Chapter Text
Someone held his hand. He tried to turn his head to look over, but it sent a fresh wave of agony shooting down his spine. He didn’t need to see. It was Brenda. Who else could it be? Plus, the hand was soft and small. Brenda for sure.
~.~
Thomas tried to move. He really did. But he couldn’t even open his eyes, let alone make some kind of gesture that he was still alive. He could feel his breathing, shallow, almost dangerously so, and his heartbeat was weak as it resonated in his ears. A dull pain shot from his shoulder and seemingly snaked its way up his neck, like it was creeping into his skull through his ear. Right on cue, he noticed, a ghost image of the shoulder pain bloomed in his brain. He tried to move and make it comfortable, but all he could do was twitch. That’s when the hand squeezed his and the pain was momentarily forgotten. A slender, soft hand was holding his left one. He panicked momentarily, but forced himself to squash the ridiculous notion that he would be “cheating” on Teresa if he let this person hold his hand. It was Brenda. He knew it was. Only she would have such soft, small hands, and only she would want to hold his in the first place.
Teresa would want to. A part of him told him. Well, whatever! It’s not like I can do anything about it in the first place. He defended himself. Instantly, he felt foolish, knowing that he had been arguing with himself. He focused on the hand again, suddenly aware of how he was dipping in and out of consciousness. This spurred on his effort even more and he realized that the owner of the hand was talking. In a low, quiet voice, but talking nonetheless. He strained to hear it.
“I’m so worried…” “You…” “No one like you…” Only these snippets Thomas was able to catch, his foggy brain tried desperately to reach out to Brenda. He concentrated harder to focus on her voice, and, after a few tries, succeeded. Her voice sounded more husky than he last remembered, but the Trial would do that to you, he thought bitterly. But what she said next made him cut it out and listen.
“You’re the only one I’m living for.”
He, in his mind’s eye at least, furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. What about Jorge? What about the cure? Why would Brenda say something like that?
“I...I think I may..be in love with you..”
The words almost made his heart stop beating out of terror. He tried to disengage his hand from his unwelcome admirer’s, but he still couldn’t move. Instead, he was forced to listen to Brenda’s confessions, each word making him more and more sad. How would he tell her that her love wasn’t returned?
“From the moment I first met you, and we talked about the gardens…”
Thomas almost started in confusion. He had never talked about gardens with Brenda...and yet, somehow, she seemed to think that they had. He listened more carefully, as she let out an almost bitter laugh.
“And now, here I sit, you wasting away. My hope, wasting away. The only one that I can remember ever loving, wasting away.”
The sheer beauty of the words, the almost poetic way she said it, almost made him love her back. Almost.
“I’ll try to get you through this. I promise.”
Thomas tried to smile, but he realized that he was slowly sinking into a deep sleep again. He struggled against it, but his efforts were in vain. He finally gave up and let the sleep start to take over him, somehow darkening the already black inside of his eyelids. But the last thing that Brenda said as he fell under sent that now-familiar jolt of confusion up his spine.
“I wish I had told you sooner. All those moments in the Map Vault I let slip by, and I wish I had told you sooner.”
~.~
The bag holding Thomas slowly lowered to the ground as the WICKED Berg pulled out. He gave a slight ‘oof’ of discomfort as he hit the ground, but it was nothing compared to the anxiety of seeing his friends again. The first thing Thomas saw when the bag opened was Newt’s smiling face. He breathed out a sigh of relief at the sight of the fluffy haired blonde. Newt had a look of relief on his face too, as he rocked back onto his heels and regarded Thomas with an almost affectionate look.
“Hey there, Tommy. Good to see you’re alive.” He chirped, and Thomas knew he would never get enough of that British accent.
“Hey there yourself, Newt. Same, no doubt.” He replied, sitting up so that he was eye level with his best friend. They sat there for a while, grinning at each other, and Thomas found himself lost in Newt's deep, almost amber eyes. It was like a blanket had fallen on them, smothering them with heat and foggy vision. Thomas blamed it on the shotgun. The moment was ruined anyways when Newt stood up and offered his hand to Thomas.
“Come on. I’m sure everyone else will want to see you too.” He said softly. Thomas grinned at him and accepted his help, grabbing onto Newt’s hand. Suddenly, the smile dropped off Thomas’ face and the snarky reply he was going to shoot in the other boys direction died in his throat. Newt must’ve noticed his face and the fact that he wasn’t getting up, because he had shifted to put himself directly in Thomas' line of vision. Thomas just stared at his friend, his mouth dry.
“Tommy? What’s wrong?” He asked, his voice filled with concern. But all Thomas could do was stare at their hands, interlocked in a familiarity that Thomas almost couldn’t comprehend.
“What is it? Did they do something to you?” But Newt’s voice was slowly fading into the background of Thomas’ mind. All he could do was focus on how soft and small the hand in his was.
And Thomas smiled.