Evil rat man mf
Reader is an older immune, think >=24; not a prisoner, not an accomplice, but a secret third thing (just there, lmao [reader was over on the bench!]). Almost might take place before the events of The Scorch Trials, possibly Maze Runner itself idk.
**
A gray sweatshirt hangs from his hand.
"Take it."
His eyes flicker at you quickly before going back to... whatever it is he occupies himself with.
Janson is strange; you can't quite get a read on him. You don't trust him, not completely, but still, you find yourself seeking him out. There's moments where his good deeds seem genuine, moments where it is clear it's misleading, and moments when the leashed rabid dog comes out to play (that part is terrifying).
Your fingers close around the softer than expected fabric, tugging it over your head. It fits nice, just right kind of loose while being snug enough that you don't feel like it's losing its purpose.
"Thank you," you murmer, still hovering, still absentmindedly gazing out the window of the building. The view outside is a stunning blue, the sky shimmering like the dark blue of the Atlantic.
"What are you staring at?"
Maybe in a different world, such a sudden break of the silence would have normally startled someone, but seldom is anyone totally at ease in the world you live in, and seldom are you not able to sense Janson's presence. You glance at him, finding his eyes moving between you and the world outside.
"You don't stop long enough to look, Janson."
"Really?" He steps closer to you, nearly boxing you in against the work table, but there's just enough room you could side-step him if need be. "And how would you know what I spend my time looking at?"
"You've lost all whimsy," you state, voice serious, but eyes light. The corners of his lips quirk upwards quickly for a split second, his eyes flicking down before returning to meet yours.
Sliding his finger under your chin, he raises your face upwards.
"This whimsical enough for you?"
You can feel the smirk against your lips like you can suddenly identify the smell of the sweatshirt you're wearing. His left hand circles you, where each of his fingers burn into your back, not quite holding you down, but with pressure hard enough to make it clear exactly who you're with.
He pulls away, watching as your eyes open slowly, not even hiding the half-baked smirk on his lips. Yet, there's something in his eyes that's softer, more fond, and it's meant only for you.
His right hand drops from under your chin, but his left still presses into the sweatshirt, keeping you close. Standing on the tip of your toes, you press your lips to the corner of his before stepping away, his hand falling from your back.
The radio beeps to life, reminding you of the strangeness of the reality you live in, and you move towards the door. He growls, snatching the walkie up from his hip, eyes never waivering from your disappearing form until he's forced back into the job.