Chapter Text
Life in the Safe Haven was slow. Thomas didn’t think he’d ever moved slowly before.
He helped Newt get situated in his hut before realizing there wasn’t really room to build a second bed–not that he’d used his own bed while Newt was out. He’d slept in the med hut, first out of necessity to watch his wounds, then out of fear that if he left, Newt would take a turn for the worse.
He didn’t bring the one-bed situation up to the Builders.
His bed was big enough for both him and Newt to fit in comfortably, and a little uncomfortably if they wanted to avoid touching. (Thomas tried to keep some respectful distance that first night, but Newt just sighed in annoyance and yanked him towards the center of the mattress, so their arms overlapped and their knees pressed together.)
Thomas woke up every morning and ate breakfast without the threat of a time crunch looming over him. (He woke up every morning with Newt in his bed. That was strange. And strangely normal.)
Thomas found work to be done among the Builders, once being away from Newt for more than ten minutes stopped sending him into the depths of his own head. (And that was definitely weird. Codependence was a word he thought of a couple times, but it didn’t quite fit.) There were huts to be constructed, logs to be sawed, boulders to be moved, stumps to be dug up.
Thomas found a sleep schedule, a job, an enjoyment for walking the sand after dinner. Yet he was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for the sound of Bergs to cut through the laughter-filled air, waiting for Newt’s cough and temper to return, waiting for the scream of a Griever in the night, waiting for an errant signal to crackle through Vince’s precautionary radios.
The other shoe never dropped. Shit like Brenda having a couple seizures (and scaring the hell out of Thomas, who was unlucky enough to be by her side for one of them), Harriet holding a knife to his throat out of reflex when he’d walked in too quietly (which they’d both apologized for), and some of the younger kids getting themselves hurt had happened, but that was the extent of any real danger Thomas faced.
The tides rose and fell. The moon waxed and waned. Nightmares came and went. Huts went up, Fry’s cooking skills improved, and the Safe Haven started to feel…safe.
Thomas didn’t know what to do about that.
Life in the Safe Haven was slow, and Thomas was slow to catch up.
But then, so was Newt.
Thomas watched as he pried himself from sleep every morning, looking confused, like he was never quite sure he wasn’t dreaming. (Thomas watched him avoid sleep to avoid the nightmares. They both did, some nights.)
Thomas watched as Newt’s muscles slowly got used to being worked again, as his stomach got used to full meals, as his bones became less prominent and his skin gained a little more color. (And that would’ve been great, if he didn’t have an uncontrollable habit of flashing back to black bile and throwing up at least once every three days with Thomas’ hand on his back.)
Thomas watched as he chose a job with Sonya in what could only be described as the “homemaking department”. With a few older WCKD escapees, they fixed huts and hammocks, ran supplies and food to job sites, helped Fry with food prep, trained the younger Immunes to sew their own clothes, to bandage their wounds. Mending and cooking hadn’t been where Thomas had seen Newt ending up (he hadn’t really seen either of them ending up anywhere), but it seemed to be good for him. It gave him opportunities to sit when his leg was bothering him, gave him something to do with his hands when they came too close to shaking. (Thomas watched him teach the Immunes the way of the world, and pretended his stomach didn’t twist into a knot when it made him think of Chuck.)
Thomas watched as Newt took a page out of his book and pretended everything was fine.
That’d come crashing down on them both, soon enough. But they were in the Safe Haven. “Soon” was just a measure of time there, not a threat of what was to come.
~
Unsettled was a good word to use when describing the churning sensation in Thomas’ gut whenever he woke unable to remember his dreams.
His dreams were never good. They weren’t always nightmares, but they were never good, and most mornings he woke with churning in his gut and cotton in his head.
That was usually solved by looking up–because he always ended up with his head below Newt’s chin, resting on his shoulder, his chest, the mattress, in the crook of his arm–and watching Newt stir. And maybe he should’ve spent some time dissecting that, but, hey, they were in the Safe Haven. He had all the time in the world to revel in the comfort he got to leech from Newt’s peaceful, sleeping face before he decided to dissect the way Newt’s smile made his insides light up.
This morning, Newt really did look peaceful, for once. He wasn’t frowning in his sleep. He’d thrown off his side of the blanket at some point in the night, and it was curled over one of his legs and Thomas’ body. Thomas echoed his slow, even breaths, watching the way the sunlight filtering in through the gaps in their stick walls left dancing lights on his face. There was a little shadow in the hollow of the scar next to his nose.
It had been a week since Newt had been permanently released from the clutches of the med-jacks. Day eight, now. He’d accepted the job with Sonya on day three, stubbornly limped around all of day four until Minho ordered him to slim it and sit down, shuckface, or I’ll have Brenda tie you to a chair, and finally snapped and given Thomas the list of all his remaining ailments on day five.
This list included, but was not limited to:
- Feeling fine, you arse, until I can’t keep a bloody thing down because there’s still slime in my throat, Tommy, it’s still fuckin’ there–
- His bad leg being worse than usual, to the point where even sitting feels like there’s rusty nails in my bones, fuck, don’t touch me
- His hands never losing that little tremor he’d developed when the Flare first started spreading (which, upon its mention, scared Thomas probably just as much as it did Newt)
- His muscles being so tight that I can’t even sit the hell down without everything in my body screaming, God, is this what Brenda feels like after every time? Why am I still so keyed up? It was two weeks ago
Thomas had his own list of ailments, but he had a silent agreement with Gally, Brenda, Minho, and even Jorge that Newt’s had to come first for a while. (This agreement had been formed the first time Newt spat his lunch back up, while Thomas rubbed his back at the edge of the cafeteria and made worried eye contact with his aforementioned friends.) Like it or not, Newt was in a pretty sorry state, and Thomas could run on fumes for a little while longer while Newt got his feet under him. After all, he’d managed to do it for those six months they’d searched for Minho.
Newt stirred. Thomas blinked out of his half-dream, pulling himself back from priorities and injuries and necessary evils.
His head was on Newt’s chest this morning, he realized belatedly, sleepily. That chest was still bony, but at least the breath rolling through it didn’t rattle. At least its heartbeat was consistent.
Newt blinked a few times, rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. Thomas watched him pause, orient himself, before he looked down–bemused, but not surprised–at where Thomas had ended up over the course of the night.
“Morning,” Newt said, and Thomas was struck with an urge to bottle the sound of his voice, low and rough and warm, accent thick and enunciation slow from what seemed like a dreamless night.
“Morning,” Thomas murmured. A little smile tugged at his lips. He didn’t really try to hide those little smiles anymore, the ones just for Newt. At least, not when they were alone. He wasn’t really sure when that had started happening.
“Time’s it?”
“Mmm…” Thomas decided it wasn’t worth the effort to sit up and find his watch. “No idea.”
“Helpful, Tommy.”
“That’s me.”
Newt’s eyes closed again. Thomas wouldn’t have minded getting another hour of sleep, himself, but just as he settled down again, Newt grunted.
“What?”
“Hungry,” Newt huffed.
Thomas chuckled, but his heart did a little jump for joy and a click of its heels. Appearances made by Newt’s stomach, and not just his obligation to his stomach, were few and far between. He made a silent prayer that Newt would be able to keep his food down before stretching a little and heaving himself upwards.
Life in the Safe Haven was slow. This meant that there was no set time for anything, including meals, but Fry was up early.
“Hey, boys,” he said as Newt and Thomas (slowly, with some limping on Newt’s part) filed into the kitchen. “Nice shirt, Newt.”
They looked down simultaneously, and Thomas’ face heated as he realized Newt was in one of his shirts, probably grabbed off the floor of the hut. It was far too big on him. Newt’s ears went red, but he managed to look up at Fry with a straight face when he said, “Thanks, mate.”
“Looks comfortable.”
Thomas couldn’t help but hide behind one of his hands in a halfhearted pass at rubbing his eyes.
“Alright, alright,” Fry laughed. “Y’all want some food?”
“Please,” Thomas said, a little too fast. Newt didn’t look at him as they sat down at the little kitchen table. (He was glad for that; he would have started banging his head into the tabletop. They had to acknowledge what all of their friends–and it really was all of their friends–were thinking sooner or later, but breakfast before half the Haven was even awake was not the time.)
“What’s the stomach thinkin’ today?” Fry asked. Thomas didn’t miss the casualty of his tone. “I got fresh fruit from Sonya’s minions–don’t worry, it’s whole–and I got some leftover cornbread from last night.”
Newt sighed, scrubbed a hand through his hair. It needed a wash. Everything needed a wash, in Newt’s case, but he couldn’t stand in the bathing falls long enough–the walk there was iffy in and of itself–to get properly clean, and Thomas wasn’t about to cross that line and hold him up in the water. (Not without express permission, and implied permission for…a few other things.) Ben and Harriet were working on showers. He’d get a proper wash soon enough. Thomas would gladly put up with a little grease until then, when Newt could have a shower stool and bear the water for more than three minutes.
“I dunno, Fry,” Newt said, sounding defeated. “Put somethin’ in front of me and we’ll see if I hold it down.”
Fry chuckled. “Fair enough.”
When he turned away, Newt glared up through his lashes at Thomas. “Stop starin’, Tommy.”
Thomas hadn’t even realized he was still watching Newt’s movements. He blinked. “Sorry.”
Breakfast was cornbread and mangoes. They were red. Mutated humans, mutated fruit, Thomas supposed. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Newt thanked Fry for his plate, then proceeded to stare it down for almost a full minute before popping a piece of cornbread into his mouth.
Thomas could count on both hands the number of meals Newt had been able to completely keep down since he’d started eating again. He’d have a good day, then he’d have a nightmare or swallow wrong and the streak would be lost.
He realized he’d officially reached a record of meals tolerated in a row when Newt stood, plate cleared, and washed his dishes without so much as a grimace. Five meals. No stumbling away from the table with a hand over his mouth.
It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
Thomas wandered off to the bathing falls when Newt clapped Fry on the shoulder and went to find a different shirt that he could actually work in. Thomas always felt like the second he looked away, Newt’s leg would give out under him and he’d go tumbling to the ground with no one there to catch him. So far, it hadn’t happened, but Thomas still had to count to five when he watched Newt’s back retreating. And wasn’t that quite the thing? They could split up now. The buddy system, which had become second nature in the Scorch, didn’t apply to the Safe Haven.
What did apply was trying not to think of all the worst-case scenarios when Thomas let Newt out of his sight. It probably shouldn’t apply. That probably wasn’t a great sign.
Life in the Safe Haven was slow. Thomas was slow to adjust.
~
On day ten, Thomas’ bite was declared healed enough to have his bandages removed.
The bite was big, but not so big that it was the first thing someone would notice when they looked at Thomas. It was scabbed and scarring over and generally looked disgusting.
Thomas had to clench his jaw and his fists when his mind brought him back to how he got it.
Erin, one of their appointed med-jacks (and the only Immune Thomas had ever met with actual medical training) patched him up a bit with antiseptic and salve that smelled like shit and gave him a set of lighter bandages for sleeping, so he didn’t tear his new skin while rolling over.
“Do not pick at it,” Erin snapped when Thomas ran his fingers over the gnarled, fragile skin. He had seen Erin relocate joints without so much as a grimace, so he decided to obey.
When Thomas emerged from the med hut, fighting impulses to keep poking at the bite, he almost ran into Newt.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”
Newt made a face. “Safe Haven, Tommy. None of us have to be at our jobs all day, every day.”
He sort of…trailed off towards the end of his sentence. Thomas followed his eyes down to his own recently exposed wound.
There was a look on Newt’s face that Thomas couldn’t read. It was somewhere between self-loathing and desperation. Something sticky and guilty climbed into Thomas' throat.
“Healing pretty good,” Thomas said, quietly. Testing the waters.
Newt was silent.
“Shouldn’t scar too bad if I don’t pick it.”
“It’s big,” Newt said after a moment.
Thomas reached out, then thought better of it. “It’s not your fault.”
“I still did it, Tommy. Those are still my teeth.”
Thomas glanced down. Newt’s hands were shaking. Thomas could see what was running through his mind: black bile, the taste of blood, the feeling of hitting concrete over and over.
“Do you want me to cover it back up?”
Newt swallowed. A moment passed, and something steely crossed his face, too quickly for Thomas to do anything about it.
“No.”
Thomas could feel Newt’s eyes on the bite right up until they crawled into bed.
When he thought Thomas was asleep, Newt reached out in the darkness and traced the outline of his teeth in Thomas’ flesh.
His touch was ghostly. Thomas fought an urge to shiver.
On day eleven, Newt stopped staring.
Life in the Safe Haven was slow. Newt was faster at accepting that than Thomas.
~
On day fifteen, talk of some kind of celebration started circulating.
“I haven’t had a real bonfire night in almost a year,” Gally grouched as he and Thomas stripped bark from a log. It was the calmest activity Thomas had been involved in since joining Gally’s unofficial Builders. Thomas had one eye on his hands and their splinters, and one eye on Newt and Lorraine—one of the rescued Immunes from the train, that he’d taken a shine to—as they unloaded foraged food into crates not too far away.
“Maybe we should fix that,” said Ben, who had wandered over to steal one of Gally’s whittling knives for a sign in progress.
Thomas was struck by an image of himself, choking on Gally’s moonshine on his first night in the Glade. He smiled, a little ruefully, and stripped away a piece of bark in one long movement.
“I think we can make that happen. But I’m not having any of your special recipe this time.”
Gally chuckled. “Okay, Greenie.”
Thomas glared at the log and ripped another strip of bark. Newt barked orders from his place by the crates, and Thomas looked up to watch.
He’d been doing better lately, Newt. His leg wasn’t as bad, his muscles had loosened up, and his aversion to food had started being limited to breakfasts. The past couple days, he’d been more difficult to drag out of bed. Thomas didn’t know whether that was a good thing, but his sleep had been more solid overall. He had decided to take the win and not do anything about their interlinked sleep schedule unless it started to become something where they were missing breakfasts.
They didn’t talk about a celebration any more that day, but as Thomas helped Gally tie bark and lift logs–he was pretty sure they were putting together a longer house for the youngest kids to bunk together, but he hadn’t really been listening to that conversation when it had happened–he felt himself starting to…droop, for lack of better phrasing.
Which was really, really weird, and he didn’t know what to do about it.
Since arriving in the Safe Haven, Thomas had been running on leftover adrenaline, which kept him up and moving as long as he fed himself every now and again. He’d been so pumped up on the stuff that he didn’t realize he needed sleep or rest until his head hit the pillow every night. But now, he was slotting a log into place and his muscles were screaming.
It all hit him at once, and he stumbled dumbly to the side as soon as the weight was off his shoulder.
“Hey, hey! Whoa!” Gally yelped, watching Thomas trip over his own feet. He was at his side in an instant and hauling him upright. It was a strange sensation, to be thrown around like a rag doll. Thomas wondered briefly if that was what Newt felt like when Thomas moved him of his own accord. “What’s going on, man? You freakin’ out on me?”
Thomas swallowed, shook his head. He felt a bit like passing out. Which definitely wasn’t supposed to be happening.
“When was the last time you had any water, huh?” When Thomas shook his head again, blinked hard, Gally gripped his arms. “Talk to me, man, what’s going on?”
“I don’t, uh…” Thomas frowned. Wow. His eyelids were trying to close of their own accord. Was this what hitting a wall felt like? “When Sonya brought by the pitcher last, I guess.”
Gally scowled. Oh boy. “That was two hours ago, Greenie.”
“I swear to God, Gally, stop calling me–”
“As long as you’re being stupid, I get to call you Greenie. Jesus. No wonder Newt never lets you go unsupervised.”
Thomas wanted to say something about that, but then he was being sat on an available log and handed someone’s water pouch.
He got through the rest of the day after that mandated break, but it was a close thing. Yawns kept splitting his head open, and his coordination was off. Something was seriously wrong with him. He was pretty sure it was called extreme fatigue.
He was practically asleep at dinner. Minho kept poking fun at him, but Newt eyed him worriedly from his right.
“I’m fine,” Thomas murmured after the third once-over. “I’m just tired.”
Newt made a face, but went back to his meal. Thomas should have seen it coming when Newt stuck to his side like glue through the nighttime rounds and ushered him into bed far earlier than usual.
“No wonder you ended up in the homemaking department,” Thomas mumbled into his pillow upon collapse. “You act like a mom.”
Newt smacked him upside the head, but gave in when Thomas tugged him a little closer on the mattress.
When he woke, they’d missed breakfast, and Newt was already awake.
And looking at Thomas.
Thomas rolled to face him.
“You look better,” Newt remarked, quietly.
“So do you.”
Something quiet and tender softened the creases around Newt’s eyes, and Thomas’ big stupid heart caught in his big stupid chest.
Careful, he wanted to say.
He settled for feeling his stomach flip when Newt held eye contact—and wow, he hadn’t had a moment to revel in all the huge and terrifying things Newt made him feel since…maybe ever.
Chattering of Immunes and the day’s work was slightly muffled outside. The tarp ceiling cast uneven shadows on Newt and Thomas’ faces.
Thomas let himself just…breathe.
He felt like he was taking everything in for the first time. The way Newt’s eyes looked in the patchy sunlight; the sound of the waves, not too far off. The feeling of actual safety. That one was new. It was nice. Thomas didn’t quite believe it yet.
The feeling of whatever this was, between him and Newt—that one wasn’t new.
But it also wasn’t urgent.
Thomas was content to continue to let it stew for a while longer, even if it made it a little hard to breathe. (Especially then.)
Newt’s fingers brushed Thomas’ hair back from his forehead, and the motion left a trail of electricity in its wake.