Btw This Is Always Open. I Never Don't Wanna Talk About This Man

btw this is always open. I never don't wanna talk about this man

QUICK someone give me a reason to talk about Thomas Hewitt

First Meeting - Part One

((part two here))

Thomas Hewitt/GN!Reader

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You've run away from home, hitchhiking around Texas as you come up with your next plan, only to find that life has plans of its own when a simple ride with a group of friends lands you at a lone gas station in Travis County, drawn to a mysterious man most seem to avoid.

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You take another step, the heat of the steaming concrete seeping in through the soles of your shoes, making you cringe. Why you would ever choose to run away in the middle of July in blistering Texas was a mystery to all, and not even you could come up with a plausible excuse.

It's been well over a month since you up and left your home, the overbearing presence of your mother's alcoholism and your step father's compliance becoming too much to handle any longer, even if it meant heading out into the excruciating heat with nothing but the clothes on your back and the bag on your shoulder to your name.

The small amount of cash you spent months saving was slowly beginning to dwindle, the concept of southern hospitality apparently lost to most, given that almost everyone has expected some sort of something in exchange for letting you hitch a ride to a place they were already headed.

You let out a sigh, licking your chapped lips as your dirt stained jeans scrap against your legs with every step, the sun beating down against your shoulders harshly, making you wonder what exactly was keeping you from laying on the grass and giving in to the vultures watching you virtually waste away.

You continue your march forward, the quiet sound of an engine beginning to make its presence known behind you, making you turn to see a truck crossing the horizon.

You slow your pace, thumb sticking out as you watch the truck begin to slow its pace, coming to a stop beside you.

The back passenger door swings open, a young man already moving over to the middle seat as he calls out to you, "Come on in!"

"Thanks." You climb into the truck, shutting the door as the driver begins to pull off.

The truck itself was rather full, two people in the front and now, thanks to you, three in the back.

“Where ya headed?” The driver asks, the truck quickly gaining its speed again.

“Wherever.” You shrug, “Next gas station's fine by me.”

You sigh, the truck's shitty AC feeling like heaven as you lean against the seat, letting your aching body rest for a few moments.

"Can do!" The driver responds in a chipper tone, a mood most of the car's passengers seemed to share.

There were three boys and one girl in total, and over the course of the next few minutes, you learned their names.

Trent was driving, a loud younger man with a kind smile and a lack of smarts. His girlfriend, Katie, seemed to share similar traits, seatbelt forgotten at her side as she turned fully in the passenger seat to look at you while you chatted.

The two boys in the back were Kyle and Jessie, twins who seemed pleasant enough.

The conversation flow stays light and airy as the five of you chat about small things, while you do your best to guide the conversation away from yourself.

“So,” Jesse finally asks, “What are you doing, hitchhiking in the middle of nowhere?”

You shrug, glancing at the empty fields as they zoom past, the overgrown weeds and grass telling you that no one has owned any of this land in quite some time, "…Fresh start. Seeing the world from a new perspective."

“That sounds exciting!” Katie giggles, leaning against her seat as she faces you, her accent giving way that they aren't locals.

“I suppose so. Y'all are from Nebraska, right? What’s got y'all down this way?” You do your best to steer the conversation back to them.

“Trent has some family down this way we’re going to visit for graduation.” Katie smiles.

“Sounds fun.” You return her smile, turning back to the window.

You close your eyes as the rest of them continue talking, enjoying the slight breeze drifting from the front of the truck.

“Oh, look! There’s a gas station that way!” Katie's voice catches your attention as she points out a large red sign that reads:

‘Great BBQ

GAS TIRES CLOTHES’.

You sigh, your stomach clenching at the thought of food. The last people who gave you a ride were kind enough to give you a sandwich, but that was three days ago and your stomach was protesting this unintentional starving.

After a few minutes the truck comes to a stop and the five of you climb out. You stretch for a moment, weighing your options before deciding to head inside the small station, trying to see how far you could make your last few dollars stretch.

It was a dingy old station, for sure. The white paint peeling harshly under the unrelenting sun, the signs worn and tattered from years of exposure, the two measly pumps rusted and seemingly unused for at least a decade.

The four people behind you split up, the twins going to find a restroom while the couple follows you inside.

The inside was just as small as the outside looked, and didn't seem to fare much better. A checkout counter on the right and a deli counter to the left, made a skinny walkway to the small dining area, a few shelves of old products scattered about, none of it looking properly edible but all if it makes your stomach growl painfully.

An older woman stands behind the counter, leaning on it as she speaks to the sheriff on the other side, an older man as well, but not quite as old as her.

“Afternoon, sheriff, ma'am.” You greet them with a polite smile, stepping deeper into the small store.

“Afternoon.” The sheriff tilts his hat, sucking on the tobacco stuck behind his bottom lip before turning back to the woman, who simply gives you a nod in return.

Your eyes wander around the old, tattered building, miscellaneous decorations scattered about the walls,

You thought it to be a miracle that this place was up and running at all, given how desolate the town it resided in seemed to be.

As you look through the old coke cooler shoved in the corner, absent-mindedly listening to the couple make small talk with the sheriff and clerk, a thud echoes on the old, creaking wood, pulling your attention to the back of the store.

You take a few steps to the corner, peaking around it as you look for the source of the noise.

A man stands next to the open back door, stretching in front of a large stack of boxes as if he had just carried them in.

He doesn't pay you any mind as you stare for a few moments longer, not yet noticing you peeking around the corner.

He was tall, taller than most people, with wide shoulders and strong arms to match.

His long black curls hang to his shoulders, seemingly held down by some sort of straps wrapped around his head.

He finally turns, brown eyes catching yours as you realize you're staring. A heat rises to your cheeks as you glance away, feeling a bit embarrassed over being caught. After all, you had been living on the streets for almost two months now, and the dirt embedded in your clothes hid that fact just about as much as the tangles in your dirty hair did.

A low, aggravated huff catches your attention again, pulling you from your embarrassment as you glance back over. With this new angle you could see his face much more clearly, including the dark, seemingly handmade leather mask covering the bottom half of his face and nose.

He glares at the boxes in front of him, intense eyes seemingly annoyed, as if his frustration alone could make them move to the front of the store.

With a newfound sense of confidence, or perhaps foolishness, you take a small step from around the corner, curious eyes watching the stranger in front of you.

Tense, cautious eyes stare back at you as the man furrows his brows, watching you take another step closer.

"Hi…" You give a small smile, leaning back on the heels of your feet, hands wringing behind your back, "…My name's Y/N…"

He looks you up and down, as if trying to decide what to think about you, not saying a word.

Unsure what to do next, you nod towards the boxes, "…Need any help?"

His stare doesn't break, only shifting to one of confusion as he contemplates your question.

…No one ever offered to help him. In fact, most people looked to him for help. So, why the hell were you offering?

A beat of silence passes and you shrug, "I mean, it just seems like a lot for one person to carry, and I've got nothing better to do…" Another beat passes and you begin to wonder if you made a mistake, bothering this poor man and distracting him from his work, "…Not that I don't think you can't handle it or anything, I just thought I'd offer in case it was--"

"Thomas!" A voice stops you in your tracks, causing both of you to look back to the sheriff who was now staring the two of you down, "Have you finished carryin' them boxes in here?"

He shakes his head.

"Then quit your yappin' and get to it!"

Thomas sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly, a weary look on his face as he turns to walk back outside to the sheriff's car parked out back.

"Here, let me…" You offer again, this time grabbing a box off the top of the pile, "It goes to the front counter, right?"

Thomas looks back to you, the confused look still lingering in his eyes as he nods.

You give another small smile over the heavy box, arms straining as you lug it up to the front of the store. The sheriff and clerk pay you no mind as they continue talking with the couple, though the conversation seemed mostly one sided at this point, with the clerk paying more attention to her newly lit cigarette than the couple.

"No, see, that roads been closed for the time bein'." You hear the sheriff explain in his heavy southern accent as you drop the box on the counter behind him, "Kept havin' folks lose bumpers and blow tires and what not on all them damn potholes."

"Is there an another way to get there then?" Trent asks, obvious disappointment in his voice from finding out their planned route was no longer available.

"Well, sure. I can show you the way." He turns back to the clerk, "Hand me that map, Mama.

The rest of the conversation falls into the background as you walk to the back again, picking up another box and seeing Thomas had brought in two more.

You huff a little, pushing the limits of your weakened arms as you try to lift two boxes.

You manage to drag them to the front of the store, this time electing to leave them beside the counter rather than on top with the first one.

"…And after you pass the old meat factory right here, you'll take the second left and hit the highway again." The sheriff's directions fade back into earshot as you huff again, your lack of food leaving your muscles especially weak against the heft of the boxes.

The tingle in your forearms slowly begins to subside as you turn to walk back for another, only to see Thomas carrying the last of the four boxes as if they were made of air.

Your eyes follow him as he sets the boxes on the counter before picking up the two you had left on the floor as well, dropping them next to the others.

You let out a small huff of laughter at his pure strength, watching the originally closed off and curt clerk soften as she thanks Thomas for carrying the boxes for her.

Meanwhile the sheriff waves off the couple, the honk of the truck horn echoing through the thin walls as the twins become impatient with their friends taking too long. The couple thanks him profusely, hurrying out of the store as they rush to join their friends and get back on the road.

The older man watches through the dusty screen door as the group sets off, letting out a low chuckle as he seemingly forgets your existence, "The Lord's lookin' out for us today, Mama. Tell Tommy to get his ass to the house!"

You blink in confusion as the sheriff rushes past the two of you, the clerk quickly yelling after him, “Damnit Hoyt, the boy's right here--”

He ignores her as well, slamming the back door shut before you could hear the loud squeal of spinning tires set off onto the highway.

She huffs from behind the counter, obviously annoyed with the sheriff's antics, “You better head on home, Thomas, Lord knows he'll make it everyone's problem if he makes it there before you do.”

Thomas sighs and nods his head, already heading to the front door.

You watch as he leaves, the creak of the old screen door screeching through the otherwise quiet store.

"You gonna buy somethin' or stand there with an empty head all day?" The clerk asks, pulling you back to reality as she raises an eyebrow through her thick glasses.

You blink for a second, "Oh, uh, yes ma'am."

You turn back to the small selection, grabbing a couple of snacks and a bottle of water from the cooler,

You set them on the counter, digging through your bag and pulling out a couple of ones.

"Ain't got no change." She takes the crumbled bills, smoothing them out as she opens her register.

"That's fine…" You sigh, deciding losing a few extra coins was worth it to get some food in your system.

She shuts the metal drawer with a bit of force as you thank her, shoving everything into your bag before flinging it over your shoulder and heading out into the Texas heat once again.

Hope ur ready for the AMOUNT of Thomas Hewitt request Ima make! Also I aspire to write like you and reading ur stuff waters my crops and clears my skin frfr 😭💖💖

Yes pleaseeeeeee I'm working on your request rnnnnnn send em all in

Thank you so much for liking my work and putting up with my way too long response times 🥴🥴

Well, guys, bad news.

I was working on filling requests and finishing rewriting first meeting but my stomach just AUDIBLY GROWLED in the library so I'll actually be deleting my account with Life thank you and goodbye

Thomas cries a lot.

He's always been sensitive, every since he was a kid. The names other kids and hell, even adults called him cut deep every time he heard them.

Idiot.

Monster.

Freak.

Tears pluck at his brown eyes harshly as the majority of the schoolyard torments him, the teachers turning blind eyes to the mistreatment, too busy making their own comments about his mother and family to intervene.

"S-Stop--!" He hiccups, hands desperately covering his face as he shakes against the metal fence, "G-Give it back!"

"Come get it, Freak!" The little boy taunts him, holding the mask Thomas' mother made for him high in the air, the group of children around him erupting in laughter.

"HEY! What the hell's goin' on over here!?" Hoyt hollers as he yanks the bully up by his wrist, the kids mocking laughter interrupted as they scatter, "What the hell's wrong with you, boy!? Did your Daddy raise you to take shit that ain't yours!?"

Hoyt plucks the mask from the kid's hand as he shakes his head, wide eyed and scared at being caught red handed.

"That's what I thought, so why don't you scatter before I give him a call and tell him what the hell you've been doin'."

"Yes, sir!" The kid darts as soon as Hoyt lets him go.

"Little shit." Hoyt mutters, kneeling down to help Thomas put his mask back on, "Now, I done told you, Tommy, you can't cry everytime one of those little bastards says some shit to you. Man up, you're too damn old for all that whinin'..."

Thomas nods, wiping the tears from his red eyes as Hoyt takes him back to the truck.

Man up...

Man up...

That's what Hoyt and Monty always told him, their words not much kinder and cutting even deeper as they picked at him everytime he cried.

Over the years the tears eventually turned to anger, and isolation. Hiding himself away from everyone and everything around him, protecting himself from from harsh world around him.

...And then there was you.

Sweet, excitable, gentle you.

"...Tommy...!" Your voice is tired and sweet, clearly having just woken up when Thomas came in the room.

He watches as you stretch, waking up a bit more as you look up at him, a small smile on your face.

He's tired. It's written on his face, eyes droopy and shoulders slumping, standing over the bed, looking down at you.

"C'mere." You reach for him, hands grasping as you gesture for him to climb in bed.

He does as he's told, climbing under the covers and into your arms, melting into your warmth as he lays on top of you.

"Mmm..." You hum, relaxing as your arms wrap around him, your hands running up and down his back, sending shivers up his spine, "...My Thomas..."

He sighs at your words, melting even further against you as your hands gain rhythm and begin rubbing his aching muscles, working up and down his shoulders and back as he buries his face in your neck.

You lean your head against his, the smell of the shampoo you bought for him filling your nose as you continue rubbing his back, "...I love you..."

The arms around your waist tighten as he presses further into you, completely engulfing you in his presence.

How?

How is it possible for you to love him so incredibly, and so deeply that he doesn't even need to hear those words to know their truth? How could you possibly break down every piece of him, every broken part and hideous truth and still make him feel like the only thing that matters in the world?

You can feel him start to shake. He's been working so hard, for so long. He's exhausted, and worn down. His body is scarred and calloused. His mind is weary and weak.

And every insult, every hit, every bad thing that he's ever gone through was worth it, if it means he can feel this loved for the rest of his life.

You feel his tears before you see them, the quiver in his shoulders, the hiccups in your ear as he tries to hold it back.

"Oh, Tommy..." You mutter, kissing his hair as you rub his back, "It's okay, sweetheart, you can cry, I've got you..."

And for the first time in a long time, he does.

He cries into your shoulder, a shaking and sobbing mess as you patiently hold him through it, running your hands through his hair and rubbing his back as you coax him.

"There we go..." You coo as he pulls back, holding his face in your hands while you kiss his tear stained cheeks, his mask long forgotten before he climbed into bed, "Do you feel better, love?"

He nods, letting out a deep sigh as he relaxes against you again, feeling more relief than he has in years.

"Good..."

...Thomas cries a lot. After years of believing he was never good enough to be loved, of believing his place was being locked away in the basement, forever shielding himself from the world that hated him, he was proven wrong by a single person who loves him more than every good thing put together.

And that thought alone brings tears to his eyes.