When Dave all but jolted awake to Bransen's mild nudge, piercing eyes suddenly snapping wide and round with surprise, Bran jerked with a start of his own and retracted his hand quickly from the other man in response. “Jesus,” he huffed, not at all unobservant to how Dave gripped tightly to his pillow, clearly drawn from the clutches of an alarming dream. 

“Yes, it's morning,” the engineer confirmed a bit breathlessly, a small crease of concern forming in his brow as he watched Dave twist over to his opposite side, pivoting his back towards Bran. The engineer wasn't inclined to ask, but part of him had to wonder what it could have possibly been that so blatantly disturbed the guy in his dreams. Everyone had their demons, sure, but Bran imagined Dave's would've had to be some pretty hardy ones to so profoundly disconcert the guy as they had.

Casting an inadvertent gaze to Dave's backside as the suit reluctantly rolled out of bed, leaving Bransen alone 'neath the sheets, the smaller man took in the sight of his companion's comparably modest state of disrobe as it was unveiled, permitting a cursory glance that was brash and sweeping as it assessed, and, fleetingly, he noticed the unassuming shape of a barcode tattoo on Dave's forearm. He'd spotted it and logged it, though had hardly been given what he'd call a close enough look, so, again, he didn't bother with asking—not yet, anyway. 

Dave cast some snide remark over his shoulder about the warm water finally being back as he moved wearily to the bathroom to wash up, but, having just woken himself, Bran could hardly muster the strength to issue a solid parry in return, let alone trouble himself with being agitated by the sardonic attitude. So, instead, emitting an air of something not unlike indifference, Bransen rest his slender arms on his knees and opted to wordlessly watched Dave's retreating form until it reached the bathroom doorway. From there, the suit rotated back around to face the smaller man momentarily, informing the engineer of his coffee preferences, and, consequently, Bran nodded his head slowly in acknowledgment. 

Dave vanished into the washroom and, at the closed door, Bransen made a disapproving face before scratching his nails absently through the unkempt mop of his own dark hair. He brought his fingertips down to graze lightly over the lingering soreness in his cheekbone, feeling for tenderness, though the sensitivity was quickly fading, and he sighed as he peered about the emptiness in the room. 

Given that he was warm and—yeah, okay—relatively [I]comfortable[/I], despite the warped springs in the body of the mattress, Bransen was quick to learn that he too was unenthused about climbing out from under the covers. Sleeping for another two or three hours would have probably done him some good, all things considered, but, still, they needed sustenance and, apparently, per Dave's best judgment, Bransen was just the man to acquire it for the both of them. Whatever, he thought apathetically, tossing the seasoned bedding back. 

Bransen swung his legs off the mattress, mindful as he settled his feet to the floor, and, when he added the whole of his weight, coming carefully into a standing position, he was thrilled to discover he wasn't in such crippling agony as the night before. Oh, sure, it still hurt like [I]sodding hell[/I], but, at least, now, he could apply some pressure to his feet without wanting to crumple to the ground in a miserable, sobbing heap. The bandaging must have been working wonders, holding all his wounds together and keeping his foot from splintering apart. 

Temporary as it may have been, Bransen did what he probably shouldn't have and took full advantage of his newfound sense of strength, pushing himself through the dulled ache to expeditiously dress himself, ignoring how his limbs complained at the stress and strain. He gingerly tugged his jeans up over narrow hips, drawing the dark hoodie over himself, and Bran promptly rummaged through some of the materials Dave had carried in from the car last night to, then, locate the cheap loafers and slip them cautiously onto his feet. 

Amidst his search, Bransen's probing hands came across a thick wad of cash tucked deep into the pocket of the duffel bag and, as he drew it out to study the wrapped bundle of bills, he was almost rueful to acknowledge the shameful idea that came unwillingly to mind: [I]Could just ditch the suit and make a run for it, you know.[/I] (Right, 'cause he was [I]so sure[/I] he'd make it to New York without Dave's supervising leadership and assistance.) 

True, it felt like he was taking a bit of a gamble in trusting Dave, but, unquestionably, the suit had contacts Bransen didn't—connections to people he could probably rely on—people that would have more resources available to their disposal. So, not only was ditching the guy a [I]stupid[/I] idea to begin with, but it was also a disgraceful one that shouldn't have even crossed Bran's mind considering how much Dave had done for him—how much he'd [I]sacrificed[/I] for him—just to get Bransen free—just to carry them this far. 

The engineer glanced to the closed door of the bathroom with a profound sense of guilt, feeling the weight of the cell phone at the front of the sweater like a burden bearing down in his pocket. Had it not been for Dave's hasty actions, he might be dead by now, and so, as much as he hated to admit it, he owed the guy more than an unwarranted disappearing act. It was common decency, after all, and he considered himself a decent individual by nature (if not a little cheeky). 

Bransen pried a few bills loose from the stack of cash, tucking them in the back of his jeans before dropping the original wad back to where he'd found it and, after heaving another sigh, yielding and long-suffering, he navigated to the room's door, giving its handle a sharp twist. 

Finding the small breakfast room was easy enough, even as he awkwardly hobble-limped with a strange gait towards the front office of their shoddy motel. The harder task was finding something wholesome that would pass off as half-nutritious or, well, even [I]edible[/I] because, quite frankly, none of it looked safe to eat to him, let alone appetizing. Bransen poked through the piddly selection of breakfast items available, scrutinizing the soggy fruits and dubiously eying overcooked meats that had long since gone cold and hard from their initial presentation. Despite not housing many guests—he assumed as much, anyway, since he'd yet to see a single soul—the extensive spread of serving trays was left mostly empty, suggesting he'd either been fortunate enough to miss the morning rush or, maybe, simply that the management just didn't really cared enough to keep the tables brimming with appealing provisions for their guests. 

Spotting a vending machine beside the coffee maker, Bransen meandered over to it instead, trusting prepackaged goods leaps and bounds over the stuff that had been sitting all morning, muggy and picked-over. Blessedly, he was delighted to find more tempting items there instead and, using the cash he'd pilfered, Bran bought a pack of toaster pastries, a muffin, and cheese Danish to bring back to the room. He collected his spoils and his change, making sure to grab a cup of plain, black coffee for Dave before making his way back to the room. 

When he returned to the room, Dave was already back out from the restroom, looking more well-groomed and alert than he had been when he first climbed out of bed. Since his hands were essentially full and already combating the excess length in the long sleeves, Bransen bumped the door shut behind himself with his hip, letting it close with an audible click, and he mannerly extended the cuppa joe to Dave. “Here,” he murmured softly, setting the paper cup down on the table if Dave didn't accept it. “I dunno how you can choke that stuff down,” he said offhandedly, taking a graceful seat at the end of the bed, easing himself off his foot again. 

After depositing the plunder in a haphazard presentation on the bed in the hopes that Dave might find something to his liking (though he truly had no idea), Bransen swept a stray lock of hair from his eyes and thoughtfully observed the suit while he began re-bandaging the wound on his arm—the very same wound Bransen himself had inflicted on him. He couldn't watch for very long without feeling another strange bout of guilt overcome him, he realized, and, before Dave could get very far in his task—or, hell, before Bransen could really even stop himself—the engineer shifted on the bed, closing some of the relative space between them. “Here, let me,” he insisted succinctly, motioning an outstretched hand to Dave that beckoned 'come hither'. 

Whether Dave agreed or not, Bransen would push his long sleeves back as far as they'd stay and quite matter-of-factly say, “I may not be a doctor, but I can tell that's an odd angle for you. You'll do better to have it properly wrapped.” Bransen's fingers seemed cold as they met Dave's bicep, circumnavigating the limb in a light, mending grasp that fluttered with mild uncertainty. “I owe you for tending to me last night, anyway,” the engineer added, peeling back the remainder of old bandaging to inspect the injury. The sight of the healing wound made Bransen swallow tensely and his eyes flitted up to Dave's briefly in a doe-eyed look before re-affixing to his new chore. Collecting fresh dressing from the nearby materials on the table, he conversationally asked through his concentration, “So, I imagine we'll be back on the road soon, right? Maybe another day's drive at worst?”