#caffeinatedthoughts

“Not real. Not real. You’re here. Safe. Bloody hell, breathe.”

The hand on his chest drifts up to rake through his sweat-slicked hair as he brings his knees up to his chest, resting against them. Newt forces air in through his nose, out through his mouth. Slowly. Deeply. Like you taught him once, back when the nightmares were only occasional.

They aren’t occasional anymore.​

A soft, barely heard tapping of fingers at the door startles Newt. He freezes, breath hitching. A brief pause, then another set of tapping. An all-too-familiar sound; only one person knocks like that.

“Newt?” Your voice reaches his ears, the sound a bit muffled through the wood, but still clear. “I know you’re awake. I can hear you hyperventilating from the next shack over.” He almost laughs at that, appreciative of your tactlessness. Instead, he drags his still shaking hand through his damp hair and croaks out, “Sod off, menace.”

He can very clearly imagine the smirk on your face as you respond, “No can do.” With that being his only warning, the door creaks open before he can protest. You quickly and quietly slip inside the room and close the door behind you as if this is a common occurrence; it is, you’ve been doing this for weeks. The light of the moon catches your face as you step closer, the dark circles under your eyes clearly visible. Newt briefly wonders whose are worse.

Your eyes scan the room, a habit that’s not easily broken from years of being in survival mode, before settling on Newt. You look him up and down, taking in the sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his chest, the barely contained wild look in his eyes, and his hunched-over form. Your eyebrows raise, and a smug look crosses your features as you tell him just what he needs to hear at this moment, “You look like hell.”

Newt huffs a tired breath that might’ve been a laugh on a better night. “Cheers. That’s exactly what every bloke wants to hear at-” he glances at the cracked clock on the crate that serves as a nightstand “half three in the morning.” You cross the remaining distance to the bed before kicking your boots off while giving a halfhearted shrug. “You love my honesty. Don’t pretend.”

He does. God help him, he does.

You flop onto the edge of his bed like it’s yours, making yourself comfortable before you turn to look at him. “Couldn’t sleep.” Newt gives you the most exhausted, nonplussed look he can manage. “You never can.”

“Neither can you.” You pat the spot on the mattress beside you and shift to make room, waiting patiently as Newt untangles himself and moves to sit beside you on the edge of the bed. You move without hesitation, scooting closer until your thigh presses against his before reaching over, hand gentle but firm as you guide his head down to your shoulder. Your fingers weave into his hair, carding through the sweat-dampened strands -slowly, steadily, grounding. Your cheek comes to rest against the top of his head.

He lets you. He always does.

Newt inhales deeply, grateful to have you as a constant and steady beacon amongst the shadows of his unending nightmares. “Christ, smells like home. How is that even possible after everything?”

“More nightmares?” you ask quietly. He swallows. His voice comes out strained, trembling despite his efforts to steady it and appear unaffected. “Yeah. Same rubbish, you this time rather than me. They had you. And you were… You were turning.” He has to pause, throat closing and eyes stinging from unshed tears threatening to spill over. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t get to you in time.”

You don’t speak. You just keep threading your fingers through his hair, grounding him until you can feel the shaking ease a bit. After a long minute, you murmur, “I’ve been having them too. Not as often as you, but… enough.” He snorts softly. “Could’ve fooled me with those suitcases under your eyes.” You scoff and lightly flick his head before letting your hand simply rest in his hair. “Yours aren’t exactly winning any beauty contests either, shank.” He huffs again, the sound almost fond.

You’re both quiet for a moment, a comfortable silence enveloping the room, a routine the two of you have long since grown accustomed to. Newt’s breathing settles into something less erratic, and his body is less visibly tense as he lets himself lean into you fully, knowing you can handle the weight of him.

Both physically and mentally.

You break the silence first, your voice light and almost teasing. “You know, Minho told me about this thing. Said it’s the best way to actually sleep through the night.” Newt lifts his head just enough to give you a deeply skeptical and weary look, your hand sliding from his head and back down to the bed. “Minho? Really? What’s his brilliant advice then, run laps until you pass out? Because we already do that every sodding day, building this place. Doesn’t explain why I’m still waking up screaming every night.”

Your lips twitch. “ Not quite. It is physical exhaustion, though. The kind that floods your system with serotonin, oxytocin, dopamine. The good stuff. The stuff that makes your body finally shut up long enough to sleep.” He narrows his eyes, a suspicious frown adorning his features. “And that would be from?” You turn your head to meet his gaze as a slow, wicked grin curls your lips. “Sex.”

The impact is immediate. Newt’s face goes hot so fast you’re surprised he doesn’t combust. You’re vaguely impressed by how red his face manages to turn and even more impressed at the pitch his voice reaches when he finally manages to stutter out a response. “That’s… that’s a terrible joke, you gremlin.” Your smirk softens at the familiar nickname, but doesn’t disappear. “What if I’m not joking?”

He stares.

You hold his gaze, unflinching.

“That was serious. Bloody hell, that was actually a serious suggestion.” His mind races. The science is… sound. He can’t even argue that part. And it’s not as though the thought hasn’t crossed his mind before; late nights, stolen glances, the way you always seem to end up next to him in every crisis, every quiet moment. The others had called you a married couple for years. Neither of you ever bothered to correct them. Newt swallows hard. “Is that really what you want?”

You tilt your head, teasing but softly affectionate. “I mean… if it’s with you? I wouldn’t mind. You’re kind of stupidly attractive. And that accent?” You make a low appreciative humming sound in your throat. “Does things to me.” He rolls his eyes even as his ears burn. “You’re impossible.”

You laugh under your breath, then exhale softly, a tired sigh escaping your lips. Leaning back on your hands, you look up at the rough, crudely put-together wooden ceiling. “We never really got the chance to figure us out, did we? Between running and dying and running again…” You bite the inside of your cheek, an unfortunate habit whenever you’re feeling nervous or uncomfortable.

Newt notices. He always notices.

You clear your throat, feeling his gaze still on you, carefully watching you like he always does. Your eyes flicker to his, then away again. “I love you, you know?” Casual. Like you’re commenting on the weather. “You can take the sex suggestion however you want.”

Newt stares.

Then he laughs.

Not a small, tired chuckle. This is a loud, bright, startled-out-of-him laugh that has his shoulders shaking. A sound so pleasing to your ears that it almost makes you sad how rarely you get to hear it. You huff indignantly, but you’re smiling now, too. “What?”

“That,” he manages, wiping at his eyes, “was the most you way to confess I’ve ever heard.” You shove his shoulder lightly. “Shut up. At least I said it.” He shakes his head in mild disbelief, still grinning, before it softens a bit as he looks back at your face. “You’ve got the prettiest smile when you’re flustered, you know that?” Your face and ears noticeably burn as you avert your gaze to anywhere other than Newt’s way too observant eyes, you’ve never been great with compliments, and he knows that. “Shut up.”

Newt shifts closer. Slowly, carefully, he reaches out. His hand finds your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth as he turns your face back to his so gently it makes your heart ache. “I love you too, you know?” he confesses, soft and serious and smiling in a way that’s almost dizzying to look at. It’s a confession that somehow is so fitting and perfect for you two.

You both laugh again, an almost hushed sound escaping from your lips.

The room falls comfortably silent again as Newt’s gaze drops to your lips, a light pink dusting his cheeks. He only hesitates for a second, nervously licking his lips before he questions, “Can I…?” Your smile turns mischievous. “You can do whatever you want with me, Newt.” A sound somewhere between a laugh and an exasperated groan escapes him. “You’re a bloody menace.”

Then he kisses you.

It starts gentle, careful and almost testing like he’s unsure if you’ll push him away or not. But then you kiss him back like you’ve been waiting years, you have, and that’s all the encouragement Newt needs. His hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as both of your hands fist into the bottom of his shirt, resting just above his waist. Neither of you are sure who moved first, nor could you say you cared as the kiss deepens. Tongues intertwine in a dance so reminiscent of your dynamic, fighting for dominance while also working together. You can feel every unspoken word, every missed opportunity, everything that your chaotic lives kept both of you from saying, being poured into the kiss.

When you finally break apart, foreheads pressed together, breathing hard, Newt whispers against your mouth, “If this is just for sleep-” You don’t let him finish. “It’s not. It’s never been just for sleep.” He exhales, shaky and relieved. “Good,” he murmurs. “Because I’m rubbish at casual.”

Aris walks beside you as you’re led down corridor after corridor, your steps in sync without even having to think about it. Eyes dart around the halls, mapping and memorizing as you trade hushed, conspiracy-like whispers. “Still feels wrong,” you murmur, eyes flicking to the ceiling cameras. Aris snorts under his breath. “Feels staged. Like we were always supposed to end up here.” You continue, eyes flickering to the man leading you two down the halls. “They're too clean… Too polite. Nobody rescues a bunch of half-feral teenagers from killer mazes just to feed them mashed potatoes and ask nicely about their feelings.” Aris nods slowly, eyes pausing on a reinforced door. “The blood tests. The ‘check-ups.’ It’s not adding up.”

You don’t say the rest, your destination now in front of you. You’re both let into the room, and you step into your newfound morning routine; breakfast. The normalcy of it is almost laughable considering how your mornings in the Maze were. You and Aris take your food and sit at the corner table farthest from the eyesight and earshot of your so-called rescuers. Picking at your food, your mind is still racing with paranoid thoughts and suspicion. Aris opens his mouth, probably to match your restless thoughts with his own, when the hallway outside erupts in muffled, unfamiliar voices and catches your attention instead.

The door slides open, and they’re ushered into the room; a new group. You watch them as they file in one by one, eyes taking in details of each of the newcomers; tall with wild eyes that look like trouble, a lean build with a face that screams sarcasm, kind eyes that seem so rare in this world, short and muscular with an air of brave practicality. Your eyes continue to scan the strangers, raking over a few others that the author does not feel like describing at the moment, before pausing on one in particular; tall, blond, with a slight limp and eyes that look like they’ve learned to hide pain. Your gaze snags on him for half a second longer than necessary, which is more than enough time for him to notice. The blond’s eyes flick up to meet yours, a curious look flashing briefly across his features before he looks away just as quickly. You watch the group a bit longer as they make their way to one of the tables in the room, their voices edged with disbelief and eyes sharp despite obvious exhaustion. You recognize the way they scan exits, count bodies, and assess threats.

Maze instincts don’t disappear just because someone tells you the game is over.

Aris nudges you. “You’re staring. Blatantly.” That’s enough to pull you back to reality as you look over at him, taking in the concerned look on his face. You wave it off and go back to picking at your food. You halfheartedly listen as Aris begins speaking again, something about processed foods and jelly. Or was it about artificial air and fake clouds? You don’t know, and you hope he doesn’t ask about it again later because you’re too far gone in your own thoughts to pay proper attention. Neither of you interacts with the new group for now, opting to observe them. See if they fall for the obvious lies being told in this place.

You don’t sleep that night.

You’ve hardly had a decent night’s sleep since you were brought to this facility, the anxiety buzzing beneath your skin too loud to shut off. The vents were an accident at first; a loose panel, curiosity mixed with insomnia, and the gnawing itch of needing to know what’s happening around you. You and Aris had started mapping them, just in case. You found that they were perfect for eavesdropping, and if you continued mapping them, maybe you would find a way to escape if the need arose.

The night had started like many others; you crawled in and started near the laundry room access, the most recent area you had explored before continuing to make your way. You were moving quietly and methodically, losing yourself in your self-appointed task. By the time you realize you’ve been crawling too long, the metallic maze overhead has already started to look the same in every direction. A junction you swore you'd taken before turned out to be wrong. Left instead of right, maybe? Or up instead of down?

Either way, you took a wrong turn.

You mutter a curse under your breath and shift your weight to turn back. The metal groans under your weight, and the vent gives way. Before you can even think to brace yourself, you drop like a stone, landing on something warm and solid. There’s a startled, sharp intake of breath beneath you, and you’re suddenly very aware that you’ve landed on a person.

“What the devil-” You don’t let him finish as you dart forward to clamp a shaky hand over his mouth, bracing your other hand against his chest. “Shh,” you hiss urgently, face hovering inches from his as your eyes quickly scan the room to make sure no one else woke up before returning to his. “Do you want to wake the whole room up?” Wide brown eyes stare up at you in the dimly lit room, eyebrows raised in confusion, and body completely still beneath you. Despite the abrupt awakening, natural instincts kick in. One of his hands is gripping the wrist that’s covering his mouth, the other bracing against the mattress as he contemplates throwing you off him. In the chaos of the moment, Newt’s sleep-idled brain manages to form three unhelpful, barely coherent thoughts; “Well, this is new. Is this a dream? Blimey, she’s heavy- no, don’t be an idiot.” You both pause as recognition flashes across your face.

The blond with the limp.

Newt, your frenzied mind supplies for you, having heard it at some point in the day. His chest rises and falls beneath you as he tries to steady his breathing. You can feel his heartbeat thudding beneath your hand that’s supporting your weight against his chest. He blinks up at you, breathing shallowly through his nose before his eyes look pointedly at your other hand still covering his mouth. He nods once, slowly, a promise. You hesitate for a moment. “You planning on screaming?” His mouth quirks despite himself, finding the situation almost comical before giving a muffled response through your hand, “Only if you do.” Fair enough. You slowly remove your hand but stay close, just in case. Newt lets his hand fall from your wrist to lay at his side. Both of you are still very much cautious and wary of each other.

After a long second, Newt whispers one of the many questions on his mind, accent thick with sleep and confusion, “Care to explain why a girl just dropped out of the sodding ceiling onto my chest?” You pause, it’s a fair question, and at least he’s not screaming. “Wrong turn.” His eyes dart above your head to the vent you fell out of before returning to your face, an incredulous look replacing his previously confused features, “Wrong turn? In the ventilation system?” You sigh, ashamed and mildly annoyed with yourself, before you nod in defeat. “You fell.” It wasn’t a question. “Unfortunately.” Newt bites back a laugh, you can see the amusement dance across his face and almost hear his thoughts, “Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”

“And what,” he asks, tilting his head slightly, an almost teasing tone heard in his voice, “were you doing in the vents to begin with?” You hesitate a second too long, Newt notices. “Right. Not the full truth, then.” You take a breath, “I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d explore.” He studies your face in the dark, eyes thoughtful. That’s not it. "Explore," he echoes flatly, his accent wraps around the word like it personally offended him. "Right. Cause that's what people do when they can't sleep. Crawl through air ducts like bleedin’ rats. Can’t say I buy that.” You smirk, not missing a beat, “That’s fine, you don’t have to.” Newt’s eyes narrow at you, but he lets it go for now.

There’s another beat of silence before Newt’s mind betrays him, reminding him where you’re currently seated. A flush of heat creeps up his neck, tinging his ears unmistakably pink; he hopes it’s dark enough not to notice. “Not that I’m complaining,” he starts, accent clipping his words. “But you're still sittin' on me, love.” Newt clears his throat, voice dropping even lower. “Gonna stay there all night or am I allowed to sit up before one of the lads wakes up and gets the wrong idea?”

“Ah.” You can feel your face heat in embarrassment, and you scramble off him so fast you nearly elbow him in the ribs. Newt slowly pushes himself up into a sitting position, taking his time to will his face to cool back down before propping himself against the wall behind him. There’s not much space on the narrow bed, your legs brushing against each other with the slightest adjustment. Newt crosses his arms as he observes you, really takes you in for the first time. “Right then,” he starts, voice still a whisper. “Why the vents, really?” You don’t answer right away.

Trust is a currency you can’t afford to spend lightly.

“Told you, couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d see what was worth hiding up there.” Newt gives you a long look, one that clearly says he knows you’re lying, but he leaves it at that. “Fair enough. Name’s Newt.” He gives you a brief nod, a belated introduction given the circumstances. “I know,” you tilt your head a small smug smile tugging at your lips before you tell him your name. His own lips twitch in response, “Course it is.”

A comfortable silence washes over the room before Newt breaks it again, curiosity getting the better of him. “So,” he murmurs, “your maze. How bad was it?” You lean back on your hands. “Bad enough. No sun. Cold, always snowing, walls made of ice. You?” He nods, exhaling through his nose. “Heat. Rarely rained. Tried to kill us with giant metal monsters.” You huff out a laugh, “Naturally.” A small curve makes its way onto Newt’s lips as you two chat. The banter flows between you two easier than it should, as if you were old friends catching up after not seeing each other for a while. You find yourself appreciating his quick wit; he likes that you can keep up and throw it back at him.

Eventually, the words slow, companionable silence creeping back in along with reality. “I should get back,” you say quietly, almost reluctant. “Before someone notices an empty bunk.” Newt nods in agreement, knowing he should get some semblance of sleep tonight. “Careful this time. No more unplanned visits, yeah?” You smirk, already reaching for the vent to pull yourself back up, “No promises.” You crawl back into the vent and pause, glancing back down at him. He looks back up at you, expression a lot softer than when you first landed on him. You chose to ignore the fluttering you feel in your chest from that. “Almost reluctant to leave,” you murmur teasingly. “You’ve got a very soothing accent. I could’ve fallen asleep right here listening to you.” Newt’s ears go red immediately. He ducks his head, dragging a hand down his face and over his mouth to hide the flustered smile he wasn’t able to stop from spreading.

“Bloody hell, she’s gonna be trouble.”

“Get going, you menace,” he manages to croak out, words rough but voice warm and almost fond. “Don’t fall through anyone else’s vent on the way back. Goodnight.” You flash him one last teasing grin, “Night, Newt.” And with that, you’re gone. You disappear into the dark, the metal cool against your palms and knees as you make your way back to your room. Newt slowly lies back down, staring at the vent you just left in, heart thudding a little too loud.

You close the door and set down the items you had been carrying, a basket with herbs and vegetables. Raising your hands to show you mean no harm, you slowly approach Jojen as your eyes glance down at his wound, “You shouldn’t move too much, you could reopen those.” Jojen stiffens but doesn’t protest as you put your hands on his shoulders and gently lay him back down. His voice is so hoarse he almost doesn’t recognize it when he manages a simple, “Where..?” You understand what he’s trying to ask, but your priorities are elsewhere. Your hands swiftly lift up the base of the shirt you had managed to put on him after bandaging him earlier, and check his wound. Jojen frowns at your actions and lack of response, but doesn’t protest. Relief flashes across your features, glad that he hadn’t ruined all of your hard work, before lowering his shirt back down.

“A fishing village south of the Wolfswood,” you answer quietly. “You were bleeding out. I didn’t have anywhere else to take you.” His brows knit, confusion clear. You see the exact moment Jojen remembers everything; the wight, the cold, the blade that should’ve been the end of him. His body goes rigid, the events replaying in his mind as raw and vividly as his greenseer dreams. “This…” he chokes out, eyes squeezing shut, “This wasn’t supposed to happen.” You lean back and cross your arms over your chest, sarcasm and barely hidden amusement in your tone. “Would you have preferred I let you die?” This catches his attention, eyes flying to your face as if he hadn’t really noticed your presence until now. He stares at you with eyes that see things others shouldn’t, eyes that notice things most people wouldn’t. Your eyes meet his, unflinching.

Most people flinch when Jojen Reed looks at them like that.

“You saved me.” It wasn’t a question; it was barely a statement. Despite the roughness of it, Jojen’s voice is as steady and unwavering as his gaze, as if he’s trying to solve a puzzle that has long since been deemed unsolvable. You shift a half step away from the cot and give a halfhearted shrug of your shoulders before providing a noncommittal response, “No one else was going to.” Jojen continues to study you, his expression unreadable, and you offer him a small nod, moving out of his too-perceptive eyesight to collect a fresh rag. As you squeeze water from the cloth, you focus on regaining your composure. For someone still on death’s door, he’s certainly more intense than you expected him to be able to manage.

Jojen doesn’t pull away from you when you come back and sit beside him to press your free hand to his forehead, checking his temperature. “Your fever’s gone down, but you should still rest,” you tell him before replacing your hand with the cool cloth against his forehead.  He stares at you a moment longer before closing his eyes, heeding your advice. You sit there watching him for a few minutes, though you’re not completely sure why. Are you waiting for him to ask you more questions? Are you staying nearby in case he needs anything? Or do you simply not have anything better to do?

Not finding your answer, you shift to get up and to busy yourself with something else so he can rest. Jojen’s hand catches your sleeve before you can stand, and you glance back down at him with an eyebrow raised in question. “Your name?” You freeze. Somehow, of all the questions you were expecting, this wasn’t one of them. Jojen notices your hesitation. “What do I call you?” he rasps out, voice still hoarse and eyes still piercing. Not answering him right away, you carefully and gently pull away from his grasp, making sure not to jar his body before quickly returning with water. You lean back onto the cot and slide your free arm behind Jojen’s head to support him while you bring the cup to his lips. Realizing this is your way of shutting him up, Jojen parts his lips and accepts the much-needed offer of water.

The liquid burns his sensitive throat.

Jojen barely manages to suppress a cough, and you quickly pull the cup away from his lips. He shoots you a questioning look, you answer before he even asks, “There’s cinnamon and honey in it. Helps with blood flow.” (The author does not know if cinnamon exists in this universe, don’t @ me). Jojen accepts your answer, not knowing enough to refute it, and lets you help him take a few more sips before you gently lay him back down. You receive an expectant look, clear that he wants you to actually answer his question. You let out an exasperated sigh and stand up to put the cup away. “For now, you don’t.” Names have weight, power. You’re not ready to give him that yet.

If you give someone your name, they can take your soul.