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A New Lease on Life	By : Ghost-of-a-Chance Category: +S through Z > Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Views: 3157 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own TMNT, any of its characters or devices, or any songs/books/movies referenced. No money is made from this story. I DO own any & all OCs included in the story...and a Woozle.

Chapter List
- 56
- 57
- 58
Warnings for mild gore and death-by-fluff. There's some deadly fluff in here, folks. Beware the fluff.
Suggested Listening: Skillet "Not Gonna Die" and "Salvation," APOGEE "Raindrops," Creed "With Arms Wide Open"

56: The Choice Between Darkness and Light

The last thing I heard is you whispering goodbye…
…and then I heard you flatline.

The Void
The first time Amber found herself in this place, she was struck by the darkness, the emptiness, and the complete lack of sensation. Now, smaller details are emerging from the Void. A soft whirring, thrumming sound fills the air, almost beyond the capacity of the human ear. The musty scent of dust, old leather, and parchment tantalizes her nose—or rather, it would if she had a nose to tantalize; here in the Void, she is whittled down to mere existence, a spirit without a vessel and a mind without matter. Struggling to acclimate, she stares out into the blackness—staring from eyes that don't exist into a blackness she cannot see.
'How'd I get here again?' she wonders surveying the empty nothingness around her. 'I got out—I got a second chance, I was sent to another world and…and…no...oh no…NO!' If she had eyes, they would surely burn with tears; instead, she has nothing, only the lung-burning sensation of her heart breaking. She went home—she returned to the world she came from in hopes of saving her loved ones from themselves. 'I should'a known better,' she realizes as pain lances through her body—pain in a body that doesn't exist. 'They would'a managed on their own in time. I never should'a gone back.' She died there once before, and now she's died again. 'One more day,' she rages to the unhearing Void, 'one more day! I was so sure one more day wouldn't hurt! I never learned anything, did I? I just made the same damn mistake all over again…just like I always have…just like I always…'
Wait…something's not right. In the Void, nothing exists—she don't exist—so why does she hurt? Why does her head feel ready to split like an overripe melon when she has no head to hurt? How can she feel hands jostling her when she has no body and there are no hands? The whirring sound grows louder, clearer—clocks—it sounds like the ticking of an army of clocks! No, wait, there's a buzzing noise, too—buzzing and…shouting?
What hap—way a mugg—did thi—!
No, it's useless. She'll never make it back to Donnie this time. After everything he went through for her…after so many years of waiting, hoping, dreaming, and praying, she finally found him…after all of that, to simply lose him all over again? She lost him once before, when the dreams became cold and he ceased to share them. Then, like nothing ever changed, he came back—older, stronger, wiser, and very much not a child anymore. She can still remember it like it was yesterday…after three years of being apart, her heart felt ready to fall to pieces and burst from happiness, all at the very sight of him.
It matters not. Cold seeps into her skin—skin that cannot exist. Someone shouts in the distance—garbled orders in a world with nothing and no one to follow them. No, it's useless…still…no matter how useless, small things tug for her attention…small facets of Donnie that addicted her to him.
The taste of him…
...the smell of him…
...the way his eyes change with the light…
...the goofy playful moods that make her laugh and the stubborn side that makes her frustrated and needy all at once…
...the way he held her—tightly, protectively, nuzzling into her hair and wrapping himself around her...he always held her like he feared someone would rip her from his arms.
Hurry u—e's fibru—osing her—'s codi—to try!
What…what is this noise? This buzzing noise in her ears—ears that do not exist. Pain—how can she feel pain? She does not exist in this void, nothing exists in the Void!
So you're just gonna give up again, huh?
Amber startles, searching the emptiness around her for the owner of the voice—an irritating soprano that would make her ears threaten secession from the union. Fortunately, in the Void, she has no ears to revolt. Stranger still, though she knows precisely how the voice would sound, she hears nothing – she can only feel it. This makes no sense to her. How can you feel a voice?
You gave up once before, remember? You're not even gonna try to get back to him?
"You don't understand," Amber argues, bewildered by the aggravating, judgmental, inaudible voice and the splitting ache in her skull. "I'm dead—twice dead! The dead don't rise again!" The voice gives an unimpressed 'meh' sound. "If I come back again, Darwin's gonna end up spinnin' in'is grave!"
Kid, Darwin's too busy fighting for android rights in 3092. He's not gonna care.
"...WHAT?" The sigh that follows makes her think the unseen tormentor is pinching their nose in aggravation.
You're not dead yet, genius – you're only mostly dead, you know, like that hokey rom-com with the smokin' hot farm-boy. Anyway, last time, you refused to make a choice—you just laid there on the floor whimpering and waiting to die. You gonna do that again, or have you learned anything at all?
Glimpses of reality flicker in the void—stabbing bright light, the stench of antiseptic, bone-chilling cold. Not…not dead…yet…?
"I…I have a choice?"
There's always a choice, you nincompoop—choose to live, or choose to die…or if you still haven't learned your lesson, choose not to choose. Watch it blow up in your face again. No promises you won't wind up in a blooper video on TimeTube.
Silence fills the Void—silence between the ghosts of voices too muddled to fully discern, and between the droning ticking of the unseen clocks.
—IGHT—DAMN YOU, F—
Pointless though it is, Amber searches for another pair of eyes in the Void. Choose to stay dead…choose to not choose…or choose to go back to Donnie… "I don't know who the fuck you think you are," she warns the entity in the Void, "but if you think I'm just gonna roll over an' give up again, you've got another thing comin'! I didn't give up because I was stupid—I was in shock! I was already half dead! Why would I make that same decision when I'm fully aware I have somethin' to live for? I won't give up again, I won't do that to Mercy an' Aaron again, an' I won't do it to Donnie!"
So you've learned your next lesson then.
The voice, previously antagonistic and irritating, feels almost proud…proud and irritating.
You learned to ask for help. You learned to allow yourself to be vulnerable. You learned to embrace what makes you unique instead of hiding and trying to fit in. You've learned that you don't have to hide behind nonsense to be accepted and that words only have as much power as we give them. Now you're learning to forgive yourself for your past mistakes.
Wait…what?
The doc's calling ya, Grasshopper. Go home, I'll check on you soon—and I'd better not find you in my filing cabinet again for at least fifty years.
"Wha—filin' cabinet?!"
Again impossible shouting fills the Void—an oppressive white noise full of endless ticking and painful pressure—before Amber can so much as utter another word, the pitch black world explodes in blinding light and a deafening ringing noise. Finally, the ticking stops.

This is how it feels when you take your life back.

Amber's eyes flew open—instantly, the only one she managed to crack open screwed back shut again—she sucked in a hissing breath at the strange aching, buzzing feeling in her skull. Wait…buzzing?…she was—she was numbed, anesthetized? Struggling through the sluggishness and the disconcerting prickle spreading from her scalp down to her cheek, she reached upward, dreading what she might not find. If she still had no skull…if she was still stuck in that damnable Void…
A latex-gloved hand latched onto hers, shutting off her brain and stopping her just shy of her forehead. "Don't touch," the owner of the hand warned quietly, easing her hand away from her face but opting to not let go; through her confusion, Amber appreciated the comforting gesture. She cracked open her one bleary eye—the other, for whatever reason, refused to cooperate—and cautiously examined what her senses took in. The stench of antiseptic and chlorine—people bustling about in pastel scrubs, rumpled bonnets, and paper masks—several eyes pinning her in place in a mixture of shock and horror—she knew this setting.
"H…Hospital…?" Amber rasped to the lanky young man staring down at her in disbelief; he still held her hand, his bony thumb rubbing soothingly over her knuckles. He had big, nervous dark eyes with thick round glasses, somewhat sallow skin, and a tall frame practically drowning in oversized sage-green scrubs; his ID tag read James Peters – Resident. "Manhattan?"
"Uh…Brooklyn," James answered. "Are…are you—" A shout from the hallway cut him off, followed by several crashes and what sounded like a stampede of buffalo. The racket grew closer and louder, then a loud metallic screech—the Operating Theater door flew open faster than its automatic-opening mechanics could handle then banged into the wall.
"What now?!" an older man across the room barked. Grey eyes, greyer eyebrows, and even greyer scrubs—normally Amber loved grey, but this guy made it look dismal. Was he a surgeon or a coroner? In the open doorway, a pretty, petite young woman in pale yellow scrubs panted and stared at Amber as though seeing a ghost.
"Well, Reynolds?" Startling back to herself, the tech tore her eyes from Amber and rushed over to the theater's computer console and hurriedly pulled up a file on the LCD display. The surgeon joined her there, scrolling through the images—X-rays, MRIs, CT scans perhaps? Whatever they were, Amber vaguely recognized their subject as a human skull and brain—her skull and brain? With every new slide, the grey surgeon grew redder in the face. "What's the meaning of this?!" the surgeon snapped at Reynolds—was she a tech assigned to radiology? "How'd you foul these up?!"
"I—I didn't, Sir!" Reynolds' eyes flickered warily to Amber again then returning to his. "The captures were perfect as always and Radiology signed off on them—I didn't make any mistakes!"
"Then how else can you explain that?!" He jabbed an accusing gloved finger at the screen; if not for his mask, he would surely be spitting at her with every word. "If you took those a month apart, that would make sense—the human skull cannot mend itself at the rate of several weeks per minute!" Wait…WHAT?! "Goddammit, when she came through those doors she was coding—her skull was caved in like she took a cinder-block to the face!"
"I'm…sorry, Sir." Reynolds backpedaled, visibly torn between two fears: the ill-tempered surgeon screaming in her face and the impossibly alive trauma case staring at her from the table. "I have no explanation—there's no sign of any injury on the inside, not after the first three shots!" The surgeon swore, startling Reynolds into jumping back.
"Don't give me that garbage—she was dying! The dead don't come back to life!"
A snort sounded just above her, as though someone found the surgeon's declaration amusing. Sharp-smelling fumes burned Amber's nose—antiseptic on a gauze pad, maybe?—and wrenched a choking gasp from her lungs. James the Resident gave her an apologetic smile—or, at least, his eyes crinkled at her over his paper mask—and he continued gingerly dabbing away the dried fluids crusting her skin. He froze. He stared, blinking rapidly as though seeing something he couldn't believe, his eyes full of stunned recognition. Clearing his throat, he turned to the still shouting grey-clad surgeon. "D-Doctor Lloyd?"
"WHAT?!" James glanced pointedly at their patient, sure showing would be more effective than trying to explain. His quiet voice always irritated Dr. Lloyd anyway, and when Dr. Lloyd got angry, James started stammering, which just made Dr. Lloyd even angrier. Sure enough, the surgeon stormed over like a bull on a rampage; the moment his steel grey eyes landed on Amber's bare forehead—unbroken skin bruised a sickening black and green instead of the grisly compound fracture he saw before—all the wind was sucked right out of his sails. Visibly struggling to comprehend the impossibility—proof that the X-rays weren't faulty after all—he reached out one trembling gloved hand to trace the worst of the bruising. Pale, shiny scars stretched where fragments of bone once protruded; plating once shattered inward was properly rounded and smooth, if a tad spongy to the touch.
Steel grey met grey-green in a standoff. "This can't…" Dr. Lloyd trailed off, then shot a stern glare to James. "Recovery, new scans, then a room for observation," he ordered sharply. "There's got to be a logical explanation for this." Without another word, the elder stormed out of the theater, the door slamming behind him. James watched the others a moment, then turned back to Amber with an odd look in his eyes. Amidst the bustle around them, he seemed to work up his nerve, leaned down closer to her level, and whispered in her ear.
"The clocks." A cold chill ran down Amber's spine, and not from the warm breath on her neck. "Did you…hear…the clocks?" Surely…but Abby's cousin…and Kimber… The risk was worth taking. She nodded faintly.
"Did you smell the dust?" Her words, barely above a whisper, sparked certainty and recognition. "Did you see the darkness and the blinding light?"
"Tell no one," James warned in a hurried whisper as a pair of nurses arrived to work on transferring her. "Stay safe - I'll find you soon."
Amber was sent back to radiology twice, and underwent three more rounds of lab-work—the impossible was proven true. By the time she was moved to a room for observation, the fracture in her skull was completely healed, the bone strong and solid, and the swelling and bruising on her face was steadily going down. No one had any explanation for it and many a time the staff demanded answers. Amber, recalling James' warning, clammed up claiming amnesia and (poorly) faking confusion. When signing papers, she signed as Pat Benatar and pretended she didn't understand why people didn't believe her.
Now she sat alone in an empty room meant for two patients, confused, worried, and missing Donnie so much it hurt. She almost lost him again…her naivety nearly cost her the second life she received and her stubborn nature hadn't helped. You're learning to forgive yourself for your past mistakes. The voice in the void, inaudible but understandable, said that before, and now, she couldn't get it out of her mind. Amber didn't just make mistakes, she habitually made the same mistakes enough times to earn an honorary PhD in some of them if not a Darwin Award. Even so, focusing on those mistakes – reminding herself of her failures and holding them against herself instead of working to avoid a repeat – never accomplished anything. Now more than ever, she was sure that the second chances she and Mercy were given came with a task: their new lives lacked some of the troubles that held them down before, but they also came with new challenges…this was a chance to correct the faults and failures riddling their previous lives. The universe never did give anything without taking something away in return.
A sudden near-deafening commotion in the hallway drew her attention to the door; a moment later a tall athletic blonde burst through the door, denim blue eyes wilder than her windblown hair and her face crimson in fury. "You crazy-ass bitch!" Mercy screeched as she stormed over. "AMBER JEAN! How dare you?! How dare you die on me again?!"
"Nice to see you, too, Ross," Amber grumbled. "If you're just gonna insult me, I'm goin' back to sleep." The snark earned her pain – a sock to the arm from bony knuckles, then another to the shoulder.
"Sh-Shut up!" Mercy sputtered. "You—You—YOU!" In their previous life, Amber was well-acquainted with Mercy's temper and how such moments played out. Mercy bottled things up until they blew up, then the moment they boiled over she fell straight from fury into hurt and sorrow—at the worst times, generally after her mother was especially rough on her, she went from screeching in rage to bawling her eyes out, drowning in her emotions the whole while. Now, however, Mercy was stronger, stable, not bound by the limitations of her previous life, and she'd learned that anger wasn't in and of itself a sin—she could be angry without risking a black eye. This Mercy was like a blast from the past—a reminder of how broken the younger woman once was.
Her voice cracked—her shoulders shook—her eyes scrunched shut to keep her tears from dripping. Falling to her knees and choking on her own breath, Mercy latched onto the bed-sheets, clenching them so tightly her knuckles turned white. The blonde couldn't get out any more words between her choked crying and settled for burying her face in the hard mattress and scratchy sheets. Had Amber expected this sort of reaction, she wouldn't have tried lightening the mood with humor. In apology, she reached out and smoothed Mercy's wild hair, trying to calm her as she used to in their last life.
"Well, dat went well." The comment by the doorway revealed more company – Casey and April, both bewildered. "Ya don't look so bad, Kid; from da fuss dese two were kickin' up, a guy'd think ya were on death's door or somethin." April shot a nervous glance at Casey over her shoulder.
"Apparently I was on death's door," Amber contradicted. "I wouldn't believe it myself if I hadn't seen the x-rays…I was dyin'…again…apparently some irritating little good fairy decided to whack me with her magic wand an' heal me instead of turnin' me into a goon." Mercy lifted her head just slightly and shot Amber a sour 'Oh no you didn't!' glare through clumping eyelashes. "Maybe I shouldn't'a been boppin' field mice on the head." Predictably Casey and April were speechless with something akin to discomfort or bewilderment. "Never mind. Painkillers make me loopy." She wasn't on any painkillers, but no way would she admit it; the couple probably already thought she was nuts without nursery rhyme jokes popping out of her mouth from nerves.
"Correct me if I'm wrong..." April settled in the chair by Amber's bed. "In your previous life, you died of brain damage—blunt-force trauma to the skull caused by flying debris. Right?" Amber nodded gravely, reaching up to gesture to the still-bruised skin of her forehead.
"I don't remember it, obviously, but Splinter was able to see it with some fancy ninja technique." She gently tapped the bruise, wincing at the pain. "This is where that damn glass brick hit me, an' it's where the x-rays showed a massive messy fracture. On the third day home, I started getting a headache, an' the last thing I remember is going to sleep on the fourth night. This mess probably developed while I was sleeping. If that ain't connected, then—"
"Wait, hold the phone." Casey crossed his arms. "You two left on Thursday night, right? It's Saturday, ya ain't been gone a whole three days yet!" Amber stilled.
"I've been in this world less than a year," she muttered to herself, "but I've been dead for exactly two years…we spent four, maybe five days in Willsdale but we've been gone less than three. Time—"
A sudden knock at the door cut her off, and a moment later, a perky young nurse popped through. "Miss...Benatar?" She glanced down at the paper chart in her hand for confirmation. Mercy lifted her head again, just long enough to shoot Amber an are you an crack? glare; Amber replied with an I'm starting to wonder myself cringe. "I can't believe I'm saying it," the nurse said, "but you're cleared to go."
'Time must move differently between worlds,' Amber considered as the nurse went about unhooking her from the monitors and saline drip. 'I'm lucky I made it back alive...Dunnie…please be alright.'
When Donatello returned to the Lair well ahead of time, carrying a bludgeoned and bleeding out Amber, the family didn't have time to debate their course of action. He and Mercy drove her to the hospital in the party wagon; the rest followed in the garbage truck and picked up April and Casey on the way. After she was admitted, all they could do was wait…wait and pray, and call in a favor.
Donnie never handled idleness well when he was younger—he always had far too much to do and had to be bribed into taking breaks. Over the last few years that improved; he learned to pace himself and came to value his leisure time. Now, the only pacing he could stomach involved his feet.
The sun was blinding outside the walls of the parking garage, adding to his nerves. His family was outside during daylight, crammed into the garbage truck and parked in a massive cavernous area surrounded by empty diesel trailers, impatiently waiting for news. Thanks to Leo's quick thinking, they were safe; the NYPD had shut down their floor of the garage, set up barricades, disabled security cameras, and ordered several empty big-rigs parked in protective rings around the truck. The strange little family they didn't have to worry about being seen, but it didn't help their nerves much...not when one of their own was in the hospital, beyond their reach, and in grave danger.
A phone bleated in the back of the truck, and Leo immediately put the call on speaker. "She's okay, guys!" April was grinning as she shared the news, they could hear it plain as day. "There's no sign of any injury so they're—" The sound of a fist suddenly impacting a wall cut her off with a squeak; Leo, Mikey, Raph, and Splinter all turned to Donnie, stunned.
"I saw that fracture!" Donnie cut her off sharply, flexing through the pain in his knuckles. Okay, so maybe punching a steel-paneled wall wasn't the brightest move he could have made, but in a way, he kinda felt a little better. Maybe Raph had a point after all. "I saw it with my own eyes, she was dying! Don't try telling me she's perfectly fine when she—she—" A clawed hand settled on Donnie's carapace with just enough pressure to notice; he winced, easily understanding his master's silent urging. "Sorry," he muttered at the phone. Without another word, he yanked open the door and jumped down from the truck, trying not to slam the door behind him.
At first, he was too restless to do anything but pace—lurch from the front bumper to the back and back again in a rapid restless trek—but it wasn't helping any. Pacing never helped. Amber paced in fear, Leo paced in worry, and Raph sometimes paced in anger, but it never worked for any of them. It strengthened fear, frazzled nerves, and worsened tension every time…pacing never helped anything.
With a forceful sigh, Donnie slumped down on the running board, head in his hands, and struggled to center himself. Outside the parking garage, the sun shone as bright as ever, but inside, he was drowning in rain. "This is most concerning." Splinter's voice drifted through the metal door. "It seems Miss O'Brien and Miss Ross aren't merely dead in their world—they're dead to their world. If they should return and remain too long…"
"The injuries their souls remember will manifest in their new bodies," Leo finished solemnly. "Amber was lucky this time…next time, she might not make it."
'There won't be a next time,' Donnie thought, scowling down at the grease-blackened concrete. 'I lost her once before…I won't let it happen again.'
A wheelchair. Why, for the sake of all that was holy, did she have to be put in a wheelchair?! Logically, Amber knew the answer—it was a safety policy in many hospitals to transport trauma or accident patients to their vehicles via wheelchair to minimize the possibility of falling. Still, rational as the explanation was, she couldn't shake off the sulky irritability she felt at being pushed around in one of the hated contraptions. "Quit pouting a'ready," Mercy grumbled from behind her, "you're bein' ridiculous."
"Ridiculous?" Amber groused back at the blonde literally pushing her around. "Accusin' a cripple of usin' a wheelchair because they're fat is ridiculous. Never mind that I was in leg braces an' had my crutches in the bin in plain view," she added under her breath. "Obviously, I was doing my grocery shopping in a motor-chair 'cause I was FAT an' LAZY, not because I couldn't farkin' walk."
"My heart bleeds fer ya, really." Mercy rolled her eyes. "Next time don't jump in front of a damn bus."
"It was a van! In the crosswalk! An' it hit me, I was innocent!" Beside the two bickering friends, April and Casey exchanged matching cringes. "Why're we out here, anyway? The guys—"
"—called in a favor, Genius," Mercy cut Amber off. "Apparently the police owe 'em or somethin'—this level's supposed to be closed for repairs but the Chief threw around the right words." Before Amber could get out another word, whether a question or an argument, they cleared the last row of trailers. In the center of the circled diesel trailers a glimpse of mustard yellow and Kelly-green caught her eye; right after, she noticed the tall, lanky mutant slumped on the running-board, head in his hands and his shoulders drawn tight. Donatello. She choked, her eyes burning with tears—tears of sorrow or joy, she had no clue, they all burned the same.
As though hearing her sappy, blubbery inner rambling, he shot upright. Bright hazel eyes fixed on hers, widening until they fairly bulged—a tense swallow bobbed his Adam's apple—his nostrils flared, his lip and chin tight and his eyes watering. Donnie lurched to his feet, heedless of the protesting screech of his carapace scraping the door of the truck.
Like so many reunions in so many sappy romances, it started with a single, tentative step, then that step was followed by another, and another; by the time he reached Amber those steps had become a full sprint and he skidded to a halt a mere yard away. There, he stood as though frozen—too far away to touch, but close enough to see the yellow and purple bruising spanning from her hairline almost to her jaw. Neither heard the truck door creak open; neither saw the four faces crammed around the open doorway watching in silent disbelief. They all saw her when Donatello brought her home and remembered it in stark detail, but now, she looked nothing like they remembered. One by one, the three brothers looked to each other for confirmation that they weren't the only ones confused by her non-crushed skull.
With shaky hands, Donnie weakly tugged his goggles down over his glasses; a few button presses later, he scanned for an impossible injury long-since faded from sight. When he shoved the goggles back up again, Amber realized what she missed before…old salt trails streaking his cheeks and dried tears crusting the corners of his equally dry eyes. "Hey," she attempted weakly. He didn't answer—couldn't answer—all he could do was stare as though he expected her to vanish right before his eyes. Suddenly, the embarrassment, regret, and shame she felt was stifling. Avoiding his eyes, she carefully hoisted herself up from the chair, wobbled on unsteady feet before catching herself, and shuffled toward him. "I was...wrong," she admitted softly. "You tried to warn me…I thought one more day wouldn't hurt, but—but it did…I should'a…I should'a…"
An unexpected, but oh-so-longed-for sensation cut off her stammering—gentle fingertips, rough in skin yet tender in touch, brushed her bangs away from her brow and back behind her ear. The day she and Donnie first met, that very gesture triggered a remembered pain with no injury; now she had a recent injury but felt only relief. Grey-green eyes lifted to hazel, both shimmering from unshed tears, their owners' hearts pounding in time. For a moment, Amber couldn't tell whether he was about to kiss her or scream at her; when his fingertips left her skin, that confusion sharpened into worry.
A sudden, if light, pop to the tip of her nose shut all that down. By the time her eyes were no longer crossed and blinking, she could see what she missed: a tiny tilt of his lips and softness in his shimmering eyes. He dropped to one knee, arms held open in invitation. "Well?" he asked, wiggling his fingers at her with an encouraging smile. Without further hesitation, Amber dove into his arms, hers latching onto his neck mid-air; in one fluid motion, he latched onto the backs of her thighs, lifted her up to his level, and lunged up to his full height.
In his arms, Amber recalled the multitude of little things about him that called to her in the Void—the salty-sweet taste of his lips, the coffee, grease, and spice scent of him, the almost desperate way he held her and the gentle rasp of his work-roughened hands. A flurry of brushing, nipping kisses and tearful laughter ensued, neither ready to let the other go and neither capable of giving a damn that they were being watched.
Finally content to simply breathe her in, Donnie lowered his forehead to rest against hers with a clink of plastic on plastic, bespectacled eyes sliding shut in contentment. His soft, warm snout nuzzled her nose then trailed over to brush across her cheek to her neck, a sigh blowing a gentle warm breath across her sensitive skin. "I almost lost you," he whispered into her neck. His voice creaked and one hand slid up her back to dive into her hair. "I almost lost you all over again…" Wait…again? "I love you…" He choked, nearly crushing her against his plastron. "...so, so much, you stubborn, infuriating, impossible woman." Amber's impending confession was cut off by another voice.
"Yeesh. Dat's just shameful." The playful barb—courtesy of the resident hockey-goon—reminded the couple that they had an audience.
"I dunno," April teased Casey, nudging him in the side with her elbow; Donnie glared a warning at him over Amber's cotton-clad shoulder. "I think it's kinda cute." Cute. The very idea made him snort into her trapezius, torn between amusement and offense. Instead of rising to the other couple's bait, he burrowed even deeper into Amber's neck, calmed by the whisper of her warm skin brushing across his cheeks and muzzle. The blare of a car horn reminded him of their position—aboveground in the early afternoon, exposed and vulnerable—they needed to get home.
With one more peck on the lips, Donnie set Amber back on her feet and turned to lead her to the truck. A moment later, he changed his mind: he effortlessly swept her off her feet and tossed her over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. Someone, she realized with a grin, was feeling playful. "OI!" the brunette squawked in mock offense. "What am I, a sack'a beans? I can walk!" The laughter behind them made her cheeks pink but that pink turned to scarlet at a chastising swat to her backside. She squeaked in surprise, the girly sound instantly cracking her up.
"Pipe down," Donnie warned with a grin, "you're still in trouble. 'One more day' my fanny."
In every life there are moments when it seems the world is about to come to an end; when that feeling is revealed incorrect and, instead, life goes on uncontested, it can be easy to miss small signs in the midst of relief. Silence in a place normally full of noise—a smell of unfamiliar body-wash in a home usually reeking of pizza and sweat—a faint prickling of finely-tuned senses twigging to the presence of another. At this moment, when the approaching brothers, sisters, lovers, and father were still high on endorphins from an averted death, these small signs went unnoticed.
"Swear to bog, O'Brien," Mercy snapped at her grinning braided friend, "I hear one more Princess Bride reference out'a ya, I'm'onna kill ya again." Amber sniggered into Donnie's shoulder.
"As you wish!" She loosed an evil cackle. Mercy gave an undignified sputtered curse, repeatedly swatting at Amber's back and missing every time; it was hard enough to hit a moving target when it wasn't being carried by someone with ninja-level reflexes.
"Stand still an' take yer—" She suddenly fell silent—her nostrils flared, easily picking up a familiar odor and even more easily recognizing it. Irish Spring, Tidy Cats litter, and stale Mtn Dew, while not a particularly pleasant combination, was practically the signature scent of a face she hadn't seen in almost a year. She spun about frantically scanning the visible portions of the Lair for the intruder. Sure enough, she found him—off-kilter blue eyes, gravity-defying blond curls, threadbare camo trousers and perpetually crooked glasses—perching on the catwalk railing in front of Leo's bedroom like an accusing floof-haired gargoyle. "Willis?!"
The man on the railing nodded, his good eye never leaving Amber's bruised, stunned face. Without a word he slid off the railing to hit the floor—an almost six-foot fall—and landed in a crouch. He showed no sign of discomfort from the landing—he just stalked over to the group hovering just inside the front door. Donnie glanced over at the hallway wall—the chalk-scribbled portal was gone, not a glimmer left behind. Aaron must have followed him through but how did he escape notice in a household full of ninjas, even with those ninjas vacating in a panic? Despite the mystery, Aaron Willis was no threat to the notoriously reckless woman in Donnie's arms. Suddenly reminded of her position - halfway between thrown over his shoulder and tucked into his neck - he carefully set her on her own two feet.
When Aaron reached Amber, for a moment he just stood there, visibly looking her over as if to ascertain her health. When he finally made his move, Amber expected him to poke her in disbelief or even sock her in the shoulder and call her an idiot; those would have made sense, considering Aaron's temperament. Hesitant, visibly afraid of what he might find, he reached up to brush aside her bangs; upon finding only bruising, not the nauseating bloody mess he saw before, his eyes softened. Seemingly content that she was unharmed, he let her hair fall again and flicked her right between the eyes with a wry grin.
"You idjit." Yep, that was him alright. "Wasn't dyin' once enough?" His eye drifted over to Donnie's, sobering, but all he had to offer was an acknowledging nod; Donnie returned it, dipping his chin even lower in respect. Just like the night when Aaron found Amber and Donnie on the sofa, the mutant comforting her after a nightmare, a silent understanding passed between the two men.
I love her…take care of her.
I know…and I will.

UP NEXT: a new face in the story, and overdue goodbyes and talks in The Parting Glass

NOTES

♦ Lyrics from Skillet, Not Gonna Die.
♦ TITLE from lyrics, RUSH, Double Agent from album Counterparts. I feel like the song fits the first part of this chapter, namely Amber's return to the void and everything that happened there. Excerpts from spoken lyrics:
On the edge of sleep, I heard voices behind the door -
The known and the nameless, familiar and faceless,
My angels and my demons at war.
Which one will lose depends on what I choose,
Or maybe which voice I ignore.
On the edge of sleep, I awoke to a sun so bright.
Rested and fearless, cheered by your nearness,
I knew which direction was right.
The case had been tried by the jury inside -
The choice between darkness and light…
The choice between darkness and light.

...yes, I'm still grieving over Neil Peart. It's gonna be a while.
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A New Lease on Life