Newtmas Fic Collection

the moments the words don't reach

A/N: Once again we cover the topic of grief, guilt, and blame, and are sprinkling a small dose of healing onto it.

My take on what should've happened after they got out of the maze and into the helicopters, before making it to the WCKD compound.

The header image is the art that inspired this fic, by @ kaciart on Tumblr! 

Rating: G
Word Count: ~1,300

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Summary: 

In which Thomas falls apart in grief after seeing Newt and Minho doing the same, all of them reeling from the devastating toll escaping the maze took on them.

Or: the missing scene we all needed after they all got hauled into the helicopter after escaping the maze.

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It was chaos up until the moment they got into the helicopter. Well, were hauled into the helicopter by force, more like. Even the few minutes after they got up into the air were spent panicked, until Thomas was able to remind himself to breathe, until after the man riding with them told him to "Relax." And "Everything's gonna change." No shit everything was going to change.

They had escaped the Maze, gained more horrific knowledge of the world that had apparently collapsed while they were stuck inside, and then been shepherded outside to a blindingly bright sky and whipping sand that stung his skin and tore at his eyes. But now they were above everything he could ever remember, the Maze growing distant as they flew in the opposite direction. Whoever the people were that rescued them, he was grateful, but everything still felt charged, and when he looked around at everyone around him he could tell they felt the same.

He had ended up sandwiched between Newt and Minho, and was sitting across from Teresa, Frypan, Winston, and three other boys he was ashamed to say he couldn't remember the names of. It was cramped, but he was just glad as many of them had made it out alive as they did.

That was when the realization of who hadn't made it hit him like a bolt of lightning anew.

Chuck.

Alby.

Gally.

He felt responsible for all of them, but the one that made his chest tighten the worst and tears sting his eyes was the memory of Chuck. The little wooden bear – no longer white and innocent but stained with his own blood and drowning any chance he had at hope - he held clenched in his hand was a reminder of how he'd failed him. He hadn't managed to save everyone – and that had been his goal. He'd failed. Not completely, but he'd failed enough.

The moment Chuck died replayed on a loop in his mind. The boy's final "Thank you." Echoing endlessly between flashes of his own sobs ripping from his throat, voice raw and loud and hysterical.

Thomas was startled out of his reflection when movement to his left caught his attention. Newt, face screwed up in a mask of grief and tears, was moving to climb over him and towards Minho. He let him, not protesting as a knee dug into him, nor when he heard the boy let out a broken sob as he collapsed into Minho's open arms. Understanding clicked into place as he heard, over the sound of the helicopter blades, Newt saying something and Minho replying.

"'S not bloody fair, Min. He was a good leader; we all knew it. He deserved to be in that spot for way longer than he was." Newt said haltingly between sobs, his face mostly buried into Minho's shoulder.

"I know." Minho's voice was raw, rougher than Thomas had ever heard it, "He didn't deserve to die. He was a right shank sometimes, but he was a damn good person and a damn good leader."

Something ugly twisted in Thomas' chest, something he found the word for after a moment of searching – jealousy. Desperation to share the same closeness he knew Minho, Newt, Alby, and all the other Gladers had shared. They'd all spent years together living in the Glade, trying to find a way out of the Maze, forming trust between each other, an unshakeable bond that wouldn't ever break. It was something he'd never have, not in the same way Newt and Minho did. They had been leaders in their own right; Minho the Keeper of the Runners, and Newt becoming second in command after whatever happened to his leg, happened. He'd heard whispers around camp, mostly from Chuck and what he'd picked up, that Newt had been a runner at one time. But then his leg was injured and so Ben took his place. But him, Minho, and Alby, Thomas felt were the ones running the place. There had been Gally too, but he'd been so hostile towards him that he didn't want to see him as any sort of leader.

They had all been a community, before he came and wrecked it. It had needed to happen, but on some level he felt bad for disrupting what had been a family, and a functional one at that. Everything had begun happening so quickly once he started fighting to get them out. He never had time to become genuine friends with people – aside from Newt and Minho, he felt, and excluding his tangled connection to Teresa – until things had become so chaotic there was no time to do anything but run and survive. After that they had all grown closer quickly, but he suspected that was trauma bonding, not true bonds like the ones all the other Gladers had formed before he arrived.

His vision blurred and he realized he was crying, and that feeling in his chest had evaporated, leaving a black void instead of his beating heart. He wiped at his eyes with trembling hands, the blurred figure of Chuck's wooden carving heavy in his hand. He bore the full weight of the blame for what had happened, the boy had jumped in front of him to save his life, getting a bullet in his chest that was meant for him. He was supposed to bring him home – a home he now knew no longer existed, and probably hadn't for a long time, but he had promised him a life and now he'd never see it. They had been so close to getting him out – for a moment Thomas had thought they'd actually won. Until Gally had appeared out of nowhere with a fuckinggun, and any hope of that had gone out the window.

He wiped at his eyes again, trying to slow his hiccupping sobs until he felt a nudge against his leg and looked over to see Minho looking at him, tears streaming down his own face and looking more broken than he'd ever seen him. Thomas watched an arm open, then a hand beckon him over, and hesitated only a moment before accepting the invitation and crawling into Minho's embrace, wrapping himself around Newt who didn't even lift his head as he tucked in beside him.

Tears started afresh, and grief and guilt washed over him, "I'm so sorry," he sobbed, "it's my fault they're all gone, it's my fault Alby's gone."

"No," both Newt and Minho gasped at the same time, startling Thomas with their insistence.

"You saved us, got us out of the maze." Minho said, voice catching.

"But I ruined-" Thomas started.

"You didn't bloody ruin anything Tommy, Wicked did that." Newt's voice was rough but underscored with something he couldn't identify. Hatred? Righteousness? Defensiveness? Whatever it was, the emotion there was strong.

"Yeah," Minho agreed, and Thomas felt him nod against him. "It's all Wicked, even when you were working for them, they were manipulating you. In the end, manipulating all of us. But we're out now – we're out."

"But Chuck – Alby- " Thomas protested haltingly, but he was shushed once again, arms tightening around him.

"You, Newt, me," Minho whispered harshly, "we're here and we made it. We're okay. Everyone else deserved this too, but we'll just live it for them."

Minho was right, Thomas realized. If they didn't try to live and try to be happy, what were all the sacrifices for? They had to make it worth it, or else it all would have been for nothing. And the fact that he was still surrounded by his two best friends whom he loved so much it ached – maybe they would be alright. So long as they stuck together, they would get out of this chaos alive.

Soon the heavy emotions writhing within him began to quiet as he lay crying in his best friends' arms, as his best friends lay sobbing in his own arms, and exhaustion took hold. Sound and sight dimmed, and he didn't fight sleep when it came as it was a welcome relief from, well – everything. When he woke, he was still wrapped in the comfort of his friends and found some small relief in that as they were rushed out of the helicopter and into whatever would come next.