Maze Runner Imagines and Preferences

Reunions part I -- Thomas

I watch the sparks flying from the door, not really paying attention to anything. The other kids in the train aren't any different, all of them quiet and subdued. My wrists are stinging fiercely, a constant reminder of my own failure to keep my friend from being taken. Minho's look of dread is burned into my mind, the way he struggled against the WICKED guards as they dragged him away, leaving me behind.

Light streams into the dim compartment, making me squint against the glare. Several others raise hands to their faces, murmuring exclamations or simply staring. Two figures walk slowly down the corridor, but I can only make their silhouettes so far. Another figure follows them, stopping to hug someone close to where I know Aris and Sonya are, then the person next to them.

The first two people are visible now, and it takes my brain a second to register what I'm actually seeing. It's Thomas, followed closely by Newt. Their hair has grown out and they look a little older, but it's definitely them.

"Thomas?" I whisper, my voice hoarse from disuse.

His head jerks up, his eyes scanning the darkness. "(Y/N)? Is that you?"

"Yeah," I say, "yeah, it's me."

He hurries down the space between the rows of seats, dropping to his knees beside me. Gently, he raises a hand to my face, his fingers brushing the bruises and cuts I know are scattered over my skin. "What happened to you?" he breathes, a wrinkle forming between his brows.

I'm stopped from answering by Newt, who joins Thomas, frowning at my shackled wrists.

"Bolt cutters," he says, and someone hands him a pair. He looks around, then back down at the empty seat beside me. "Minho..." he begins, but I shake my head, looking away so I don't see the look of disappointment on his face. 

Within minutes I'm out of the chains, and Thomas's arm is around my back, helping me stand. My legs are shaky, and I stumble a few times as we exit the dim confines of the transport container, coming out into blinding sunlight.

I raise a hand to my face, covering my eyes while they adjust. All around me, people are moving in a frenzy of activity, kids straggling in thin lines from other containers like the one I was in, forming a huge crowd next to...

I do a double take. We're standing near a beach, and in the shallow water is a massive ship. It's under heavy repair, and looks like it could fall apart any moment, but it's still awe-inspiring.

"We can skip Vince's welcome speech," Thomas says quietly, "I wanna get those fixed up." He eyes my wrists pointedly, then draws me with him into a dim tent.

I stand in the middle of the space, not sure what to do with myself, until he tells me to sit down. I do so, watching as he rummages through a few draws, finally coming over to me with a box labelled "fist aid."

Wordlessly, he rolls up my sleeves, then gets up and goes over to a jerry-can. He fills a bowl with water, then brings it back over and kneels on the ground in front of me, frowning in concentration as he dabs at the blood on my skin. He rubs a strong-smelling cream into the cuts made by the shackles, then grabs a cotton bandage and wraps it gently around one wrist, following it with another one on my other hand.

"How did this happen?" he asks eventually, dabbing at a deeper cut above my eyes.

"Fought back," I say simply, wincing as he moves on to the next one.

"Sorry," he mutters, then gently rubs cream on all my cuts and bruises. "Is that all?"

"Yeah," I nod, then bite my lip. "They took Minho, before you guys arrived."

"Is that...?" he touches my bandaged wrists, and I nod again.

"I tried to get to him, to stop them, but they were too strong and I was tied up." My voice cracks, and I turn my face away, embarrassed by the tears I can feel forming in my eyes.

"Hey," Thomas says softly, gently cupping my cheek with a hand, "it wasn't your fault. Don't beat yourself up about it."

"I should have..."

"No, (Y/N), look at me." His eyes scan my face, serious and sincere. "It's gonna be ok, we'll get him back."

"Ok," I say, "ok."

Thomas gets up, packing away the first aid kit and placing it back in the draw. I stand too, crossing the room and catching him in a hug as he turns around. He doesn't hesitate to fold me into his arms, pressing his lips to the top of my head.

And finally, I let out all the fear and pain and stress of the last eight months, breaking down into sobs in Thomas's arms. He rocks me gently, whispering "it's gonna be ok" and "it's alright" and "you're ok" and "I'm here" into my hair.

"I missed you," I sniff when I've calmed down enough to talk.

"Yeah?" he asks, rubbing circles on my back. I nod, then lift my face and study every detail of his expression. He smiles, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear.

"Yeah," I say, then kiss him softly. He's still hugging me, and he doesn't let go the entire time we kiss. It's by far the best – the safest – I've felt in a long time, and I never want to let go.