What Makes a Home - The Maze Runner Imagine
Request from Anonymous: I have a lil maze runner request. 🥺 maybe something involving a very motherly reader taking care and keep order of all the glade boys and — girl. yea, that’s all I got 😔 just some nice fluffy maternal stuff.
Thanks for reading! I’m open for requests! Please let me know if any of the links don’t work. :) ___________________________________________
Warning: Some mentions of blood -- I don't think it's too graphic but it is mentioned.
Author's Note: I hope this is what you wanted! Thank you for your patience!
Word Count: 2.5k
"If you don't tie your shoes, you're going to trip over a rock and crack your head open and get a really ugly scar, and you know what you're going to think then? While you're lying on the ground next to the rock that just cracked your head open? You'll think, 'Gosh, Y/N really was right, just like she always is!' And then you'll die. All because you didn't tie your shoes."
Minho cackled as he bent down. He made a big show of double-knotting his laces, narrating aloud, "First you go left under right, then you make the bunny ears..."
You stood over him, hands on your hips, and tried to hold onto your scowl. You meant business. But then he looked up at you and he smiled and you felt yourself smiling back.
"Thanks, Mom," he teased.
You swatted at his arm but he twisted away, laughing as he shot back in to give you a peck on your cheek. He sprinted off to the Maze, calling out behind him, "Hope you're not too bored without me!"
Slinthead, you thought, but the words that came out of your mouth were, "Be careful!" You watched him until he disappeared into the stone mouth of the Maze, and then you waited a few more minutes, just in case he'd forgotten anything.
Time seemed to pass slower in the morning. The sun crawled up the horizon, creeping into a sky painted with vibrant reds, pinks, and oranges. The Glade began to stir awake.
A group of Slicers passed you on their way to the Blood House. Winston was at the head of the pack, talking with Frankie about something that seemed to require lots of hand gestures. Both boys nodded at you as you waved. Trailing behind them were Mike, Dave, and Geo. Geo was busy trying to step on the back of Dave's shoes, and Dave was busy trying to shove Geo away from him, but Mike slowed to a stop beside you, an easy smile on his face.
"Everything alright?"
You smiled back at him. "Yeah, you? Do you guys need any help?"
Mike shook his head. "I know we don't look the most competent," a few feet away, Dave had slung an arm around Geo's neck and gotten him in a headlock, and was now giving him a noogie, "but we're pretty good at our jobs. I just wanted to say thanks for taking over in the kitchen for me."
"No problem! I like helping Frypan."
Mike's smile grew. "You're the best. Let me know if you need anything!" He squeezed your shoulder and jogged back to his friends. Frankie had separated Dave and Geo and was holding them by the backs of their shirts, but that hadn't deterred Winston from his gesticulating.
You gave the group one last wave, receiving back a chorus of "Bye, Y/N!" and, with a final look at the Maze doors, you headed for the kitchen.
"There's our favorite girl!" Frypan exclaimed when you walked in, his hands deep in a ball of dough. The smell of bacon and eggs made your mouth water, and you saw Jim and Carl manning the flat top grill, bickering whenever they thought the other got in their way. Jack was beside them, providing empty plates and taking away the ones they filled, lining them up on the counter that separated the kitchen from the tables.
"You're just in time. We really knead you." Jack laughed at his own joke, jerking his chin to the dough, his hands full of plates.
Jim and Carl groaned in unison, then went back to arguing. Frypan began to sing, too loud and too off-key, and so perfect for the rambunctious peculiarity of the Glade that it made you feel at home. You smiled, rolled up your sleeves, and got to work.
Your shift in the kitchen ended after lunch with Frypan shooing you out the door. "We've got this handled now, I swear. Clint and Jeff will kill me if I keep you late again," he'd said. Then he'd ruffled your hair and shut the door behind you. A second later, you heard a loud crash, a cacophony of curses from the cooks, and a hurried, "We're fine!"
You made your way to your next job. It was a short walk, just long enough for you to run into Chuck, who tried to tag along with you until Zart, in charge of the boy for the day, hauled him back to the Gardens; and Newt and Alby, who walked with their heads bowed in deep conversation, only looking up to give you a quick greeting.
Gally lingered by the Med-jack Hut, holding his left arm to his body. His eyes were shifty, his face sulky. When he saw you coming, his lips set into a grim line that could have meant he was relieved or pissed off.
"Hey, Gally, you doing okay?" you said brightly, opening the door.
Gally followed you inside. "Fine," he grunted. As soon as he kicked the door shut behind him, he thrust his left arm in your face.
It was drenched in red. "Woah, what'd you do there?" You took a reactionary step back so it didn't drip on you, then peered closer.
"Dumb Greenie. Can't use a clunkin' saw." Gally spat on the ground.
You clucked your tongue at him. "Not indoors," you chided.
Gally frowned but didn't spit again.
"Sit down, I'll fix you right up." You pointed to the cot. Gally followed your directions like an angry toddler: trudging to the bed, sitting down heavily, and letting out a series of irritated sighs while you searched through the drawers. The medical supplies were sorted meticulously by Clint and put into frequent disarray by Jeff. You guessed Clint had been here last because you were able to easily find clean towels, wipes, and antibiotic ointment. You cleaned your hands with a wet wipe, tossed it in the trash, then returned to Gally, your brightest, most eager-to-help smile on your face.
Gally scowled at the floor.
You pulled his arm toward you and went to work wiping away the blood with a towel. "So a new guy did this?"
Gally nodded.
"And how'd that happen?" With the blood mostly cleared away, you could see a long, skinny cut along Gally's forearm. It stretched from just below his wrist halfway to his elbow. Although it had clearly gushed blood before, the rush had slowed. You applied pressure while you waited for Gally's answer.
"Idiot said he could cut the board. Idiot couldn't cut the damn board." Gally gritted his teeth as you pressed harder.
"What are you guys working on right now?" Peeling the towel back, you took a peek at the cut. It had stopped bleeding so heavily, and you could see that it wasn't deep. You let out a quiet, happy hum, then traded out the towel for a wipe. You started to clean the cut, glancing up at Gally every so often.
"We're...uh...working. On the Homestead." Gally's eyes flicked to yours, widened when he saw you were looking at him, then shot back to the floor. "Just normal stuff. Not for anything."
You raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? Not for anything?" Gally's mouth clamped shut. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere but there. "The cut's not too bad," you added after the silence had stretched on for too long.
"So I can leave?" He tensed like he was about to bolt off the bed.
"No! I haven't even bandaged it yet. It's like you're asking for it to get infected." You gave him a light smack on his uninjured arm.
Gally looked affronted. "No, I'm not," he muttered.
"You guys are too tough for your own good sometimes," you mused as you started dabbing the antibiotic ointment on Gally's cut. He grunted in response, which you decided to take as him profusely thanking you for doing such a good job. You bandaged his arm with a smile. "All set."
Gally was striding to the door as soon as the words were out of your mouth. "Thanks," he mumbled.
"No problem!" You started cleaning up, trying to match Clint's keen eye for organization. You were just trying to remember if he stored the creams alphabetically by name or by use when you heard someone clear their throat. You turned.
Gally was still standing by the door. His hands were on his hips and he was glaring a hole into the floor. "It's good," he said, seeming to fight to get every word out, "that we have someone like you. In the Glade." He nodded sharply, then stomped out of the room.
Your chest warmed and a shy, heartfelt smile crept onto your lips. "Thanks, Gally," you said to no one.
The rest of the afternoon was uneventful. Somehow, not a single Glader managed to get injured. Not even Chuck! Or someone working in the general vicinity of Chuck! You’d organized and reorganized the supplies, and when that had become mind-numbingly boring, you’d practiced your sutures and leafed through the medical textbooks. As the sun dipped below the horizon, you headed to dinner alone. Neither Clint nor Jeff had come to get you. Usually one of them would take over while you were gone, or, if all the Runners were back and the Builders and Slicers had finished their work for the day, all three of you would walk to the kitchen together. Leaving the Med-jack hut unattended made you uneasy. You hoped you would run into one of the Med-jacks on the way.
You saw no one. As you neared the kitchen, the air felt too still. The Glade was too quiet, too devoid of all the noises people made as they talked and ate and allowed themselves to unwind. You knew the kitchen and the dining area would be empty before you walked in, but it still made your chest run cold to see a place that was supposed to be so lively be so dead.
Your mind raced as you left the kitchen. Was there a meeting? You started walking toward the Homestead, then running. Why hadn't anyone gotten you? At the back of your mind, in that slimy, creeping voice that you hated, another thought arose: what if the Creators had taken all of them back?
You ran faster.
Suddenly, the doors of the Homestead burst open, and Gladers came pouring out, calling your name. For a split second, you were terrified. For a split second, you thought everything had gone wrong. Then you saw their grins. You heard their happiness. You slowed down.
"What's going on?" you asked, breathless from exertion and shock and excitement.
Newt was at the front of the group. "The boys made a little surprise for you, love." He tilted his head back at the Homestead.
"They did?" Your heart had pounded with panic seconds before, and it kept its same quick beat, only now trickles of warmth began to fill your chest and small butterflies beat against your stomach. Newt moved out of your way, giving you a clear path into the Homestead. Boys lined up on either side of you, more peering out through the open door, and, as you walked inside, a motley group of Keepers and your closest friends waited for you against the back of the room. The group was so thick you couldn't see the wall behind them. Thomas and Minho were front and center, wearing matching smiles of mischief and glee.
"One," Minho said.
"Two," continued Thomas.
"Three!" they shouted in unison, and the group parted to reveal a door.
A new door.
"That isn't--" you started to say, and then you were pushed and pulled forward, and they opened the door for you, and you were inside of the Homestead's newest room.
Your room.
Your friends filled in after you. They wandered around the small space, excitedly pointing out the things they'd brought for you.
"You obviously need a better blanket, so I put my second favorite one there for you." Minho pointed to the bottom of the bed, a roguish grin on his face. Both of you knew that was his favorite blanket.
"And I folded it!" Chuck added.
"I read that the smell of lavender helps with sleeping," Clint said when you saw the vase of flowers on your bedside table.
"And I put them in a glass!" Chuck added.
"Brought some housewarming snacks!" Frypan shouted as he and the other cooks weaved in and out of the Homestead holding trays of mini sliders.
"And I helped bring them over from the kitchen!" Chuck added.
"Newt and I...uh...tried to make some pillows." Thomas scratched the back of his head. "We recruited Jeff to sew them up. I think they'll stay shut?" He smiled bashfully.
"And I helped stuff them!" Chuck added.
"Made a rug out of sheepskin," Winston cut in proudly.
Chuck did not have anything to add.
As the commotion swirled around you, and you nodded and laughed and thanked everyone, you felt a quiet presence beside you. Looking over, you saw Gally, who seemed determined not to stare back at you.
"I thought you said you were just working on normal stuff," you teased. Around you, the room was warm and full of laughter. Your heart felt so full you thought it would burst.
Gally shrugged. You figured that was all you were going to get until he said, “I came up with the idea for the window.”
The window was next to your bed. Its edges were crisp and neat, and, because they couldn’t make glass panes in the Glade, it was framed by wooden shutters so you’d be able to close it. Right now, it was open, and light from the setting sun streamed in and gave everything a comforting orange glow.
“I love it,” you said, and for a second you felt yourself getting choked up, all of your gratitude and care and love for these boys becoming overwhelming. You wanted to wrap all of them in a hug and never let them go, you wanted to tell each and every one of them that you appreciated them, you wanted to make sure none of them ever got hurt again. You wanted them all to know how much you loved them. But maybe, you thought, feeling all of them around you in this room they’d built and designed for you, maybe they already knew.
“It’s got something written on it,” Gally muttered. He nodded to the left shutter.
Swallowing back happy tears, you stepped closer, peering at the shutter's bottom edge. The words were neat, carved in delicate cursive that should have been impossible to do on wood. It said: Thank You.
You couldn’t help yourself. You started to cry.
Gally shifted uncomfortably before reaching out to give you an awkward pat on your shoulder.
You cried harder.
Then Minho’s voice rang out from across the room. “Check the other shutter!” he crowed.
Sniffling and wiping away tears, you squinted at the other shutter. There, painstakingly carved in elegant script on the right side shutter, was the word: Mom.
That slinthead.
