Fresh from the grip of his sleepy interlude, the suit was gruff, to say the least, as he was woken to the careful touch of Bransen's slim hand nudging his thigh. Dave was sluggish in the way he stirred, shifting reluctantly from the uncomfortable cradle of the Jeep's passenger-side seat, and he was drowsy in the manner with which he lifted his blond head upright from where it had slumped back. Dave's voice had gone faintly hoarse from disuse, too, Bran observed, withdrawing his timid hand the moment the suit's muted-green eyes pried open, blinking blearily into their surroundings, coming to full awareness. 

Even after the hefty siesta, the guy still seemed so very weary and drained, Bran thought—more so than one should really be after such a restful nap. He sounded a little grumpy too, which was something the engineer decided he didn't have the strength to bother with being too piqued by. After all, Bran himself had been somewhat crotchety earlier that very morning, having been so [I]rudely[/I] jarred from the tender embrace of his own bout of productive slumber by Dave's very hand (or his elbow, or whatever it'd been), so it wasn't like he had any room to chastise the guy over a knee-jerk response to being roused. If anything, it was kind of endearing to see his counterpart in such an uncommonly state of ornery grogginess. Made him seem—if only for a second—more [I]human[/I], Bran thought, chancing a stealthy glance over the winsome line of Dave's jaw once the suit's attention had diverted to the dusky sky outside. 

[I]Uh, wait, “winsome”?[/I] Bran's mind queried back a bit belatedly, and the engineer's incongruous thoughts dithered awkwardly to the echo of his own internal monologue. Did he really just think that of Dave right before stealing a wayward look of latent longing in the suit's direction? (Why, yes. Yes, he did.) [I]That's a pretty questionable choice of words for a captive on the topic of his captor, don't you think?[/I] And, ah, well... yeah, there was no arguing that. It had been rather questionable, indeed, especially when coupled by the bizarre act of actually [I]stealing a look[/I] to the guy because—really—with the exception of swoon-y damsels in tacky romance novels, [I]who even legitimately did that?[/I] It had been a [I]very[/I] peculiar thing to think of the man, quite honestly, even though Dave wasn't so much Bran's [I]captor[/I] anymore as he was his [I]conspirator[/I]. (Bran insisted he was not [I]arguing with himself[/I] by making that fact known, too.) He swallowed upon feeling an unwelcome surge of nervousness oversweep him, forcing his eyes to remain in possession of the road, and he clutched at the steering wheel probably a bit tighter than he needed while he listened to Dave's instruction. 

[I]“We want to keep on the I-80—”[/I] the suit confirmed with a brief break to yawn, and he continued by informing Bransen they'd be eastbound up until the point they reached the New Jersey Turnpike near Manhattan. [I]Good god, that's still quite a ways out.[/I] Bran inwardly bemoaned, made a small face of discontentment. He contemplated how much longer he could tolerate sitting upright in the uncomfortable driver's seat before eventually giving in to urge to bitch at Dave about how overtaxed his aching foot was beginning to feel. Though, that wouldn't be fair to his dear cohort, unfortunately—and Bran forced himself to acknowledge the truth in that thought. It wasn't like Dave had twisted his arm and dictatorially coerced him into taking a shift behind the wheel or anything. Bran had wanted to help. He'd volunteered, completely of his own free will, to give the guy a much-needed break and he certainly wasn't about to regret the decision, even if his foot did feel like it was trembling from the exertion. [I]For hell's sake, you're fine. Quit being such a pussy.[/I] A little strain never made a foot fall off—not that he'd heard, anyway—so Bran was fairly sure he'd survive for at least another hour or so. (Though, Dave might have to forgive him if Bransen required some help stretching the kinks out of his tired calves before bed—assuming Bran even had the nads to [I]ask[/I], that is.) 

While the idea of crashing in another shoddy motel seemed less than ideal to him, when Bransen shifted slowly in his seat, straightening his spine to appraise the growing tightness in his lower back and legs, he officially determined that—yeah—he could use the break for the night, even if it happened to be on the battered mattress of a cheap fold-out. They both could use it, really, considering the significant stretch of distance they'd heretofore covered in their ground flight from Chicago, hundred and hundreds of miles from home—not that he'd been keeping track or anything. (Did Dave live in Chicago, too, like Bransen had? The engineer wondered. He pondered the odds of the suit being raised as a New York native, as well, but ultimately refrained from voicing the questions he was itching to ask.) Surely, by now, they'd put enough range between themselves and Hawtholders to relax again? Surely, for one more night, they'd be safe from the reach of Hawtholders' and their agents of extortion, keeping another night of their lives—right? 

Almost as if reading his mind, Dave suggested in a steady tone, [I]“Let’s find a place to crash for the night... I know it’s early, but we both need the sleep. Then, tomorrow, first thing, we can track down the right people and, hopefully, be out of the city again by nightfall.” Hopefully?[/I] Why, oh, why did that remark sound so off-the-cuff and uncertain? Did he have to sound so ambivalent about it? Bran didn't like that even for one moment, the variable inflection hidden in the undercurrent of Dave's tone. (Had it been intentional?) [I]Hopefully,[/I] he heard again on repeat. [I]Yes, hopefully, we don't walk ourselves into an early grave. Hopefully, we can rely on these unknown contacts.[/I] Hopefully, the suit's... [I]associates[/I]—or whatever the fuck they were—haven't already been reached out to by Hawtholders, haven't already caught wind of the manhunt... haven't already been in contact with... 

The clear line of thought vanished when Bransen's mind suddenly toyed with the concept of Dave double-crossing him in New York. [I]Oh, god, no. Stop that, please.[/I] With another surge of powerful anxiety, the engineer, once more, refrained from looking over to the suit with an assessing gaze and he deliberately maintained his eyes to the road, silent and diligent. What if Hawtholders had already made contact within New York? What if they'd already made their offer to Dave's allies and, now, simply lay in wait for their fugitives to make an appearance? They were global, after all—likely had enough power and persuasion required to beat them to the punch. They might try to barter with Dave, tempt him with his very life in exchange for Bransen and the documents. They wouldn't stay true to their word, of course, but how desperately would Dave want to believe them? Bran still didn't have a very definitive grasp on the kind of resolve the suit had. What if he folded under the pressure, left Bran on his own and ran? 

[I]No, no—Fuck! He's one of the good guys,[/I] Bransen reminded himself, recognizing the very moment when steady fear began to lapse into delusional paranoia. His heart skipped like a ricochet bullet, beat just a little too hard, bumped just a little too fast. [I]Calm down, calm down...[/I] (Just what were the mathematical odds, anyway?) It was at least one good reason to continue holding onto the Motorola phone in his back pocket, Bran figured, practicing a few calming breaths through his nose. No matter where they ended, it would serve as his one final call for help, something to record his last known words, one final ping in the signal of his pathetic existence... He supposed he took a bit of comfort in that. A [I]bit[/I]. 

Bran could swear he'd been over every potential form of betrayal a hundred times already, having wracked his brain with each conceivable way the suit could possibly waltz Bran and his overly-trusting self straight to his deathbed. And, every single time, the engineer had assured himself that one simple fact would remain ever true above all: that Dave needed him just as much as he needed Dave, that the suit couldn't afford to lose him any more than Bran could afford to venture on his own. He wasn't completely [I]kidding himself[/I] by thinking that, now, was he? 

[I]“Does that work for you?”[/I] Dave prodded questioningly, and Bransen wanted to scoff, but he feared the sound would betray inner distress. [I]You're the fucking criminal expert around here, aren't you? Not me.[/I] Much as he wanted, he couldn't smother the bitter nature of that thought even as it hit him by impulse. (Great, now he was being resentful.) Working his tongue against the dry roof of his mouth, Bran at last ventured a cursory look to the man beside him, to Dave—the broad-shouldered, dimwitted, goddamn heroic brute of Bran's time—and the engineer murmured a soft-spoken “of course” in reply, mild and agreeable. Attention back on the road, Bransen swiped a stray lock of hair from his brow, lashes blinking into the headlights that dimly reflected on his face from the rear view mirror. It was getting dark outside now. 

“Whatever you think, Dave.” 

---

Gradually, as the sky became dimmer and the stars became brighter, twinkling distantly between smoggy columns of smoke and cloud and glowing city lights, the long and rolling highways gracefully morphed into freeways and the traffic grew from rare, to minimal, to moderate, even despite the darkening hour. By the time they pulled off the interstate, all signs of sunlight had vanished and Bransen could no longer feel his ass, so he was more than eager to retire for the night. 

He figured it didn't matter much where it was they pulled off for the evening since they weren't actually meeting up with any of Dave's [I]compadres[/I] until sometime tomorrow, so, wordlessly, he took an early exit off the I-80 just prior to reaching the turnpike, as instructed, and they found themselves nestled within the dingy township of South Hackensack. They crossed the bridge of a nearby river, drove southbound on the outskirts of a small airport that Bran idly wondered whether would serve to their advantage in the near future or not. ([I]More than likely not, considering Hawtholders would likely already have their systems scouring absolutely every airport in the country by now...[/I]) He parked their stolen Jeep in the emptiest lot of the most dismal-looking lodging his tired eyes could manage to find—and that was truly saying something. [I]It's no Hilton, that's for damn sure,[/I] he thought promptly killing the engine, and that at least implied that Hawtholders might have a more difficult time sifting them out of the city clusterfuck. The window of the main office was lit by the frail wattage of one very droopy-looking lamp, dusty and vintage, and the doors to each room seemed weathered and soggy, curtains drawn, lights out, with the exception of a very small few. 

The engineer no move to immediately exit the vehicle, peering over to Dave with a telling expression. “Well, if ever I'm in the market of needing a nice place to kill myself,” he muttered quietly, leaving the rest of his dry remark implied by the building's dilapidated exterior. [I]This would certainly be the one...[/I]