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you never gave a warning sign (i gave so many signs)

"Communication, right?" Thomas spits, looming above Newt, and he hates this, hates it so much but he has to pull Newt out of whatever mindset he's buried himself in. It's one thing to raze the world to save Newt—it's another for Newt to be the one to get in his way. "Then talk. Convince me to let you turn into a Crank."

—

Or, a missing scene in The Death Cure where Thomas can't let Newt sacrifice himself. He just can't.

read on ao3 or below the tag :)

It never fails to send Thomas reeling, whenever it happens.

It happened a lot when they were in the Glade, sure. They got along well, very well, even when Thomas had just freshly popped out of the Box and could barely catch his breath with the speed of questions leaving his mouth. But he and Newt weren't aligned yet, not the way they are now. Back in the Maze, it was more political than anything, a system of governing that both of them had to heed. Power structures, hierarchy, Greenie this, Keeper that, order, order, order.

Out of the walls and into the Scorch, the two of them snapped into place. There was no room for hesitation, not when it was just Newt and Thomas (and Minho. They have to save Minho, now). All structure gone, they could only rely on each other to lead a group of terrified teenagers through a desert, Cranks, and a staggering bounty on each of their heads. There were so few of them left, dwindling by the day, that they couldn't afford to slip up. Communication above all else. Minimize mistakes, but when they happen (and they will happen, god will they happen), talk about it. Figure it out. Make sure it doesn't happen again.

Neither of us goes to sleep confused, you hear me? If there's one thing we can control in this hell, it's this. Good that, Tommy?

Long conversations couldn't stay long, not with how fast everything moves around them. So it was something they refined, polished until it was shining.

They learned how they ebb and flow, memorized each other's landmines and remembered not to step on them unless they had to. Learned each other's nervous ticks, every twitch, every frown, what sets the other off and what's a surefire way to de-escalate the situation. They found themselves not needing much to get their point across; a breath, a few words, a pat on the back, a clenched jaw, the quirk of a brow. It was beautifully efficient for them and annoyingly grating for everyone else.

Like this, it was laughable to even try and hide the fondness they had for each other, not when it showed in their every move, every action, every breath.

Once they sorted that out, though, their wavelengths only became steadier, impossibly solid—seemingly parallel lines merged to become one, harmonizing in a frequency only they could hear, a language only they could speak.

Their foundation is something that's second nature to Thomas now, a structure that gives him good footing and the confidence to surge forward, letting him hold his head up high. If he has anything, he has this.

Until he doesn't.

—

Frypan grips his spatula like an instrument of war. “Hell no. You know my rules."

"But I just saw Gally leave with a sandwich."

"Yeah, I didn't feed that bastard for six months and look where he ended up. With some wacky military cult group who wants to take down the government. He gets to have a snack from me, just once."

Thomas sighs, just a little. "Come on, man, I'm starving."

"And what do you think I'm doing right now? Gardening?" Frypan jerks his head at the portable stove with a stock-pot bubbling on top. His tone leaves no room for argument, an assertiveness that only fully materializes in a kitchen. "Dinner's ready in an hour. A little wait won't kill you."

He fights another sigh, remembering how it was Frypan himself who used to sneak extra skewers for him back in the Glade.

It's not that he particularly likes it that people have a different attitude about him nowadays. He's grown to expect the expressions of the people around him, the range of irritated to pitiful. In truth, he knows where they're coming from. He's always been abrasive, but ever since he found out about Newt, it's gotten out of control. Thomas' temper is parabolic enough to be comparable to the Flare; he's snappish and intransigent, a complete nuisance to work with. He's fully aware that he's become borderline unbearable—the interrogation with Teresa only solidified that.

But despite everything, they still put up with it. They love him, he's their friend, yes. But the real reason they put up with it is because they understand why he's turned into this.

Thomas turns around to leave, resigned, when he hears Frypan click his tongue. "Hey." Looking back, he just barely catches a bag of trail mix tossed his way. "Share that with your boy, okay? Don't go ruining dinner just because y'all are spoiling your appetites."

Because everyone loves Newt, some of them longer than even Thomas has. While Thomas may be the loudest to voice it, may be the one who'll always take it too far, every single one of them are doing what they can to help Newt.

Thomas doesn't quite smile, but it’s a near thing. "Thanks, Fry."

"Anytime. Now get."

Newt's waiting for him just outside the kitchen, leaning against the wall, eyeing the bag. "That's not the sandwich I was promised," he says, but takes it out of Thomas' hands anyway.

"Should've been you who asked." They like you better. He pops a raisin in his mouth.

Newt gives him a look before kicking himself off the wall—an action so reminiscent of Minho it makes Thomas ache. "Now, Tommy, we have to work on that confidence of yours."

"Lots of people would beg to differ," he says, waving him off. It honestly doesn’t bother him. He likes Newt better, too.

"Depends on who you're asking." Newt shakes the bag, carefully picking out the good bits. Thomas lets him. "We probably looked real bloody confident earlier."

"Yeah," he says mildly. Thomas watches him pour the almonds back in, feeling himself start zoning out as he replays the interrogation in his head, speeded up like a faulty DVD.

Teresa's in, which is admittedly good. He and Newt talk a big game, but it would be infinitely harder to get into WICKED without her. They need to talk to Lawrence as soon as possible, make sure he doesn't back out of their deal. He also has to talk to Newt, confirm that he's comfortable flying the Berg out with Jorge. All of this is already written down in his leather notebook, written and re-written enough that he can recite it from memory, but it doesn't hurt to think it through one more time.

Without warning, Newt slaps his bicep, pulling him out of his stupor. "I can see those wheels spinning," he chides. "What's in that big head of yours?"

"Nothing." When he receives a dry look, he takes a deep breath. "Nothing yet. I'm just thinking about our next steps."

"Let me guess," Newt throws some cashews in his mouth. "You want to bust into The Last City tonight, have the infiltration take only half an hour long, and have the Flare out of my body in an hour, tops. Sound about right?"

Thomas huffs. "An hour's too long, can we make some edits on that?" Still, he can't help but let his eyes drift towards Newt's forearm. "I want that thing out of you, Newt."

"You and me both, love," Newt mumbles, chewing, deep in thought, and Thomas has to turn away to hide a pleased smile. "It's a lot to worry about. So many players involved in this, stakes are high. Teresa's only the first step."

Taking a deep breath, Newt pushes his shoulders back and starts walking in the direction of their meeting room. Thomas follows close behind.

"Here's what we're going to do," he declares, passing the half-empty bag to Thomas. Their shared footsteps are silent, a habit they fostered in this new life of theirs. Gone are the times in the Glade when they can stomp around all they like. "You and I are gonna work this out, like we always do. Every nook and cranny, every little detail your overthinking brain can think of, we're nailing down. Make this thing airtight before we bust in there, guns blazing and hell raising. Make a plan so good it'll put all of our other plans to shame. Then you're going to your little cot and sleep eight hours straight, snoring loud enough to ruin the night for the rest of us. Good that?"

Something fierce and reverent squirms in Thomas, and an easy agreement is on the tip of his tongue when something makes him stop in his tracks, feet stuttering to a halt.

Newt walks a few steps further before noticing. He turns around, brow cocked. "What's up?"

"We?"

That makes Newt's face scrunch up even more. "Well, if you wanna talk to Gally about this instead, be my guest. Or better yet, invite Teresa, why don't you?"

Thomas doesn't laugh. "We bust in," he repeats, heartbeat in his throat. "That's what you said."

The confusion melts off of Newt's face, caution taking its place. "Yes," he says slowly. "That's what I said."

A silence grows between them, and Thomas is waiting for Newt to say he's joking, that he's just trying to pull a smile out of Thomas. Instead, the silence stretches.

"Newt," he says quietly. "You aren't coming into the city."

Newt's shaking his head before Thomas can finish. "We talked about this, on the rooftop—"

"No, that was different. You wanted to help with the missions, and you have been. You wanted to help find Minho, and you did. You've already done enough."

"Done enough?" His expression is unimpressed. "Well enough that Minho's here now? Well enough that all the Immunes are magically saved? I don't think so, Tommy. We're not done here, not even close. I'm going out there."

Thomas forces himself to take a breath. "The Flare gets worse the more stressful a situation is. Here, let me—" Wildly patting down his jeans, he all but rips his notebook out of his pocket and flips through the pages, ignoring the tremble in his hands. "There, see? 'If individuals infected with the Flare are in constant stress—"

"I know."

"'—it can rapidly increase the— "

"—infection rate of the brain,'" Newt finishes, idly touching his forearm. "I know."

Thomas lets the book fall from his hand with a muffled thud and doesn’t bother to pick it up again. "Okay," he hears himself say. "You know. So you're not going."

Newt takes a step forward, placatingly eyeing him in a way that makes Thomas' chest tight. "Tommy, I'm going. This doesn't work if—"

"We'll make it work."

"You're not listening to me. If you go into WICKED, just you and—"

"We'll make Gally stay with me the whole way. Frypan. Jorge. If you're staying here—"

"Which I'm not, and you're going to have to accept—"

"You're not going—"

"Thomas," his voice is dangerously soft. Thomas flinches away, something vile curling in his gut, the sound of his own name making him sick. "Listen to me. I'm fucking going."

Thomas' eyes shutter close. It feels like his mind shutting down, cortex by cortex as he fails to understand what Newt’s trying to say. For a blissful moment, he’s deafened by the ringing in his ears and the beat of his thrumming heart.

When he finally opens his eyes, all he sees is red.

Grabbing Newt’s jacket collar, he all but drags him out the closest door, taking them to the chapel’s courtyard, unfeeling the cool night air brush against his skin. What was probably once a beautiful garden is practically a garbage dump now. Broken glass is sprinkled on top of dead rose bushes, plastic bags swaying in the breeze. There’s a fountain in the middle, its ceramic cracked and caked in dirt, filled with debris that’s accumulated over the years to the point where it spilled onto the grass beneath their feet.

Thomas doesn’t give a shit about any of it. He drops Newt on the lip of the fountain, almost throwing him in from the force of it.

"Communication, right?" he spits, looming above Newt, and he hates this, hates it so much but he has to pull Newt out of whatever mindset he's buried himself in. It's one thing to raze the world to save Newt—it's another for Newt to be the one to get in his way. "Then fucking talk. Convince me to let you turn into a Crank."

Newt's glaring daggers up at him, and it would normally be enough to sway Thomas. He steels himself and refuses to look away. Not this time.

"Don't you toss me around like I’m some damn shank," Newt says lowly, eyes narrowed. "And you're not letting me do anything. I'll do what I damn well please if it helps Minho and take down WICKED."

Thomas grits his teeth. "Talk. You said it yourself—you know the dangers, you know why you can't just rampage into the city with us. You know better to jump into something so stupid."

"Stupid?" Newt repeats, incredulous. He moves to stand but Thomas pushes him back down, and it makes the flame in Newt's eyes burn brighter. "You of all people don't get to call me that, you bloody hypocrite. How many times have you jumped headfirst into danger without talking to any of us about it? Saving Alby and Minho in the Glade, following Aris in the WICKED compound. And, what, the minute I try to do even a fraction of that, you get all pissy at me?"

"That's different!" Thomas realizes, belatedly, that he's half-yelling. "You know why it's different. I didn't have the Flare, I wasn't sick and getting worse by the minute. You going to the Last City is suicide, Newt."

"Then why did you let me help during the interrogation if you're so sure I was going to be such a nuisance?"

His mouth drops open, bewildered. "I didn't say you were! You helped during the interrogation because it's Teresa—she knows me, she knows us—" Newt scoffs and rolls his eyes, and it's such a petty move that it fills Thomas' veins with thunder. He grabs his shoulders and shakes roughly. "What the hell is your problem?"

Thomas is livid, seething with rage. But above all else, he's shaken. Newt has never been so hostile, so reluctant to see logic. He tries peering at Newt's face, to try and read between the lines that he knows better than his own, but Newt tilts his head away from him.

Is it the Flare? Is it something else?

Is it both?

"You want to know what my problem is?" Newt says, still not looking at Thomas, expression excruciatingly blank. "My problem is that you don't trust me."

Nothing. Nothing could have prepared Thomas for that.

Letting his hands slip, he stumbles backwards like he took a blow to the gut. An uncontrollable laugh slips out of his lips, mildly hysterical. "What?" he manages.

"You bloody well heard me." Newt stands, approaching Thomas step by step with a certainty that makes his skin crawl. "You don't want me there, ruining this operation. You think I'll get in the way. You think I'll Crank out in the middle of it, or attack you halfway through and you have to carry me out of there."

Thomas refuses to take a step back, letting Newt invade his personal space. "You know that's not true," he says, voice hard.

"It's true." Newt's eyes are wild, black, darting all over the place. With every breath he takes, his black veins pulsate in time in a sickening rhythm. "It's true. Say it's true. Say I'll ruin it for everyone."

"No."

"Say it, Thomas."

"Fuck off. No."

Thomas feels it before he sees it. A sudden blow to his jaw, his head jerks sharply to the side as he loses his footing for a moment. Newt stands in front of him, hands still curled in a tight, shaking fist. Apparently, he isn't done yet.

"Say it!" Newt screams, and the sound makes Thomas recoil more than the punch did. "If you don't say it, I'm going, with or without you!"

Thomas doesn’t answer, instead he lets his instincts take over. He connects his fist to Newt’s cheek, feels the bone underneath his knuckles. Newt topples over, lithe body hitting the ground hard. Blond hair blocking his eyes and black lines polluting his neck, he doesn't move for a brief, horrifying half a second.

Time slows down. In that moment, Thomas sees the future: Newt, dead, splayed out on the ground. Or maybe Newt, a Crank, haggard and vicious and stripped of everything that makes him so, so lovely. In both possibilities, he knows, he just knows, that Thomas would be the one to put him in the ground, because he would never let anyone else touch Newt. It would have to be him.

Unable to control himself, Thomas lurches forward to the fountain and vomits, heaving and shaking uncontrollably, the urge to scrub that image from his brain almost unbearable.

A hand grabs his jacket and roughly pulls him back. Thomas lets it happen, his back hitting the grass hard enough to wind him.

Newt clambers on top of him, hand placed on either side of Thomas' head, teeth bared and nearly snarling. "I'm going to the city."

"You can't," Thomas mummers, thoughts still jumbled. "You can't, Newt. You'll die."

Slamming his hand down, Newt grips either side of his face, thumb cruelly pushing into his throbbing jaw where the punch landed. "You don't get to take this choice away from me. Over and over again, you ruin things for me, for everyone. We could still be in the Glade, we could still be safe and ignorant in the facility, if it weren't for you. Minho would still be here if it wasn't for you. You don't want me to die? Maybe consider the fact that it's you who's killing me."

The words glance off of him. Instead, Thomas stares up at Newt, eyes carefully taking in every detail there. Past the ferocity, past the seemingly impenetrable anger and dripping hostility, there's something in his expression that's screaming at Thomas to be noticed. There's something layered there, begging to be found, subtle and invisible to anyone who isn't him.

"Make it up to me, Thomas. Make it up to me by giving me a choice." Newt's chest is heaving, leaving Thomas space to say something. When he doesn't, Newt's face twists even more. "What, no comment? No clever words today? Aren't you the inspiration between the two of us? The fucking wonder boy?"

A hot tear rolls down Thomas' temple, sudden and uncontrollable. It's as if his body figured out what's going in Newt's head before Thomas himself did.

Newt, eyes black with fury, digs his nails in with a vengeance, but Thomas can barely process the pain, his entire being staring intently at Newt’s face. “Give me a choice. Let me do this. If you care for me, if you ever gave a damn about me, respected me as a person and respected me as yours, you’d grant me this.” With every word he hisses, Newt squeezes tighter, and Thomas doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t dare breathe. “Grant. Me. This.”

Then I went and found the tallest wall I could, and I climbed up there and—

It clicks.

When Thomas finally speaks, it feels like his heart is in his throat. It feels like the world is ending. “You’re not planning on coming back.”

For a long, long moment, neither of them say a word. A strong breeze ruffles Newt’s hair like a caress.

Newt leans back and sucks in a deep, shaking breath. His shoulders sag in on himself, and the tight grip on Thomas’ face eases until the pain fades away, replaced by Newt’s thumb gently stroking what he’s sure is a glowing bruise on his jaw. The symptoms had passed, for now.

Thomas swallows, ribcage creaking with swirling, conflicting emotions. Slowly, carefully, Thomas sits up until he’s chest to chest with Newt and pulls him in for a hug. Arms encircle his waist and holds him tight, then tighter. Tight enough that it feels like nothing can get between them. Tight enough that it feels like if Newt’s heart stopped beating, Thomas’ would, too.

—

“The Flare didn’t make that up, did it?”

They’re both leaning against the fountain, the clean side. Cleaner side—the side that Thomas didn’t throw up in. Sitting on the ground, they’re shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, sharing whatever’s left of the trail mix that stayed miraculously sealed in Thomas’ pocket. Like this, he feels a wave of nostalgia, a wistfulness for the bonfire back in the Glade. It’s almost silly, feeling homesick for a place you lived in for all of a week. Can barely even call it a home.

Newt considers his question and Thomas immediately diverts his attention to ripping up the grass underneath them, vaguely enjoying the sensation. These talks always work best when Newt can pretend Thomas is busy doing something else.

“Some of it,” Newt admits. “At least, I’d like to think some of that wasn’t me.” From the corner of his eye, he sees Newt’s gaze flicker at Thomas, no doubt taking in the bruise that’s still blossoming there.

He shrugs, unbothered. Thomas taps at his own eye before nodding at Newt. “Gave you a black eye, in case you forgot. And between the two of us, at least you actually have an excuse to go a little crazy.”

“You’ve always been a little crazy.”

“For you, maybe.” And just to seal the deal, he winks at Newt, poorly.

As he suspected he would, Newt reels back in shock for a moment before laughter bursts out of him. Eyes crinkled and shoulders shaking, he feels himself laugh back a little, on reflex. “There you are,” Thomas says softly. “Welcome back.”

Newt grins back, the remnants of his joy still strewn across his face, stubborn and sticky like honey. “Didn’t peg you as a flirt, Tommy.”

Tilting his head up skywards, Thomas hums, enjoying the sight of a clear, night sky as he lets relief wash over him. “I’m glad I have my Tommy privileges back.”

It was supposed to come out as a joke, but it comes out more vulnerable than Thomas intended. He can’t help it. Back in the Maze, everything was taken away from him, from all of them. The only thing you get back is your name. Every Glader remembers that feeling for the rest of their life. It’s a fierce thing, to be reconciled with a name that you’ve lost when you don’t have anything left. It’s the only thing that’s truly yours.

When Newt called him Tommy for the first time, in that casual way of his, it meant everything to Thomas. It’s taking what’s Thomas’ and making it distinctly Newt’s. It made Thomas distinctly Newt’s.

He knows Newt heard the sting in his voice. Silence blankets them, thick and weighted.

This fight was hideous. Brutally ugly. It’s the kind of argument that Thomas would expect to have with Gally, or Alby back in the day. Hackles rising, knives out styles of confrontations that Thomas had grown used to. A necessary kind of viciousness you have to emulate. But not with Newt. Never with Newt.

If this was any other situation, either of them would have their weapons down by now. Waved a white flag. Not this time.

Not knowing what to do with his hands, he peers into the bag of near-empty bag of trail mix and spots a peanut still in its shell. Pulling it out, he cracks it open and offers it to Newt, who accepts with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas says, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice. Not then, not now.”

Newt sighs, rebuttal surely about to come out, but Thomas shakes his head. “Please. Just let me—I have to get this out.” Straightening up, he fully turns to face Newt, unable to stop himself from glimpsing at his black eye before focusing. “Again and again, you’re here for me. You know my moods, you know how I function, you know what makes me stop functioning. And I thought,” his voice cracks, and he falters for a moment. “I thought I knew you, too.”

“Of course you do,” Newt reaches for his hand, and Thomas takes it gratefully. “Better than anyone.”

“When we were on the rooftop, and you told me about your leg, I convinced myself I couldn’t do anything about it.” He traces the callouses on Newt’s hand absentmindedly. “‘I wasn’t there. What could I have done? I’m here now. I’ll help him now.’ But the worst thought, the fucking worst one of them all,” Thomas’ mouth twists bitterly. “I thought: ‘It’s in the past.’”

“It is,” Newt insists, but it comes out weak. Hollow. A beat passes. “I thought it was in the past, too. I think the Flare must’ve pulled that out of my psyche or something, honestly.” He laughs, the sound brittle. “Like a bloody truth serum now? As if this couldn’t get worse.”

A question enters his brain. It’s one he doesn’t want to consider, a question he can’t fathom voicing. But it’s for Newt. “Do—” he tries, throat closing up. “Do you still want to…to try finding—a tall wall—?”

“No,” Newt interrupts firmly. “God, no, Tommy, no. Not anymore. It’s different now. Sure, it gets hard, but it’s always been hard. No time for breaks. We get lazy—”

“We get sad,” finishes Thomas, a small fraction of his worries fading away. “I remember.”

Newt’s eyes brighten with mirth. “My bright pupil, you are.”

Silence stretches once more, and Thomas passes the time by playing with the peanut shell in the hand that isn’t holding Newt’s, nail scratching against the rough shell, before shoving it in his pocket, not wanting to litter.

It’s not that he’s surprised that Newt is self-sacrificing. They all are. It’s impossible to be so devoted to this cause without eventually realizing that you’d do anything to make sure the mission’s completed. What doesn’t settle well with Thomas is that Newt sees that there are options. Newt, I’ve called a Gathering to see what the others think. Newt, patience, Greenie, it would do you some good. Newt, slow down, Tommy. What are we not seeing?

Time and again, Newt is the one to take a step back and see the bigger picture. He has the disposition of a leader, the ability to make the calls without panicking. There’s a reason why people gravitate to him the way that they do.

But all of that is thrown out the window when it’s about Newt himself.

Newt takes a breath. “I just think,” he says, slowly, like he’s thinking about every word before speaking. “That I should go to the city because it would increase our odds of success.”

Oddly enough, Thomas is almost glad that they blew up at each other earlier. Otherwise, he’s sure he would probably be yelling at the top of his lungs again. As it is, Thomas’ head has been clearer than it's been in awhile. “Well, I for one think that if we saved Minho and took down the entire WICKED organization, but you Cranked out or died, it would be the opposite of a success.”

“Do you really think that? That if we saved dozens of kids and took down the evil bastards, but you lost me, that it wouldn’t be worth it?”

Thomas steadily meets his gaze. “What about if it was me instead of you?”

Something dark flashes in Newt’s eyes, and he turns away. “Noted,” he concedes, jaw clenched. “But on that note, Tommy, you also have to consider that I think I’ll lose my fucking mind if you leave me a on a berg when you’re taking down said WICKED organization.”

“You don’t have to be on a berg,” he argues. “You can be…with Lawrence.” They both turn to each other with a grimace. “Okay, scratch that. But there’s something else you can do.”

Newt taps his chin, faux considering. “Yeah, I think so too. Like letting me go with you into the city.”

Thomas tightens his hold on Newt’s hand. “Newt, please.”

“Tommy,” he warns. “Come on. You have to work with me here. You know you can’t keep me here. I’m not throwing punches this time around, but I’m putting my bloody foot down on this one, you hear me?”

“A compromise?” he attempts, desperately.

“Does this compromise involve keeping me out of the Last City?” When Thomas doesn’t answer, Newt shrugs. “Then I’m not hearing it. No ifs, ands, or buts.”

It’s like the walls are getting tighter and tighter, the open sky suddenly crashing down on Thomas. He knows Newt’s expression—his mouth quirked like he’s slightly amused but the glint in his eyes is saying that Thomas is fighting a losing battle.

Thomas gets up on his knees and scoots over until he’s in front of a surprised Newt. Taking Newt’s hand in both of his own, he buries his face into his wrists, right along where black veins only seem to grow dark and darker. Head bowed and eyes clenched tight, he’s fully aware of how supplicant he looks. “Newt. You can’t die.”

“It’s not like I’m planning on it—”

“No. You can’t die.” Thomas presses his cheek tighter against Newt’s wrists, like he can physically stop him from going. “There’s no point to this if you die. There’s no point to me betraying WICKED and helping the Right Arm, no point to losing anyone in the Maze, no point to any of us being here. I need you to know that. It won’t be an inconvenience to me if you’re gone—it would be the absolute, fucking worst case scenario.”

The image of Newt, Cranked out and dead, unbiddenly comes to the forefront of his mind once more. “If you go, and you turn into a Crank, and I have to kill you—” Bile rises in his throat, but he swallows it down. “If my hands are stained with your blood, I’ll make sure the last thing I do is put a gun to my head. Do you understand that?”

A beat. Then long, elegant fingers pull Thomas’ chin upwards. Newt’s expression is ashen, and for the first time, hesitation laces his features. “I understand,” he mutters. “I understand. But what you have to understand, love, is that I don’t trust anyone else to take care of you out there.”

It crumbles. It all crumbles. Any argument in Thomas’ throat shrivels up and dies. It feels a lot like seeing the Maze for the first time, the way the helicopter pulls up higher and higher until Thomas is forced to see the bigger picture, the reality of the situation.

Because the same way Thomas would move mountains to prevent any harm from befalling Newt, it will be a cold, cold day in hell before Newt would let Thomas suffer.

Newt can’t be convinced. Not when Thomas’ safety is involved.

“Are you sure this decision isn’t because of the Flare?” he insists in a desperate, last ditch attempt to try and sway him. “You know I fucking hate when people use that on you, but—”

"Tommy," Hands grab his face and Newt shakes him, just a little, like he can’t bear to be rougher to him than he is now. Like he knows how much this hurts Thomas and can’t bring himself to add to that hurt. "I'm looking at you, see? I'm looking."

Thomas sucks in a breath and holds it, willing himself not to break. When he breathes out, a gust of wind blows with him, and it threatens to shatter him into a million pieces. Instead, he focuses on how Newt holds him with such a tenderness, such a surety, that Thomas can’t possibly fall apart. The Glue, WICKED had called him, not knowing the sheer truth of that statement.

“Okay.” Thomas relents, nodding to himself. “Okay. You’re going.” Placing his hand on top of Newt’s for a moment, he pulls away to stand. “You’re going, but that compromise I mentioned? That’s fucking happening.”

“Oh, is it now?” Newt retorts, but Thomas is only half-listening.

He jogs back into the building, Thomas scoops up the fallen notebook off the floor when someone coughs to his right.

“Dinner in twenty,” Gally greets tonelessly, peering at Thomas’ face, probably clocking his swollen jaw. “Don’t be late. Fry’ll kill you.”

Thomas throws him a thumbs up without looking, almost running back out, letting the door slam shut behind him.

“Compromise,” he repeats, flopping back down beside Newt and clicking his pen, shifts so that the rim of the fountain isn’t digging into his spine. “What’re your non-negotiables?”

Newt straightens up, brows scrunching ever so slightly. His business face. “No staying on the Berg, for starters,” he scoffs. “I have to be in the city. I have to be with you the whole time.”

As he lists it out, Thomas diligently writes notes, splitting the page into two columns, one for each of them. “The whole time?”

“Whole bloody time.”

He clicks his tongue but writes it down anyway. “For me—”

“Give me the book. I want to make sure you’re not putting random shit in there.”

“Try to actually make your writing legible this time, Newt.”

“Quiet down and get to talking, yeah?”

It’s familiar, the rhythm that they naturally fall into. Sharing each other’s personal space as they take turns writing, discussing how to morph the situation into something they’re more or less comfortable with.

Less, Thomas says. Definitely less.

Come on, Mr. Compromise. Wasn’t this your big idea?

There’s disagreements, inevitable clashing of ideas, many crossed out proposals on the page, but they work it out. They play a classic speed-round of what if? A game where they have two minutes to list out everything that can go wrong, and they take turns giving possible solutions. Some concerns are so ridiculous that it makes the both of them double over with laughter, but some solutions end up being strokes of accidental genius.

Newt, despite being the taller one, leans down to rest his head on Thomas’ shoulder. From then on, he tries very, very hard not to move too much.

Once they finish, they both straighten up after leaning over for so long, stretching out their limbs as they peer over their work. Their handwriting scattered throughout the pages—Thomas’s incoherent scrawl and Newt’s slanted cursive. It does something to him, seeing their shared thoughts and proof of their wavelength on something tangible. A good chunk of the pages have been filled, the earliest pages basically indecipherable but as they flip through the pages, it becomes neater and more organized, until the final draft is polished enough that even Thomas can’t help but be impressed at how much they covered in a short amount of time.

Newt massages his leg, groaning. “I’m actually starving now. A whole new level of hunger. Can you believe that man? We just restructured our entire infiltration plan and he’s still cooking?”

“You know,” Thomas says, standing, working out the kinks in his neck with one hand and offering the other to Newt. “Maybe if you asked the first time, we wouldn’t have beaten each other up.”

“Oh, slim it.” Newt takes his hand and pulls himself up. “That was some good work we just did.”

Thomas doesn’t answer. Instead, he lets his fingertips trace Newt’s wrist until he feels the faint thrum of a pulse. He feels it beat once, twice, three times. Just to make sure. “You’re going to try,” he says, a statement rather than a question. “You’re going to try your damnest.”

Newt rolls his eyes. “We talked about this. Of course I will.”

“If there’s a chance that you can finish the mission, but you end up sacrificing yourself, you’ll say no?”

For the briefest moment, Newt hesitates. Thomas doesn’t dare blink. “I’ll say no.”

“You promise?”

“I promise, Tommy.”

He nods, the movement jerky. “I know I’m insane right now. Or, lately. In general, I’m just—”

“A bloody lunatic?” Newt offers dryly.

“Yeah, exactly, and you knew that already. But if anything happened to you, I’d be—” A danger to everyone around him. Shattered to the point of no return. Begging to be put out of his misery. “—not okay.”

While he speaks, he watches Newt’s expression grow fonder and fonder. Twisting his hand, Newt shifts until they both feel each other’s pulses, feeling how they beat in time with one another. “I have an inkling that you don’t know how—”

He cuts himself off when Frypan yells, loud enough to be heard from every corner of the premises: “Dinner for you ugly bastards! Ugly bastards, dinner time!”

Newt huffs out a laugh and drags Thomas back into the chapel. “Come on, Tommy. Can’t take down evil on an empty stomach and peanuts, now can we?”

Thomas lets himself be dragged along, still thinking, still planning. Arguing against Newt is a losing game, but he can make sure he’s as bubble wrapped as possible going in. Schematics and contingency plans float through his head, flipping through ideas over and over again. He knows