[I]“You sure you can stay awake?”[/I] Dave had asked in return and Bransen's subsequent lapse of silence had less to do with the fact that he was offended by the playful jab and more to do with how he, well, genuinely wasn't sure how to answer one way or the other. When he'd made his offer to trade places, it was out of a friendly notion, but, upon thinking about it with heavier consideration, he realized he was probably too exhausted to carry on for much longer than an hour or so before he'd require Dave to change places with him once more—thereby making it a pretty pitiful offer to have even made to begin with. (Not that Dave needed to know that.) 

The suit spoke up again before Bran could reply and, at the suggestion for a food-stop, the engineer nodded wordlessly in agreement. He was feeling low on energy still, even after having gotten a decent night's rest, so getting some sustenance in his stomach would probably be the next best order of action. With any luck, it might help wake him up a bit, too. ([I]Where'd that damn Danish go?[/I] he idly wondered, trying to remember when he'd even consumed it.) 

As they came to an exit off the interstate, Dave queried about the choice in restaurant, to which Bransen simply deadpanned, “I honestly have no preference,” leaving the decision entirely to Dave's own tastes. Naturally, being so thoroughly engrossed with his work all the time, Bransen rarely had the pleasure of indulging himself in fast food until a time when his pantry was absolutely [I]barren[/I] and he could hardly spare the energy for a trip to the grocers. 

One of the reasons he was so naturally thin (apart from having the metabolism of [I]hummingbird[/I], that is) was probably on account of the fact that he was in the poor habit of eating somewhere between only one—[I]maybe[/I] two meals per day, if he was lucky. And, even then, those main courses usually came in the form of late-night frozen dinner trays, dirt cheap and fucking effortless. (Not to mention, chock-full of sodium and preservatives. Super healthy.) Frequently, while he was ardently engrossed with assembling delicate components, it was either the roiling sound of his own empty stomach or the telling sight of a scant tremble in his fingers, indicative of hypoglycemia, that served as his distracting reminders to refuel his willowy body. Either way, feeding himself was almost a hassle most of the time and, because it was such an easily forgotten task, it had almost become an irritating chore for Bransen to make time for it nowadays. 

Thankfully, he wasn't currently wrapped up in the procedure of constructing sophisticated technology—technology that, by the way, if damaged in development, could've easily cost him a year's worth in salary to replace—so Dave's suggestion was more pleasing than annoying and Bransen found himself coming into a fuller consciousness as they pulled into the parking lot. (God, he could smell the french fries already and it was making his mouth water.) 

Dave asked the engineer about going inside and Bransen, after a moment to ponder, shook his head in the negative. “I think it would be best for us to limit our exposure to surveillance cameras where we can,” he tentatively explained, remembering the sickening feeling of seeing his own recorded face on the Fortino's television screen back home. He hadn't even been [I]considering[/I] the surveillance cameras back then and, now, the thought of simply walking into a restaurant, where the lobby would be monitored with menial security measure at [I]best[/I], was profoundly distressing in itself. Bran was pretty sure Hawtholders wouldn't have immediate access to such small establishments, but... It was always better to be safe than sorry, right? 

He looked to Dave for any kind of affirmation, hoping that the suit would agree. As Dave had correctly suspected, Bransen did indeed have to use the restroom, but the engineer insisted on them entering the building separately from one another. Individually, there was a slim chance they might be less recognized than if they were standing side by side to each other. (Plus, he might admit to being a bit bathroom shy on occasion.) When he'd effectively locked himself in one of the two empty stalls, Bransen took a moment to inspect the cell phone in his pocket, opening its battery compartment in a paranoid compulsion to check for, well, [I]bugs[/I] or something, knowing in his heart that was an absurd fear. He made sure the device was still properly powered off, quickly washed his shaking hands, and promptly returned to the Jeep for food. 

God, if the smell hadn't already been tempting enough, then the sight of the meal alone would have done the goddamn trick. Bransen resettled eagerly into the passenger-side seat of the parked vehicle and, together, he and Dave dove headfirst into their first [I]real[/I] meal of the day. After a couple minutes of preoccupied silence, Bransen sighed a happy sound while they ate, filling his belly with the oversized portion that was his fattening burger, and, when Dave suddenly asked him about dipping his french fries into ice cream, Bransen glanced over to his companion questioningly, chewing with an expression of curiosity until he could safely swallow the mouthful. Bran took a sip of his soft drink, amusedly admitting, “I can't say I have... That sounds terrible though.” 

However, Dave didn't seem to think so. With a beguiled scrunch in his nose, Bransen watched Dave as he dredged a couple more warm fries into his frozen dessert and the engineer nearly grimaced as they disappeared into the suit's open mouth. Nearly. While the other man chewed, Bransen couldn't be sure why he noticed Dave's tongue when it briefly darted out to swipe the man's lips clean, but he did. He noticed how it moistened the suit's mouth in a naturally unconscious movement, giving a slight sheen to Dave's lower lip, but, thankfully, the moment he realized he was watching, Bransen was keen enough to promptly look away, busying himself with fishing into his meal bag for a few fries of his own, mortified for having even observed. 

Having pivoted partially in his seat towards his companion, Bransen asked the suit, “Could I try?” And, if Dave had been at all reluctant about sharing the ice cream, he didn't make it very well known as he extended the cup to the smaller man. Because of this, Bran didn't feel too guilty about dunking his fries experimentally for a prudent dip. He scooped just enough dessert to taste, but not enough to wholly savor like Dave might and, making an ambivalent face, Bransen popped the fries into his mouth, uncertain, sure, but he was nothing if not a curious creature, willing to push the conventional boundaries from time to time. 

“It's not bad, I guess,” Bran ruminated after a moment, smiling modestly. He swallowed the morsel as his taste buds were practically tingling from the sugary chill and, reaching into the paper bag again for a few more unsweetened fries, he added conversationally, “I must be more of a traditionalist though... I don't think I could mix my meal with my dessert. That's like mixing business and pleasure.” Oh, jeeze, did he really just say that? [I]Smooth,[/I] his mind chided. Bransen was pretty confident Dave wouldn't pick up on the unintentional double entendre since, well, it'd been [I]he[/I] catching [I]himself[/I] as Bransen had stopped himself from ogling down at Dave's mouth like a virginal schoolboy, but, nonetheless, the engineer couldn't fight the urge to mentally kick himself over the Freudian slip. Surely, the last thing he needed right now was to spook his most valuable cohort. 

Turning his attention out the window, Bran cleared his throat and added, hopefully for clarification, “That is... some people can manage it... but not me, I don't think.” Though, to be fair, that was mostly for a lack of [I]trying[/I] on his part—and, well, not to mention, lack of general [I]interest[/I] on the parts of others. [I]Oh, let's not get started on this again,[/I] Bransen nearly rolled his eyes, taking another wordless sip of his drink to wet his drying mouth. Another thing he didn't need right now was to start feeling bad for himself on account of the miserable lack of activity with respect to his, ah, [I]love life[/I]—if you could even call it that. (It didn't really make sense to put a label on something that didn't even really [I]exist[/I] now, did it?) He'd have a chance to start anew, Bransen tried to optimistically remind himself. Maybe, with any luck, he'd have more opportunity to invest the proper amount of time and attention into that realm of his life once Hawtholders was safely out of the picture. 

For now, though, that prospect just seemed... so goddamn far away.