This is a string of Maze Runner oneshots for a TMR Bingo Card I found online. Most of the chapters include Newtmas or Thominewt. I haven't written, let alone posted, fanficton for a long time though, so please don't be too hateful if you leave a review.

Please Enjoy. :)

(Disclamers)

I do not own The Maze Runner Series, nor am I affiliated with it/James Dashner.

All mistakes are mine, as I do not have a beta.

Chapter 1 : "Sharing a Bed"

As Newt walked into the infirmary, his limp was even more pronounced than usual. That was Thomas' first hint that something was amiss. He then noticed the sheen of sweat coating the blonde's forehead and the invisible weights that seemed to pull Newt down. Taking a closer look, he came to see the other's eyes, red as blood and as puffy as the pillow Thomas had under his head.

"You look pretty shucking awful there," Clint piped up from where he sat, taking the temperature of a sick Glader.

"Oh, bloody slim it, Clint," Newt shot back, a thick and natural hatred sticking to his tone.

He did look awful, Thomas concluded. Newt looked even worse than him.

The Glade had gone into an outbreak of new disease, unlike any Alby, Newt or even the med jacks had ever come across. They all assumed it was just another of the variables WCKED had decided to send in their brutal little maze expirament. Nevertheless, they all did their best to stay free of it. Unfortunately, Thomas had become one of the disease's first victims. He and the handful of other Gladers who had contracted it had been forced to quarantine in the infirmary, but even with the added effort, people were still getting sick left and right. They were running out of beds to put them in.

Newt had been aware of his own sickness from the beginning, but chose to ignore it, claiming he had things to do and a Glade to run. He almost thought he had fought it off by sheer willpower until he woke up that morning feeling like a pile of klunk with legs. That was when he decided to give up and admit himself, and that the reasoning for how he ended up in a room of 'red-eyed shanks trying to keep their breakfast down', as he had so kindly referred to the group, not a few days before. Now he begrudgingly found himself as one of them.

"Sorry, Newt. You'll have to buddy up to a bed. We've got more shanks than we know what to do with at this point," Jeff interrupted, putting a stop to the argument before it began. Newt was usually the one to put an end to whatever disagreement took place, but the medjack knew that, as sick as Newt must have been feeling, he would likely be the one to start them.

"Fine," he responded after a moment, turning his attention away from Clint, "I'll just bunk with Tommy here."

Thomas sat up slowly and almost a bit sluggishly. His head pounded in a sharp plead to lie back down, but he ignored it, making room for his friend.

"How long have you been here?"

Thomas thought. "A couple of days, I guess. It makes it hard to keep track of time when there's only one window and about a dozen… shanks between it and me." The Glader slang almost sounded like a question on his tongue.

Newt laughed softly under his breath. "Minho was right. You do sound bloody stupid when you try talking like us."

"Whatever," Thomas frowned.

Hours later, when night had fallen over the Maze and the doors had long since closed, the Glade's newfound disease wasn't the only thing keeping Thomas and Newt up.

"Bloody move over, you shank," Newt pushed on Thomas.

"You move over. You're a freaking stick. You don't need that much room," Thomas pushed back.

"Watch it, Greenie."

"I've been here for over a month, I'm not Greenie anymore."

"Just slim it and move over, Greenie."

"I said don't call me Greenie," Thomas insisted, jamming his elbow into Newt's ribs. It earned a sharp groan from the blonde.

"That's it!" Newt had had enough with being sick, but more importantly, he had had enough of Thomas at the moment. With a hard shove to his side and loud thump on the floor, Thomas found himself sprawled out awkwardly on the wooden floor.

"Alright, Tommy," Newt's whisper had gained a false sweetness to it, "I'm going to go back to sleep now. Sleep tight. Don't let the bloody Grievers bite."

Thomas wondered briefly if Grievers even had any mouths to bite with.

The morning had the two in better shape, their mood and health lightened by good hours of sleep. They weren't the first to wake up though, and were hence subject to what followed because of it.

"Hey wake up, you shanks. You need to get a room or somethin. I'm sick of looking at you two doing that."

Newt kept his eyes shut to the morning light and in favor, held on to his last moments of sleep. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be out in the Maze figuring a way to get us out of here?" He recognized Minho's voice the moment he heard it.

"Haven't you heard the news? Half of all the runners are sick. And that's including yours truly and your little teddy-bear over there."

"What?" Newt replied unintelligibly.

Minho laughed in response before breaking out into a fit of coughs.

Newt opened his eyes and looked straight ahead to see Thomas still asleep, wrapped up in his arms. He faced Newt, his breath softly brushing up against the older Glader's neck with every exhale he took. A hot blush spread up to Newt's face as he remembered Minho was watching him, and likely every other sick patient awake in the room.

"I said, move over, Greenie."

With that, Thomas found himself pushed to the floor again, awaking to a room full of laughter and a red-faced Newt.