Author's note~ I hope you enjoy.

Getting into his hammock was another long, painful test of his determination, and he managed it with minimal whimpers and whispered curses, pulling his blanket up around him, and over his head.

Desolate, defeated, he curled up as tightly as he could and cried silent tears until finally, mercifully, he blacked out into oblivion.

Everyone was suffering from a bit of post-party fogginess in the morning. Feasting, dancing, wrestling all added up to a whole bunch of lazy, groggy gladers. Even the keepers didn't seem to be in any particular hurry to gather their troupes and get to work on the daily agenda; they were too engrossed in burying their heads under their blankets and trying to catch a few more hours of sleep. It was fully mid-morning before the usually early rising boys finally started to come alive, stretching and grumbling and trying to will their brains back to working order. One by one, they began to rouse the others with the unmerciful mindset that if THEY had to get up and be productive, so should everyone else. A mildly hung over Minho stopped by Newt's hammock after waking the other runners, gripping the coarse canvas and giving a good, no-nonsense shake. He spoke in an intentionally irritating sing-song voice to the tightly wrapped blanket cocoon that he knew must contain his friend.

"Up and at 'em, Newt! You're sleeping the day away."

Newt's voice, hoarse and scratchy, emanated from the pile of bedding.

"Not today, Min. Mm'not feeling so great."

Minho laughed a little, shaking his head at the miserable voice.

"Too much of Gally's best last night? Can't hold your hooch? Come on, Newt. We're spending the day in the map room, not actually running. You'll feel better once you're up and moving."

"I can't. I right and truly feel like klunk. Sorry, I'm just not up for it today."

Minho's laughter died off, a look of concern shadowed his eyes as he tuned in to the truly desolate tone. Studying the small lumpy form closely, he realized that he could see Newt shivering despite the heavy covering that swaddled him.

"Hey, hey, what's going on with you? Should I go get Jeff, have him take a look-"

"No!...No, I'll be fine. I don't need a med-jack. I just need to sleep this off. Go on with the others. I'll be fine."

"Ah, well, if you say so." Minho said doubtfully, eyeing his friend balefully. In all the time he'd known Newt, the one thing he'd learned in a hurry was that the blonde dealt with pain in one of two ways; by being completely stoic and self deprecating, even if he was half-way dead, or by turning into a whining, moaning, constantly bitching pain in the ass. Despite his worry for Newt's health, Minho couldn't help but desperately wish that whatever ailed him this time would pass quickly...and quietly.

With a shrug, and one more wary glance, Minho turned away and went to join the rest of his crew.

Newt waited, holding his breath, until he heard the rhythmic footsteps fade away. He gasped in a lung full of air, hearing it rattle in his chest as he fought to not hyperventilate, as his trembling eased and a cold sweat popped up on his skin. Minho couldn't see him like this. No one could, but especially not his oldest friend. Not until he cleaned himself up, pulled himself together. Unwilling to face the world, still exhausted, and hurting everywhere, Newt managed another hour or two of fitful sleep before he just couldn't force himself to slip away again. Listening carefully, Newt peeled his blanket down enough to peek one eye out.

The coast was clear.

Sitting up as quickly as he dared, Newt brutally forced a cry of pain down so only a thready little whimper escaped, too quiet to be heard by anyone who might be around. His knees almost buckled when he shifted to his feet, but stubborn determination had him locking them before he could pitch into the dirt. He swirled the blanket around him like a shroud, pulling it up as a cowl to shadow his face from view and limping away towards the stream hurriedly, skirting any areas where the other gladers might be working or lingering. Despite his pain, he heaved a great sigh of relief when he managed to make it to the water without coming face-to-face with anyone else.

Leaving the blanket hung over a low branch, Newt slowly and painfully peeled off his clothes, pulling the cloth out of open wounds with a grimace as the sharp burn added another layer to his discomfort. Still holding the bundle of dirty, blood streaked garments, he winced his way into the stream and submerged himself up to the neck in the gentle cool water. Despite the stinging in his many wounds, Newt groaned in relief as the cool liquid caressing his skin began to sooth his abused body. As the water stilled beneath his chin the sun slanting down turned the surface into a lightly wavering mirror; he squinted at his reflection with disgust. In addition to the dirt on his face, dried blood from his torn and swollen lip covered his chin, and faint yellowish bruises marked the corners of his mouth, keeping company with a darker one high on his cheek. The rest of his face was, thankfully, undamaged, and Newt was relieved. In another day, the swelling would be down to mostly normal, and the bruises shouldn't be too noticeable either. Really, it could've been so much worse. He sank a little lower and drank like a horse, the water blissful on his raw throat.

While he soaked in the shallows he beat and ground his clothes against the sandy bank, pummeling the dirt, plant matter and dried blood from the fibers. Content in the numbing cool, he refused to leave the water until his teeth began to chatter. He wrung out his clean clothes and slung them on branches in the sun, moving much easier now, and reclined against a tree trunk to wait for them to dry. When the warm, clear day started to erase the therapeutic effect of the stream Newt splashed back into the water, this time conscientiously working to remove any remaining grime from his own body. With handfuls of sand (and no small amount of patience) Newt gingerly scoured the ick away, avoiding the most painful spots as best he could. He even scrubbed his hair, clearing out the sweat and bark dust. When he got out of the water for the last time, despite his horribly burning backside, Newt felt almost half-way human.

It was nearing dinner time once the sun had warmed him again, so he pulled on his now dry clothes and wrapped himself in his freshly-aired blanket, making his way back to his hammock. Walking was still agony, he still limped with every step, but he felt so much better now that he'd cleaned up and tended to his battered body a little. Still careful to dodge the others, he made it back to his bed without incident. Cocooned again, secure in his little canvas cradle, he was fully prepared to sequester himself until tomorrow.

Having gotten a good, restful sleep, Adrian spent most of the morning working on his little home. He threw together a rough latch and simple lock for his front door, made and hung curtains at his windows, lashed together the frames for a couple of wooden chairs and built thin cushions for the seats. He tinkered until around noon, figuring the rest of the glade would probably be ready to come back to life. Securing his door, he made his way over to the animal pens, grabbing a walk-and-go bite to eat from the cook hut on the way. He contentedly worked with the slicers on animal management and perpetuation for the rest of the afternoon, walking to dinner with them and wrapping up their conversation by promising their keeper, Winston, to assist in the building and upkeep of proper coops for the chickens and geese.

It had taken some hard arguing to persuade the boy that putting in the work required to keep a dozen of each alive and happy as layers would be more beneficial than wringing their necks and throwing them in the stew pot as soon as they were grown. It may take a week or two for them to come to their potential, but he fully intended to show the boy the upside of daily access to a couple dozen fresh eggs. Mentally drooling just a little at the thought of hot and hearty breakfasts, he toyed with ideas for how best to make a rudimentary meat grinder, contemplating pros and cons, possible problems and potential results. Some fat little sausages to go alongside those eggs would really hit the spot, he thought a bit dreamily, fantasizing a little while waiting in line to get his supper. They also have a good supply of salt, and no shortage of wood. I should teach them how to brine and smoke meat, too; it'll make it last longer and give it good flavor. Also, ham. Also also, bacon. Baaaaaacon. Bacon.

A sharp poke in the back woke him up, and he stepped up to hold his plate out for Frypan. Catching a familiar whiff of sweet and spicy, he grinned at the sturdy, serious boy as he dumped a thick sloppy sandwich and a blob of green salad on his dish. Wiggling his eyebrows knowingly at the cook, Frypan cracked a faint grin in return.

"Your fancy chicken was such a damn hit last night, I figured I'd re-purpose the leftovers. Made up the sauce you showed me, put us together some down and dirty bbq buns with greens. Looks like it's going down easy enough." The boy drawled, waving a lazy arm at the enthusiastically munching crowd already seated. Adrian couldn't help but laugh a little.

"You're the man, Frypan."

He took his food and wandered, finally spotting the familiar form of Minho in the crowd. Dropping into a seat beside him, he nodded greetings and applied himself to his meal, savoring the hot, messy treat and forking up the wilting but edible salad. He glanced around between bites, noting the general good mood and cheerful atmosphere that permeated the assembled gladers. One cheerful face, though, he couldn't find in the crowd. When Minho got up to leave, Adrian help out a hand to hold him back for a minute.

"Newt already been and gone?"

Mild concern and a hint of irritation passed over the keeper's face.

"Nah, not that I've seen. He's probably still in bed, the lazy shank. Wouldn't get up this morning, said he wasn't feeling great."

"Hmmmm." Adrian mused, intrigued by the conflicting emotions he'd seen flit across the boy's face. "Maybe I should go check on him, make sure everything's a-ok."

"I wouldn't." Minho cautioned, "He can get real whiny when he's under the weather, and kinda pissy. Trust me, it's best to leave him to wallow until he feels better."

"All the same," Adrian replied easily, "Better safe than sorry."

"You asked for it." Minho muttered, turning sharply and walking away from the man, clearly done with the conversation.
Unperturbed, Adrian finished his meal and wandered over to the rough shelter that housed row after row of hammocks. He'd looked in a time or two before, but had never needed to try and tie a specific bed to any particular person before. In this case, it was patently obvious which one belonged to his quarry; Newt's hammock was the only one currently occupied. He slunk silently up beside it, not wanting to bother the boy if he was sleeping comfortably. He touched a hand faintly to where he guessed Newt's shoulder would be under the blanket, and spoke in a soft, low voice.

"Hey Newt. You awake in there?"

The blankets groaned and shifted away from his hand. He took that as a yes, but still spoke gently.

"What's going on kid? Minho said you weren't feeling well."

"M'not. Go away, Adrian. I just want to sleep."

"You eat anything today?"

"Shuck off, would you? I'm trying to SLEEP." The words came out in almost a whine.

Shaking his head at the boy's petulance, Adrian made up his mind. He walked out of the sleeping shelter and into the open grasses of the meadow, taking only minutes to gather what he wanted. Not bothering to go to the med hut, he talked Frypan into letting him use the kitchen facilities for a little while. Less than an hour after walking away, he once again stood beside Newt's bundled form, this time holding two glass jars of liquid he'd cooled to lukewarm in the water barrel. He didn't bother with gentle tones this time, though, and nudged the hammock hard enough to have it widely rocking.

"What the bloody hell do you want?!"

"Brought you something." Adrian said, cheekily.

I TOLD you, I just need some shuckin' sleep! Why can't you get that through your bleedin' head?!"

"Well, this should help with that." Adrian replied, sedately, prying up the edge of the blanket (to Newt's sputtering outrage) and gently sliding the sealed jars beneath it, one at a time. "Magic soup and sleep aid, first jar, drink it all down. You'll still feel like garbage in the morning if you don't put something in your system tonight. Something mild for aches and pains in the second, half now, half tomorrow morning. Should help you bounce back."

"You...made this for me?"

"Nope." Adrian teased lightly. "I made it for some other whiny brat with a case of the sniffles. Couldn't find him, though, and I hate to waste it. Must be your lucky day."

The blanket roll shifted a little as Newt pulled the jars to his chest and cradled them in his arms, a little stunned at the unsolicited kindness of the gesture. Not quite knowing what to say, he tensed a little at the sudden seriousness in the man's voice when he spoke again.

"I'll leave you be for tonight, but fair warning; if you don't manage to get upright and moving on your own by lunch tomorrow, I'll be marching back over here and dragging your sorry ass to the med-hut for a check up. Whether you like it or not."

His chest tight with a sudden spurt of fear at the idea, Newt shook his head frantically without realizing that Adrian couldn't see the gesture. The thought of Adrian seeing him like this, the slightest possibility that he'd be able to look at him and just KNOW, terrified him right down to his boots.

"I'll get up, I'll be up!"

"Good. That's what I want to hear." Adrian said airily, putting his hand on Newt's blanket covered head and giving it a kind of careless, comforting rub. "Sleep well, kid, I'll see you tomorrow."

Then, just as quickly as he came, Adrian was gone.

Newt rolled to his back, propping himself up into a more seated position once he was sure he was alone. After confirming his solitude, he let the blanket slip down to his lap as he studied the two jars in his hands. In the watery evening light, one glowed a clear golden color, and the other swirled with little bits of chicken, carrots, onions, and whitish lumps that must be some kind of noodle. Though he hadn't even thought about food, he unscrewed the top of the soup jar and lifted it to his mouth, carefully chewing the softened chunks and swallowing the rich clear broth. His stomach, still clenched into a hard bundle of nerves and nausea from the night before, eased as the palliative effect of the simple chicken soup filled and calmed his guts, soothed his sore throat, and even left him feeling calmer and more settled.

It must've been magic soup.

He drank half the jar of painkiller, as instructed, then set the jars on the ground beneath him before he curled back up under his blanket, warm and cozy, and already starting to drift off. Thinking of Adrian's determination to take care of him, despite his (admittedly) cranky behavior, brought a little smile to his face. He felt a tiny spark struggling to grow in the darkness deep inside him; something warm and fuzzy at the man's refusal to leave him alone to suffer. His eyes fluttered closed as his lips formed the words he'd been too struck to voice earlier.

"Thank you, Addy."

He smiled faintly, finding his way into a deep healing sleep.

In the bright sun and easy silence of early morning, Adrian sat in front of the familiar medical building and worked in his oversize notebook. Relishing the peace and solitude, he carefully added detail to a realistic sketch of a water-loving iris, the picture coming to life beneath his colored pencils. Carefully recording the identifying marks and useful properties of the plant, he would be completely content to spent all day with his book, his thoughts, and the fresh forest air surrounding him. He hadn't had much time the last week or so to work on documenting his knowledge, and he missed the quiet time spent with pencil and paper.

His tranquility was shattered by the loud voices of two boys rapidly making their way towards the med-hut, too engrossed in their argument to notice him for the moment. The leader, frustrated, concerned, maybe even nagging. The runner, snarky, uncharacteristically bitchy, and limping. Well, at least he's out of bed, Adrian thought vaguely, continuing to shade a bloom in delicate purple.

"Look, I took a bloody tumble, okay? It's not the end of the world. I'll be fine in a couple of days if you'd just leave me alone to shucking relax!"

Adrian's eyebrows drew together in confusion and his pencil stopped moving as he looked up sharply. A tumble? Either the boy had some serious bad luck, or he'd been less than forthcoming about his health yesterday evening.

"Better to get looked at, just in case. You'll heal better with some help."

"I'd heal better with some sleep," Snapped Newt, "just leave me be, Alby."

"Really?" Alby asked, irritated. "So you'll hide in your hammock, miserable, making the rest of the guys around you miserable, then what? What about next time? A couple of weeks ago it was that swinging tree branch to the shoulder, a week before that it was a fight with a prickle bush. Before that? A bashed toe on a rock in the stream. Face it my friend, you've gotten pretty clumsy of late. It's better just to get looked at, get fixed up, especially now that we have better resources than we used to. The sooner you feel better, the less complaining I have to deal with."

"I don't need to be 'looked at', I just need a bit of a dust off and a nap!"

"Hey guys, what's up?" Adrian interjected, closing his book with a snap, cutting off the argument instantly. When Newt only sneered, face mutinous, Alby sighed, running a large hand over his clean shaven head.

"Newt apparently face-planted down a hill last night, banged himself up some. Which I wouldn't have even know about," Alby said with a trace of accusation in his voice. "if Minho hadn't been worried enough to send me to look for him when he wasn't in bed this morning. I found him hobbling back from taking a leak in the forest, and made an executive decision. Is Jeff here?"

"Sorry, you've missed him," Adrian replied, keeping his tone intentionally casual, getting to his feet and gesturing to the door. "I've sent him foraging, and he probably won't be back until this afternoon. I'm free though, I can take a look, patch him up."

"I'm fine." Hissed Newt, "Just twisted my ankle. No bleedin' big deal."

"In that case," Adrian answered smoothly, "this should be quick and easy. Step into the office, and we'll get you sorted out."

When Newt refused to move on his own, Alby rolled his eyes, impatient with the drama and stubbornness of his best friend. Taking his shoulder in a no-nonsense way, he forcefully steered Newt into the newly completed room in the back of the hut, ignoring the dragging feet and anger coming off the boy in palpable waves. Adrian stepped in behind them, standing in front of the doorway to block any potential thought of escaping.

"Let's see."

Newt crossed his arms over his chest petulantly, starting at the ceiling and giving them both a classic dose of 'the silent treatment'. Sighing deeply, Adrian turned to the leader. "I'm pretty sure I can handle one cranky boy on my own, Alby. Why don't you head back, carry on with your day? I'll straighten him out and send him back when we're done. No worries."

Alby nodded, staring hard at the pale, defiant boy who was currently ignoring him entirely. Stepping out of the room, he turned to his friend and offered a kindly, if insulting, order.

"Stop being a whiny shank and just deal with it. Get looked at, get patched up, get some sleep. You're shucking welcome."

With those encouraging words, Alby briskly walked out of the hut and was gone. Adrian quietly closed the door behind him, turning the rough latch to secure the door in place. For a long moment he simply stood, studying the furious boy in front of him.

"You gonna tell me why you lied? Either to me, last night, or him, this morning?"

Cold, angry silence rolled off Newt in waves. Adrian buried a sigh, digging into his vast well of patience, and kept his voice brisk and business-like.

"Don't want to be here? Fine, I get that. Don't feel like sharing? That's up to you. But the longer you piss and moan about it, the more you fight, the longer it's going to take. Buck up, buttercup. Tell me what hurts and we'll get this done quickly so that you can get out of here and get back to your day."

Newt jerked a shoulder with ill grace , uncrossing his arms and lowering his gaze to the floor in ill-mannered defeat.
Taking this as a sign of acquiescence, Adrian moved to stand directly in front of the boy. As Newt still refused to speak, Adrian decided to do a full check up and discern the damage himself. Using a firm but gentle hand, Adrian tipped the boys head up, carefully checking his face. An ugly bluish bruise cruised across his cheek bone, others in an ugly yellowish color smudged both sides of his mouth, and his lip was bloody from where he'd bitten it. Without asking, he ran his fingers lightly over the boy's scalp and the back of his head, satisfied when he felt no lumps or open wounds.

"Lucky for you, you've got a head like a rock. No damage there."

Newt snorted lightly in response, still refusing to meet Adrian's eyes.

Continuing his exam, he ran his hands down both arms, watching Newt's face for any change in expression. When he turned the pale hands to check the palms, angry red scrapes scored both palms, a typical injury found on those who've taken a fall. Stepping back a bit, he gestured at the new table the builders had made for him.

"Hop up, take off the shirt. We'll take a look at the rest, clean up the worst of those scratches, check your ankle. Then you're good to go."

Adrian stood back, matching his patience against Newt's stubbornness. After a long tense moment, Newt reached for the hem of his shirt and slowly peeled it off, dropping it on the floor and making no move to get on to the table. Adrian stepped around behind him, mouth twisting in sympathy. Ugly scratches covered the boy's shoulders, some with dirt and grit ground in. Dark bruises were visible at the top of his spine, and on on either hip, just above the waistband of his pants.
A vicious bite mark, deep enough to break the skin, showed clearly at the base on his neck. Adrian reached out a hand hesitantly, gently touching the skin beside it.

"What the hell..."

Newt was a blur as he whirled around, fist lashing out at the man. Adrian barely managed to move fast enough to avoid a broken nose.

"Don't touch me!"

Newt's eyes glittered with rage, with pain. With shame. His chest heaved as he took fast, furious breaths. Adrian studied the boy calmly, steadily. And he knew. His face showed none of the sickness and rage sliding through his own guts, his eyes didn't betray the pity and sadness he felt. His voice was quiet, soothing.

"You didn't fall this morning. I understand now."

"You don't understand anything!"

"I do." Leaving it at that, he held out a hand in a non-threatening way. "Let me help you."

"Fuck this!"

Newt rushed towards the closed door; quick but not quite quick enough. Adrian sidestepped in front of it, blocking the only way out. Furious, blind with it, Newt tried to shove the man aside. He might as well have tried to pull up a tree with his bare hands. Grunting, struggling against the still figure, his anger and bitterness spilled out of his mouth.

"You don't understand anything! Not a bloody thing! You have no idea! Get out of my way, you shucking slinthead!"

Newt's fist seemed to swing out with a mind of its own, plowing into Adrian's stomach. Once, twice, and again. The man made no sound, waiting, waiting until Newt could find himself again and realize that Adrian wasn't the enemy. The boy fisted both hands in the man's shirt, trying to pull him away from the door, snarling up into his face.

"Don't you get it?! I don't want you to touch me! I don't want anyone to touch me!"

"I know." The words were quiet, almost a whisper. The man's hands were hanging limp at his sides, where they'd been since he'd stepped in front of the exit.

The sincerity, the gentleness of those words finally worked their way into Newt's head and his vision cleared a bit, enough to realize what he was doing. Disgusted, appalled with himself, fighting for control, his leaned forward and rested his forehead on the man's chest, his breath hitching in his throat, shoulders trembling, hands still gripping the fabric of Adrian's shirt like a life line. The tears that had started to fall burned his eyes like acid, so he closed them in defeat. Moving slowly and with no sudden moves, as he might with a wounded animal, Adrian lifted a hand and gently rested it on the back of the boy's head.

"I know, kid. It's all right. I've got you. I've got you now."

Author's note~

To the guest that left the latest review;

The world we live in today can be a hard, ugly place.

The world of James Dashner's Maze Runner is a harder, uglier place than any of us could imagine living in.

Even here and now, the strong prey on the weak, the cruel rejoice in the suffering of others, and many would do unspeakable things, if given half a chance and an assurance that no consequences would befall them. In the dark, desperate world of TMR, this holds true as well. The last chapter is a firm driving force for several upcoming plot points; I couldn't justify taking it out or dumbing it down. The best I could do, in this case, was offer blatant warnings and very clear divisions before the worst of it. I did this in hopes of allowing those who couldn't (or didn't want to) read every little detail to get the gist without having to risk being triggered. While I understand and appreciate your viewpoint, I stand by what I've written.

Yes, it was hard, and ugly. There's a fair bit of darkness in this story, and will be more that's hard and ugly before this all wraps up. Hopefully, at the end of the journey, those who choose to read to the end will understand the choices I've made here.

And on to the next chapter.

~Ruby