Disclaimer – I disclaim!
Intrepid
Chapter Six – The Dead
Nick and Alby had been more patient than Minho had expected, but that still didn't mean he wanted to talk by the time they came around.
There had been a full hour of peace and silence after Liz had scampered out of the clinic, her tail tucked between her legs. Something about that bothered him more than it should have. From what he had seen of her, she wasn't the type to be intimidated or easily frightened and she definitely didn't back down from confrontation. Nick had told him all about how she had stood toe to toe with Alby on her first day, which was no easy thing to do… and also probably not the smartest. Alby wasn't the kind to forgive easily and he never forgot.
Still, Minho thought she was brave, spectacularly stupid sometimes, but brave. Sure, there was the massive panic attack she had, but when she came up out of that Box standing tall and staring at them all without shaking like a leaf, Minho knew one thing for certain: she hadn't been afraid.
At least not like the rest of them.
By that alone, she had unknowingly earned a sliver of Minho's respect. The rest, well, he'd have to see.
So when she started looking at him the way she did in the clinic, and then saying that klunk about how his life mattered, how he was important, spitting out the kind of thing you only say to a person if you really know what you're talking about, and then running away like a scared bunny—he didn't buy it. Not one bit.
He also didn't buy her claim that she knew nothing about getting out of here. Maybe she didn't remember right now, but something deep inside of Minho told him that she knew. And now… with what he found in the Maze, Minho was planning on having a nice, long chat with her and she wouldn't be running away this time.
He wouldn't let her.
"So, he just… dropped dead?" Nick asked and the Runner jolted out of his thoughts. Nick was leaning against the clinic door, arms folded, his green eyes bright and red and lined with shadows. His face was very pale.
Minho just looked at him for a second before clearing his throat. "Yeah, there was no warning."
"What happened next?"
Alby pulled a chair up next to the table that Minho was still lying on and he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, face grim. Flashes of blood—red, dark, rich—flickered in Minho's mind before he shoved them away, not quite ready to face that. He took the extra time to make sure his voice was steady.
"I was holding him, kneeling on the ground, shaking him, trying to wake him up I guess, and then the Griever came. I didn't even hear it, maybe I was distracted, but I had no idea it was there. It moved so fast and I just reacted. It was going to—" Minho stopped and breathed and started again, voice low, "I used Frankie's body as a shield. It was either me or him and he was already gone—he was already dead. If I hadn't of used him, it would have been my blood watering the Maze right now."
His gaze turned to the ceiling, not able to look at the two other boys as they registered what he said. He didn't want to see the looks of disgust, he felt enough of that for himself.
"Minho, we don't blame you," Nick's voice cut in but Minho just frowned and continued staring at the ceiling, eyes narrowing. "You did what you had to do to survive."
Eyes flashing to Nick's, he pinned the leader to the wall, a fierceness in his voice that had never been there before. "That isn't enough. Surviving isn't enough."
"For now it is."
"And what about when it isn't?"
Nick went very still, his hands clasped behind his back and Minho watched him lean back and press them hard into the wall. He said nothing.
"Minho," Alby spoke suddenly, "you said it was a nest."
"Yes."
"Are you positive?"
The Runner shrugged. "I don't know. I can't be one hundred percent positive. But it looked like afterbirth or something and when I got close enough… it moved. It was the same stuff I've seen left behind by a Griever when they've been in the area, same smell, but more. Everything was more. Neither Fra… neither Frankie or I could tell for sure. But that's my best guess."
Alby turned then to Nick and the two shared a long look, the kind of look that said more than their words ever would. It went on long enough that Minho glanced between the two of them, trying to catch on. Finally, Nick cleared his throat, eyebrows knitting together.
"I've had a theory. The Grievers… what do we know about them?"
"Aside from the fact that they kill you on sight?" Minho dead-panned.
Nick did not look impressed.
"Think, shank."
The Runner returned his gaze to the ceiling, brows furrowed. The tentacles of a migraine began to latch onto the spot just under his left eye and his chest felt like it was close to tearing with every breath he took. He was partially looking forward to how much pain he would be in later—pain was a good distraction from everything else. Blinking slowly, he spoke carefully, "They're part machine. They make a mechanical sound when they move, but they're not just a machine, they're more than that. They're animal, a creature of some kind but they also aren't fully an animal. I thought before that they really only came out and were active at night, but maybe we were wrong."
"You said as soon as you found the nest and realized what it was that Frankie dropped dead for no reason, right?" Nick pushed himself off the wall with his shoulder and Minho nodded. "I think the Grievers are the key to something really big here. Every time we've gotten close to figuring something out about them, someone dies. It's like they want to scare us off," Minho didn't have to ask who they were. Everyone knew. "That's where my theory comes in. I think the Grievers have been genetically engineered to be part animal and machine—but something is changing, natural evolution maybe. Survival of the fittest, the strongest. What if the Grievers are becoming more animal than machine because the animal DNA is overpowering the mechanical make up? Meaning… what if they were losing control over them?"
"Then I'd say we're screwed."
"I'd say we're getting closer."
Minho stared incredulously at the other boy, a flare of white hot anger shot through his veins and he rose his head off the table slightly, ignoring the pain lacing through him. "Closer? Closer as in more people are dying? You're excited about that?"
Nick flinched and Alby's head turn slightly towards the other leader, eyes piercing. Nick held up one hand, his voice softening. "No, I mean closer as in things are changing. With the new Greenie—"
"Liz." Minho corrected.
There was a long, awkward moment. Nick nodded, slowly, giving Minho a funny look. "… Liz. With her coming up and now the nest, I think something is happening and I want to find out."
"But who says it's something good?" Alby spoke up for the first time and both boys turned to him. He waited, pausing to make sure he had their full attention. "Who says this change is good? Things have been working here and now, with all of this, we have real casualties of real people to consider. That isn't something to be taken lightly."
"No one is taking it lightly, Alby," Nick said in a voice like he had had this argument many times before. But the other boy rose swiftly from his chair, the wooden legs scraping loudly on the floor as he stood.
"How many more Gladers are going to have to die before you start believing that?"
Nick looked at Alby, hurt and something akin to betrayal flashing across his face, before he turned and left the clinic without a word. The door slammed shut behind him and Alby and Minho were left in silence.
"Shit," Alby muttered and turned to Minho. There was something much harder, harsher than the rest of them had, etched in the details of his face. "Is there anything else you can think of, Minho? Any other detail?" The Runner's mind immediately went to one glaring issue, but he kept his mouth shut and shook his head. Alby stared at him for a moment longer, eyes searching his for the truth, before nodding. "Okay, get some rest. You're not running for a while."
Alby got up then and left, not waiting for Minho to respond. The Runner watched him leave, wondering if he had been right to not tell him about what he saw in the Maze. But Minho had always been the type to go straight to the source, and he would rather ask her himself about what he saw on the walls.
Burying someone was never easy. Burying someone without having a body to put in the ground was worse. Worse because even though it was real, it didn't feel like it. There was no closure, no proof, and everyone was left wondering the how and the why.
The entire Glade had gathered, one silent, solemn assembly of hurting and confused people. Liz was among them and it was one of the first times that she had ever seen everyone together in the same spot. She wondered if death, in its strange way, somehow brought people together.
Wondering these things, she felt an odd calm wash over her, she wasn't relaxed, but the calmness was so heavy that it was nearly the same thing. She felt like she was there, seeing everything, hearing everything, feeling everything, but that she was also somewhere else at the same time. The fear that had been in her since that first day, since she got her first glimpse of the massive stone walls locking her in and the loneliness that ate at her and the loss of not just her memories but who she was, still wrapped around her and she was fairly certain that it always would, but she was calm, too, underneath all of that.
Nick stood before all of them, Alby at his side and Newt just beyond. The three of them held torches alight with a fire that cast them all in a soft glow so different from the harshness of the situation. In one hand, Nick held a chisel and hammer. After a moment of silence, he turned and handed his torch to a nearby Glader and then moved to the wall of names that Liz knew so well. His every movement was stiff and controlled and Liz knew, somewhere deep down, that Nick was not the kind of leader that would bend, no matter how much the wind blew, but looking at him tonight, she thought he might break.
His hands were steady as they lined up with Frankie's name. She had already known where the boy's name was, had run her fingers over it multiple times—over every one of their names. Everyone held their breath, watching, waiting, and then he began the slow, painful process of carving a line through Frankie's name.
With every hammer, every sound of the chisel in stone, the finality of the situation hit her and it hit her hard.
Her gaze swept over the gathered boys and she saw some familiar faces. Adam, who she always had to remind herself was so much younger than he believed, seemed to have aged even more now, harder. His face was like ice, cold and striking and mean and so much of what he shouldn't be but so much of what this place had made him.
It shouldn't be like this, Liz thought fiercely.
They were children, every last one of them, but only by age now. Whatever childishness they had had at one point had been quickly snuffed out. It was cruel. Frankie deserved better than the death he received. He deserved better than having his memory be a name slashed out of a wall. It could be any of them next. It could be Newt or Myles or Frypan.
It could be her.
This was the first death she experienced since coming to the Glade and something told her that it would not be the last and it would not be the most difficult.
She nearly staggered under the weight of the realization but caught herself before she could fall to her knees. A traitorous lump steadily grew in her throat, molten liquid threatening to overflow making it difficult to get any air to her lungs. She squeezed her hand into a fist, her nails digging into the meaty part of her palm leaving sharp indentions, and she focused on swallowing back down the lump and simply breathing. A part of her was embarrassed, hoping that no one was noticing the meltdown she was having, she hardly even knew the boy. There was a sharp pang of relief when she saw that no one was paying attention to her.
No one but the one she wished wouldn't.
Of course he would notice.
His eyes were honed in on her, his head the only one not turned to the wall. She tried to stare straight ahead, tried to ignore his look, but she couldn't for very long. She had run from Minho the other night and she reminded herself now that this was one of his friends, he didn't deserve her cowardice.
Swallowing, she met his gaze and when she did, something froze over deep in her bones. It was like Minho was seeing straight through her, and, for whatever reason, that was terrifying.
He didn't look away, not when Nick finished carving through Frankie's name, not when the different Gladers gradually began to drop back to the Homestead one by one, not even when it was just the two of them standing there, staring at one another.
Liz wanted to drop her eyes, wanted to look to the ground, but something told her that he was testing her—testing her resolve. How much could she bear? How much could she stand and still continue standing? Whatever happened, Liz knew, right then, with frightening clarity, that she did not want to see that mocking look come into his eyes. She didn't want to give him a reason to laugh at her. Jaw clenching, teeth grinding together, she sniffed once, quick and decisive, and turned her body slightly, but it was enough to meet him full on.
Minho's mouth curved, not quite a smile and not quite a smirk, as he kept his gaze fixed on her and Liz got the oddest feeling that he'd watch her forever if she'd let him.
And that brought back the fire. A match struck inside of her chest, its flames licking their way down her fingertips until everything was burning. Minho stepped forward.
Careful. Something whispered to her.
Minho stopped a few feet in front of her, the air thickening quickly between them until she felt like she had to raise her hand to brush it away.
"How much do you think his life was worth?"
The question caught her so off guard that her mouth fell open and she looked up at him, eyes going wide. He looked back at her, his brows knit over his dark, dark eyes. For a few seconds they just looked at each other and then Liz regained control of herself and closed her mouth, eyes flitting to the wall of names and the freshly slashed out Frankie.
He spoke again, his voice sounding careless and his eyes anything but. "You said last night that my life is worth more than my death."
"I did," she admitted quietly. "Every life is important," she swallowed hard, "no matter how short."
There was quiet for a few seconds and he just looked at her. She saw the war in them, raging, ever raging; the battle for hope, life, truth.
"Then why don't the people who put us in here believe that?"
She opened her mouth, her heart pounding and she knew it was about to jump out of her mouth onto the ground in-between them, bursting and covering them both in blood and fire and all that she was and she couldn't stop it. "I don't know what they believe. I don't know why they put us in this place, why they stole our memories, why they take and take and take and take," Liz's teeth were bared, her voice and body shaking. "But maybe… maybe that's why we're here. Maybe we are supposed to change everything, to prove them wrong. Maybe it's us that need to show them that people are important, that life is precious and not…" she spread her arms around to the Glade, "this. Maybe when we figure that out, that's when we become free."
"You think if we do that, the way out will magically appear?" Minho's voice was dripping with disbelief and Liz shook her head, something that had been crawling under her skin finally settling into place, molding into her very being.
"No. I'm talking about a different kind of freedom."
"What other kind of freedom is there?"
She licked her lips and stared hard at the boy who was gradually taking steps closer to her. When he was near enough that she had to tilt her head back to look into his eyes, her voice went soft. "The truest kind. Freedom of your soul."
"You talk like a poet." Minho was close enough that she could almost feel the rumble in his chest as his voice deepened. A small, sad smile graced her lips. She wondered what it would have been like to meet this boy somewhere else, what he would have been like.
His jaw ticked twice, his eyes dropping to her lips and Liz felt something in her start to panic as the moment went on too long. She dropped her head, biting her bottom lip, knowing, and so thankful, that he couldn't see the expression on her face.
"I'm sorry," she murmured, slowly moving back a step, putting space between them. When she looked up, Minho's face was unreadable. "For your friend."
It was amazing, really, how quickly the shutter fell behind his eyes leaving his face completely expressionless.
"He was fifteen," Minho said and turned to the wall, walking towards it. She could tell he was in a lot of pain by his overly careful movements, and she thought again, of the irony of both of them being so wounded—perhaps in more way than one. He scuffed his shoe against the wall, holding back a grimace. "Stupid shank."
Liz was quiet and Minho turned and slowly slid down to the ground, pain etching in every crevice of his face until he sighed, fully seated on the ground, stretching his legs out before him. She shifted from foot to foot, not really sure what to do. "Are… are you going to be okay?" Minho raised his eyes and said nothing. "Do you want me to stay?"
There was a long stretch of time where she was certain she didn't breathe at all and then he slowly nodded. She walked over, making sure to put a good two feet between them before she carefully sank to the ground, back against the cold stone. They didn't say another word and she pulled her knees into her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs and resting her chin on her knees letting the discomfort in her ribs flow through her. She needed the aching, it helped to keep her anchored and here when it would be so much easier to float away. Her eyes eventually went to the stars, bright blueness reflecting their flickering light.
"I saw something in the Maze."
She didn't look at him, didn't respond, and he continued, his voice carrying an emotion she couldn't quite name.
"Something that I think has to do with you."
At that, Liz turned her head. "What do you mean?"
"On one of the walls, deep in the Maze, something was trying to send a message. I think it might have been a Griever."
"What did it say?" She asked, her voice breathless, fingers clenching around her legs, hugging them tighter into herself.
Minho waited, eyes staring off blankly into the distance. She watched his throat move as he swallowed. "It said, 'Her'."
The crickets chirped loudly in the grass around them and Liz couldn't move. If her mind had been spinning before, it was nothing compared to the hurricane that was set lose in her thoughts at that one, simple word. Her. She didn't know what it mean exactly and she tried to force down the unfounded fear that reared its ugly head right in the center of who she was, but she couldn't, not entirely; because she knew, in her gut, that this was about her and that she was supposed to do something; something bigger than this Glade, something bigger than herself.
But what?
It all came back to the Maze and the boy next to her. She knew he was important, they all were, but he was, specifically. She knew that.
She just didn't know why.
"Any idea as to why a Griever has been carving that out all over the Maze?" It was a question, but it wasn't, too; the way Minho said it made it feel more like a challenge and her mind flashed to the look he had given her earlier—the test.
For what seemed to be a very long time, she just looked at him, shock and confusion and anger bubbling up in her stomach as a sick realization settled on her shoulders.
"You think I had something to do with all of this?" She asked, a tiny tremor of something that wasn't quite anger and wasn't quite sadness but a mixture of the two shaking her voice.
Minho turned to her then and the two feet between them seemed suddenly much closer. "Did you?"
"How dare you ask that," she spit out, her voice truly shaking now. "How dare you."
"Maybe you should answer."
"No," her voice was an edict. "I didn't." And then the dam was broken inside of her and she felt tears well up in her eyes and she hated that she looked and felt so weak. "How could I? I don't know anything, I don't remember anything!"
"You have to know something," he countered, "I saw it on your face just now, you know something."
"I don't remember," Liz pronounced every word slowly and with finality. Her anger made her stupid and reckless and all other thoughts fled her mind, the unjustness of her situation waving a big, red flag. Bitterness was like a bile that she couldn't stop coming out of her throat. "Maybe you should go back and ask your Griever friend. I'm sure they'd love to explain the situation. In fact, maybe he'll finish you off just like—"
"Don't." Minho bit out, his voice deadly in its softness and for some reason it made Liz pause. His fists were clenched and he was trembling all over, and Liz remembered, instantly, that she was the only girl in a Glade full of boys she did not know—boys who could be very dangerous, boys who didn't have many rules, boys who, somewhere deep down in her heart, she was afraid of.
As quickly as she could with her ribs throbbing, Liz stood and strode away from the wall, away from Minho.
It was the second time in two days that she had run from him.
This time, she thought he might have deserved it.
He sat very still for a long time after Liz had left, fuming and then, later, thinking. Things hadn't quite gone as he had planned. She had a biting tongue, but then, so did he; both getting them in trouble when they were in pain. Tonight being a fine example. One thing he realized very quickly though was this: the girl wore her heart on her sleeve and even if that heart was quick to boil in fury, it was also passionate and naïve and truthful and something deep down in him believed it was good.
It made him afraid for her in this place. The Maze… the Maze had a way of wiping out all of those things from a person.
He should know.
Minho could ask her anything and he was fairly certain she would tell him, if not with her words than with her eyes. She wasn't lying when she said she didn't remember, he knew that now.
Leaning back against the wall, the wound on his chest making it too painful to get up and walk back to the Homestead, Minho felt something very much like resolve settle like a weight in his stomach. If she couldn't remember on her own, then he'd have to find a way to help her.
"Whatever I did, I'm sorry, and whoever said I did it is a liar."
Liz didn't bother to look up from the spot where she was shredding handful after handful of innocent grass. She had known who it was the moment the shadow had fallen over her, his tall, gangly form unmistakable. She ignored his comment and continued, albeit not happily, in her plant shredding.
Sitting outside of her tool shed, she technically had one more week of resting before she was going to be fully cleared by Clint to continue trying out at different jobs. It had been three days since Frankie's funeral, three days of her participating in Glade life, but minimally. Three days of taking her meals away from the kitchens and in or near her tool shed. She didn't go out by the walls, just in case a certain Runner happened to be there—like he usually was now that he was also out of commission. She figured she must have been giving off a very good "back away" vibe because so far the only Glader brave enough to come near her tool shed was Newt.
The bastard.
She wasn't entirely sure what it was about the whole situation that struck her straight in her core. Maybe being blamed for a death of a boy who she hardly met in a place she knew nothing about by one of the few people who she had been somewhat friendly to did it.
Yeah. That was probably it.
"Why the long face, Greenie?" Newt plopped down on the ground next to her and she continued ripping and shredding. "Have mercy on the poor grass, girl. It didn't do anything to you." Pausing, only her eyes moved, flickering over to Newt with a glare so fierce that he flinched a little. "You're not on the rag, are you?"
Newt sputtered when he got a handful of grass and dirt in his face.
"Fine, I get it. Sensitive subject. But I thought we were past you being the silent, isolated Greenie," Newt waited, looking at her expectantly and Liz said nothing. "No? That's okay then, I like to talk."
And talk he did. Newt went on and on about what he thought the Glade would be like if it were run by a bunch of moody girls instead of egotistical guys and how lucky that one guy would be if he were thrown into a place surrounded by girls, or how dead he would be by the end of the first month. He then discussed, in detail, his favorite food and why it was his favorite and how it came to be his favorite and what color he thought would make mashed potatoes more interesting and he wondered out loud why boys always seem more itchy than girls and if girls were perhaps just as itchy as boys but were somehow innately trained to not scratch as often. When he started in on how much he enjoyed days off because it meant he had hours to just sit and talk and do nothing and how he could do that all day every day, especially when he had as good of a listener as Liz, she snapped.
"Go away."
Newt was draped grandly on the ground, his body covered in pieces of grass as Liz had been slowly trying to bury him alive. He raised his head slightly and gave her a dopey grin, "Nope."
"Don't you have something to do?" She threw another handful of grass at him, almost getting some in his mouth.
"I already told you," he rolled his eyes, his voice that of one explaining something to a small child, "it's my day off and I fancy your company."
"Liar."
"Only about the important things," the blond winked at her and then came up on his elbows. "So, whose demise are you plotting and can I help?" Liz merely looked at him and bit down on her tongue. Newt made an 'oohing' kind of sound and sat up fully, showering his legs in grass.
"You can't help me."
"Why not?"
"I think that plotting murder falls under the category of intentional harming of another Glader." She said, very flatly.
Newt shrugged, a grin still playing about his lips, "exceptions can be made."
Just then, Minho walked by, treading too close to her territory than was comfortable, heading towards the wall, his own spot of isolation that he had been holing up near. He hid his physical pain much better than she ever could, but if she looked closely enough (which she did, even though she'd die before she admitted that), she could see it. It was in the subtlety, the hunch of his shoulders, the way he seemed to walk almost on his toes, the slight angle he held his plate of food.
The Runner turned and looked at her as he passed and Liz froze. She didn't return the stare but when he left, she resumed killing the grass with gusto. Newt, however, had lost his smile and had his chin in one hand.
"I see."
Liz glared at him. "No, you don't."
"You know, if he's upsetting you this much it's because he matters enough to affect you." Liz didn't say anything, but her hands stilled for a second and Newt pressed on, scooting closer to her so he could lower his voice. "Liz, a lot of times when people are hurting, they take it out on everyone around them because sometimes hurt people only know how to hurt other people. It's all they can do. Minho," Newt paused and though Liz hadn't turned to him, she was listening. "He's been through a lot and he's not exactly the best when it comes to social skills, but he is a good guy."
"And why would I believe you?"
Newt bumped her shoulder lightly but it still sent a sting through her middle. "Because I'm your friend."
Everything seemed to stop as the words registered in her mind. Something about that sentence seemed so true, so pure that it even hurt her a little to hear it. She knew, at some level, that she was and would always be alone in the Glade as the only girl. But there was another truth. She also had Newt.
And maybe a few others, she thought as the shouts of Frypan echoed distantly across the Glade.
"Thank you." The words felt lame coming out of her mouth, but she meant them with everything in her.
Newt, ever scarily observant, seemed to pick up on that and he bumped her shoulder again. But this time he made her hiss loudly and his eyes widened comically as he apologized profusely. When she didn't answer right away he offered himself up for eternal servitude and Liz was tempted to take him up on that and when the blond boy noticed the slight softening of her exterior, his apologies got even more ridiculous to the point that Liz started to laugh, albeit softly but truly, and then couldn't stop laughing.
When she finally calmed down, Newt was grinning happily, "you're alright, Greenie."
"I like you, too, Newt."
"Damn straight, all the ladies do."
"Which ladies are you referring to?" Liz asked flatly and Newt flapped his hand at her.
"Minor detail."
Liz laughed again and this time it rang through the Glade like a bell.
The next day, Liz was back in the clinic, this time she was mashing an herbal mixture into paste that was supposed to be a new form of pain relief that Clint had discovered. Part of her was more than slightly suspicious that he was recruiting her simply to do the jobs that he didn't want to do because the herbs stank to high heaven. But she continued smashing and grinding, adding small bits of water when the paste became too thick like Clint had showed her to do.
He had checked her ribs once again, the bruising was changing colors to an ugly vomit green with splotches and speckles of purple and blue, all of this was a good sign apparently. Liz wasn't so sure that anything so ugly could be good, but as long as Clint told her that she was in the final stretch of required rest and recovery, who was she to argue?
There was something nice about being in the clinic when no one else was around. It let her work in peace and quiet and she could sing that same song as loud as she wanted without worrying about anyone overhearing. She still didn't know all of the words, but what she did know stirred something deep within her.
Her mind began to wander as she went through the motions, drifting more and more to a certain Runner and his words and his stares and his fire. She couldn't shake it and her thoughts had been getting worse ever since her talk with Newt. She hadn't forgiven Minho, not in the least, and she didn't think she would be entirely kind to him if she saw him again soon, but she was understanding more and she was also sharply aware that her own words had been cruel that night as well.
It was a strange mixture of stubbornness and guilt that swirled in her. She might forgive him, if he apologized. But she wasn't going to apologize first, that she knew for a fact. She guessed he wasn't going to either, if the stories that Newt had told her about Minho over the last few days were all true.
Liz didn't really know where that left them and didn't have any more time to think on it as the door to the clinic opened making her pause in her mashing and look up in question. Her eyes widened slightly and her fingers tightened painfully on the large bowl of smooshed herbs in her lap as Minho walked halfway inside. He hesitated, taking her in, eyes sweeping from her feet all the way to her face slowly and she saw a slight hardening there.
"Where's Clint?"
Her voice came out softer than she expected. "On his way to the Bloodhouse, Seth cut himself open when a pig panicked… Do you need anything?"
"Fresh bandage." He said simply and Liz's eyes dropped to his chest and back to his face faster than he could blink.
"Oh," she said, feeling stupid for some odd reason. She shrugged, not sure why he was still there, staring at her, "I don't think he's going to be back for a while so…"
She trailed off and waited for him to get the hint. But Minho stepped fully inside the clinic and shut the door behind him. The click of the handle was so final and Liz's heart began to beat faster. He walked halfway towards her, then stopped, eyes glancing around the room before landing on her once more. "You do it."
Liz nearly choked on her own spit and she was positive that her heart actually skipped a beat. Minho, however, remained calm as ever, his eyes roaming over her face, like he was categorizing everything, and then he smirked. "Scared?"
"Hardly," she said, voice flat and completely unimpressed. She stood abruptly, placing the large bowl of half way smooshed herbs on the table next to her and brushed her hands off on her thighs. She walked to the shelves, knowing all too well where the bandages were by this point, and she grabbed one of the larger ones, the medical tape, and a pair of scissors, the whole time fully aware of Minho's eyes trailing her every move.
Gathering her supplies, Liz walked over to the examination table and dropped them unceremoniously. Pursing her lips, her face completely serious, she turned to Minho, raising one eyebrow. "Take off your shirt."
Her request had a satisfying sort of effect as she saw the minute widening of Minho's eyes and a clear flash of surprise. She kept her face carefully blank and crossed her arms over her chest despite the pain it caused.
Sensing a challenge, Minho tipped his head to the side a little and nodded more to himself than her. He locked eyes with her and then his fingers rose purposefully slowly and he began to unbutton his blue cotton shirt. Liz watched, her eyes staying on his as his fingers worked their way down one button at a time, the white bandage standing out vibrantly against his tanned skin. Her eyes flickered down before she could stop them, taking in the slope of his neck, the muscles flexing and moving in his chest and then the sweep of his abs looking cut out of stone. His movements were overtly slow and the rational part of Liz's mind knew it was because of his injury, but another, smaller part that burned brightly knew there was more to it—that this was a game and not one she could afford to lose.
She didn't bother looking away from his body even as the shirt slid from his shoulders, the sinewy tendons stretching along muscle, and Liz wondered what she had gotten herself into but she was in too deep to back out now.
Minho stood there, waiting, his shirt in a heap on the floor, and Liz fought like hell to keep her face from flushing when she met his eyes and nodded, "Get on the table."
He didn't smirk at her, didn't even look smug. It was something else in his dark eyes and that something else sent chills along her skin. Minho climbed on the table, his powerful legs dangling over the edge and he leaned back on his hands and he stared.
Swallowing and licking her lips, Liz had to step just barely between his legs to reach the bandage. Her left hand went to shoulder before she could pull back and think and she nearly flinched at the heat of his skin, but then used him to steady herself as her other hand went to the bandage and peeled off the tape. It came away with a little effort and Minho's face contorted just the slightest as it pulled at his skin and something about that made her grin and it wasn't entirely fair.
"Sorry, did that hurt?"
"No." He said, voice lower than she had ever heard it and Liz finished removing the rest of his old bandage quickly, his eyes never once leaving her face.
She grimaced a little, looking at the stitched wound that was only slightly less red and puckered than it had the first time she had seen it. It must be killing him and he hardly seemed to notice. Liz frowned, her fingers naturally reaching out and ghosting over the stitches as soft as a whisper.
"I'm going to get some more salve," she explained, straightening and moving to the shelves. "Clint was saying you need to watch for infection."
"That klunk stinks."
"Really? I think it improves your smell." She smirked as she came back over and opened the canister, taking a healthy handful and smearing the salve over the stitched up gash. She was not gentle, and though she was sure he could feel the pain, there was something else, too. It was a twisted sort of glee rising up in her belly when she saw the goosebumps spreading over his skin where she touched him.
His reaction emboldened her because as she finished covering the wound with the salve, her fingers trailed a little lower down the ridges of his stomach and the muscles contracted at her touch. His hand grabbed her wrist, snatching it away like lightning. She said nothing, but her eyes met his and his were darker than she had ever seen them.
"Tickles," he reasoned and she nodded, like that made sense.
Leaning over him, she grabbed the bandage and lined it up with the stitches, the salve making it stick nicely as her hand ran across his chest and lower. Keeping her hand pressed against him, right over his heart, she could feel it pounding; he was very solid and warm, she realized distantly.
"Hold this in place," she said softly and Minho eyes stayed on hers, searching her face, as his hand slowly rose and covered her own.
Her breath hitched, stuck somewhere between her heart and her throat, and Liz stared at him for the longest time.
Shit.
She was supposed to be angry with him, was supposed to not be speaking to him; how the hell did it end up like this?
Her lips parted and his eyes flickered at the motion and Liz knew she had to end this game now. It was too dangerous. Deliberately, she slid her hand out from under his too hot palm and grabbed the tape beside her, quickly cutting off long strips and then lining the edges of his bandage, careful not to touch him for too long.
When she was done, she straightened and took three big steps back, looking only at his face despite his own wandering eyes. Sucking in a breath, she took the old bandage to the garbage and threw it away, telling him matter-of-fact, "Come back tomorrow and get that changed again."
"Will you be here?"
Her head snapped up but Minho was in the middle of putting his shirt back on, working the buttons much faster this time around.
"Maybe." She said, feeling oddly vulnerable.
Minho finished buttoning his shirt and looked up at her. He made a move like to step towards her and then stopped, hands falling to his sides. "Thanks, Liz."
She bit her lip and nodded and Minho turned and was out the door. As soon as it shut her eyes closed and her hand came up, shaking, to cover her mouth, the room closing around her in a burning silence.
What the hell had she just started?
Outside, Minho raised a hand and rubbed his chest, feeling a fire that hadn't been there before.
AN – Wow, big response last chapter—huzzah! Glad you all enjoyed Liz and Minho… I've been dying to finally get to the point that I could write them together. It was a shifting point and now a lot more of this story is going to be focused on these two, so that's fun. And the last bit of this chapter was super fun. Heh.
Thank you everyone for the reviews! It is really encouraging. I hope you're looking forward to the next chapter… because with what I have planned it might be my favorite so far. But don't freak if the update comes slower. I have to do some traveling for family, so it will be about two weeks from now, but no fear!
Thanks again everyone!
Later Gladers,
- RevolutionNow
