’t surprised by them. His arms dangling loosely off his knees, he took the opportunity to study her without notice, his eyes lingering just a bit too long at her backside.

“Crazy?” he repeated with a cheeky smile she could hear clearly. “Completely. You wouldn’t fit in here if you weren’t. Still, what brought that on?” She held her silence a while, trying to find any possible answer that could be honest without making her sound like a complete idiot; she didn’t find one.

“Ya don’t mess with Mercy,” she answered instead, feeling ridiculous doing so. “Do whatever ya want to me—hurt me, hate me, beat the shite out'a me an’ leave me fer dead—but if anyone ever hurts Mercy, they don’t get another chance.” Though her entire body was throbbing with pain—except her arse, which she still couldn’t feel—she worked her stiff arms up toward her head, crossing them and pillowing her chin on them. “Mercy’s my oldest friend, Dee,” she confessed. “I talked funny, I didn’t fit in, I had some serious dental misalignments goin’ on, an’ I got bullied a lot…Mercy stood up for me every time. I’ll never be able to repay her for everything she did fer me…she’s the sister I never had.”

Amber trailed off, feeling completely ridiculous and sure she just made a fool of herself. A sudden—admittedly gentle—pat on the rear shot that belief to hell and sent spasms of pain wracking through her backside. “GAH, scunner!” she shrieked rolling away and clutching her hands protectively over her behind. “The fark, Dunnie?!”

“Guess you can feel it after all, huh?” he remarked without even the slightest visible sign of mischief; if she hadn’t seen his playful side many times before now, Amber might’ve been fooled.

“Now I can,” she grumbled sourly. He was laughing at her—openly laughing at her!—and still, she couldn’t be mad at him. Shaking his head, he stood and gathered her into his arms, tucking one under her knees and the other around her back. As happened the day he and Leo first brought her to the Lair, she gave a startled squawk at the sudden height different, just in time muffling it in his shoulder. “I still hate heights,” she grumbled as he carried her down the hallway, through the common area, and into the bedroom they now shared.

Finally, together for the night, the pair found all the day’s stresses melting away. Amidst nuzzles and gentle brushing caresses, the two drifted off in each other’s arms, both tired, sore, and smiling just the same.

    ** Translations    

“Yar a fookin’ yellae bastart, ya knuw tha’?!” – You’re a fucking (yellae = yellow = cowardly) bastard, you know that?!

“She truss'ed ya—she truss'ed ya an’ ya made'er bolt!” – She trusted you—she trusted you and you made her run off!

“Ah’ll pan'is heid in!” – I’ll (bash) his head in! [Technically to “pan something in” means 'to break or disfigure’ it but yeah. Same diff.]

“Ah’m pure dead scunnert wi'ya!” – I’m (completely) (disgusted/fed up) with you! [pure – very, totally, and dead – usually used with 'pure’ beforehand, is considered to mean the same thing but with added emphasis. Scunnert – fed up/disgusted, based on scunner – means both 'something that pisses you off’ and 'Jeez that hurt!’ Compare to 'mother-fucker!’

“Ye shite-breened bawheid!” - You shit-brained (bald-head!) Taken literally, 'bawheid’ is just a remark about him being bald, but the term is also synonymous with 'empty headed’ and 'stupid.’ Double burn…

“Wha'sher prob’m, anywae?!” – What’s your problem, anyway?!

“D'ya think I dunnuw tha’?!”– Do you really think I don’t know that?!

“Tha’ I dinnae ken tha’ if I wisnae here, Kimbruh’d be?!” – That I don’t (understand/know) that if I wasn’t here, Kimber would be?!

“I didn'ae wanna 'nother shot, ya ragin’ roaster, no’t the loss'f ony'body else!” – I didn’t want another shot [at life], you (basically means 'he’s making a complete cunt of himself’ and doing so by his temper—really ironic since she’s doing the exact same thing, lol!), not if it meant the death of anyone else!

I cannae go back—I cannae ge'er back for ya, e'er!“ – I can’t go back [to my old life]—I can’t get [Kimber] back for you, either!

So what’ll ya do'boot it?!” – So what’ll you do about it?! [Very, VERY STUPID CHALLENGE!]

Will, gowan'en! This’s my fees nuw, nae ma'er I wan'it 'er no’! – Well, go on then! This is my face now, no matter if I want it or not!

Kimbruh ain’t'ere nae mare—su DO summit aboot it! – Kimber isn’t [in] here anymore—so DO something about it!

                    Notes:      

*A brief shining moment, and then that mouth.“ – I seem to be finding a lot of Miss Congeniality parallels in this fic…curiouser and curiouser…

**It’s been well established by this point that Amber tends to slip into old habits—specifically speech patterns—when she’s experiencing very strong emotions. Though she’s been focusing more lately on letting those old speech patterns show around Donnie WITHOUT a crisis, this is NOT such a case; instead, it’s an "I talk like my Gran'Da when I’m pissed” case. I’m REALLY hoping I didn’t screw these up but I’m sure I did somewhere! If anyone with experience with Scottish friends notices I screwed up somewhere, please, PLEASE let me know so I can fix it—this wasn’t meant to be a mockery, but a serious depiction! Translations shown in order of occurrence.

#Anthem is a novel written by philosopher Ayn Rand, author of The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged. For those of you who haven’t read it, I’ll relay the description from the back of my own well-worn copy:

“He lived in the dark ages of the future. In a loveless world he dared to love the woman of his choice. In an age that had lost all traces of science and civilization he had the courage to seek and find knowledge. But these were not the crimes for which he would be hunted. He was marked for death because he had committed the unpardonable sin: he had stood forth from the mindless human herd. He was a man alone.”

I first read this novel years ago when I found out it was the base for a couple of RUSH’s songs—honestly, I was so young it shouldn’t have even made sense to me. Only recently I began wondering how a certain mutant genius might react to the storyline. I swear, I get the weirdest ideas sometimes!