So, this has been in my head since I finished the series so I just had to type it up. I hope you guys like it.

It had been three full months since they had escaped WICKED for the final time. It all still felt surreal to Thomas. He, the Gladers, and the two hundred or so other Immunes had settled into a new life in their secluded corner of the world, building enough homes to house all of them and creating a government of sorts. Their wooded field was beginning to look like a small town, and everyone seemed to be settling into a routine.

At times, Thomas felt overwhelmed and unsure of what to make of his new situation. The only life he had known before was one of constant turmoil, lies, and change. It didn't seem real yet that that life could be over for good.

His fellow Gladers seemed to share his sentiments. The memories of their former lives stayed with them, day and night. He knew that many of them had nightmares, and he had gone into Minho's room multiple times in recent weeks after waking to his friend's screams. He, himself, sometimes had dreams of Grievers chasing him through the Scorch and masked figures tying him down to a table under blinding light to do who knows what horrible thing to him.

But outside of their memories, life had gotten better for them in many ways. Thomas was surprised by how well they were governing themselves and working together, considering the fact that none of them had ever had a good example to go off of. He figured that it worked in the same sort of way that it had in the Glade; they did what they had to in order to build a society.

They had a job rotations board with a list of things that had to be done each day. The list included things like building projects, hunting, and gardening, as well as more minor tasks like keeping the kitchen tidy and collecting firewood. Each day, all of those capable of working were assigned a different job. This was mostly to keep them from getting bored with the same thing day after day.

On this particular day, Thomas was in charge of collecting water from the well they had built and filtering it so it was suitable for drinking and cooking. It was physical work, but it was nothing that Thomas, as a former Runner, couldn't handle. Even so, after about twenty trips from the kitchen to the well and back again, he could feel the wear on his body.

It took him a little longer than usual to get to the well this time. It was usually about a five minute walk through the woods behind the kitchen until he came to the clearing where the well was. This time it took him almost ten. When he reached it, he put his bucket down and leaned against the stones on the top of the well. He took a minute to stretch his tight muscles and take a sip of water from the bottle he carried. He would be glad when he could call it a day and go back for some of Frypan's pork chops. But knowing that there was still at least an hour until dinner would be served, he picked up the bucket again and sent it down into the well.

Thomas didn't notice the large rock slip from the top of the well until it was too late. In a split-second reaction, he threw his arms up to try and protect himself, but the rock came down on his head and sent him falling to the ground. A white-hot pain seared through his skull and his vision went fuzzy. He tried to sit up, but the world was spinning like crazy and he didn't know which way was up and which way was down.

So he let his body relax, his head hitting the ground and his brain throbbing painfully. Everything began to turn black. He blinked slowly a few times in an effort to stay awake, but every time his eyes closed it was harder to open them again. After a few moments, he finally stopped trying and succumbed to the pain.

After what seemed like a few seconds, Thomas opened his eyes again. He was surprised to find that his head didn't hurt nearly as much anymore; he only felt a dull ache on the top of his skull. He reached up and felt a bump where the rock had hit him, then pulled his hand back down and saw only a little bit of blood. Feeling confused but pleased about his quick recovery, Thomas slowly sat up and looked around.

He was lying right where he had fallen. He could hear distant voices coming from their little town; the sounds of laughter and friends calling out to each other echoed through the trees. It seemed as though he really hadn't been knocked out for very long, since nobody had come to find him yet.

He had been just about to get up and retrieve the bucket from the well when a voice startled him.

"About time you came to."

Thomas froze, every nerve in his body on high alert. He knew that voice. And he immediately questioned whether he'd imagined it in his head, because he hadn't heard it in over three months. And though logic told him he had to have imagined it, his senses told him something different. So he slowly turned himself around toward where the voice had sounded from.

If he hadn't already been on the ground, Thomas would have fallen over at the sight in front of him. Standing a short distance away from Thomas was a tall boy. He was thin, but muscular. He had his hands in his pockets and his head cocked slightly to one side, his blonde hair falling over his eyes a little. His deep brown eyes were locked on Thomas.

It was Newt.

And he looked as well as Thomas had ever seen him. Newt was clean from head to toe, and so were the clothes he was wearing. He had no bruises or cuts, and his face was no longer gaunt with illness. Thomas also saw with a jolt that there was no evidence of the bullet that he, himself, had put through the boy's forehead. The biggest difference, though, was in Newt's eyes. They held no trace of the madness that the Flare had brought on as they continued to stare at Thomas.

Thomas wanted desperately to believe that he wasn't dreaming; that, instead, Newt's illness and death had been the dream. But he just couldn't. It didn't make any sense. It wasn't at all possible that Newt could be standing there before him. He had to be dreaming.

But it still jarred him to see his friend, looking so alive and so real. And if it was a dream, it certainly didn't feel like one.

He finally attempted to speak. "W-what..."

Newt raised an eyebrow. "That's it?" he asked, sounding a little amused. "That's all I get?"

Thomas still couldn't stop staring, dumbfounded, at his friend, but he finally managed to get a sentence out. "Am I dreaming?"

Newt smiled now. "Leave it to you not to blindly accept what you see. But I think you'll be able to figure that out yourself." He took a step toward Thomas, who was still frozen on the ground.

"This... this is impossible," Thomas muttered. "You can't be..."

"But I am," Newt said. "For now. I'll have to go back eventually."

Back where? Thomas couldn't help wondering. He'd never really thought about what happened to a person after they died. He shivered, and Newt spoke again before he had the chance to say anything. "Would've come sooner if I could have."

It was unnerving to Thomas, how casually Newt was speaking. It was as if he hadn't just come back from the dead, or appeared to Thomas in a dream, or whatever was happening. But Thomas tried not to think about that; instead, he focused on what his friend was actually saying. "Why couldn't you?" he asked, voice shaking a little.

"Had to give your brain time to relax after all the klunk you went through," Newt explained. "Couldn't have you thinking you'd lost your mind, could I?" He took two more steps in Thomas' direction.

Thomas tensed, and then suddenly he was overcome by every ounce of guilt that he had felt since Newt's death. Guilt over the fact that he, Thomas, had worked for WICKED and built the Maze and paved the way for everything that had happened during the Trials. Guilt over the fact that he had pulled that trigger. Guilt over the fact that Newt's death was entirely his fault.

"Newt," he croaked, "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry."

The blonde looked confused. "Sorry?" he repeated, "What are you sorry for? I came to thank you."

"Thank—?" Thomas was taken aback again. "But... I..." Thomas broke off, finally tearing his gaze from Newt, unsure if he could bring himself to say it. "I killed you," he finished weakly, a hint of self-loathing in his tone.

"You did exactly what I bloody asked you to do," Newt said. He paused for a long moment before speaking again, more quietly this time. "I always knew you would."

Thomas' eyes snapped up to look at his friend again. He found that statement incredibly hard to believe. Killing Newt had been the very last thing on earth that he had ever wanted to do. "How?" he asked.

Newt came toward Thomas again, stopping right in front of him this time. The blonde knelt down so he and Thomas were at eye level before he spoke. "You care about people, Tommy," he said, and Thomas' heart skipped a beat upon hearing Newt's nickname for him. "You're extremely loyal. And I always knew you were my friend. Knew I could trust you. Knew you would understand why I wanted you to do it."

Thomas blinked a few times. It was all he could do. He was so completely overwhelmed by what was happening. He felt as if he couldn't move.

It was as though Newt could sense this. The blonde stood up, and then held a hand out toward Thomas to help him up. Thomas stared at it for a moment, afraid that if this was a dream, he would wake up before he could touch his friend. As unlikely as this meeting with Newt had been, whether it was really happening or not, he didn't want it to end. But then Newt raised a concerned eyebrow at him, and Thomas reached out and grabbed the blonde's hand.

It was solid and warm in his. He felt the strength that Newt used to pull him to his feet. He was hit with an indescribable feeling. Newt wasn't just a figment of his imagination. Thomas was touching him, and he felt so real.

Thomas still didn't understand how this could be happening, but he no longer cared. He threw his arms around Newt's neck, bringing him in for a tight hug. He felt Newt's arms wrap around his waist, fingers digging into Thomas' shirt.

It was all Thomas could do to hold onto his friend. He buried his face in Newt's shoulder, feeling tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. All he wanted in that moment was to have Newt in his arms forever. He was terrified that the boy would disappear if he let go. He remembered the blonde saying that he would have to "go back" at some point, and that knowledge made the tears spill from Thomas' eyes.

"Tommy," Newt spoke up eventually, pulling back from their embrace and gripping Thomas' shoulders, "Listen to me. I want you to try to forgive yourself."

Thomas hadn't been expecting anything like that. He stared at Newt for a moment, trying to process the thought of it. "I can't," he answered.

"You can," Newt said.

"I can't, Newt!" Thomas raised his voice, distress clear in his tone. "It's bad enough that I actually pulled the trigger! But if it weren't for me, you never would've gotten sick in the first place. You were right. I could've stopped the Trials if I really wanted to. But I put you in the Maze. I had a hand in planning everything that happened to us... to you. How do you expect me to forgive myself when it's completely my fault?"

"Forget what you did before you arrived in the Maze," Newt said firmly. "You were a totally different person then."

"But it was still me," Thomas insisted. "I can't change what I did."

Newt stared at him for a moment before speaking again. "If it weren't for you, that virus would have devoured my brain. I would've lost myself completely. I can't begin to tell you how terrified I was of that happening. Life would've been hell and I wouldn't have had any way out." The boy paused, looking at Thomas more intensely than he ever had before. "You saved me. And I could never repay you for that."

Thomas closed his eyes. He understood what Newt was telling him. But as much sense as it made, as strongly as Newt felt about it, Thomas still didn't feel capable of forgiving himself. "It is so hard to get through a day here without you," he said quietly. "Every single time I look at Minho, I think of you because he has no idea what I did to you. If he ever found out..." Thomas couldn't finish his sentence.

Newt brought his hands up to hold Thomas' face, his thumbs brushing over Thomas' cheeks to wipe a few tears away. "Tell him," he said. Thomas immediately started shaking his head, but Newt pressed on. "It'll be a huge weight off your shoulders. You'll feel better."

"He'll never understand," Thomas said.

"He will if you make him listen," Newt told him. "Tell him what I wanted. Tell him everything I've told you. He may not admit it at first, but he'll understand."

Thomas shook his head again, staring down at the ground. "I can't..." He drew in a shaky breath before continuing. "Losing you was the worst thing that's ever happened to me," he admitted quietly, hands clutching at Newt's arms. "I can't lose him, too."

"Tommy, look at me," Newt said softly. Thomas slowly raised his eyes to meet the blonde's. "I know you have it in you to forgive yourself. I'm not saying it'll be easy. But please try. Please. Do it for me."

A sob threatened to escape Thomas at those words. He buried his face in Newt's chest, not even caring that he was quickly becoming a trembling mess. He felt Newt's fingers in his hair, rubbing small circles on his scalp and at the nape of his neck. He let himself cry, clinging to Newt as if his own life depended on it. He realized in that moment that he would give anything in the world to have Newt back with him, alive and well.

All too soon, Newt pulled back to look Thomas in the eye. "I want you to have something," he said. He reached into his pocket and then placed something small in Thomas' hand, curling his fingers around it. "This is to remind you, whenever you need it, how thankful I am for you. And that you'll never truly lose me."

Thomas opened his hand and saw a small spearhead made of stone, a piece of twine wrapped onto the end where the spear's handle would have attached. He suddenly remembered Newt carving it while they were in the Glade.

Thomas looked back up at Newt, who was still staring at him.

"I believe in you, Tommy," Newt said. He pulled Thomas close and placed a lingering kiss on his forehead. Thomas closed his eyes and leaned into Newt. His body immediately relaxed when he felt Newt's arms wrap around him tightly. He suddenly felt very tired, probably due to how emotionally spent he was. His mind began to drift away from him, and he fell into a deep sleep in Newt's arms.

When Thomas woke up, he was on the ground. The sun was starting to set, so it took his eyes a moment to adjust and take in his surroundings. He was still near the well. There was still a bump on his head.

And he was alone.

Thomas sighed and ran his hands over his face. As real as it all had seemed, it had only been a dream. He should have known. Newt was dead. And there was nothing that Thomas could ever do to change that.

As he shifted to sit up, he felt something sharp stab his leg. Groaning a little, he grabbed the spot where there would surely be a bruise the next day, right near his pocket.

Then he froze in realization.

He shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out its contents. His breath hitched.

In his palm was the stone spearhead.