I'm Almost Me Again (He's Almost You)
A gift for my TMR bestie @fluffypotatey who described a scene so good I had to write it.
(Content warning for canon-typical violence and medical abuse)
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Itâs not the first time Thomas has seen him.
Itâs not even the first time theyâve tried this simulation on him, though they havenât tried it in a while. Maybe. He canât quite tell anymore. Itâs all running together, hours-days-weeks-months, melting into one never-ending stretch of hurt and needles and blue and blood. It never stops, so heâs stopped keeping track. Thereâs no point.
This one is new, though. Thomas has never seen Newt look like this, but his image is strangely solid despite that, lacking the faint blur that comes where his mind has to fill in the blanks, pulling on imagination instead of memory. Heâs in the WCKD uniform again, not his clothes from the Glade or the Scorch, and his hair is longer, long enough to cover his ears, to almost touch his collar in the back. He has a gun in his hand, the muzzle pressed flush to the skull of a WCKD doctor, one of the ones who always hooks Thomas up to the machine. Newtâs mouth is moving, but thereâs no words, only a deafening buzz of static. For some reason, that little flaw makes Thomas more angry than anything. He wants to hear Newtâs voice. He wants to touch him. Itâs not real anyway. Itâll be gone soon, and they canât even give him this much. He tries to move his closest arm, but it doesnât comply, held down by his side.
The doctor does something, and the static stops, a wall of sound slamming down in its place. An alarm is going off, an automated voice speaking through the PA. Gunfire. Shouting.
Pain comes with the sound, too. The inside of his body is on fire. His arms are burning. Everything is so cold. He gags on the tubing in his mouth, down his throatâto breathe for him, to keep his body from quitting on themâand his eyes sting with tears.
A shot rings through the room, almost louder than the roar of noise around him, and thereâs hands on him, always, thereâs hands, but thereâs no cool smoothness of latex gloves, just rough calluses. Oh, thatâs new. Touch is a hard one for them. They donât want to fuck with his nervous system too much.
âTommy,â Newt says, and Thomas can hear him now. Newt is leaning over him, and even up close, heâs still so solid, so real. His face is set with distraught anger, an expression Thomas has only really seen once. Theyâre getting better at recreating him. âTommy, love, can you hear me? You hear me? Come on, love, stay with me.â
Love. Thomas has never been called that before. Heâs never heard Newt say that. Pain, thin and sharp, sliding out of his arms, one after the other. Warm wetness trickling over his skin. Theyâre really throwing everything in the soup this time, huh?
âHold on, love, Iâve got to get this.â Newtâs fingers curl around his jawâwarm and rough and real, maybe they decided to fuck with his nervous system after allâand then the plastic, gagging pressure is being pulled out of his mouth, out of his throat. It hurts, he gags, but the fingers tighten their grip, hold him still. âIâm sorry, Iâm sorry, love, please, hold still, Iâm sorry,â Newt begs. Heâs leaning so close, Thomas can smell him past the blood and cordite and antiseptic. He even smells like he should. Itâs good.
All at once, the pressure is gone, out of his mouth, and he gasps, spitting and choking. His throat is raw. His lungs ache.
Newt is still speaking, pulling at him, sitting him up. âThere you go, attaboy, câmon, love, câmon, weâve got to go. Tommy, darling, please, weâve got to go, come on.â
Sitting up feels strange. His muscles tremble all over, a house of cards ready to come down at a breeze. Thomas coughs, and it hurts. âYour hair,â he rasps. It hurts, too, to speak. Thatâs different. âYou changed your hair.â Not really. Newt canât change his hair because Newt is dead, but still.
âI like it,â Thomas croaks. He does. Maybe theyâll keep this one for him. A little carrot instead of the stick.
Newt stops for a beat, looking at him, and the hard-set lines of his face soften. âYeah. So did you,â he says; not willinglyâthey buzzed all of Thomasâs hair clean off when they got him here. Newt grabs his legs, swings them off the edge of the bed. âLetâs go. Weâve got to go.â
Another softening, a ghost of a smile. Newt puts an arm around him, pulls him up off the bed. The floor is so cold, itâs a jolt of sensation. It feels surprisingly solid.
They stagger out into the hallway, Newt mostly carrying Thomas, his legs trembling on the verge of collapse, and the alarm is so loud, the lights flashing red warning.
âNewt!â a new voice shouts, and Thomas twitches. That's new. That's different. He tightens his grip on Newt, hard enough Newt hisses softly. Thomas doesn't want him to leave yet, not yet.
âMove your ass, Greenie,â Gally barks, but there's relief on his face. Has he ever been relieved to see Thomas before?
Gally comes around the corner, and there's Brenda with him, and Minho. Three new faces, all at once. That's...never happened before. They've never managed more than one person at a time, they never look real enough. And Newt is still here, still clamped to his side.
âJorgeâs got the Berg ready,â Minho says, coming around to Thomasâs other side, pulling an arm roughly over his shoulders. "Come on, shank, you're a Runner, shucking act like it."
âNo,â Thomas chokes out instead. âNo, no, noââ
âTommy, loveââ Newt starts on his other side.
âYou're dead. It's not real. You're dead, you're dead. You're not real,â he says, raising his voice even though it hurts. They're still moving, still running, mostly carrying his weight because his legs are trembling.
âI'm real, Tommy. I'm here, love, I am. And so are you,â Newt answers, with his longer hair and real smell and rough hands.
A door slams open, and Thomas flinches as they hit sunlight. God, the heat. He'd almost forgotten the heat. And the sun, so bright it hurts. They've never managed a real sun before, or sunlight.
It's real.
And Newt is alive.
