A/N: Here's my take of what would have happened to Thomas had he not gone to Baxter like he had in canon. Please enjoy!

Breaking Branches

"I stepped on a branch today and it snapped in the cold winter air."

Thomas gripped the counter, white-knuckles straining against pallid skin. Breathe in...breathe out...The syringe bit into his flesh.

"Uh..." he clenched his teeth, holding in the groans that threatened to escape. No one had figured it out yet, but that didn't mean they would be so blind when he screamed out in the middle of the night. He had experienced worse pain- yes, far worse- than this clinical injection, but in several ways this was a divine torture, placed in a class of cruelty all its own. If he died, if the irritation didn't go away, if the bruises didn't heal...no one would know. His life was as significant as an ants. And would anyone care? Images of people spun in his mind. Doubtful.

Freak of nature, monstrosity, condemned, marked, ostracized, fag-

"Mr. Barrow?" A soft knock on his door. "Thomas?"

Thomas bit back another groan. Did no one know of privacy?

"Who is it?" he called in as pleasant a voice as he could muster, though it sounded more like a growl. A low type of defensive whine a cornered animal would make before the hyena lunged.

The knocking faltered. Thomas desperately hoped that whoever it was had gone away, but alas fortune was not smiling upon him today. "I'm coming in." a distinctly female voice said.

Thomas felt the ends of his hairs raise up, but he returned his attention to the task at hand, convinced he had locked the door before continuing his treatment. The doorknob rattled- Thomas smiled grimly. Whoever it was that dared to bother him wasn't going to learn this secret today. Of that, he was absolutely sure.

And then there was that gasp. Thomas's head snapped up to meet that sharp intake of breath, the syringe falling from his limp grip to clatter on the floor.

"Miss Baxter-!" He froze, his eyes wide as a child's whose hand was caught in the cookie jar.

Had he not locked the door? Was he really that desperate to cure himself that he hadn't taken the proper precautions? Why had she come? Why her?

Baxter slipped into the room, careful not to make noise even while breathing. She shut the door quietly behind her, face turned slightly downward. Thomas shut his eyes, wishing for strength and patience. Already he could feel himself sway. He was weak, and she was here. At the moment though, he felt safe enough to close his eyes. He knew what she was surely doing; looking at the fallen syringe, surveying his sickly appearance, giving an assuredly critical glance at the kit on the table-the one which promised so many things for just a simple price.

When he finally opened his eyes, she was staring right at him.

"Why?" she whispered, voice hoarse and tinged with sadness.

Thomas felt anger bumbling in his chest. He took a step forward, ignoring the way his body swayed on unsteady feet.

"No need to crow, Miss Baxter," he snapped in a perfect imitation of his usual behavior.

"I'm not." she replied, just as evenly. Her eyes flickered down. "I want to know where you got that syringe and why."

Thomas searched her face for ridicule and found none, much to his displeasure. Frustrated, he glared at her. If he couldn't have his secrets, then he could have his silence, damnit! In his intense glaring, he found his eyes fluttering shut. He blinked away the sudden fatigue. She would not see him weak! On unsteady feet, perhaps, but not begging for help. Not groveling on the floor.

"Thomas, you need help," she decided. "You look like you haven't slept for weeks and...you're swaying."

"I-" He opened his mouth to protest, to say she shouldn't go poking her nose into other people's business, that he was a grown man and he knew exactly what he was doing, that it wasn't what it looked like. But then the wave of anger was gone and replaced with an infinite fear. Please don't tell anyone-Don't lift up my shirt and find my bruises-Don't read the paper in the kit- Don't learn my shame.

"I-"

Baxter just barely kept his head from hitting the floor as his eyes rolled back and he fainted. He was a deadweight in her slight arms and she had to pause to catch her breath from the shock. She took a heavy step back, dragging his body partly to the bed. The glass syringe cracked under her foot.

A/N: Please review! I don't know if the characterizations are all that accurate, but I wanted to try! Thanks for reading.