When Bransen stepped from the washroom, mindfully crossing to the edge of the bed in his towel, he took in the sight of the emergency supplies distributed across the wooden table and made a discomforted face in anticipation for what he knew was inevitably coming next. Thankfully, his foot hadn't been bothering him much in the shower, so long as he leaned his weight off it appropriately, so perhaps the damage hadn't been as bad as it initially felt? ([I]Wishful thinking,[/I] he was sure.) Giving the wounds a warm rinse seemed to soothe them, honestly, if only a little, but he'd admit, it was still prickling with a relentless soreness and the pain was becoming increasingly hard to ignore.

Having not meant anything by his own remark, he faintly flushed at Dave's dry retort about leaning in to appreciate Bransen's newfound scent of cleanliness—though, if the suit noticed, delightfully, he didn't seem to comment. At the other man's steady command, Bransen scooted back obediently from where he'd planted his rear, careful not to let his towel slide loose from round his narrow waist despite still being covered by means of his undergarments. He wordlessly bemoaned, scrunching his eyes briefly at the dread that came with his mental preparation. Lifting his foot to rest it's heel over the middle of Dave's thigh, Bran settled back onto his palms and slouched in the prop of his arms, tilting his head backwards to stare up towards the discolored patterns in the ceiling tiles.

[I]“This might sting a little,”[/I] Dave had thoughtfully warned, howbeit unnecessarily. [I]That goes without say,[/I] Bran nearly quipped back, however, when the cotton ball dabbed gingerly across the still-weeping lacerations, instantly igniting each wound back to life with a renewed vigor, the engineer promptly lost any words before they could formulate. Instead, Bran hissed audibly through the tight clench of his jaw. “Ah, [I]fucking[/I]—!” he cussed, hands balling into fists against the coverlet of the bed. His leg jerked instinctively, bending at the knee in an effort to retract, but Dave's free hand closed at his ankle, mooring him to place while he tended carefully to the injuries. With a groan, Bransen dropped to his back and pressed both hands over his face to muffle its agonized sound.

Fortunately, it didn't take long for the burning sensation to cumulatively show signs of dwindling back down to a dull throb. By the time Dave began to apply the numbing lotion over his foot, the pain was subdued enough that Bransen was able to relax the whole limb again, dropping his hands listlessly down from his face. “Oh, my god,” he groaned, blinking disconsolately through his throe while the suit procured a needle from the table. 

To Dave's well-intentioned question regarding the most mundane of details—the color of Bran's [I]stitching thread[/I]—he wanted to retort, ill-mannered and churlish, by saying, [I]Do I look like I give a damn? I'm not strutting down a runway, for god's sake,[/I] but—No, better not. That was the tenderness talking, he was sure, and he willed himself to bite his own tongue. [I]Be fucking civil,[/I] he chided, reminded of the fact that what Dave was doing for him right now was actually [I]a favor[/I] and, yes, he should be more grateful for the assistance, lest he be left hobbling around with an increasingly inflamed appendage while they carried about their merry way. [I]Wouldn't be like this in the first place if it weren't for him,[/I] an ornery side of Bran's mind accused, snappy and inconsolable. And, yes, while that may be so, if it [I]also[/I] weren't for Dave, the likelihood of Bransen being [I]dead in a ditch[/I] right now with a bullet between his eyes was nearly inexorable. [I]So, grow a pair and deal with it.[/I] 

“Black is fine,” he strained to say, pushing himself upright onto his elbows as the suit saw to his sutures. Oh, lord, he couldn't watch. Bransen quickly averted his eyes when he saw the needle going in towards the arch of his foot. He'd never done well with needles to begin with, but, now, it just felt sickening to realize he was being patched up by one. At least he couldn't feel much with his nerve endings seeming so apparently overtaxed. [I]Little blessings,[/I] he told himself, chewing his lip absentmindedly while Dave worked.

Once the suit had finished his handiwork to his liking, smoothing the white athletic wrap over the mending with bearably calloused hands, mindful as well as tender, Bransen was given his leg back, already feeling much better than it had latterly. It felt like his foot was actually [I]holding together[/I] through the injury now, instead of further compounding. “Thank you,” Bran said earnestly to Dave, pivoting from where he sat on the bed to bring both legs up onto the mattress and cautiously sprawl out.

At Dave's announcement that he'd be washing up, Bransen watched the suit's back while it retreated into the bathroom and, briefly, he considered rifling through his own pile of clothing to retrieve the small cell phone from the pocket of his borrowed hoodie. [I]Not that there's anybody you could securely call right now,[/I] he reminded himself, [I]Nor would Dave much appreciate the deceptive behavior, should he happen to find out.[/I] All very valid points, unfortunately. To play it safe, he'd sooner wait until his next opportunity, or at least until morning. 

It had been a sweeping surge of exhaustion that ultimately prevented him from taking any action, Bran liked to tell himself, and, truthfully, he was grateful for the bout laziness because, in the end, Dave, to Bran's surprise, only afforded a minute or two to preen over his own cleanliness before returning back to the main room. [I]Understandable,[/I] the engineer thought, pushing tentatively to his feet just long enough to drop his towel and drape it across the arm of the chair. Bran figured that if [I]he[/I] was this tired, than Dave must be fucking [I]teetering[/I] on his heels right now, verging on a collapse. The guy needed some rest if they were expected to make it to New York in a [I]safe[/I] and timely fashion and so Bransen couldn't rightfully pass any judgment. 

Dave killed the lights and they clambered into the single bed together, each to their own respective side. Bransen stilled momentarily before resting his head down on his pillow, a ripple of uncertainty burgeoning in his chest, making him oddly anxious. He knew why he felt cramped—the abnormal closeness left him feeling crowded and strangely short of breath; like he was breathing through a tube—but couldn't seem to shake his apprehension, even after settling down with his back turned to Dave's side of the bed. He was, after all, essentially naked and vulnerable, voluntarily [I]cozying up[/I] beside the guy that had sacked him like a tackling dummy somewhere in a shoddy alleyway (—and that wasn't to mention the kidnapping or the torture).

Come to think of it, all things considered, [I]this[/I]—this moment, right here—was probably the most intimate moment he'd come to share with, well, [I]anybody[/I] during the span of his employment at Hawtholders. [I]Oh, wow, romantic,[/I] Bran thought caustically, trying not to roll his eyes at himself while he shifted to get comfortable, [I]Though, if you want to get technical, it's probably safe to assume you've been officially “terminated” from their payroll books by now, so...[/I] (Technicalities, whatever.) 

Before getting too snug in their positions, Bransen sighed unsteadily and, speaking into the darkness while he tucked an arm beneath his pillow, he muttered offhandedly to Dave: “I should like it if you didn't [I]ditch me[/I] here tomorrow morning,” he said, not necessarily anticipating a response. Of course, he was mostly being facetious and his inflection was abiding enough to convey as much. After all, the suit had already proven to have much more of a conscience than that, so he was speaking more out of jittery tension than genuine fear and he was sure Dave could decipher as much. “Spending the last days of my life in a shoddy motel is hardly the most glamorous way to go, I'm sure,” he quietly muttered, words being met with silence. 

He imagined Dave had probably already nodded off in his exhaustion, so it didn't take long for Bransen's eyes to pick up on the concept and follow suit. Despite the bed being small and uncomfortable and dipping inwards to its center, it was still almost indulgent being able to stretch out on a real mattress for the first time in a couple nights and Bran hadn't realized how much he missed having the luxury of stretching his legs until he was finally able to do so once more. Sadly, by that point, he hadn't the strength to remain conscious for its thorough enjoyment. 

Sleep came hard and, after several hours of blissful dormancy, the sun reluctantly rose into a cloud-free sky, peeking through a slit in the thick motel curtains to shine a long and thin band of light across the shapes in the bed. 

When a sharp elbow was suddenly connecting to Bransen's face—at least, he [I]thought[/I] it was an elbow, anyway (had no real way of knowing for certain)—the strike instantly jarred the engineer awake in an obscenely crude fashion and, well, he was less than thrilled about it, to say the least. “Ah, [I]fucking[/I]—!” Bran cussed, abruptly jolting to groggy attention as pain instantly blossomed over his cheekbone. Cupping a hand to his face to scrunch his eyes, he nearly slipped right off the bed as he recoiled from the blow, hissing miserably before steadying himself on his outer arm and lifting his head. “Fucking hell, Dave—Christ!” 

Pushing himself upright, letting the bedding pool into his lap, Bransen sat up and momentarily rubbed at the sensitivity beneath his eye to knead out the lingering sting. It wasn't until after he'd finally blinked the sleep from his eyes that he acknowledged just how close he and the sleeping suit actually were. In his snoozing, Dave had apparently crept his way unconsciously towards the center of the bed, overbearing the smaller man towards the edge of the mattress, leaving Bran with hardly had room leftover to wiggle, and, in his profound state of rest, had unintentionally swiped his bed-mate’s face. Bransen could feel the suit's warm thigh pressed against his, heated skin touching skin, and he promptly shifted his leg to ax the physical contact, drawing his knees up diffidently beneath the quilting. 

“Hey,” Bransen beckoned uncertainly, swallowing dry before reaching out a hand to nudge Dave's solid shoulder. “Wake up, you loafer,” he said, studying the other man's unguarded face carefully.