Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s not the ‘good’ kind of interest.

To him, you’re a problem.

You’re going to destroy the harmony of the Glade simply by being there.

But since he always has his eye on you, he’s always the first to spot you getting into danger.

“Get out of the way or that boar’s going to trample you, slinthead.”

“That’s not how you sharpen a knife. Stop pointing the blade at yourself.”

“No, I won’t help you. You climbed up there when there’s plenty of good firewood on the ground so untangle yourself--...Ah, shuck it. Fine. Stay still. I’m coming up.”

He wants Alby to create a role where even you can’t get injured, since he’s sick of hauling you to the Med Jacks.

Denies it when the other Gladers say he’s got a soft-spot for you.

No, he just wants to make sure you don’t cause trouble for everyone.

That’s the only reason he keeps stepping in whenever he sees another Glader getting too friendly with you, too.

‘Accidental’ touches and lingering gazes from afar are absolutely not happening on his watch. He’s there to nip it in the bud before the other Gladers wind up more distracted from their work than they already are.

It has nothing to do with the unexplained anger that swells up inside him when he sees another Glader with his hands on you.

Aaaaand shuck, you’re injured again. How? How? He took his eye off you for thirty seconds. HOW?

No, stop laughing. This isn’t funny. You’re like a baby duckling in constant need of being watched in case you find a new way to get in trouble.

He doesn’t understand why he gets antsy to the thought of you sleeping in your hammock between the other gladers.

It gives him restless nights, tossing and turning until the early hours.

For the sake of his sleep, and that's the only reason he swears by it, he builds a small, private hut for you off of the Homestead. There’s even a crudely designed lock on the door.

It's all for his sake. Totally his sake. Pffft, why would it be for your sake?

No, he doesn’t need to think about why you being safe and secure in your own room helps him sleep better.

That’s a completely pointless thing to think about.

But those unsolved feelings are especially difficult for him to deal with at the bonfires. For some reason beyond his comprehension, you want to join in on the wrestling. Against him.

He refuses.

The others complain and boo him, but that’s not enough to change his mind.

Until another Glader offers to wrestle you instead.

Well. Get in the ring, baby duck. Guess it’s time to tussle.

He’s relatively gentle with you. Goes easy.

He’s not about to let you win, but he won’t shove you from the ring with full force either. Your track record tells him you’d end up back with the Med Jacks if he did.

Once the match begins, it takes him two seconds to push you out.

You demand to go again.

He says you’ve had your turn but the others back you, telling him to give you another shot.

So he does, with the same result.

“Satisfied?”

But you’re not. You ask for one more try.

There’s something about your perseverance that makes him smirk.

“Fine. Last round.”

“Last round.” You agree.

He likes the determination in your eyes, but it won’t amount to anything.

Once the match begins, he does exactly the same as before. He lunges with arms outstretched to grip your shoulders to shove you.

But as his hands connect, you catch his wrists then hit the deck. The momentum pulls him forwards before you kick him in the gut, sending him hurtling over the top of you.

He’s stunned by what you’ve just accomplished.

But then again, he isn’t the Keeper of the Builders for nothing and he certainly won’t let a greenie beat him in the ring.

Using your own move against you, he hits the ground with a loud thump but keeps the momentum going.

Using shoulder-muscles built from three year’s hard labour, he hurls his arms forwards.

You can’t release his wrists fast enough so the wound-up momentum sends you flying.

He hears you scream as you launch into the crowd of onlookers, then a hard THWACK as you hit the floor.

He’s quietly impressed by you, and winded, but those feelings fall by the wayside when he hears someone saying, ‘man, she hit her head pretty hard. Is she okay?’

With a grunt, he drags himself up, clutching at his ribs from where he landed, but his attention is on you.

You’re on your back. You’re not moving.

Shuck, why did he fight you off like that? He's been keeping you out of danger for weeks and then he goes and—

The sound of your laughter cuts him short.

The other gladers start clapping, then they’re laughing with you, then they’re helping you onto your feet. You’re unsteady, but you’re smiling. You’re grinning.

“That was fantastic,” you say with delight, sounding shocked that it happened and dazed from the fall.

Gally can only laugh with a strange sense of relief.

Thank shuck you’re okay. You’re okay. You’re—…hang on.

“Is that blood?”

He barely gives you time to put your fingers to your forehead and see the red before he charges towards you, shouting for Clint.

You can tell him you’re fine all you want but he’s still taking you to medical.

No, it's not just an excuse to pick you up and carry you.

It’s not.

He just wants to make sure you aren’t a problem for anyone else in the Glade.

You’re his problem, and his alone.