Thomas remembers the fire.

Flames encircling the city, burning it down to nothing but ash. He dreams of it, of Teresa holding him—and Newt, weak, and bleeding, and dying in his arms. He sees it all again so vividly, as if he is back there again, as if he never left the city. Never lost Newt, never left Teresa behind. Thomas lives it over again, helpless. The city falls, the power goes out, and Ava Paige dies. He remembers the gun, the way his hands shook as he nearly killed her, nearly slipped a finger around the trigger and fired a shot into her head.

The memory takes him deeper into the city, back to the Infected fighting against WCKD. Back to Newt, by his side through it all. The walls crumble again, the Last City burns, and through it all Newt is still with him, taking cover next to him behind a concrete wall. He can't run, can barely walk anymore. Thomas remembers clinging to Newt, hands shaky as he dragged him along, tried to drag him to safety. He sees it again, Newt's arm slung over his shoulder as he tried to hold on, his pale skin covered in black veins.

Around them, two more buildings fall. Newt is still there, barely holding on. His eyes are dark, and his face is changed. He is himself, and then he isn't. Thomas remembers falling, shards of glass around them as they fell into the water. He only falls for a moment and then suddenly he is pulled from this memory and thrust into another one, into the moment outside the walls of the city when he first saw it. The black veins, Newt's secret.

He sees Newt again, sitting on the rooftop, covered in sunlight. His sleeve pulled up to his elbow, dark veins spreading up the narrow column of his wrist. Thomas is only there for a moment before he's gone, back to the city, to a blur of light and chaos. Teresa is there and then she's gone, lost to the fire. He falls again, not into the water this time but onto the harsh concrete. He falls with Newt and they tumble together. Newt can't get up, and Thomas can't help him, can't save him. He blinks and the knife appears in his hand. Dark blood spills through his fingers, he doesn't know who it belongs to. It feels like his blood. His, and Newt's.

The last thing Thomas sees before he wakes is the knife sticking out of the middle of Newt's chest.

Then he wakes, out of breath and drenched in sweat. It feels different, feels like blood. He lifts a hand to the spot in his chest where the blade went in. Not into his chest, into Newt's. He flinches from the memory and touches the spot through the fabric of his shirt, hands shaking as his eyes slowly adjust to the light around him. Daylight floods into his vision, almost blinding him, and slowly the memory of the light takes him back. To the Glade, to his first day there. He lifts a hand to block it out and quickly discovers that the light isn't the only thing that takes him back to the Glade.

The hut he wakes up in is small and familiar, reminding him of the one he slept in back in the Glade, what feels like so long ago now. But this time it's different, it all is. The walls of the hut are thin, daylight spills in through the tiny cracks, and there's something about the small space that feels calm. There's a breeze in the air, too. He can't remember ever feeling that before, not in the Glade, not in the City. He feels it now and it's almost nice, it almost feels good, as it brushes over his skin. He thinks if it weren't for the dull pain creeping up his side it might feel nice. He might even enjoy it, but not today, not when he feels the way he does right now.

Slowly he sucks in a breath and lifts his head up again, eyes sweeping over the rest of the hut before he looks down at himself. At his hand still clutching that spot on his chest, the wound from his memories. His clothes are different, that he remembers. These are new, they aren't his. There's no blood on them, no holes in the fabric. Someone cleaned him up. Not just the clothes, not just the grime and dirt on his skin. The blood, too. It's gone. When he lifts his hand away from his chest and turns it over, there's nothing on it. His palms are clean, free of blood, like his clothes, like the spot on his chest. His hand slips away from it soon, down to his side, to the place where it aches. He wants to look, to touch it, but not yet. Once he's up, he'll look at his wounds and check himself over.

For the moment he stays where he is, eyes half-shut, thinking it over. He finds himself torn, between his dreams and his reality. They both stay with him, but for now his reality is clearer. It won't last, never does. While it's here, he lets himself feel it. The breeze on his skin, the faint pain in his chest, the bandage he can feel sticking to his side. He doesn't remember who took care of him, who cleaned him up and bandaged his wounds. He just remembers the feeling when the bullet hit him and the pain he felt after.

Thomas quickly drops his hand away from his side, still tempted to look, to know that it is real. He believes it, remembers it, but he'll always carry his doubts. His mind makes him doubt it, what's real and what isn't. It makes him relive it all again, too. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to force the memories of the Last City from his head. It doesn't always work, and even when it does it doesn't last. But today he just needs a minute to not think about it, to not feel as if he is drowning in the past. Despite what he needs, the memories stay with him, even as his eyes open and he forces himself to sit up.

The wooden bed shifts under his weight as he begins to move, a hand quickly stretching out to cradle his side, the other curling around the edge of the bed to steady himself. It takes him a minute to move again, or maybe it's longer than that. Maybe it's three or four minutes before Thomas is moving, over to the edge of his bed. It hurts, more than he expects it to, almost more than he's ready for it to. But after a moment the pain dulls and passes, and slowly Thomas lets out a breath.

The hut's a little bigger than he first thought, he realizes that now, as he turns his head to glance it over, seeing it all more clearly now that he's sitting up. Light seeps in through the ceiling and all the little gaps in the walls. A makeshift curtain, a soft white sheet, hangs over the doorway. Another hangs on the wall to the right, keeping some of the light out. There's a square shelf by the door, made of wood, stacked with books, candles, and other little bits and pieces that he can only glance over. He barely looks before he turns away, quietly overwhelmed by it all. It isn't much but at the same time it is, it's more than he's ever had. More than he ever expected he could have, in this world, at the end of it all.

It feels like too much to think about, too much to take in, when his mind is already so heavy, so filled with thoughts. The city comes back to him. He lets out a breath and moves closer to the edge of the bed, shifting his feet towards the ground. The bed is sturdy but also soft, and only creaks a little under his weight as he moves again. It's only a small movement but it still hurts and he winces, retracting the hand from his side and moving it up to the spot on his chest where it really hurts, where he didn't just imagine that it did.

Thomas can barely think about it, can barely touch the wound from the knife, even through the fabric of his shirt. His hand quickly falls away from the spot, as if the memory of it burns. It does, and he winces from it, squeezing his eyes shut as the memory of gunshots fills his head. He moves one hand back to the edge of the bed, curling his fingers around it, to steady himself, to feel something solid. The other he lifts up, moving it to his forehead, to where his brow is tightly knitted together. Thomas rubs out the crease, hoping that doing this will ease the tension and help to silence the memory.

It doesn't work. Never does. He keeps his hand there anyway, fingers pressed lightly to the side of his head, still hoping it might work, or that the dull throbbing in his head might pass. Thomas isn't sure how long he spends sitting there, his mind stuck on the city, with his hand pressed to his forehead. It could be minutes, could be hours. He pulls himself out of it eventually and moves his hand away, placing it back against his side, over the wound hidden under layers of clothing.

Pieces of it come back to him now. Memories from the city, from that night. He doesn't remember it all, and what he does remember isn't always there for long, isn't always clear. One day it will all come back to him, he knows that it's not really gone. Right now his memories are just a little blurry, as if without even being aware of it he is trying to protect himself from the things that are too painful to think about.

For today, Thomas leaves the blurry pieces behind and opens his eyes again. The room is still bright, still empty. Must have only been a few minutes that he was lost in his head, he decides. He could go back, if he wanted. Back to his memories, back to city. If he really wanted, he could shut his eyes right now and go back to the Glade.

But he doesn't want to go back that far, he can't go back there yet. Later, maybe. Thomas knows it is inevitable, that eventually he will feel a pull back to the city, to the people left behind in it, and he will think of them. For now he leaves them behind and lifts his gaze back to the quiet hut, glancing it over a third time. Then he makes the decision to get up, to walk outside and see where he is, where they are. He only thinks of them now, the others, the ones who made it out of the city.

How? he wants to ask, and then it comes back in fragments. He remembers the rooftop with Teresa. When he closes his eyes he can almost see it, almost feel her hands around him as she held him while he bled from the wound on his side. Thomas can see the fire again, the flames growing higher around them, and the helicarrier that came to save them.

He remembers running with Teresa, or trying to run, trying to make his legs work. He'd staggered forward slowly and she'd pulled him along. Thomas knows what comes after this, he already knows how it goes. Someone takes his hand, pulls him up into the helicarier. Teresa doesn't make it.

There's no time. She doesn't get into the helicarrier, she just stands there, watching him. And after that—well, what comes after that isn't clear, it still isn't with him. He remembers bleeding. A hand checking his side, checking the wound. There were more hands on him, he remembers that now, feels it as if it's happening now, as if it's as real as the hand he pressed to his face only minutes earlier.

Then there is nothing. No memories, no idea of what came after the Last City fell. He imagines they would've fallen with the city if it weren't for the helicarrier. After this thought, he shifts his attention back to his wounds. First, the one on his side. Thomas curls his fingers underneath the corner of his dark t-shirt and gently pulls it up, revealing a square bandage beneath, pressed firmly against his skin. He remembers the fight, only feeling the bullet later when they were alone, when there was a moment to feel it.

It hurts less now, and for that he's relieved. He guesses he has the little jars of medicine in the hut to thank for that. And whoever helped him, whoever saved him. He doesn't remember any of it though. His memory of the helicarrier is still unclear. It was so chaotic, so painful. He barely remembers who was there and who wasn't.

His next thought is of Minho, running for help, for Newt. He didn't make it in time. Did he make it back at all? He doesn't know if Minho got out of the city, if anyone else did. There were people on the helicarrier with him, he remembers it but not clearly. They were shadows, barely there, barely visible for the moment he remembers being awake. Whatever came after that is a blur for Thomas. He hates that he can't remember, that he doesn't know what happened to his friends. And soon he decides that he can't sit here, that he can't wait for the memories to come back to him when he knows they won't. He won't find what he needs here in this hut. He needs to leave to find answers, to find his friends, but first he needs to check himself over to make sure he's up for it.

Thomas quickly looks back down at the wound on his side, covered up by a thick white bandage. A spot of blood has seeped through into the middle of the bandage, but apart from this there is nothing else that concerns him. He keeps a hand against his side for a minute while he thinks about the bullet, all of the blood he lost, and how Teresa tried to save him.

He lets out a breath and drops his shirt, leaving it to fall back down by his side. There's still the wound to his chest, the one from the knife. And the cuts on his face are still there. He lifts a hand to the small cut underneath his left eye and touches it briefly, before thinking about the thin gash on the side of his head, the one near his temple. His arms are covered with cuts, too. They're small and thin, scattered along his forearms and wrists, from the glass that shattered when he fell through it with Janson back in the headquarters, back in the city.

Thomas traces a finger over the cut under his eye then drops it away, hands shaking as he curls them into fists on his lap. He wants to leave now, doesn't really feel like looking at the wound on his chest anymore. Not when it makes him think of the city, of Newt and the knife in his hand.

A moment later, he's perched right on the edge of the bed, ready to get up, to go outside and see what's waiting for him there. He just needs a second, he tells himself. A second to breathe, to clear his head and to be ready for whatever comes next. Then slowly he stands, a hand hovering over his side protectively, the other he uses to help himself up to his feet. Once he's standing, he lets out a breath. It doesn't hurt as much as he thought it would, or maybe it does, maybe he's just that good at convincing himself it doesn't hurt because he knows what he has to do now. He has to go outside and find them, he has to know what happened after the city fell.

He doesn't need to know it all, just enough to fill in the gaps in his memory. It's why he forces himself to walk out of the hut, to push the pale white curtain aside and see what lies out there, waiting for him. And after he sees it, after he steps outside of his hut, he begins to wonder if it's real. It must be a dream, Thomas thinks, as the doubt floods in, because he has never seen anything like this before in his life.

He's on an island that is too perfect, too blue, to be real. And he's not alone here, not anymore. He sees them now, sees the survivors, after he pulls his gaze away from the shore. He's not alone. It sinks in slowly, that he's here, that they made it. Thomas begins to hear it now, the nearby sounds of their voices, the waves crashing against the sand. He wonders how he didn't hear any of it until now, and he soon decides that it's because he was stuck too deeply in his head that he didn't see it, couldn't hear it. But he's here now and he knows that it's real.

This isn't a dream, it can't be. It's too clear, feels too real, to be a dream. The sounds from the ocean call out to him and he lets them in, lets it calm him as he takes a few steps forward, walking out into the thick blades of grass surrounding his hut. To his left he finds more soft green grass, open space, and trees that never seem to end. And right in front of him is an ocean that, for the briefest moment, feels as if it's all his.

It's so close, visible from his hut, from just outside of his doorway. For a minute he's lost in it, in the waves, in the beauty of it all. He's never seen anything like it before. It's so quiet here, so peaceful. There waves are lovely and calm, like the island. From where he stands it all looks endlessly green and blue, a perfect blend of ocean and land. Thomas stares out at it all silently, mouth hanging open just a little. It's a lot to take in but he tries to, tries to stay calm. He struggles, and is almost consumed by where he is and how he isn't alone anymore.

There are people here, he sees them again now, spends a minute watching them from afar as they move across the island. His gaze lingers on them, as he realizes that his hut isn't the only one here. Of course it isn't. There must be over a hundred other survivors here. He sees them now, sees what they've already created, what they've started to build while he's been resting.

There's some distance from where he stands, between his hut and all of the others, but he's still close enough to see a few things, like the sturdy huts and large great tents strung up over the island, varying in size, white and billowing in the wind. There are several of them, all different to his hut. From here he can only see the small details, like the hammock beds swinging from the ceiling and the wooden posts holding it all together. He can only look briefly before he turns away again, back to the ocean, as his chest begins to ache in a familiar way. Not from any wound, but from the grief. The ache is a painful reminder of who isn't here with him to see this place.

Thomas sighs and lifts a hand to the bridge of his nose, pressing his fingers to it and then letting go. It will always be with him, but for just a minute he pushes it aside and lets himself focus on what's around him, on where he is now. They made it. Maybe not all of them, maybe not the ones he wished had made it, but they still got here. The Immune, the Right Arm, the Gladers. His next thoughts are of them, of Vince, and then of Frypan and Minho. He wants to search for them, wants to see them, and he will. He just needs one more minute here with the ocean, one more minute with the soft blue waves rolling in. He's never felt the sand beneath his toes before, not that he can remember. It was different back in the Scorch, where the sand got in all the wrong places. This is all different and he almost wants to feel it, almost wants to go down there and walk into the ocean.

Thomas imagines it would feel nice, but not today. He thinks right now it wouldn't feel so nice, that it might hurt, might not feel like he needs it to. So he doesn't walk down to the shore, not now. Maybe another day, he tells himself, maybe another time. For the moment he feels fine where he is, taking it all in. He spends the time staring out at the ocean, at the waves coming up to the sand. He stays for longer than he means, and he knows why. He is afraid of walking away from the hut and down to the survivors. He is afraid of what he will find when he walks down there.

Mostly, he is afraid that they didn't make it. He's not so worried about Vince, not really. He wasn't there, he didn't come. He decides that Vince must be here then, among the survivors and the Immune, and that thought comforts Thomas. Then he begins to think of the others, and as he does his instinct is to think of all of them, to think of the four of them as he always did, as he is so used to doing.

Newt, Minho, Frypan and Teresa.

She won't be here, he knows that. He's known it since before he woke up. He felt it there, felt the grief lingering, and it's the same feeling he gets when he thinks of Newt. It was there since the city, that pain, that heartache. Thomas turns away from the ocean and closes his eyes, thinking it over. They could have made it, he tells himself, when he begins to think of Minho and Frypan again.

The last he saw Minho, he was running through the city as it burned and fell apart. He's fast, he could've made it to safety, could've made it back. That leaves Frypan, and Thomas can't even remember the last time he saw him. It must have been before it all started. It frightens Thomas, thinking that he didn't make it out of the city, that he fell behind like Newt and Teresa did, maybe even like Minho.

It's now that he's thinking of them that he hears it. Ava Paige's voice, like a ghost, in his memory. Do you really want all of them to die?

Thomas wishes he could go back to the city, back to that night, if only so he could have one more chance to do it again, to save them all. He knows that he can't, that he can never go back, but he still wishes he could. With that on his mind, he forces Ava's voice from his head and looks back to the ocean. It remains the same, exactly as it was when he first looked at it just minutes earlier, still perfect, still bright and blue.

For the briefest moment, Thomas lets himself think about Newt and Teresa. He thinks about the two of them here on this island and imagines that Teresa might like the sun, so bright, so warm. If she were here, he imagines she might be sitting with him right now, eyes shut, basking in the golden light. And then there's Newt, and Thomas doesn't know if he's right but he imagines that Newt would like the waves. He lets himself dream of Newt here on the island with him, by his side on the sand, brown eyes staring out at the water. He imagines Newt watching the waves come and go, lost in the sea, in all of that blue. He imagines Newt could've been happy here, that they all could've been.

Chuck would've liked this place. Alby, too.

The thought is bittersweet. Thomas lets it stay with him, lets it stay on his mind, as he lifts his gaze back to the ocean, back to the sky and the soft blue water that never seems to end. He should go, should find the others. But for now, something holds him where he is. He can't leave, can't walk away, so he decides to stay awhile and watch the waves ebb and flow along the shore.

He finds Minho near the gardens.

After losing himself to the island, Thomas soon finds his friend again. He finds them all and realizes that they made it, back from the city, from wherever they were when the city fell. They made it. He takes it in quickly, finding comfort in their faces, in seeing them here with him. At first he doesn't know what to do, he can only watch as they come closer, surrounding him. Minho is the closest, Brenda and Frypan aren't far behind him. He spots Gally up the back, near Aris and Harriet.

It's only now that they're with him that he realizes he doesn't know what to say, where to begin, especially with Minho. He's so close now, watching Thomas, as if he is trying to get a read on him, trying to know what's going on in his head, and at the same time there's a look on his face that tells Thomas that Minho already knows what's in his head. It's the same thing that's going on in his head right now. It's what they lost in the city, what they left behind. It's Newt.

He lets out a breath and comes closer to Minho, eyes burning. He blinks it away and lifts his hands, to hold him, to hug him. Minho hugs him back tightly, arms wrapping around Thomas, in a close but gentle way. And for a moment they stay like this. They stay as if it just the two of them here, as if no one else is watching. Thomas feels it in the silence as they hold each other, something quiet and unspoken. They both know what it is. The last time they held each other there was someone else there, someone else they held. He remembers the moment they found Minho in the headquarters, how they ran to his side and the three of them hugged each other so tightly, after so long. When they were done they stayed close. They held onto each other like they never wanted to let go, and Thomas didn't want to. He never wanted to let go, of either of them, but he had to then and he knows that he has to now.

For a minute more they hold each other, then Thomas lets go. Minho claps a gentle hand to his shoulder, squeezing it once before he drops his hand away. After the hug is over Minho stays close, and it's clear that he doesn't want to leave yet, that he wants to stay close to his friend. And Thomas is glad because he wants Minho to stay for just a little longer, even if he wants to walk away, to explore the island, walk through the gardens and the huts, and look around at the new life they've started to create here.

He tells himself that there will be time later to do this, to explore what he hasn't seen, to look closer at what he has already seen. Thomas knows it is an excuse though, a lie he's telling himself, that he wants to explore it all when really what he needs is the time to himself, to gather his thoughts, to not feel as if he is on the edge of tears. For now he stays where he is, watching as Minho takes two steps back and Brenda quickly comes forward. There's a look on her face, something fleeting, barely visible, before she hugs him. And as she holds him, as she throws her arms around his neck and squeezes him tight, Thomas recognizes the look he caught in her eyes.

Brenda looks sad, for all that they went through, all that he lost. He remembers the look from that night, when they came running back to them but they were too late. Thomas squeezes his eyes shut at the memory and buries his head against Brenda's neck, suddenly feeling like he could stay here, could fall asleep here. There's something comforting about her embrace, that makes him feel like she gets it, what it's like to lose what he's lost. They all do, though. He knows it, that they've all lost, every single one of them. Maybe they've never lost someone else, maybe they can't even remember what they lost. They still lost other things, things that WCKD took from them. Things they will never get back. But at least they have each other now, and this place. This beautiful and unreal place. It's like something from a dream and it's all theirs.

He pulls away from Brenda soon. Her arms slide down to his shoulders and she squeezes him gently then lets go, even though for a second she looks like she doesn't want to let go. She wants to hold on, and he wants that, too. He wants to hold on to someone, to anyone. He can't. Not here, not today, when they're all looking at him the same way. With that expectation in their eyes, that this will all be too much, too heavy, for Thomas to carry. And it is painful, and maybe one day it will feel like too much, but right now he can only feel hopeful when he looks around at this place. Despite all they lost, they found somewhere to live, somewhere to thrive, and in the end that makes all of their losses worth it.

"You look better." Brenda says, glancing him over.

And as she looks him over, lingering on his side, on the wound beneath, Thomas is pulled back to the city. To the helicarrier, the hands reaching out for him, holding him. He only remembers it vaguely, what he can see is clouded in blackness. But he knows that they saved him, that they got him out of there when he was sure that they wouldn't find them, that he would die on that rooftop with Teresa.

Just to think of it hurts.

"Do I?" Thomas asks, quieter than he means to be.

Must be days since he last spoke to anyone. He can't remember how long it's been, but he does remember who he last spoke to. Teresa. He quickly clears his throat, thinking of their last conversation, of the last thing she ever said to him, before he looks up at his friends again. His gaze shifts from Aris, to Harriet, and then back to Brenda again.

"A little." she nods, half-smiling. "Still, looks like you could do with some more rest."

Suddenly Frypan comes closer, smiling like he's happy to see him. And Thomas feels the same way. He feels as if he is filled with grief, but despite this he is still happy to see his friends, to be with them again. They mean as much to him as the ones he lost. They're more than just his friends, they're his family, and he is happy to be here with them.

"More rest? Seriously?" Fry asks, smiling a little more. "He's been out for days. If he gets anymore rest, he's gonna miss out on all of the hard work. Which seems like something he'd do."

It almost makes Thomas laugh, almost makes him smile. Something holds him back. What he does do, what he can do, is hug Frypan. He's been wanting to do it since he woke up, thinking of them all. He wants to hug them all, to feel them, to know that they're real. So he hugs his friend, trying not to think back to the city, to the last adventure the two of them went on together. How they were never together, not all of them, not for long.

He sees it now, how they were doomed. If only he'd thought it through, if only he'd let himself see what was happening to Newt instead of pretending it would go away, pretending it would all be better after they found Minho. It was what Newt wanted, to save him, no matter what the cost. But still, he feels haunted by what could have been, what he should have done.

"Hey, Fry." Thomas sighs, as the two embrace. "I missed you, too."

They hug for a moment then, after patting his back gently, Frypan walks back to Brenda's side and the two share a look.

"Brenda's right, though." Fry points out, arms folded over his chest. "You look better. But still like you need a lot more rest."

Later, he thinks again, but never says. He can't bring himself to say it, or anything at all. Thomas isn't sure why, he can only nod as he glances them over, thinking about how long they've been here, and what it would've been like at the start. Then he begins to think about how long he's been out for, and how they must have worried for him, how they cared for him. They got him here. He doesn't remember a thing from the moment he climbed into the helicarrier, except that they were there.

And somehow, through all the chaos and the fire, knowing they were there by his side comforts him.

"How are you holding up, Thomas?"

The voice comes from behind him, it belongs to Vince. Of course he's here, of course he made it here. Thomas thinks that he remembers it now, remembers seeing Vince on the helicarrier. He'd been close, Thomas remembers that, or at least his memory tells him it happened this way. He quickly turns over his shoulder, seeking out the older man. He finds him just a few steps away, his face calm, his expressions hidden. He is the most composed of them all.

How? Thomas wants to ask, wants to know how Vince found them, how he even knew what was going on in the city. How were you there? he wants to know, but he thinks he already knows the answer. If Vince wanted to be there, wanted to join their fight, then Thomas knows he would've found a way. He thinks Vince could find a way to do anything. So he has that answer, and he knows he has the answer to his next question before he even thinks about asking it. Why? He wants to know, why Vince was there, why he came back for them. Thomas already knows the answer, he's always known. It's because he cares, he always has, always will.

Thomas answers Vince eventually, but at first he only offers him a shrug of his shoulders as his answer. He's still uncertain of what to say, of how to answer that question. He hasn't been awake for long, not long enough to know how he's holding up. Since he's been awake, he's been consumed with memories, but he's still here, still holding it together. He guesses he will only really find out later how he's holding up. For now, he's just focusing on holding it together in front of them, for just a few more minutes. After everything they went through, he doesn't want them to have to worry about him anymore.

"I keep thinking.." Thomas pauses, quiet for a moment. "I keep thinking that I'm gonna wake up."

Across from him, just a few steps away now, Vince nods understandingly and then pulls him into a soft embrace. He holds Thomas as tightly as Brenda did, and as gently as Minho did. But he doesn't let go, not right away, not like they did. Thomas lifts his hands, placing them on Vince's back as he holds him, hugs him back. It feels a little better after hugging his friends, after seeing them all again. It feels nice, he realizes. Feels like home.

"It's a lot to take in, I know." Vince says, pulling away slowly. "So just take your time, Thomas. Give it a few days, it'll feel better then."

Thomas feels uncertain again, but says nothing. He just nods, meeting Vince's gaze, as the older man drops a hand to his shoulder, squeezes it gently, then lets go. He almost doesn't want him to, almost wants Vince's hand to stay there on his shoulder, to feel something real, something solid. Because even though he knows that this isn't in his head, that they made it out of the city, out of the maze, he still has his doubts. He thinks he'll always doubt it, even though he knows that it's real, that they're all here with him right now.

He isn't alone, he'll never be alone again. Sonya is here, he sees her now, behind Vince. She smiles at him, just like Harriet does when he turns back to her, back to where she stands near Gally and Jorge. They nod in his direction but don't come closer, not yet. It's like they can see it, that he needs time, that this might be too much for him. It is and it isn't. This place is everything they were looking for, everything he dreamed they could have, but he still feels it, that they're missing something. That he's missing something, and he knows what it is, knows who it is that he's missing.

"You take all the time you need, alright?" Vince says soon, a hand back on his shoulder. "There's plenty of work to be done, but as you can see..There are a lot of us here. We can carry it, until you're ready to come back."

He wants to thank them, to thank Vince, for all of it. For the city, for coming back for him, for getting them here. If Jorge didn't make it back in time, they never would have made it here. If it weren't for Vince and Minho pulling him up into the helicarrier, he wouldn't be here at all.

There are others he wishes he could thank, for getting him here, for making sure he lived long enough to make it to this place. It's a long list of friends he lost, friends who made sure he lived even when they didn't. But they're not here anymore so he can't thank them, he has to keep it to himself. In the end, he keeps his thanks for Vince and his friends to himself, too. Now isn't the time. He'll thank them all later when he's up for it.

"I think I might start by taking a look around." Thomas says, glancing up at his friends. "Looks like you guys have been busy. It looks good."

By his side, Vince nods and rubs a thumb over his shoulder. Then he lets go, taking a step back, to give Thomas space, to leave him to roam through the huts and gardens on the island. He looks proud, for a moment, as his gaze sweeps over the island, the gardens, the huts, and the large stone down near the sand. When Vince is done glancing it all over, he turns back to Thomas, that pride still in his eyes. He's proud of him, of all of them, for what they did and how hard they fought to get here.

Thomas is proud of them, too. As he quickly looks between his friends, still standing in a circle around him, he is met with a rush of pride. They made it. He always knew they could, always believed they had it in them, and they proved it. But when he looks at them he doesn't just feel proud. He feels relieved that they made it here, that they're safe with him, and that what they went through wasn't for nothing.

Their fight against WCKD, everything they lost, it was for a reason. It was for this place, for the life they will have here, and even though it is too painful for Thomas to think about all that they lost he still finds great comfort in knowing that it was worth something in the end.

"Take your time. And take it easy." Vince says soon, bringing him back. "When you're ready, we'll be here."

He doesn't want to leave, not really. There's a part of Thomas that wants to stay, wants to sit with Minho, wants to hug Brenda again. He wants to stay with all of them and let himself feel it, the relief that builds inside of him, the happiness that he feels when he's around them. And he will, he'll do all of that later. Thomas will hug them all again. He'll take the time to sit with them, to talk to them, but first he needs a moment to himself, to his thoughts. Thomas knows there will be plenty of time for that later, when he is alone by the shore or back in his hut. But he can't stop what he feels, the sudden and intense urge to just be alone again for a second. To breathe, to let it go, and to then return to them.

They understand that he needs to leave, and Thomas appreciates it. He says nothing else, doesn't thank them, doesn't say a word. He just nods, glancing them over, an almost smile on his lips as he lets his feet take him away from them and slowly towards the huts and tents nearby. They remind him of the Glade, but they're different, they're better than the ones they had back in the Glade, what feels like so long ago now. It all feels calmer, feels more peaceful than it ever was back there. He explores it all slowly, following a set of wooden stairs up into what looks like the main hut. It's the biggest of all, filled with hammocks swinging from the ceiling, rows of empty cots and beds, and storage containers scattered through the space, likely filled with clothes and supplies, all thanks to Vince, to the Right Arm. They wouldn't be here without them, without him.

Thomas stops by a wooden post, leaning against it as his eyes scan the inside of the hut. It's big, so much bigger than anything they ever had before this place. He stays where he is for a while, resting against the post, watching the survivors come and go. His attention shifts between them and the hut itself. It's large and sturdy, with oil lanterns placed through it, small candles burning on wooden tables, and hammocks hanging almost everywhere throughout the space. There's something about it, something he feels again. He felt it just seconds earlier, in Vince's embrace, and in Brenda's smile. He felt it in every hug, every look.

It feels like home.

This is a good place, he can still see that through his grief. It is better than good. It is everything they ever dreamed of, everything they wanted and deserved. And finally they're here, they're home. The thought overwhelms him again, so he leaves it behind. Thomas turns away from the main hut, too. He turns his back on it, follows the stairs down to the grass, and slowly makes his way through his new surroundings. There's green grass everywhere. He sees it all more clearly now, along with the curved wooden benches placed randomly on the island, between huts and shacks, overlooking the ocean and the sky. He's tempted to sit, to rest for a minute, but he walks on, letting his feet take him where they want him to go.

He finds the garden soon and spends a while there, watching the survivors work. He's surprised at first, by how much is here, by what they've already achieved, but it shouldn't really surprise him when he thinks about who they are and what they've overcome to get here. Thomas stays by the garden for a while, for longer than he means, watching as Vince joins them in the garden, working hard to help, to harvest the food they've grown so far and to tend to what's to come, to what will grow and spring to life in their garden.

And it's just as he's thinking of that, of what's to come, that he feels a pull to the past, to the Glade. He doesn't fight it, he doesn't want to. This time he doesn't go back, not really. It's more like the memory comes to him. Newt comes back to him.

Thomas blinks and finds Newt working in that garden like he did that day. He doesn't see Zart, he doesn't see anyone else, only Newt standing at the edge of the garden, working hard just like that day, like he always did. He's back in his old clothes, too. The ones he wore in the Glade, and Thomas can't look away, can't stop trying to memorize what he looks like, in his dark-orange undershirt, baggy brown pants, and his white shirt tied loosely around his waist. His knife is holstered in a strap across his chest, and there's a dark piece of fabric tied around his wrist, reminding Thomas of that day and then of the day on the rooftop.

He forces that memory away and focuses on this one, on Newt in the garden, his back to Thomas, his face still unclear. He wants to come closer, wants to call out to Newt, to say something, but when it comes down to it he can't say a word. He can't say a damn thing, he can only stare at Newt, watching as he stops what he's doing and almost turns around, almost looks back at Thomas. A sharp memory comes back to him, the night in the city when he looked away and Newt turned. There's a moment where he feels like he stops breathing again. Everything around him slows down and stills, all noises fade away. He forgets about the survivors moving and working around him, he forgets about the ocean and the sound of the waves crashing against the shore.

He can hearing nothing but the silence, and the sounds of their heavy breaths on the night they ran, the night they almost made it. He's afraid now like he was back then, afraid that when Newt turns around that he won't look like himself. Thomas waits, expecting him to look like he did at the end of that night, when his eyes were so dark, so different from their usual shade of brown. He waits, expecting dark black veins spread out across Newt's pale face. He remembers it all, remembers the blood spilling from Newt's mouth, from the knife in his chest. He flinches from the memory, still afraid, still dreading what will come next when Newt turns around. He won't be himself, not for long, he'll be a Crank again. A ghost, of the person he once was, and Thomas will be helpless.

Still, a part of him wants Newt to turn around. He wants to look at him, wants one more moment, even if he's a Crank. It doesn't matter to Thomas what he looks like, if he looks like himself or like he did when he turned. He just needs to see him, needs to look at him one more time so he doesn't forget, so it will always be with him.

In the quiet that follows, Thomas almost comes closer. Almost calls out Newt's name, wanting him to turn around. He is afraid but he doesn't care, he wants to see Newt's face, has to see him one last time. But before he can, Newt is gone again. Thomas blinks and he disappears, and the space where Newt once stood in the garden is empty, there's nothing there. Only thick blades of grass, and signs of life sprouting from the dirt. Newt was never really there, never really working in the garden, and Thomas knows that. He also knows that Newt isn't really gone. The memory of his friend is always with him in every moment, every breath. He will always be here now, he will always be with Thomas.

Sometimes the memories just don't feel like enough, not when Newt should be here, not when he gave everything to this fight. Thomas is glad for the memories, glad to have something to hold on to, to remember Newt by, but it doesn't always feel like enough. Maybe it's because he's so used to having Newt there by his side and not just in his head. He wonders if he'll always feel this way, as if their time together was over too soon, as if it wasn't enough. He asks himself this, despite already having the answer.

Thomas will always want more time. He will always want more when it comes to Newt, and he will always be consumed by the thoughts of what they almost had, what they could have had if there had been more time. He lost that, lost the chance for more. He lost it all back in the city when Newt died and took a piece of Thomas with him.

note:

hiya! so this fic is what it says in the summary: a fix-it fic where newt lives, set after thomas wakes up on the island. This is my first time writing newtmas or anything tmr related sooo I'm a bit nervous. but I hope you'll like it! after I watched the movie I fell pretty deep into a newtmas hole and I can't get out/can't stop thinking about this ship. this fic is a result of that. Enjoy! x