Chapter Text
Thomas watches the tops of the trees.
He doesn’t have much else to do right now.
After he’d collapsed while building a fire, and stayed out for a week , his friends don’t trust him to help out.
(He knows that’s not true, deep in his head. They do trust him, they’re just worried. Worried because he passed out during a non-intensive task, and he’s lost weight—weight he can’t afford to lose, not after the Scorch—and he’s been quiet. He thinks they might be scared of losing him.
As if it wouldn’t be better for all of them. )
Thomas thinks that maybe this is how Newt felt, when he jumped off the Maze.
When he begged Thomas to kill him.
And he had. He had, and he doesn’t know how to tell Minho. ‘I killed your best friend’ doesn’t seem right.
He doesn’t know how to tell anyone else, either, because Minho has to know first.
But Thomas isn’t strong enough, isn’t good enough, to tell Minho. Minho deserves to know, but when he does, why would he want to be around Newt’s killer?
He’s just selfish enough that he wants to keep Minho as a friend. He’s not good, not good enough to tell Minho the truth.
“Thomas?” He closes his eyes. Are they looking for him now? They should just leave him alone.
It takes a minute, but he gets to his feet and heads down the sidepath to the lake he’d found. As far as he knows, no one else knows about it.
Maybe he’ll actually go in farther than he can touch, this time.
So far he hasn’t been brave enough to do it.
Staring at his reflection, Thomas fights not to look away from himself. He yanks his shirt off, throws it to the ground, traces over lines of scars he hardly remembers making but that he knows he put there anyway.
They’re too even to be from anything but methodical torture or self-harm, and he’d been WCKD’s golden boy.
They hadn’t started trying to kill him until later.
He traces the old scars, covering his stomach and ribs. The bullet wound, on his shoulder. The tattoo, on the back of his neck.
The new scars on his wrists. He picks at a scab, lets it bleed a little.
Thinks about the knife in his pocket.
It would be easy. It would be so easy.
Instead, he watches his reflection as he traces over the scars. Watches himself bleed, red dripping slowly into the water.
“You.” He whispers. He’s not sure who he’s whispering to.
“You see these scars?” His reflection blurs; he’s started crying. “You did this to me. You did this to me!”
Thomas slides the knife out of his pocket; he can hardly see his reflection now. He runs the knife lightly over his older scars. Not enough pressure to cut, not yet.
“YOU DID THIS TO ME!” He knows he’s yelling, knows he should stop, but he wants to yell.
He wants to be angry and scream and not have anyone tell him he shouldn’t.
The knife slips in his hand; not much, but enough to cut a shallow line up his ribs, crossing the old scars.
“You did this to me, all these scars, what’s one more?” He laughs to himself. “What’s two more? Three, four, five? Who cares, right? You don’t. You don’t, because I can’t remember you, even though you did this to me.”
“Thomas!” Someone’s followed him. Followed him, and found him here.
“Thomas, put the knife down.”
Thomas looks down at himself—himself, not his reflection, and sees the blood trickling down both sides. There are seven, maybe eight new cuts opened up on his ribs. All shallow, enough that he can’t remember making them.
Can't remember the pain of the knife as it split his skin.
He wants to remember that. He wants that pain. Deserves it, really.
“Thomas.”
He drops the knife.
“It’s just me, Thomas, no one else is here.” Thomas closes his eyes. A warm hand grabs his, an arm wrapping around his back, leading him away from the water.
“Thomas, look at me. I don’t think you’ve passed out on me this time.” Thomas blinks, forcing his eyes to focus on Gally’s face. “You’re good, shank. You wanna tell me what that was all about? How about we start with the older scars?”
“I don’t remember those.” He whispers. “Not really.”
“Is that why you didn’t want your memory back? You didn’t want to know why you’d done it?”
“Something like that.”
“You know, Minho wanted to tear the forest apart to find you.”
“He shouldn’t.”
“Why not? You’re his friend, shank, he’s worried about you. We all are. You’ve been distant, quiet.”
“He just shouldn’t.”
He can’t tell Gally about Newt before he tells Minho, he can’t do that. That’s—that’s not right.
But Gally had known Newt just as long as Minho had.
“Why, Thomas? That’s not gonna cut it.”
“I killed Newt.” Thomas feels Gally go still where his arm is still around his back. “In Denver, I killed him.”
“Why?”
“He-he begged me to. He didn’t want to be a Crank.”
“And you think Minho will be mad at you for that.”
“Why wouldn’t he? Newt was his best friend, and I killed him.”
“Who else knows about this?”
“You.” Gally forces Thomas to look him in the eye.
“And does anyone know you’ve been hurting yourself again?”
“You.”
“Okay. Put your shirt back on, you’re shivering. We’ll take care of the cuts when we get back.” Thomas freezes.
He doesn’t want to go back. He doesn’t want people to ask him questions. He came out here to be alone for a reason. Gally came and found him, and maybe that’s okay, but he doesn’t want anyone else knowing.
“Thomas.” Gally grabs him by the shoulders firmly. “We can’t stay out here. It’s going to storm. You’re already colder than you should be. I’ll take you back to my cabin. You don’t have to see anyone else.”
“No, I’ll be fine.”
“Thomas. I will carry you back. I don’t know why you want to stay out here in a storm, but it’s not happening, shank.”
Thomas should have just walked into the lake.
Then Gally wouldn’t have to deal with this. The arm around his back tightens, and there’s one under his knees, and Gally had been serious about carrying him.
“Shank, I don’t think you know it, but you’re saying everything out loud. Yes, I was serious about carrying you.”
Thomas watches the tops of the trees as they move.
He doesn’t want to have to stop watching them.
Why can’t Gally just leave him out here?
Thomas is almost completely shut down by the time Gally carries him back to his cabin. Gally doesn’t know what’s triggered this, or if it’s just been building and now that they’re not in active danger, everything just hit Thomas all at once.
Thomas didn’t live in the Glade for long before everything went to shit. He’s been in survival mode for months on end.
And Gally’s not much better himself, but at least the Right Arm had cared enough (about their mission) to make sure their members were mentally stable, especially the ones who could only remember living in a giant Maze.
He wasn't in the Scorch, either. He doesn't know what really happened out there. He's a Glader, always will be, but he’s acutely aware his experiences post-Maze are vastly different from the other surivors.
Glancing down at Thomas only makes him wonder how close they truly came to losing another Glader tonight.
Luckily, he’d built a back door into his cabin; this way no one will see Thomas and ask questions.
Gally doesn’t have answers. He doesn’t know what’s going on in Thomas’s head. He can’t even explain why he's the one saving Thomas this time, instead of Minho.
And Thomas probably just won't react.
He wonders if asking questions earlier would have changed anything. Maybe it wouldn’t have gotten this far. Maybe he wouldn’t have found Thomas staring at the river like he wanted to jump in while holding a knife.
While he’s cleaning the shallow wounds, Thomas is unfocused, completely zoned out. Gally eventually puts Thomas’s arms over his shoulders, to keep them out of the way.
The sheer number of scars on his stomach—had none of them noticed, all this time? Clint and Jeff had checked him over after his night in the Maze, hadn’t they seen them?
Had Minho seen them? They hadn’t been inseparable after that night in the Maze—they couldn't be—but they'd spent more time together than Runner pairs usually did. Does Minho know? Why didn’t he say anything?
Thomas volunteering to sacrifice himself to the Grievers to get them out doesn’t feel like just an apology, now. It feels… more like a death wish.
Gally shakes the thought out his head.
It’s too late to ask Clint and Jeff if they just hadn’t noticed, or if Thomas had convinced them to stay quiet. Minho--he'd rather not tackle that right now.
Gally’s not sure which option he prefers. Thomas isn’t that convincing, is he?
It doesn’t take long to clean and wrap the cuts. They’re shallow, like Thomas hadn’t meant to make them.
Maybe he hadn’t.
Once those are cleaned up, Gally almost starts to put one of his own shirts over Thomas’s head. It'll be too big, but he’s not going to leave Thomas wearing a bloody shirt. Then he remembers the other scars.
The ones he’s really worried about.
They look like they're more recent and cover Thomas’s arms. They’re deeper than the ones on his stomach, and much more layered. Some of them can’t even be called scars yet, still red.
“Thomas,” He tries, quietly. Thomas doesn’t even look at him. He’s completely shut down, locked into his mind. With no other choice, Gally puts Thomas in one of his own shirts—it’s too big on him, but it’s better than the blood-stained one.
He’s not going to get Thomas to talk tonight.
“Thomas, I’ve got some bread here.” None of them keep much food in their cabins; eating communally just makes more sense—and it’s an old routine, something familiar in a world they’re building almost from scratch.
“You’re going to eat a slice.” Thomas eats mechanically, but the few slices he eats are more than Gally’s seen him touch in the past few days.
(Not that he’s been watching Thomas that closely.
Frypan hasn't pointed it out at all lately.)
Thomas curls up on his side, either dozing off or just staring into space.
Gally’s not sure what to do with him now. In the morning he’ll have to figure out what’s going on, maybe convince Thomas to tell Minho about Newt, but everything else?
He doesn’t know how to handle that.
Someone starts banging on his door. Gally opens it quickly—if Thomas has fallen asleep he doesn’t want him to wake up—prepared to yell at whoever thought that was a good idea.
It’s Minho.
“Gally, we have to find Thomas, it’s going to storm and no one has seen him in hours.”
“Calm down, Minho.” He steps out and shuts the door behind him. “He’s inside, just fell asleep. I followed him when I noticed he was heading into the woods today. I haven’t had a chance to figure out what was bothering him so much yet —” Well, he knows some of it, but that’s not his story to tell — “so give it a few days, okay?”
“Thomas is alright, though?”
“He’ll be fine. I think he might just need to process.” Minho runs a hand through his hair, and if he thought it would help, Gally might let him see Thomas.
Minho is overprotective of his friends on a good day. If he sees Thomas like this, he won’t leave him alone until he gets some answers. Thomas doesn’t need that right now.
Thomas's guilt about Newt's death isn't something that will be helped by Minho's presence, either.
“He’s gone quiet, and it’s weird, Gally. He won’t eat with us anymore, and I don’t think he’s been sleeping.”
“I know. I’ll handle it tonight.” Gally doesn’t give Minho a chance to answer, they’ll be out here all night if he does.
Thomas hasn’t moved, but at least his eyes are actually closed now.
“Gally?” Thomas whispers into the dark. He doesn’t remember much of last night; he knows Gally found him in the woods and brought him back, but what had happened? Where was he?
“You up, Greenie?” Gally’s voice is across the room. “And here I was hoping you’d sleep through the storm.”
“Storm?” Even as he says it, Thomas can hear the wind and the rain — hail, maybe? — outside.
“Yeah. It’s let up a couple of times now, but not for long. Let me get a fire going.”
“How long did you let me sleep?”
“It’s been over a day. If you weren’t moving like you were, I would have thought you’d hit your head again.”
“Why?”
“When’s the last time you slept? Do you know?”
“I sleep a few hours every night.” Every other, if he’s lucky.
“Sure, shank. Here.” Gally tosses him a wrapped loaf. “Eat some of that. And we need to talk. You know we do.”
Thomas really just wants to keep ignoring his problems. Not dealing with them seems easier than dealing with them.
“Do you think the storm will let up again soon?”
“Why, so you can get out of here?” Gally snorts. “No, I don’t think it will, but even if it does you’re not going anywhere.” Thomas glances around in the low light of the fire. There’s a back door. Gally’s not facing it, and with the storm he wouldn’t hear him leave.
Gally wouldn’t follow him into a storm, would he?
Minho would, but Minho is in their cabin and he won’t have to know.
“You’re not going anywhere, Thomas.” When did Gally move away from the fireplace? “Eat.”
He doesn’t want to. Leaving is the best option for him. He can go back to his cabin, and Minho won’t wake up if Thomas stays on his side.
“Thomas. You can’t do this again, okay? You can’t keep shutting down. I don’t know what to do to help you, and we can’t get someone who does until the storm is over.”
“Why didn’t you just leave me alone?” Thomas asks. “You could have left me alone.”
“Yes, and then you’d probably still be out in the storm. I only knew where you were because I followed you almost right after you left. You want to be outside in this? Do you, Thomas? You’ve lost enough weight it’ll knock you over.”
He does. He does want to be outside in the storm, because he feels worse than any storm could make him feel.
“I’m putting this back for now, you can have more later.” Gally takes the bread—he hadn’t realized he was still holding it—away.
The door is only a few steps away.
Thomas can almost reach it, almost open it, from where he's sitting on the bed.
The fire goes out behind him. He shuts the door before Gally’s cabin can get too wet.
He’s never run in a proper storm before.
The wind is louder in the woods, loud enough that if someone was calling for him he wouldn’t hear them. The hail hurts when it hits his face and bare arms, but Thomas doesn’t mind.
That’s part of running in the storm. It’s not supposed to be easy.
He makes it down to the lake. It’s flooding, his knees wet where he’d usually just have water at his ankles. It’s colder than normal, his legs numbing to the sensation quickly.
How long would he have to stand here before it smoothed him away? Before he becomes part of the sand?
Too long. Someone would find him before then.
If he goes deeper, it won’t take as long. Still, it’ll take longer than he wants.
Sand normally forms from shells and rock and bone, broken down over hundreds and even thousands of years into smaller and smaller pieces by the waves.
His skin would go first. Then his muscles and organs. Maybe there's something in this water that would eat them. Only his bones would be left, and given time, the current would whittle them away into particles.
He'd be sand.
Thomas has never drowned before.
He’s been Stung, and electrocuted, and shot, and cut himself to ribbons, and whatever else WCKD did to him that he can’t remember, but he’s never drowned before.
A storm seems like a good time to drown.
He wades further in, up to his hips, his elbows, his neck.
How far until he can’t touch? How deep will he have to go before he finds a rip current to drag him under?
When he does, no one will ever find him again.
It’s both a freeing and terrifying thought.
They’ll look, he knows. Try to find him, find his body, but it won’t matter. The lake and its rivers will be turning him into sand by then. They won’t have to see him dead.
He wonders if they’ll carve his name into the stone for lost Gladers, even though they haven’t been in the Glade for a long time.
Someone grabs him, and he can’t breathe.