Tess fluttering past him to demonstrate a flourishing game show presentation of their cupboards is a reassurance Joel didn't realise he needed: Tess goofing around, breezing past their earlier heated exchange like it never happened, means they're okay. Means he can pretend it never happened, too.

The lingering tension clinging to him that his dissatisfying shower failed to wash away loosens a little as he watches Tess make a whoopsie show of opening the crockery cupboard before moving on to reveal the unexciting contents of the next. Joel snorts under his breath at her, his grimness caving to subtle wry fondness. Thank Christ. They had both scraped a little too close towards unleashing something ugly between them before; another long dragging night of ruminating over shit neither of them can do anything about while held hostage to curfew would drag a hell of a lot longer if that ugliness were given any further oxygen to fan its flames.

As shitty as his day has been, as shitty as he is about their shipment getting screwed over, as determined as he'd been when he first arrived home to fester in his shitty mood... he dreads the thought of a long, shitty night. He's too damn tired. And deep down, in spite of the dark cloud he'd brought home with him, coming home to Tess puts him at ease. She's familiar and safe. The one constant he has left in the world.

The sly mystery Tess makes of the last cupboard has Joel reluctantly deciding to play along. He raises his brows, waiting. At the same time, he's reaching for the bottle again. The pungent taste is the only thing strong enough to wash away the remnants of burning death still scorched in the back of his throat.

"Judging by that shit-eating grin," remarks Joel, uncapping the bottle, "I'm gonna go with door number three."