Disclaimer: I don't own anything except the story twists and Kelle.
!WARNING!: This Chapter contains graphic descriptions, continue WITH CAUTION!
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-….*...- Chapter 24: -….*...-
-….*...- A Slip of the Tongue -….*...-
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The morning's silence fills the dreadful passages of the Maze, all except the one Kelle occupies. She drags her feet, boots scuffing against the hard cement ground with the effort she makes to get back to the Glade. The doors had already opened, and she knew that she should have been back already. But the pain, festering in her body now that all of her adrenaline was nearly gone, is working against her.
Behind her, droplets of scarlet lead a gruesome trail throughout the Maze, and yet she ignores it. She knows she needs to bandage the wound. The fountain of blood is pouring out of a slice across her right arm, seeping down her tan skin in a mocking spiderweb-like pattern, and dripping from her pale fingertips. It's far too deep to leave open, but she can't afford to stop and delay her return. Her chest was already doing a very good job at that.
Once assuring all of the Grievers had crawled back into the nasty hole they crept out of, she immediately became aware of how hard she had actually hit one of the unforgiving walls when a Griever had knocked her off her feet. A mistake she will ashamedly admit to because of the exhaustion that had been dragging her down towards the end of the night. The impact had knocked the meaning of air right out of her lungs, making it impossible for her to tell if she heard a crack or not.
She knows there's damage though, by the way the edges of her vision become a haze when she moves too fast and the feeling of her head swimming every other minute. If she's not careful it could become detrimental, and she wouldn't be able to treat it in the Glade. The Med-jacks aren't equipped to handle any kind of internal damage to her core.
So she stays astutely aware of how impossibly tight her chest is, making it difficult to fill her lungs with a normal breath without fireworks of pain going off like the 4th of July. If it gets any worse, she would know that there is in fact internal bleeding, and without the means to treat it, she could bleed to death. So her pace is excruciatingly slow.
Besides, the muscles in her leg were a joyous third party of pain as well, turning each step she takes into a ragged limp as the tissue swells and contracts with the protest against the fact that she is still using them after the long 24 hours of non-stop running. She can't blame her body though, especially after the hell she puts it through.
And so she ignores the blaring desire to move faster- to rush into her home's arms. She knows Newt's waiting, and that he'll wait for however long it takes until she returns. Yet, as she rounds the last corner of the hall, before the Glade, she can't help the urge to move a bit faster when she sees the blond-headed boy.
And yet, ignoring all commands and logic, the Brit rushes forward, meeting her halfway. To her dismay, the boy wraps her up in one of his firm embraces, strong arms tightening around her torso and squishing her chest in all the wrong ways.
She cries out, the sound breaking in the air and echoing off the high grey walls. His reaction is immediate, jumping away and allowing her to hunch over. Her claret-stained arm swiftly wraps around her abdomen to protect the damage, but without the support of his body, she sways on her feet. Yet his palms quickly go to her shoulders, steadying her. She whimpers, the agony slowly dying down.
"I'm sorry, Love," he whispers.
"It's okay," she rasps, small panting breaths barely able to keep her sustained, "I'm okay."
When she lifts her gaze to stare into those familiar brown pools, her heart wrenches at the fear and sorrow she finds there.
But he nods, lips deforming into a frown, "Tell me how I can help."
She takes a slow wobbling breath, straightening her back and biting her lip against the agony. Her casted hand lifts to grip his shoulder, using his strong stance to help her along, "Just let me lean on you."
She can see the dissatisfaction in his features at the fact that he can't physically walk for her, but he doesn't comment on it. And with her new walking aid, they both traverse the final stretch of the Maze together, coming to greet the group of boys that had gathered.
Thomas, Chuck, Minho, and Gally stand, watching her with a form of awe in their eyes, some with their mouths agape.
"Careful boys, leave those mouths open for too long you might catch flies," She snorts but winces when her chest pinches against the action.
Being the first to shake out of his stoop, Minho steps up to her, large palm coming to rest gently on her shoulder. The relief that fills his being, pours from the dark windows of his eyes, and she drinks it up. They offer a wordless exchange of gratitude that the other is still in existence before he lets his arm fall away and steps back.
Gally speaks next, burly arms crossed over his wide chest, "You look like-"
"If the next word that comes out of your mouth isn't Klunk I'll beat you over the head," she narrows her eyes.
He huffs, but grins, "Looks like she's still kickin'."
She rolls her eyes, and shakes her head, ignoring the way it makes her vision sway as she turns to the other two who still have their mouths parted. Her heart breaks into pieces when meeting the glassy-eyed stare of the little curly-brown-haired boy. His wide chocolate doe eyes are tightly fixed on the vibrant stripes of crimson still pouring down her arm.
"Hey," she calls, leaving Newt's support and limping closer to the boy, casted hand lifting to cup his round ample cheek, "Look at me."
His shaking brown orbs finally meet her soft gaze, a small droplet falling down his skin.
She brushes the little tear away with her knuckle, and her head tilts in sympathy, "I'm okay."
He glances into her reassuring azure pools before he sniffs loudly, forearm wiping his eyes and nose. He nods, shoulders heaving as he takes a deep breath, recomposing himself and shifting on his feet. She offers one more smile before she turns to the last boy, a question immediately falling from his lips without giving her a chance to say anything.
"Do you always come out this beat up?"
Her lips quirk in a small smile, "I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't."
His brows furrow, features pinched in confusion, "How do you do it?"
Newt steps closer to her, warm palm resting in the crook of her casted arm, "Tommy, let her be she's-"
"It's alright Newt," she interjects, offering the blonde a reassuring glance while placing her bloodied hand atop his.
The Second-in-Command sighs but nods for her to continue.
"We've told you that all of the boys are only able to remember their names," she explains in gentle and quiet detail, "But I was capable of remembering training. It's faint and somewhat vague, but that's what I use to survive the nights in the Maze."
The Greenie nods eyes going a mile a minute while he tries to process the new information.
"I wish I could talk more," she sighs, returning to Newt's side, "but we have a meeting to attend."
"Are you sure you're up for that?" Minho asks tan hands propped up on his hips while he watches the conversation.
"No," she shakes her head, casted arm grasping Newt's shoulder again while she leans against his firm frame, "but I want to get it out of the way before I rest."
"Good that," the Brit agrees, nodding to the Keepers, "let's go."
Splitting off from Chuck and Thomas, the four make their way to the Council Hall, a heavy silence weighing between their shoulders. She grits her teeth through the pain, blood-smeared arm cradling her abdomen while she limps across the green plane of the Glade. Her fingers dig into Newt's shoulder, practically clinging to him for support in order for her to walk. But he doesn't complain, and her heart aches at the pinch settled deeply in his brow, knowing that her condition hurts him just as much as it hurts her.
Arriving at the crudely made building, she removes her palm from the boy's shoulder, to his dismay. Taking a slow, steadying breath, she straightens herself on her feet, weight balancing out on wobbling legs. But she forces everything down, the pain, the ache, the tiredness, and the dizziness, composing herself under a mask of confidence.
"Are you sure you're up for this?" Minho inquires.
Opening her eyes, she nods, "Yes, I'll be alright."
Being in agreement, they all enter. She keeps the signs of pain under her reins as she gradually steps into the stone circle, her battered presence changing the atmosphere and halting all conversation.
Newt passes her, sitting down on one of the rocky seats and patting the spot next to him.
She shakes her head muttering under her breath so only he can hear, "If I sit down I don't think I'll be able to get back up."
His eyes widen in horror but he doesn't pursue the matter, allowing her to turn back to the room of boys. Her gaze meets the dark gaze of their Leader, stomach becoming unsettled in her throat at the concern twinkling in his midnight eyes while they stare at the blatant streams of blood oozing from the gash in her bicep.
She nods to him in affirmation to which he calls out, starting the meeting.
"Alright ya Shanks let's begin," Alby folds his hands in front of him while seated across from her, "K, you doing alright?"
"I'm good," she nods, gesturing halfheartedly at her mangled arm, "this is just from being tired."
His eyes narrow in skepticism but chooses not to pursue the matter, directing the conversation further, "Alright, what did you find?"
"Nothing out of the ordinary," she carefully places her hands on her hips, mimicking a certain Runner, "I tested all the Grievers with every thorough test I could think of, and I found nothing out of sync in their behavior patterns."
She catches Minho's head lower in shame out of the corner of her eye and so she continues, "but I'm still concerned about the Maze. Without understanding why the Griever showed up in broad daylight yesterday, we can't trust that it won't appear again."
"Are we sure that there was a Griever in the first place?" A voice inquires from the top of the room.
Her soft oceanic orbs narrow into fierce stone slates as she directs a menacing scowl in the boy's direction. She finds Clint staring back at her with a pitiful attempt of defiance masking his blatant fear.
"What are you implying?" She seethes, her voice smooth but powerful like the rushing water of a mighty river.
"I don't know," he shrugs, attempting to play down his comment, "maybe Minho and Ben had too much of Gally's drink the night before."
The Runner jumps up from his seat, "How dare you accuse-"
She stops him mid-stride and sentence with a warm palm planted flat against his chest. His wild eyes snap toward her but soften immediately upon seeing the simmering wrath in the raging waters of her orbs. She motions for him to sit back down, which he obeys, reluctantly slinking back to the position he was holding before. She turns back to the Med-Jack like a deranged animal, her fierce orbs radiating daggers that could kill if looks were capable.
"I find your audacity to accuse the Keeper of our Runners with such carelessness quite bluntly insulting," her nostrils flare, wanting nothing more than to punch the Med-Jack in the face, but she holds her ground, "do you really think Minho would risk my life for something that he 'might' have seen?"
She observes the boy stutter in his accusation, a glare he should really put to rest directed her way.
"If you're questioning your trust in him, then I'll have to question your place in this meeting as a Keeper," she crosses her arms over her chest, the pain from the action unnoticeable to her because of the situation.
He huffs, shaking his head, "And what right do you have to kick me out?"
"Considering the fact that I designed this entire system, I have every right to remove you from any authority in this Glade," She gestures to the room.
His eyes widen, and his features grow pale, but his mouth stays screwed shut.
She glares at him in turn, daring him to object, but to his benefit, he doesn't say a word. Deciding that addressing Clint's mistrust isn't enough, she turns her razor-sharp gaze to the other people in the room, "Now that we're clear of my power here, I demand to know if anyone else has doubts about Minho's credibility."
"No?" She inquires, some of the boys not even daring to look her in the eyes, "Good. Because let me make myself perfectly clear..."
She paces the circle, jabbing a finger at the boys, "If any of you are questioning what happened yesterday in the Maze, I can not trust you to lead the Gladers, and I'll have no other choice but to remove you from your positions in this Council."
The silence presses against their ears, tension as thick as bread and as easy to cut as butter.
"Understand?" She demands, receiving quiet nods of affirmation from everyone.
"What Kelle says is true," another commanding voice speaks up, and she turns to the Leader, thankful he is taking her side in the matter, "we can not run this place with order if we don't trust each other."
She offers her wordless gratitude in the nod of her head before speaking up again, "Good, now that the air has been cleared, I want to send Minho into the Maze again."
The Runner's head shoots up, and he stares at her dumbfounded, "Are you sure?"
"Why?" She quirks a brow at him, "Are you not up for it?"
"No, I'll run anytime you ask," he shakes his head, "but is everyone else okay with that?"
"If they trust you, they should be," The Runner and Keeper of the Griever's gaze wander to the other teens in the room, each of which offers a reassuring gesture of their trust in the Asian.
He sighs but nods, "Good that."
"Then you'll run the Maze today. Take Ben with you while I recuperate, and see if our Greenbean is capable of becoming a Runner," she sighs, the rage boiling in her blood slowly dying out and allowing her to feel the deeply settled pain in her muscles again.
"Isn't that my job?" Minho intercedes.
"Not necessarily," She shakes her head, uninjured arm waving around in aimless motions, "I designed the tests that Alby put you through to see if you could be the Keeper of the Runners."
She glances in the dark-haired boy's direction, "So trust me, I'll be able to tell if he is cut out for the job."
The Runner nods in confirmation, a small lift tickling the corners of his lips.
But Gally's deep voice draws her attention, "Are you sure Thomas should become a Runner after just coming out of the Box?"
She sighs, finding that keeping her pain under wraps is progressively becoming harder with each passing second. Her eyes crinkle at the edges while she wraps her bloodied arm gently around her abdomen in a trivial attempt to support the damage before she responds to the Builder's inquiry, "The Greenie is very curious. He has an interested and discerning head on his shoulders. I fear if we don't give him a job that he feels is important, he'll do something out of desperation that could get himself killed."
Gally's fingers brush against his chin in thought while he nods in understanding.
"Once again, you always know what's best," Alby states, and she glances in his direction, noticing the small twinkle of understanding in his dark eyes.
Yet, she shrinks under his gaze, feeling that he can see right through her strong facade where the agony and her injury lie. The weakness she knows he sees itches the back of her mind, wishing that the boy didn't know her as well as he did.
And to her despair, he directs in that unearthly calm leadership voice he gained from their pasts, "And now that everything is settled, K, go get yourself cleaned up. You've earned it."
She takes a steadying breath before nodding in agreement, "Good that."
Using that as his que, Newt stands from his seat behind her, coming to her side to guide her out of the Council Hall with his warm palm in the gentle curve of her back. The two leave in silence, shutting the door behind them. Standing outside now, she can't hold it any longer, a whimper wriggling out of her throat. Her fingers, too curious to hold back, find the edge of her shirt, lifting it off her tan skin to reveal her left ribcage. Filling the plain of scarred skin is a storm of swarthy violet, angry red, and deep navy blood.
"Bloody hell, Love," Newt gasps, arms lifting to cradle her presence but never landing on her frame while his wide hazel orbs stare in horror at the damage, "Why didn't you say anything?"
She snivels, dropping her shirt before tipping into Newt's collar, head nestling into the nape of his neck while her casted arm clings to his shoulder for support. But the boy hesitates, unsure where to put his hands unless they land on another injured part of her body that he can't see. But while they stand there, she drinks from his existence, the deep earthen sent of soil filling her senses with the boy, and she draws a small amount of strength from it.
"I'm tired," She whispers.
"I know, Love," He nuzzles her head with his own, hand gently brushing a few stray strands from the side of her face to tuck behind her ear while he caresses her jaw, "Let's go get you cleaned up."
She swallows, taking one last breath of the boy before she pulls away, allowing the Second-in-Command to carefully guide them back to her Hideaway.
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-….*...-Later that Morning-….*...-
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The biting sting sparking down the nerves of her arm makes her hiss, shoulders curling against the rugged cloth Newt uses to brush against the gnarly wound. He slows his motions at the sound of her distress, and she watches him while he does his work.
Kneeling at her side, the Brit treats her deep flesh wound with the utmost care, a pinch of determination settled in the deep fold of his brow. His fingers are slow, intentional, and gentle, wiping the crusty flakes of dried burgundy blood from her tan skin and ensuring that the cut is thoroughly cleaned before he takes the snowy white gauze to bandage it up.
No words are spoken, but her heart aches. His sparkling ebony orbs that reflect every protective intention she cherishes are rimmed in sorrow, glassy under the morning rays that bend through her open window. Carefully, her casted hand reaches for him, knuckles caressing the smooth plain of his cheek before she cups the gentle swell in her calloused hand. His eyes meet hers, concerned and searching.
Her thumb brushes under his eye while she offers a sad smile, and they stay there for a few moments, the two staring into each other's souls, drinking from the other's existence.
She eventually leans down, using her palm on his face to tip his head up while she captures his lips in a slow, tender kiss. His hand lifts to cradle the back of her head, cherishing her display of affection. Once they pull apart, she presses her forehead against his.
"Thank you, my Sunshine," She whispers, eyes shutting to recapture the breath he stole from her lungs, "I'm sorry you have to do this so often."
His fingertips trace the smooth curve of her jaw, brushing her damp silken strands from the side of her face in the process, "So long as you always come back to me, I'll always be willing to tend to your wounds."
She sniffs, nodding in affirmation before she straightens her back, allowing the boy to return to his work, her thoughts traveling away from her while she stares off in a daze.
"Come, Love."
It's Newt's voice and gentle hand tugging her up that draws her attention back to the present, thoughts having been lost in the details of everything that had happened the night before. She takes a moment's glance at the neat bandage the boy had wrapped around her arm, after cleaning the wound. She slowly stands, legs trembling beneath her while the edges of her vision blur.
"Slowly, does it," he encourages, arm placed before her for her to lean on, "Let's go get you settled."
She nods and allows the boy to lead her out to the sweet meadow of her Hideway. The lustrous grass beams in the sun, swaying in the gentle morning breeze to a dance that is all its own. Her bare clean feet pad across the soft soil of the earthen path, grounding her into this pleasant reality with the Brit at her side. They cross the crystal clear brook that sparkles like diamonds, the wood of her bridge creaking under their weight. Passing a few bundles of flowers that fill the gentle space with a pop of color, she breathes in their sweet aroma.
Upon finding a seemingly perfect spot, the Second-in-Command helps lower her to the ground. She grunts, the muscles in her chest pulling the wrong way, but she manages to sit down in the folds of squishy moss. Newt sits down next, and she watches his damaged leg bend stiffly through the action.
"What do you want me to do, my Moonlight?" he inquires.
She hums, eyes drooping in unimaginable exhaustion, "Just stay with me until I fall asleep."
"Okay," he nods, motioning for her, "come here."
With excruciatingly slow movements she slowly lies back, head coming to settle on his lap while she lets out a large labored breath. She shuts her eyes against the brightness of the sun, and his fingers immediately find the smooth plain of her forehead, caressing it and occasionally running them through her damp freshly washed wavy hair.
Her body seems to melt into the soil, the past hours she spent awake ruthlessly dragging her closer and closer to the arms of sleep. And with the steady presence of Newt at her side, she quickly slips into slumber's embrace.
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"
The blood rushing in her ears drowns out every thought she's capable of making. Screams echo in her head bone-chilling and shrill. She gazes at the morbid scene painted in front of her. The green of the Glade has been washed in thick heavy blood that leaves a metallic flavor in her mouth. Her skin grows porcelain in color, bumps rushing over it in waves of terror, while her eyes travel the chaotic scenery.
Grievers scramble around the Glade, and fires, with their smoke, eat at the once peaceful space with vengeful flames. Kelle's shoulders heave with the loud breaths that whistle from her nose, watery azure orbs finally noticing all of the carnage. Countless boys lie, dead, in growing pools of claret wretched blood, bodies mangled beyond recognition. A whimper passes her lips without her permission, eyes blurring with a friendly sensation.
"No," her bottom lip trembles, her muscles slackening, her legs growing weak as her eyes trail over the massacre created by the spider-like creatures. Her knees eventually land on the soft blanket of grass, her body slouching under the pain bubbling up in her heart. Fear and failure crush her soul under a mountain of agony and she doesn't fight it.
She sits there for what seems like hours, silent dots of crystals dripping from the smooth curve of her chin. Until a familiar cry of terror rips her attention up.
"Kelle!"
She leaps from the ground, Newt sprinting towards her with a Griever chomping at his heels. She's not sure what she's going to do, considering the fact that she has no weapon, but she can't watch him die in front of her again. Her hand reaches for his, fingers stretching to grasp his own, but they miss. The Griever's razor blades for teeth clamp down around his chest, tearing through his flesh and spraying hot streams of blood onto her features while ripping the boy away from her.
A guttural scream bursts from her throat as she hurls forward.
"
Her eyes snap open and she lurches up, a weakened cry falling from her lips. She gasps, air not fitting into her throat properly while she looks around her hideaway. The throes of her nightmare cling to her being. Her heart punches against her bones like a fist against cement, pounding in her ears like a drum and wringing her chest up with a tightness that makes it difficult to breathe through. A bomb of agony suddenly explodes in her side at the impulsive movements she had just made. Her bone-deep bruise clenches with the terror coursing through her veins, choking out her thoughts and ability to calm herself.
Falling back into the sweet folds of grass, she whimpers, eyes screwing shut against the bright blistering beams of the sun. Her lungs clench in her heaving chest, breathing ragged and uncoordinated. A wordless mantra falls from her lips as she tells herself that it wasn't real and that it was just a nightmare. But it doesn't calm her.
Every time she tries to pull her thoughts back, they yank the reins out of her hands, bringing her to those horrendous moments where the Griever ripped Newt away from her.
She can still feel the hot blood on her skin, warm and sticky as it slid down her flesh.
She shakes her head, muscles still trembling while she desperately lifts herself from the soft mossy ground of her Dell. She can't calm herself. She needs Newt and wants to know that he is breathing. Her freshly bandaged arm wraps around her torso while she quickly makes her way to the Gardens of the Glade where the Second-in-Command said that he'd be working for the rest of the day with the Greenie. She ignores any comment or interaction with the Gladers, making a beeline to the blonde-headed boy.
Arriving at the Gardens her eyes frantically search the luscious green space for the Brit. She spots him tying down a few ivies while talking to Thomas. Her body lunges toward him without her say, frantically closing the distance between her and the male.
"Newt." His name shatters in her throat, coming out broken and desperate. At the sound of his name, his head snaps up in her direction, hands dropping his work. He takes one step in her direction a fraction of a word falling from his mouth,
"Kell-"
She crashes against his chest, and he catches her- with strong reassuring arms, he catches her. His warmth immediately envelopes her being, making her shoulders shudder. Her hands wrap around his back, taking fistfuls of his shirt in a white-knuckled grip while she clings to him. A few silent sobs rake through her frame, soaked up by the nape of his neck. He hushes her through them, cradling her head against his collar and occasionally petting her sun-bleached strands.
"What happened?" She hears Thomas inquire from a few feet away, "Is she okay?"
Newt's lungs fill with a thick heavy breath, one word floating from his lips, "Nightmare."
It's silent after that except for the birds singing in the trees, the Glade's daytime noises, and Newt's quiet comfort.
"I'm right here, Love," He mutters into her silken strands, "I'm okay."
And he continues to mutter sweet nothings against the shell of her ear, lips grazing the pink cartilage while she quavers in his arms. With her chest pushed flat against his, her heart is able to take consolation from his, resetting its pace to match his pulse as if that's what it was made to do. Newt rocks them on their feet, guiding her to regain control of her breathing by using the press of his lungs against her own.
And with his grounding presence, after a few minutes, she slowly comes down from the terror of her nightmare. Once she's composed enough, she gently pulls back from his arms with a snivel, wiping her damp eyes and dripping nose with the back of her hand.
The boy then immediately cups her head in his dirt-encrusted palms. His soft amber orbs, look between her own watery pools, searching her.
"You alright, Love?" He asks, fingers brushing her hair away from her brow.
She sniffs again and nods, "I am now."
"Good," he sighs, leaning forward to press a cordial kiss to her forehead, creating a pleasant warmth that glows in the apples of her cheeks.
Leaning back he inquires in a soft manner, "Do you want me to come back with you and stay while you sleep?"
"No!" she snaps, the fear of that hellish scene flashing through her mind. She shakes her head, lip trembling, "No, I- I don't want to see that again- to see you get-"
"Hey, it's okay. I'm right here," he interrupts her bout of rambling, taking her casted hand and pressing it into the firm plain of his chest. "It wasn't real."
Her fingers slip into the open fold of his shirt, his blazing skin brushing against hers. But underneath his clothing, skin, and bones is his heart, pumping beneath her palm with steady reassuring pulses. She takes a slow wobbling breath, pulling strength from his presence before she nods in agreement.
"Okay," he takes her hand away from his chest, but doesn't let it go, his thumb starting a numb dance across the hills and valleys of her knuckles, "If you don't want to go back to sleep, then how about you hang out here with me? You can rest while I work."
Her eyebrow raises while she eyes him, "Sounds like you're asking me to be a freeloader."
"Maybe I am," he shrugs, lips lifting in a sly smile that makes her heart flutter, "But I'm serious, Love. I want you to rest some more. You look exhausted."
She takes another breath, each one becoming stronger and stronger while she stays in the boy's presence. But she bows her head in agreement, "Okay..."
He wraps her up in one more quick hug, and she melts into it. Releasing her from his arms, Newt steps back to his work, giving her some space to recompose her appearance. She smudges more wetness away from her eyes before taking a deep breath as she turns to find a seat in the grass. She comes face to face with a very concerned Greenie.
"Hey there, Tommy," she greets with a small smile, slowly lowering herself to the ground with a grunt, "You doing alright?"
He nods, but his eyes never leave her, soft hazel orbs raking over her frame.
She takes in the biting scent of soil that fills her nose before she addresses the boy, "I'm sorry you had to see me like that. I don't like letting people see my weakness."
"But isn't that what makes us human?" he argues, and she glances his way, "Having weakness."
Her head lowers to her fingers that begin picking at each other, a small smile lifting her lips, "Yes, it is, Thank you."
The Glade's peaceful atmosphere drowns her after that, soothing her soul in a unique way while she breathes in the crisp fresh air. Her soft blue pools trace the surroundings, observing the hard work being done before they come to land on Thomas. He stands a few feet away, idle while Newt tugs on some of the ropes.
He appears lost in thought, so she calls out to him, "I hope Newt hasn't been working you too hard."
He flinches at her voice, snapping out of his daze. Turning to her, he swallows hands fiddling with each other while he responds, "No, he hasn't-"
"On the contrary in fact," Newt scoffs, brows scrunched against his work of tying down the ivies, "The little bugger' won't stop asking questions. I feel like my ears are going to fall off while I do all the work."
"Oh well, what do you need done?" She starts shifting, ready to lift herself from the ground "Maybe I can help-"
"No, no, no," Newt halts any and all of her previous actions, a threatening finger pointed in her direction, "You don't need to do anything except sit there and rest."
She takes a deep breath, shaking her head.
"Tommy here-" Newt motions to the dark-haired boy while bending down to pick up a hefty wicker basket, "-is going to make himself useful and go dig us up some more fertilizer."
The blonde tosses the basket over, Thomas nearly dropping it while he fumbles to catch it.
She rolls her eyes, carefully standing up from the smooth surface of the earth, "Sure, and where exactly is he going to get that fertilizer if he doesn't know where it is?"
"He's a bright little Shank," Newt waves halfheartedly, appearing very dissatisfied with the fact that she got up anyway, "he'll figure it out."
She comes to stand in front of him, placing her delicate palm on the smooth plain of his elbow while their eyes meet each other.
"It's just a little walk, Newt, it'll be alright," She soothes, searching him for approval.
His shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath that whistles from his nose, but he nods.
A glorious grin spreads through her features as she leans forward to press a quick kiss against the velvety swell of his cheek, "Be back in a bit."
And with that, she turns away from the Second-in-Command, a fluttery sensation pooling in her stomach at the bright rosy color that she leaves on his skin. A warmth fills her soul, making her feel like pudding while she nods to the Greenie that had watched the whole thing transpire.
"Come on Tommy, let's go."
They set off into the heart of the Deadheads.
Here is another. Enjoy! And please, if ya'll are willing drop a comment, they really make my day and give me more fuel to keep writing