CH. EIGHTEEN
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Curse words toward Jeff that would give Newt a heart attack leave her mouth all at once, and Gally's somewhat slamming the door out of the frame when he gives another desperate try of opening it.

But of course, Clint just happened to drop a who knows how heavy table in front of the door.

Gally eventually gives up and sits down on the bed, running his hands up and down his face as Joan stands there, cringing at the awkwardness.

"What's with the sweater?" She manages. Her voice betrays how much she hates asking. "You hallucinated it disappeared. At the same moment, my clothes 'disappeared'. So it's mine."

"I don't shucking know if it's yours," he bites out. "I don't care either. I went up the Box with this and I'll cherish it, no matter how weird that sounds."

She sits down on a chair with folded arms. "Well, neither do I care."

"Good thing to agree on, then."

"Yes."

They're silent. Gally taps with his foot as she bites her lip, eyes on the ground.

"Would you stop tapping like that?" She requests snappily. "It's annoying."

"Your voice is annoying, so please don't ask me anything ever again."

"Perhaps you stop being annoying so I won't have to ask you anything in the first place."

"I'm annoying?"

"Yes! Yes, you are," she confirms.

Then they're quiet again. Joan refuses to look at him, while his eyes are boring holes in her body. "Hilarious you can't even look at me."

"I can. But I'd like to keep my eyes alright today."

"Lame."

Then she does look at him, but only for two seconds. Holding eye contact is something she can only do when she's really trying to be intriguing, but that's not the case right now.

"What?" He leans back at her pointed face. "You need me to hold your shuck neck and force you to not be lame?"

"I'm lame only because I can't hold eye contact?" She nearly jumps up. "You've got to work on your priorities, man."

"Yeah? Then share yours."

"Well, you're lame for ruining a friendship and never forgiving that person only because she made a mistake. Which by the way, happened because her device glitched!" Joan grumbles.

He points a finger at her. "You're lame for leaving your friends behind."

"You're lame for not understanding I didn't leave anyone behind because I thought everyone was dead! And guess what? Everyone except for one person was."

"You're lame for not understanding I got tied to a shuck chair and got a Griever released onto me!"

"You're lame for not understanding I had to watch that whenever I didn't cooperate. And you're lame for not listening, and for turning your back on multiple friends, and for never answering any serious questions!"

"You're lame in general," he says. She pulls a face at him. "You—"

"Stop." Then, she holds up her hands. "This whole fucking thing is lame. Calling each other lame for a million reasons is lame."

He huffs, averting his head.

"And you're an arrogant piece of shit," she adds.

"You're a—" he stops.

Not impressed, her eyebrows shoot up. "A what?"

"A..." He bites his lip. "You're a... eh, a... a—"

"Yeah, we're not doing the alphabet here, Gally. Use some proper words."

"A cretin!" He finally says.

"From everything you can think of, you say cretin?" She almost starts laughing out loud. "That really is lame."

"What do you want me to call you, then?" He stands up the same time as she does.

"You tell me," she says.

Murmurs that barely sound like words leave his mouth again.

"Well?"

He mutters something.

"Can't hear you."

Finally, he raises his voice. "I don't know."

Her eyebrows move up even higher. "You don't?"

"I can't call you a traitor because the walkie did glitch, neither can I call you a fake friend because we aren't even friends, I can't call you a shuckface because your face isn't that shucked, so all I can call you is an idiot for talking to the wrong airline and then leaving."

She scoffs. Turns away from him and tries to answer his explanation, but there's not much she can think of.

Then eventually, "You're not lame for saving a Greenie. I can't imagine how horrible that Griever that got released must've been, and I can't blame you for your hallucinations. So all I can call you is an idiot for no longer trusting me and accusing me of doing things I don't know of."

Now he's silent, almost as long as she was, and then he speaks, "Good to agree that we're both idiots."

"Yes," she snaps. Her back's still turned to him when she folds her arms again. "Do you still think I'm untrustworthy?"

"I think everyone is untrustworthy," he says. "Except for Fry and Alby, maybe. And Newt."

"But what's untrustworthy for you? Does it mean that they're traitors, or you just don't tell them how you feel, or what?"

"Depends," he mutters. "And you? Still don't trust anyone here?"

"No one," Joan confirms. She takes a breath. "I mean, I don't think anyone's really a traitor, but I don't trust them with my feelings. Not really."

"Same."

"Good thing to agree on, then."

"Yeah."

She sits back down on the chair, refusing to look at him as she grabs a bottle to fidget with off the table. "Do you think the Changing changed you much?"

He hesitates. "I think so. I no longer feel the need to escape this place, at least. Here, we've got food and everything. And out there..."

"A desert," she finishes.

"Yeah." Gally clears his throat. Fixes his shirt before he sits down, too. "A desert."

She closes her eyes for a second, focusing on his emotions that she can also feel. "Can you feel mine?" It almost comes out as a whisper.

"Yeah," in the same tone.

"Well, I can never figure my own feelings out so perhaps you can," she says. "What am I feeling?"

He's quiet. She can hear his breaths fasten as he focuses. Then his voice cuts through the soundless room. "Fear," he announces.

Her shoulders lower. "You're afraid and angry at once. Why are you afraid?"

"Same reason as you."

Joan sighs. "Aren't we a pair of idiots... afraid when it comes to deeper conversations. And why are you irritated?"

"We're still locked up."

Right. She forgot about that for a moment.

"Then we should totally open the door," she says, jumping up, happy to talk over all the deep stuff. As said, she doesn't like talking about it.

"Woman, you need to be shuckin' reminded it's blocked? And locked? We can't get out until someone opens the door."

"Jeff, Clint!" She slams her fists on the wood, then hisses in pain. Not her best idea to do, with one burned wrist and one broken wrist. "It's been enough! I'm sure we've figured a lot out by now!"

"It's dinner time." He looks up from his watch. "Gotta wait 'till they come back."

"No one ever returns to do their job after dinner!" She yelps. "Oh, I swear to god if we're locked up in here for the night!"

He no longer replies, so she sits back down again. Stares at nothing specific, wondering what they're now. Their problems for sure aren't solved. Not that easily. They've barely spoken about it! But the ice seems to have broken, finally.

"Do you remember..." he starts. "...remember the first time we met? Through walkies?"