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"Trust Me"

I found a friend, or should I say a foe? Said there's a few things you should know We don't want you to see, we come and we go Here today, gone tomorrow

pairing: gally x f!medjack!reader (2nd person POV, switching between gally's thoughts and reader's)

summary: you and gally are a little more than enemies. what happens when gally gets into a bad fight and you have to take care of him?

warnings: mildly described violence (fist-fight/punching) and injuries (broken bone, bloody nose, etc.), language, enemies to lovers adjacent (reader and gally realize things...), yelling and insults but that's just gally's only method of communication (and reader's 😬), as accurately phrased medical stuff i can muster. i probably missed some it's late rn idk what's happening

word count: 3k

a/n: first tmr post with the love of my life gally, hope y'all enjoy this! title named after "trust me" by the fray (i changed the title of this like three times btw 😭)

divider creds to @dollywons ^^

Since the day the Box brought you up—the first and only girl in the Glade—you and Gally had done way more than bump heads; you tried (metaphorically) to decapitate each other every day. Alby knew never to put the two of you together during chores except when absolutely, absolutely necessary. He didn’t need any more fighting than he was already dealing with.

Today was the monthly occurrence of a new addition to the Glade, a boy every time (except for you).

The first night a Greenie—diminutive of “Greenbean”, meaning a new kid—arrived in the Glade, there was a party of sorts. At these parties, Frypan always made plenty of food, and Gally his famous drink: a bizarre concoction of liquids he could find around the Glade that were fermented to result in a very, very high alcohol concentration. It tasted like death, but it livened you up and raised your spirits; the morning after drinking it, however, you would feel like death, too. A bonfire was always lit, and camaraderie among the Gladers ensued and increased as the night went on. Some boys would bang rhythmically on wooden crates, or sometimes sing, to make music. It was the one time all of the Gladers got to relax.

As Keeper of the Med-Jacks, Alby sent every new Greenie to you for an initial check-up, just to make sure they were adjusting properly. Today, this was the newest check-up: a boy of sixteen or so with tan skin and black hair named Ilan. He was tall, quiet. Scared and confused like all the new arrivals. But he was a sweet kid. Your examination went smoothly, and you even got him to smile a couple times.

Unbeknownst to you, Gally was within earshot of the infirmary the whole time, scowling as always, listening in on your examination. As if he was checking to make sure you were safe, and the Greenbean was treating you right. When he saw Ilan smile at you, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked visibly in his cheek. A couple people passed by and shot Gally weird looks—behind his back, of course; no one besides you was brave enough to do such a thing where he could see them.

After you’d dismissed Ilan to go and complete his tour of the Glade, you had your back turned to the door as you organized the materials on your shelves. Clint and Jeff weren’t in the shack, then, and you didn’t know where they were. That’s why, at the sound of footsteps approaching, you assumed it was one of them coming back.

“Hey,” you said over your shoulder without looking, thinking it was one of your colleagues. “Mind helping me with some organizing?”

Upon hearing no response, you turned around. You were met with the sight of Gally standing in the middle of the shack, arms crossed and glaring as always.

You sighed. “What now?”

He didn’t say anything, just kept staring.

“What? Jesus, don’t just stand there and glare at me like a psycho.”

He scoffed. “I was just coming in here to make sure you were actually working.” Lie. He just wanted to hear your voice, but he was a master of disguising his true feelings and intentions.

“Oh, thank God!” you exclaimed sarcastically, putting a hand to your heart dramatically. “Whatever would I do without you, shank?”

His eyes narrowed even more (if that was still possible). “Don’t take that tone with me.”

“I’ll take whatever damn tone I please! Do you seriously have nothing better to do with your life than to make mine a living hell every second you’re alive and breathing?”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself, shank. My life is the furthest it can possibly be from revolving around you.”

“Are you sure?” You asked, feigning concern. “‘Cause, I swear, all you do is barge in and get on my fucking nerves!”

“No. I’m just making sure you aren’t in here klunking around because some of us actually appreciate order.”

“Excuse me?” You couldn’t help the way your voice raised, just slightly. “I’m a goddamn Keeper, same as you. Newt and Alby don’t give those roles out freely, in case you haven’t heard. I’ve earned every second of my title and I’ve poured blood, sweat, and tears into all of my work since I’ve gotten here. I live to work, to take care of this whole entire Glade, and you come in here accusing me of slacking off."

You scoffed. "There sure is something wrong in your head, Gally, ‘cause your judgement is the most impaired I’ve ever seen. Get out."

Gally would never admit this aloud—never, ever, ever—but hearing you yell at him like that did it more for him than anything else he could think of. He liked seeing you get so worked up over him; in fact, he usually only came to bother you so you would raise your voice at him, to hear what he longed for.

Yes, clearly, he had some problems that needed working out. But in his own, weird, Gally way, it was sort of sweet. Sort of.

He scoffed again. “Fine. Screw you.”

Oh, he meant that.

“Next time you’re hurt, I’m letting you bleed to death. Get. Lost.” The emphatic bite to your words was, at first, for an act but morphed into embarrassment by the end of your sentence, embarrassment from losing your temper. You were better than that, but you couldn't help the way he got under your skin 24/7.

He just glared at you for a second more before turning on his heel and leaving. In that moment you couldn’t’ve cared less where he was going; you had half a mind to hope he’d get hurt while doing so, and half to wish he didn’t so you wouldn’t have to see him again.

- - - - - - - -

Later, at the bonfire, Gally was up to his usual antics: fighting people in his stupid circle game, in which he and another lucky Glader would stand within a circle and try to push each other out. (Or, in Gally’s words, “I try to push [someone] out of the circle, and [they] try to last more than five seconds.” That was Gally: the humblest one in the Glade.) Someone (ahemGallyahem) thought it would be a good idea to get Ilan into the circle, to “see what the new kid was made of”. You thought it was rather cruel, but, of course, Gally wouldn’t listen to you, so all you could do was watch.

In the beginning, the game went as it usually did. Gally, being of a naturally tall and strong stature, dominated within the first thirty seconds, almost shoving the Greenie out at least twice. It got violent, though, when Ilan started to fight back; he managed to land a few punches on Gally, one in the face and a couple hard blows to the side and chest. Once Gally’s initial shock wore off, he wasted no time in retaliating. For every successful punch Ilan threw, Gally hit him back at least three times more with double the force. By the end, Ilan was almost unrecognizable after he landed on his back outside of the circle. Before you and Clint got to him (Jeff was too drunk to help), Gally hissed at Ilan, quiet enough so only the other boy could hear, “You. You stay the hell away from her. You hear me, shank? Stay away.” You could hear the blood rattling and shifting behind his teeth, through his words.

Gally thought no one other than Ilan had heard what he'd said. But you heard it clear as day. That messed with your head a second too long before you snapped out of it and ran to the Greenie lying on the ground, glaring at Gally with a clenched jaw. “You have a problem, man,” you sneered. “I’m surprised this kid is breathing.”

“Oh, come on. Relax. I was just having a little fun.”

“You disgust me.” You glanced back down at Ilan, whose face was streaked with blood and dirt. “Can you walk?” You murmured, shaking his shoulder gently to get him to open his eyes.

He just nodded once, sharply, and grabbed onto your arm for support. You and Clint helped him up carefully, making sure he had an arm around each of your shoulders before starting to walk him back to the infirmary.

- - - - - - - -

After you and Clint finished taking care of Ilan and the shack was empty, you stood with your blood-stained hands tucked underneath your crossed arms, gazing out at the night blankly.

“You okay?” Clint asked, watching you with a furrowed brow.

“Yeah,” you answered idly; you blinked once or twice to refocus your vision, to remove yourself from your stupor. “I’ll tell you about it tomorrow. Right now, I need to find Gally. He probably broke a rib.”

If anyone asked, your concern for Gally's well-being was purely clinical. ("The worst lies are the ones we tell ourselves," the voice in your head rang out as you thought that; the quote popped up, visible and at the forefront of your mind, the way most of your memories from before the Glade did.)

Without another word, you stepped out into the courtyard, scanning the moonlight-bathed Glade for the Keeper of the Builders. The fire was still ablaze, and many had yet to retire for the night, enjoying the rare down-time. You knew Gally was still out there somewhere.

Approaching Newt first, your closest friend in the Glade, you asked monotonously, “Seen Gally lately?”

He furrowed his brow, confused at your asking of such a thing. “No. Why?”

“I need to treat him. I know he got injured in the fight, too. Probably broke his nose.”

He nodded once, still slightly unconvinced. “Ah. Well, good luck getting him into that shack. He’d probably choose to go through The Changing again before willingly going anywhere with you.”

You snorted. “Probably. See you.”

You glanced around the fire, looking for the next person to ask of Gally’s whereabouts, before something caught your eye.

Halfway across the courtyard, sitting against the outside wall of the Box, was none other than Gally himself.

You sighed to yourself before begrudgingly making your way over to the boy, still with that permanent scowl on his face.

“Get up,” you said simply, once you’d gotten close enough for him to hear you.

“What?” he asked, dazed slightly like he had just been shaken out of deep thought.

“I said get up,” you echoed, now standing at his feet. “I know you got hurt in that fight, too. I heard the punches Ilan landed on you.” That wasn’t all you’d heard.

“I’m fine,” he replied stubbornly, now fully sober.

“No, you’re not. Don’t make me ask again.”

He glared up at you for a moment before complying, a wince on his face as he rose from the ground.

Going into Med-Jack mode, you frowned. “What hurts?”

Gally clenched his jaw. “Everything.”

You whistled lowly, a dragged-out note, now getting a good look at him in the moonlight. “No kidding. Now come on before you start hemorrhaging.”

You didn’t wait for him to start walking before you began to make your way back to the infirmary.

“What does that mean?” he asked; you could hear the scowl on his face.

“It’s when damaged blood vessels cause massive blood loss, usually fatal. Can be either internal or external.” You threw a glance at him over your shoulder. “In your case, I’d say internal. Sounded like Ilan might’ve broken one of your ribs.”

“Ha-ha,” he replied, deadpan as always. “What’s your obsession with this new kid? You’ve said his name, like, ten times in the last thirty seconds.”

“There isn’t one. And I’ve said it twice because, unlike you, I prefer to see people as human beings instead of punching bags, therefore choosing to call them by their names.”

“You’re real funny, you know,” he grumbled. “Maybe you were a comedian before the Maze.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m still smarter than you.”

- - - - - - - -

Inside the medical shack, you ordered politely told Gally to sit on the table in the center of the room. After gathering your materials (what you called the "Fight Box"), consisting of gauze; a needle and thread; pain-killing and anti-swelling ointments; a stethoscope; and low-grade medical tape; you turned back to the boy on the table.

In that moment, in all the moments like it where a Glader was injured, all your feelings (antipathy and love, alike) toward the boy requiring care were put on the backburner, replaced by a clinical and dutiful responsibility to do your job. Gally's case was no exception, despite the conflicting emotions regarding the boy you had always harbored.

See, here's the thing. You fought Gally tooth and nail almost constantly, always yelling at and insulting him when the chance to arose. You said you hated him, believed it yourself; but there was often a nagging feeling in the back of your mind whenever you laid your eyes on him. A lingering, confusing, absolutely maddening curiosity. You wanted to know him in a way that didn't involve screaming or crude epithets; you wanted to see what his smile looked like. You wanted to hear his voice be softer than usual, the way lovers speak quietly to each other at night in the dark. You just wanted peace, and maybe love if you could get it.

But Gally was Gally, you knew; he was stubborn. Like hell he'd change for anyone, let alone someone he claimed to despise. But what about what he'd whispered to Ilan? What did that mean, what did he want it to mean? Why did he say it right then, with blood spilling from behind his lips and bruised ribs and broken knuckles? Why did he have to fight to say it?

Your brain was a whirlwind of thought after thought as you organized what you would need for your examination. After taking a deep breath, you cleared your throat and broke the silence that had settled above your heads.

"Tell me where it hurts. Pain level 1-10 for each spot."

He clenched his jaw, not liking the idea of talking so much; then he remembered he'd gotten punched there during the fight, and the pain rushed through him again.

He sighed, avoiding your gaze. "My knuckles, the right ones. Eight. My left side, six. Jaw, five. Nose, nine."

You whistled quietly. "That bad, huh?" you asked rhetorically. You picked up the stethoscope and put the ends in your ears, lifting his shirt gently to put the listener on his chest, right near his lungs. "In. Deep."

He obeyed silently, straining to hold the pain back. His brows were furrowed in his classic scowl, but in his eyes you could see how he was really feeling.

You made a face as you concentrated hard. Good breath sounds. Shallow but steady.

"Good news is, no collapsed lung. Probably just some bruising along your ribs and side."

He just nodded once, curt, to the point. Biting his tongue so he wouldn't say the wrong thing.

"Does it hurt to breathe?" you asked, tilting your head slightly.

"A little," he answered simply. "Only deep breaths, though."

You nodded. "Probably just bruising, causing the pain. If it was with all breathing, that would be bad."

He just stared at you, giving no visible sign he'd even heard you. No surprises there, but it was still as frustrating as always.

You blinked once or twice before going back to your work. Tough crowd, you thought to yourself.

You grabbed the gauze and pain ointment from the nearby box, beginning to apply the natural oils to his knuckles.

He sucked a sharp breath through his teeth, doing nor saying nothing more to suggest he was in pain.

You just kept working, deciding words would only worsen things. You knew he hated them, anyway, though he always had plenty for you.

You only spoke when you felt you had to explain something to him, which wasn't often, since most of the medical care was straight-forward first aid.

After he was all patched up and bandaged, you stepped back and gathered your materials. "You're good," you said, concluding this brief period of amicability. "Come back once a day for bandage change, don't want to get a bad infection."

He just nodded, glaring as always, but there seemed to be tiny specks of... gratitude in his eyes.

That caught you off guard, and you forgot to breathe for a few good seconds. Then you snapped out of it, crossing your arms. "Feel better, okay?"

That was the first nice thing you had ever said to him.

Internally he was shocked. His heartbeat faltered for a moment from its usual, steady rhythm, and his pupils dilated ever so slightly, imperceptibly so.

He swallowed and nodded again. "Yeah," he said roughly. "Thank you."

And then he walked out.

You stood in the doorway and watched him stalk back to the Homestead, obviously retiring early for the night. You pulled your arms tighter across your chest, like you were cold; you weren't. You were scared of what feelings were changing in your heart for Gally, the stoic, acerbic Keeper of the Builders. You were confused because weren't you supposed to hate each other? Hate wasn't the warm, quiet, comfortable feeling that spread through your chest now, at the thought or sight of him. Hate was cold and flat, static, usually unwavering; this was changing with every passing second, felt sharply unusual in your chest, like it had a shape. Your mind was swimming as you stepped back into the infirmary to clean up for the night.

After you were done, you realized this: Gally had wedged his way into your heart, out of nowhere, and you weren't upset about it.

i might do a part two for this, i'm obsessed with this dynamic. let me know what you guys think!!!

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