Thomas pressed the trigger again. Nothing.
There was a brief moment of panic.
Then, he did the first thing that came to his mind - he hit the gun against Newt's head, hard.
Newt's body crumpled to the ground, and for a heart shattering second Thomas thought he'd killed him. Fresh crimson spilled from Newt's head, mixing into the previously dried blood. With shaky fingers, he reached up to check Newt's pulse.
He sighed in relief. It was faint, unsteady, but it was there.
His Newt was still alive.
He was unconscious, though, so Thomas grabbed him and tried as best as he could to half carry, half drag him to the car, trying his best to ignore the faint trickle of blood behind him.
They decided to take him to the Right Arm's base. Thomas laid Newt down in the backseat of the car, with his head on his lap. He was tired, exhausted really, but he couldn't sleep. He kept looking back at where they were, precarious on the edge of life and death, marked only by a handgun lying in a pool of blood. He combed his fingers through Newt's hair, working his way through the blood matted locks, and watched as the scenery faded from sand to concrete, from white to grey, from daylight to sunset.
As time went by, the sun faded to a blood orange through the layers of city haze. It casted a golden shadow on Newt, like the aftermath of a war, before the celebration began. It was the kind of light that held promises, secrets, akin to that of bonfires. Newt looked young, ridiculously young, but also like the boy Thomas first met in the Glade, the boy that laughed, shrouded by the gentle but blazing light of the Glade's bonfire the night Thomas learnt his name. He seemed like an angel then, but even more so now. The blood on his face, his arms, told stories of survival instead of desperation, and Thomas was willing to forget the past week for this moment.
(A/N: The blood, the blood, the blood of the lamb
Is worth two lions but my name is [Dan].)
He blinked away tears at their memories and his hand in Newt's hair shook. He'd almost killed him, there and then, taken his life. Everything that he'd ever said, done, stored neatly away into a box in Thomas' mind labelled 'Newt'. He'd be the sole keeper of these memories, and that's all they'll ever be. A person, a wholesome person, becoming nothing more than a memory, a part of a dark past that would no doubt plague him in his dreams.
The hand against Newt's chest tightened, and Thomas gripped onto the material, onto Newt. He stilled for a moment, just listening to Newt's breathing, however shallow, to remind him he was alive. There was still hope. There was always hope.
The car ride was silent.
...
When they finally got to the Right Arm, there were less people there than he'd seen previously. Gally was out, so was Vince, and a couple others Thomas remembered. The others told them that they'd gone to check out WICKED, or map something. Thomas didn't really care.
They brought Newt back to a room at the back of the building, where they patched him up as well as they could. Thomas sat beside him on the floor, with a death grip on Newt's hand. Nobody told him to leave, so he didn't.
Thomas was silent while the others rested, planned, discussed. He stayed by Newt, holding his hand, always holding his hand. Newt woke up once, when the medics or whatever from the Right Arm were checking on him. He managed to gasp out Thomas' name before they knocked him out.
They used Thomas' blood, too, said it contained something that would slow down the spreading of the Flare. They said they couldn't cure him though, nothing could.
Thomas refused to accept this. He refused to accept the fact that Newt could die after all this. He could save him. He could. But he didn't know how.
He played idly with whatever's near him, toying with a torn piece of his shirt, scratching at a scab. He listened to the others' discussions. He heard the name WICKED.
And suddenly, like the flame of a candle, an idea bursts to life. It's a bad one, he knew it, and if Newt was there he'd tell him how stupid it was. He was always there to tell him to consider other options, to reign him back from whatever stupid thing Thomas was about to launch into. They worked great together, got things done the right way.
But Newt wasn't there now, so there's nothing stopping Thomas. Stop thinking that he's dead, he chided himself a heartbeat later, and reached over to feel Newt's pulse. He almost didn't find it at first, but he did, and it was there. Steadier, but still slow. Weak. Newt hated feeling weak.
So Thomas watched, stayed silent, while they were relayed the plan of attack. He did what he was told, because he had a plan. A last resort kind of plan, but a plan nonetheless. He thought of the Rat Man, of the past few weeks, and prayed that it would work. He kind of needed it to work. He didn't let himself think of the consequences.
They told him, just a day before they planned to attack, that he needed to plant a device they'd created that would interfere with WICKED's weapons. It wouldn't take more than a while to activate, so he'd have plenty of time to do what he wanted.
He told nobody his plan.
...
The next day began early. He rode in one of the Right Arm's Bergs, and ran out on cue. He left Newt in the Berg, and places the device where he's supposed to. He waited for it to activate.
It did, and when the coast was clear, he ran back to the Berg.
He recognised more and more of the rooms, corridors, as he went past. The operation rooms, the screenings. They were different, but he remembered them.
He carried Newt out of the Berg, half shuffling, half carrying him round several corners until he found it. The room that the Rat Man, as he was still used to calling him in his head, had told him about in case he 'changes his mind'. He declined it outright then, but desperate times called for desperate measures, he presumed.
With one hand gripped tight around Newt's waist, he reached up with the other hand to knock on the door. But it swung open before he could knock, and the Rat Man stood, smug, on the other side.
"Hello," he said, and Thomas wanted to punch that smirk right off his face, "Thomas. We meet again."
(A/N: hELLO FROM THE OTHER SIIIIIIIIIIIDE)
"Now," he continued saying, "I know what you're here for. The cure, to save your dearest boyfriend. Like I told you, we almost have it. We have everything ready, we just need the last ingredient."
"And what's that?"
He smiled. "You."
Thomas' eyes widened. "What?"
"More specifically, your brain. So, are you willing?"
"I'll die?"
"Yes. Such a pity, I know. But with the cure, we can save everyone. Think about it, Thomas. You've seen those Cranks, and without this there'll just be more and more of them plaguing the world. You'll save them all. You'll save Newt."
Something in Thomas' stomach clenched when he thought about Newt. He almost killed him once, he couldn't do it again. Maybe it's for the better. Maybe this was how it was all supposed to play out. He'd promised he'd do something, that he'd save Newt, save everyone. Maybe this was the only way Newt would truly be cured.
Thomas took a deep breath, and turned to face him.
"I'll do it."
~
A/N: In case you didn't know, the title is from Car Radio by tøp and it's been stuck in my head for a few days now. But yeah, this is quite a filler-y chapter and everything's gonna be explained next chapter, like The Bullet and stuff. But hey, the book's ending and it's been almost a year since I started, wow.
I should really update more but TV SHOWS...! I just watched the S2 finale of DW where the Rose Tyler, I- thing happens and I am not okay. I am far from okay. Somebody help. Really. And I thought I'd also mention PINOF 7, which was absolutely fabulous.
QOTC: What's the last lie you've told?
AOTC: "Yes mom, I'm going to bed now."
So yeah, thanks so much for reading :P and please give it a vote and comment your feedback if you enjoyed it! Much love x