In which there is falling stuff and bodily injury

A summary that will very much please my cousin.

Hope you're all still enjoying it! Each and every favourite, follow, review and even just those who stop by to read mean the world to me, so thank you to all of you! Especially my wonderful reviewers who make me look forward to posting each chapter thanks to their thoughtful feedback.

-Notes and teaser at the end-

Winston settles into his role as Keeper as easily as if he'd been meant for it.

I sit with him at the end of his first week as we both clean up the Butchery, moping down the work benches and lining up the knives. The sun is falling low and golden beams of light filter through the branch walls. Motes of dust swirl in the paths they cut through the peaceful shadows.

"It's different than I thought," Winston confesses as we work. "Dan explained it, and I saw what he had to do, but I guess you don't really know until you do it yourself."

"Different how?" I ask.

It's been a quiet day. Even the usual sound of goofing about from the Gardens a little way off is muted. Winston sent the others off to the Kitchen with one of the ducks for supper, instructing them to finish early.

It was just him, tidying up, when I finished in the pens for the day, and I stuck around to help.

Winston sinks onto one of the stools. He rests his elbows on the work table. I set a cleaver down and face him on my own stool, folding my arms on the opposite side of the table, despite all the old blood stains that have become part of the wood's pattern.

"Like how I'm responsible for telling Newt or Alby about any incidents, or if something needs fixing. I'm responsible for working the rotas, so no one does the same job for weeks in a row. I need to get reports from you, Jeff or Clint if someone has to head for the Medi Tent. I have to settle disputes – not that we've had any; they're all great guys."

"You're a great guy, too," I say. "And Dan thinks you're doing well. I guess it's natural to worry about it."

"I was worried," he agrees. "My first day, I was all over the place, but I like it. I like having more to focus on; makes me feel like I'm helping a bit more."

This is why Dan chose him. Winston likes being occupied, and he feels better when he's doing something.

"I'm learning a lot about myself," Winston says, starting to laugh. "I guess everyone is in that position. It's not like we knew anything before we came here."

Sensing that Winston's confession of insecurity is over, I pick up the rag and continue to wipe down the table. I laugh.

"Join the club," I say. "Everything I know about myself, I learned in this place. I like knives-" I nod to the rows of them, all cleaned to use tomorrow. "-I like animals, and apparently blood doesn't freak me out unless it's my own, or someone's threatening a bunny."

Winston chuckles. "Frankie practically said he'd light my hammock on fire if I skinned White-Foot after I became Keeper."

My eyes widen and my jaw drops.

This I did not know.

"Makes you wonder who you were before, doesn't it?" Winston asks. "I'm here nowhere near as long as Dan but he says I'm better with the knives. And I just…I know where to cut to let a duck die peacefully. But I don't know how old I am – not really. I don't know if I had a brother, or a sister. And that's okay, but it makes you wonder. You know?"

I do.

"Yeah," I say. I drop the rag into the bucket of water and stretch my arm out. "I knew exactly what I had to do, within minutes of waking up in the Box, to break apart a hinge and let a goose out, but I don't even know what colour my eyes are."

Winston looks up in surprise.

"You don't? You never asked anyone?"

I shrug.

"No," I say. "I didn't really think about it, and when I did it just…didn't seem important."

"Well, I can fix that one," Winston says, smiling. "Look up."

Biting back my answering smile, I look him in the eyes expectantly.

"Grey, I think," he says. He squints. "A bit of amber; it might be the light."

"Dark brown," I say back. "In case you were wondering."

"Thanks," Winston says dryly. He picks up the bucket and sets it down in the corner. "Come on; let's pack up."

…

That evening, I manage to string the bow.

I have to wedge the end against the wall and lean all my weight into it, but I see that as a good thing; if it strung too easily, surely it would be too weak?

I'm glad to see it holds in a neat curve with the string attached, and it does flex nicely. The draw is strong, but not so tight that I struggle – I had to retie the string a couple of times to achieve it.

But I can hear the wood creak as I pull back on the draw each time. It's not a weapon that will last the ages. Thankfully, it doesn't have to.

I try to ignore the fact that it doesn't feel familiar in my hands the way the knives do, or the syringe gun I touched a grand total of once.

…

"Is there something you don't know about yourself?" I ask Newt the following day. "Something that you would know if you weren't here; if you had your memories."

He looks up at me. His grip is firm on the handle of his machete, which is buried into the side of a log.

I wonder absently if I envy the fact that he's found that one weapon that fits him so easily to be an extension of him, when the one I made still feels a little like a stranger.

Frankie had already sorted the animals by the time I finished in the Medi Tent after lunch, so I caught up to Newt and have been pitching in with his afternoon chores. Today he's helping the Builders.

They're constructing another Hammock Hut, next to the current one, so there's more space for everyone. The main support posts for the roof are in, and branches are being hammered in all around to start forming walls. Most of them are working on the roof today.

Some boys stand balanced on piles of empty crates, some sit on the interlocking grid of branches overhead they're slowly assembling.

Newt seems to contemplate the question even as he turns back around and continues hacking. Behind him, two boys pass up a long beam to three others, who guide it into position.

"Like what?"

"Like…" I return to the topic of yesterday. It was that conversation that prompted me to ask. "I didn't know what colour my own eyes are."

"Grey," Newt says, without looking up.

Given I know his are dark, earthy brown without even thinking about it, I can't really find it in me to be surprised. I am surprised that I never asked.

"Well I should have just asked you months ago," I say. "Winston told me yesterday. Couldn't decide between grey or amber."

Newt looks up again.

"Grey," he repeats. There's a small smile dancing along his lips. "They're light, so they pick up other colours; a bit green when it's sunny; amber at night by the fire."

That explains that.

"Timber!" Henry yells.

One of the beams goes crashing down, raising dust as it hits and causes a small dent in the earth.

"Shorter one!" Henry says. Eric helps to pass up a new branch.

"Do you know what colour yours are?" I ask when it looks like everything is okay.

"Brown," Newt says. "Alby told me, years ago." He stabs the machete into the ground, hesitates and then says, "I'd know if I'm left or right handed. If I had my memories."

"Ambidextrous," I say, easily. "Try again."

He gives me an odd look.

"What?" I ask.

"I just…nevermind."

"You're more dominant with your right," I say, before he can drop it. "But I've seen you eat left handed, and the time you hit Justin – you swung that shovel from the left, not the right."

I remember all too clearly the way the tool had been balanced in his hands, just moments after taking Justin down. I never saw the hit, but I saw enough to know Newt had run out of the hut behind me and just acted, not thinking about which way to swing, just how quickly and effectively he could do it.

"I guess it would have been nice to know for sure though," I say. "Imagine being a kid and being able to colour in scrapbooks with both hands at once."

Newt's eyes widen, and I can't work out for a moment what I've said to cause it.

"What?"

He visibly hesitates, expression flashing from wariness to bashfulness for a second before he mutters, "I can draw."

I feel my jaw drop. Admittedly, he hasn't said much, but the way he did say it leads me to think there's a bit more to it than being able to doodle stick figures, and I've never even seen a hint of this talent before.

"Since when?" I ask.

He opens his mouth, but is overridden as Gally strides over to us.

"Are you two done talking?" he says. He only looks slightly annoyed, which in his terms mean he's in a downright cheerful mood. "We need this in to support the centre of the roof."

"We're done," I say, holding up my hands in surrender.

We're so not done, but there will be time for this later.

Newt gives the log one more solid hack for good measure then rams the machete back into its sheath over his shoulder.

"And that's done," he adds. "Get some more hands on this."

While I'm not the safest around construction sites, I am still meant to be helping, so I at least follow them into the skeleton of the new hut as five boys carry in the log. They tip the end of it into the round hole that's been dug out in the centre.

I help Henry down from the roof as they slowly pivot the thick trunk upright until it catches the branches in the roof and snags.

The roof creaks.

"Right, get this shovelled in," Gally instructs, pointing to the pile of earth around the hole. "Secure the beam. You three; fetch the straw. I want to get insulation on this before supper."

He organises the team with an undeniable efficiency. Eric sets to work, shovelling the earth back in around the base of the supporting log.

The roof still creaks above us.

"It won't be done by supper," Newt says.

Gally turns to him. "Who's the expert here?" he asks. There's something fierce in his tone, but I've seen his moods enough to know that he's not actually being confrontational.

"There's only a couple more hours to go before the sun's down," Newt says reasonably. He's able to speak to Gally in a way most people can't. "You just don't want to be working in the rafters when it's dark."

The roof lets out a cracking sound, and I see a shadow move in the corner of my eye.

Wait. Not a shadow.

It takes me less than a second to realise it's one of the beams in the ceiling grid.

The end has come loose and it swings down, at least fifteen centimetres thick and over seven feet long. It aims right for where Gally and Newt stand.

"Crap," is all I can say.

I race forwards and slam into Newt's side.

He wasn't expecting it, and he moves more than I thought he would, but I'm still not strong enough to move us both clear of the beam's path.

The end of the branch slams with the full force of its pendulum weight into my leg and it buckles.

A scream traps in my throat as fiery heat pulses up into my hip.

Gally leaps backwards, his face paling. I feel Newt move; he's no longer pressing into me. I think he yells my name. I hear Henry shout. There's a clang as Eric drops the spade.

I think I may black out for a moment, but there's no true darkness, just a strange dimness in my surroundings before I realise I'm lying on the floor.

Then everything flies back into focus.

Including the shockwaves of pain.

Henry is looking over at me with deep concern, even as he helps some of the others, who've suddenly rushed forwards, to take down the dangerously swaying beam.

Gally is conducting them. I see his hand shake as he points at the door, and he quickly curls it into a fist to hide it.

Newt is knelt next to me.

His eyes are wide, flooded with fear and his fingers are unsteady as he turns my head towards him.

"Eva. Eva – look at me." His voice is edgy.

I fix my eyes on him. My head's fine, but my leg feels like its pinned under a tree. My hip isn't so bad now, the pain of it dulled, but the whole limb throbs and I can feel the muscles shaking.

"Looking," I tell him.

"Why the bloody hell did you do that?" he asks, sounding a little bit furious.

I raise an eyebrow and slowly, gingerly sit up. "Uh, because a tree decided you were a piñata?"

Newt gives me a dark look.

I ignore it.

I carefully get to my feet, putting all my weight on my good leg. Newt grips my elbow; he doesn't look happy.

"She alright?"

Gally comes striding across the shell of the hut. Though he looks angry, the tone in his voice is similar to Newt's. He's worried.

It's just the three of us, with Henry hovering at the doorway. I can hear the others going over the construction plan outside in harried mutters, trying to work out what caused the weakness.

"You alright?" Gally asks me instead, when he stops in front of me.

"Bruised," I say. "I'm fine."

Newt scoffs. "Fine. You can't bloody stand."

Just to test the theory, I try to put weight on the other leg.

Pain radiates up from just above my knee. I bite down on the noise that rushes up my throat, but it still fights out in a single muted cry. The joint collapses.

Newt catches me.

My fingers twist into his shirt as I find my balance again; without me putting any weight on the leg, the pulsing sensation is far more bearable. I carefully let him go when I'm sort of standing.

His hands remain fixed around my arms like he's worried I'll drop the second he moves away.

"I'll be fine, then," I say instead, since he's apparently right. "Better that I'm bruised than you're in a coma. It was going to take out your spine."

I slowly twist, convincing him to let me go.

I'm not broken.

His arms fold across his chest instead. He's still glaring.

"You should head on back," Gally says. It's the nicest he's ever sounded. "Get the Med-Jacks to look at it."

"I've got it," Newt says. His eyes don't move off of me.

Gally shoots the two of us a look and he pulls an expression that says he wants no part of it.

"Henry," he says instead. "Tell the others we're quitting early."

Henry leaves.

I tentatively try to put pressure on my leg again.

It still can't take my full weight – the muscles tremor with fatigue and soreness – but it doesn't completely drop out and I smile.

"Don't do that again. Not bloody ever," Newt says. He sounds serious.

"Oh, shut up," I tell him lightly.

Gally quickly brushes his hand over his mouth. It's still not fast enough to hide his sudden grin.

Newt's expression softens just a little.

"Go ahead," Gally says. He waves to the door, still covering his mouth with the other hand. "Later. Be careful, Eva."

I don't even remember the last time he called me by name.

I nod. "So that means no dying, right?"

Gally actually smirks. "I think Newt would be unbearable if you did."

Newt shakes his head at the both of us. "Let's go," he says.

His arm curls around my waist, and I have to lean on him so I can hobble from the hut.

The boys outside have headed off already. The ready-cut piles of straw and branches needed to finish the new hut are arranged tidily in their place.

We make slow progress as we head across Homestead. It feels like an absurd three-legged race as we shuffle along.

"You can't walk," Newt says to me, as I hiss through my breath yet again when I try to use my damaged leg. At least he no longer looks so ticked off.

He stops walking and his grip on my waist shifts.

"If you try to pick me up, we are going to have problems," I tell him in no uncertain terms. "Keep walking. Or I will hop back to Homestead on my own."

Newt lets out a long, aggravated sigh, but when I glance up at him, there's a spark of amusement in his eyes that I now realise I've missed since I pushed him out of the way.

He hugs my waist again, taking my weight, and continues walking without a word.

…

I make it back to the Medi Tent.

Jeff takes one look at me before making me sit down and yelling for Clint to come inside.

Clint takes one look at me before declaring my whole leg will need to be amputated.

I take one look at the pair of them and tell them I'm fine.

Newt doesn't look at anyone as he says I'm not.

"What the shuck happened?" Jeff demands.

"She leapt into the way of a branch that fell from the roof of the new Hammock hut," Newt says.

"What he left out of that explanation," I add cheerfully. "Is that if I hadn't, it would have knocked him out."

"She can't walk," Newt says, ignoring me.

"She is bruised but not dying," I interject.

"Evie," Jeff implores me. I know what his expression says.

We need to look at it.

I'm not going to argue that. I nod. "Hang on." I get up and use the work bench, then the partitions to support me as I hobble out of the medicine bay and into one of the side rooms with one of the pallets.

I very carefully peel off my jeans, realising as I do that the fabric was pressing into the tender skin more than I anticipated. It won't be fun putting those back on.

I throw off my sweater and pick up one of the spares kept in the room. A light weight pale grey one.

As a guy's hoodie, its large on me – I've estimated I'm probably only five foot two or three – and it settles more like a tunic, which I find I like quite a lot.

I pull my hair out from under it, and it fans over the lowered hood. The neck is wide, just resting on my shoulders; the sleeves cover my hands almost entirely and the hem rests halfway down my thigh so that I can already see the bruise forming in the skin above my knee.

I didn't even try to remove my boots – hiking ones that came up in the box with Rob and I've been wearing ever since I scuffed my sneakers through.

I stumble back to the others.

Newt's still there, which is no great surprise. I am surprised to see both Alby and Dan, though.

"Eva!" Dan says, as I come around the corner. "What-Holy…Ouch."

"Thanks," I say blithely. "That makes me feel better."

He holds out a hand and I accept the help to sit on a stool.

Newt leans forward on his. I'm not sure how I should feel about it when his eyes fix on my leg and the darkening mark that's at least a hand span in width.

"What happened?" Dan asks. "Clint just rushed past me a second ago saying you couldn't walk."

Clint, in the corner, shrugs.

"I'm bruised," I stress, yet again. "Everyone needs to chill out. I'm sure you guys have had plenty of accidents."

"Stay still, Eva," Jeff tells me.

I focus on him, as I hear Newt retelling the story to Dan and Alby, though at least this time he admits the branch might have gotten him if I hadn't moved.

Jeff's fingers gently press into my skin, starting just at the hem of the hoodie, and working down. He's still a good few inches from the mark when I flinch away from the pressure.

My breath comes out as a strangled gasp.

Newt stops talking.

Jeff starts at my calf instead and works up, but at my knee, I flinch away again. Everyone is silent as he grips my boot and flexes my leg in and then coaxes it straight.

It throbs, but it stretches out.

He sits back, balanced in a crouch on the balls of his feet and lets out a breath.

"What is it?" Alby asks straight away.

"Badly bruised," Jeff confirms. "Probably torn a bit of muscle but at the very least, caused bleeding under the skin. It'll heal, but it'll take a few days; maybe a week. You should keep moving it, trying to apply pressure, but don't force it. Keep the workload light."

"Thanks, Doc," I say.

"Looks like you're keeping your leg," Clint says.

I laugh. "That's kind of you."

Alby rests a hand on my shoulder. "Take it easy, okay?" he says to me. "Get better."

"I'm taking on the animal pens," Dan says. "I'll clear it with Winston."

Alby glances at Newt, like he wants to say something else, but instead he nods. "We'll see you lot at supper. Dan."

Dan pats my arm and follows him out.

Newt's eyes are fixed on the ground, his fingers flexing; both signs I know by heart that mean he's lost in his mind, thinking over something too hard.

Clint pushes Jeff ahead of him. "We've got to pick up some bits from the Deadheads," he says. "Be back in a second."

They clear out.

"I'd do it again," I say, seriously, as soon as they've ducked out of the hut.

Newt's eyes level on me. The anger that I saw earlier is gone. What's in them is more painful than that; the haunting of something that hasn't happened, and a certainty that runs deep.

"And you know I would," I finish. "You don't get to be angry. Not when you'd have done exactly the same thing; or would you have watched it crush me?"

He wouldn't have.

We both know it.

"I'm not angry," he says, and I'm not sure if it is the truth.

He slowly stands. He takes just two steps until he's right in front of me and I look up. He leans down, his hand settling against my neck, and kisses my forehead. It's fleeting, gentle, somehow helping to numb the throbbing of my leg, and then he's standing straight again, arm sliding around my waist and half lifting me from the stool.

"Come on," he mutters. "Clothes back on and then I'll take you to the Kitchen."

He doesn't mention the strangely affectionate action, so I follow his lead. I wave my hand in front of his eyes, the too-long sleeve flopping about. "This is clothes," I say. "I'm not putting jeans back on over this leg. Let's just go to the Kitchens."

He hesitates. Reluctance flickers in his expression, and then he nods. We hobble out of the Medi Tent and towards Homestead.

…

That night, Gally actually stops to check on me by the fire.

We'll never be best friends, but I'm thankful that he doesn't seem to actively dislike me anymore.

I have a flash of realisation when he walks away.

I love these people like they were my family – because they're the only family I've ever known. But this place…its my home because its everything safe and familiar, but I was still sent here. No matter how content we can be inside the walls, no matter what life we build here, it's not truly ours because it was forced on us.

This is the view that many of the Gladers take - Alby, Minho, Frypan, Zart…It's why the Runners spend whole days, constantly searching despite constant failure.

But there's the other side.

There are the Gladers who cannot live by constantly looking for answers and solutions; the ones who stay sane by finding happiness in this small world and accepting it as a true home.

Gally is one of them.

As a Builder and one of the earliest boys to the Glade, he's been a part of building the community, from the structure of the teams to the homes and huts themselves. He doesn't wait and hope and search for away out as others do; he roots himself in the life he's living now.

Maybe that's why he perceives threats to that life; to the system, so differently to others.

INFO

1. So glad to finally get to this part. I like this chapter. First off, we finally know what colour Eva's eyes are, so now I'm curious to know if you imagined them another colour, or just didn't think about it at all.

2. Newt is a bit of an artist in my head. Don't ask me why, but the more I think about it, and the more I wrote, the more it just fell into place. It was actually one of those things that I knew about my version of him, but didn't actually come up in the story, and I felt that wasn't right, so edits were made some time ago to throw that in. The topic is cut off here, but maybe it'll crop up again...

3. I like Gally in this, too. I know he's a real git in the film but I feel like a lot of that is his animosity towards Thomas, which obviously isn't a factor yet. Plus, he's one of the older Gladers; he wouldn't have spent the last three years being quite so angry all the time. So this is where more of my thoughts and characterization comes in. He's not a 'bad' person, and he's certainly not evil. He's a scared boy, responsible for aspects of their daily survival and the lives of others, and he just copes with that pressure differently to characters like Frypan or Zart. So I liked this chance to bring him forward a bit; he keeps a stern face a lot, but things do scare him, and things do amuse him. But like all the others, hopefully you'll see him evolve as we progress.

Also - sorry if that last scene feels a little broken off. It fitted better here than at the start of the next chapter, thanks to the time lapse, but it was a bit of a change of focus, so I'm sorry if you felt that.

Chapter 13 - Teaser

"You mean like the wrestling Ring?" I ask.

"No," Dan shakes his head. "Well, yeah – kind of. Not actually taking part, but if one of us could teach you some basics, at least that's something."

-To be posted next week-