Gally Imagines

=THIRTY-TWO= Come Dance With Me

"Newt," Gally called, coming up on the British blond. "Have you seen Y/N? She disappeared after dinner and I haven't seen her since. I was wondering if you knew anything."

"She's in the kitchen," came his nonchalant reply, but as he looked up, Newt caught a flicker of relief flash across Gally's face.

"Thanks," said Gally.

As he made his way towards the kitchen, Gally's heart-rate quickly fell back to a normal pace. Ever since you had been trapped in the Maze, Gally had done his best to make sure that he know your exact location around the Glade at all times. Dan might have been assigned Baggers, but Gally wasn't taking any chances. No one would touch you.

"Except Thomas," he mumbled in annoyance, remembering the whole fight episode at lunch that day.

Why had he let Thomas to fill in for him? It was horrible! Well, it wasn't that bad. I mean, he didn't do anything. But still...

He shuddered the uneasy and uncomfortable feeling away, lengthening his stride. Thomas didn't matter. All that mattered was getting to you.

~Time Lapse~

"Uuuuuuugh!"

You groaned as blackened, soapy water sloshed out of the grimy pot you were cleaning and down the front of your shirt. Your arms were already splattered with the greasy, smelly water, and the ends of your hair kept falling into it no matter how many times you tried to shove it back. You were tired and emotional and just done! But there were at least five more pots and a pans to clean, not to mention the counters that needed to be wiped down, and the stack of wet dishes that needed to be dried.

Because your work in the Garden had been done half-heartedly, and rather sloppily you were forced to admit, Newt had placed you in the kitchen to help with the dishes after dinner that night. Still clearly remembering the mud that you had ruined his stew with a while back, Frypan had decided finish hours ago, leaving you to do all of the work. He called it getting even. You called it slave-labor.

Torchlight flickered across the wall, only half-illuminating the room. You guessed that that was Frypan's way of thanking you as well. How were you supposed to make sure the dishes were clean when you could hardly see them? Was that a black burn-mark, or just a shadow? Ugh!

You tried to grip the slimy rag more tightly in your hand as you wrestled with yet another pan. Pans were the worst! The leftovers of whatever was fried in the one you were working on now had burned, sealing it to the bottom of the cast-iron pan like cement. You scrubbed hard but only managed to dislodge little pieces that chipped off, scraping your knuckles across the rest of the burned substance while sending another splash of grimy, frothy water up your arms and down your front.

The sudden cold water and the immediate pain of your knuckles caused you to lose your grip on the pan. It slipped from your fingers and inevitably landed with a tremendous back-splash into the saturated sink of putrid water. You scrambled to move out of the way but were too late. You were soaked.

You let out a scream of frustration and threw the rag into the water, creating yet another wave to splatter you. Gripping the edge of the sink, you squeezed your eyes shut, struggling to hold back tears, trying to contain the emotional volcano of rage and self-pity that threatened to decimate the kitchen in one violent lash-out.

The sound of the door opening behind you reached your ears, but you didn't turn. You didn't want to see the triumphant look on Frypan's face over the fact that you hadn't finished cleaning up yet, or the mess you yourself were covered in.