The darkness outside of the van was absolute, pressing up against the windows like a physical presence.

You sat in the passenger seat, the heavy, unfamiliar pistol digging uncomfortably into your hip beneath your jacket. You kept your gaze fixed forward, avoiding the way Steve’s hands gripped the steering wheel at ten and two.

Jonathan was hunched over the homemade tracking equipment, headphones pressed tight against his ears.

The silence was a lie; it was just the absence of talking. The van hummed, the tires chewed the asphalt, and the radio hissed with the sound of a world that didn't want to be found.

“Nothing,” Jonathan finally muttered, his voice strained and quiet from the back, a sound heavy with defeat. “Lost the pulse on Hopper’s tracker again. It’s either broken or he’s too deep.”

Steve let out a low, cynical sound—a sort of huff-snort that was wholly characteristic of his current state of high-alert irritation.

“What was that, Harrington?” you asked, turning slightly in your seat.

“What was what?” Steve asked defensively, his eyes flicking from the road to your face and back, just long enough to confirm your annoyance.

“That,” you repeated, pointing vaguely towards his mouth. “That little sound of self-importance. Like Jonathan’s lack of a signal is somehow a personal failure you’re observing with detached cool.”

Steve immediately bristled. “It wasn’t self-importance. It was exasperation. Because we’ve been driving in circles for forty minutes, and I’m pretty sure we’re burning through gas faster than we’re finding the bad guy.”

“Oh, so now you’re the expert on fuel efficiency and radio tracking?"

“I’m the expert on driving the van,” he shot back, tapping the wheel. “Which is something I’d like to do without having to hear the static equivalent of a screeching bird constantly."

“Maybe if you hadn’t insisted on driving sixty-five through those residential streets back by the hardware store, we wouldn’t have burned so much,”

“Are you serious? You’re critiquing my driving now?” Steve scoffed. “I’m trying to keep us ahead of—you know—the actual apocalypse. We’re on a schedule!”

“Oh, I know you’re on a schedule, Steve,” you said. “You’re always on a schedule. You’re always running to the next thing, aren’t you? Can’t stand still for five minutes, can you? That's why you—”

“Don’t,” he warned, his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t bring that up now. We’re working.”

“I’m not bringing anything up,” you lied, crossing your arms. “I’m just observing your tendency toward unnecessary speed, which is a reflection of your general impatience and inability to just—”

“You know what? This is unbelievable. We are literally risking our lives out here, and you’re arguing about my driving?”

“And you’re arguing about the fact that you can’t handle criticism. Which you never could. Why is it always a fight with you?”

“Because you start it!”

“You started it with the sigh!”

“It was not a sigh, it was a practical observation of the technical difficulties!”

“No, it was a passive-aggressive swipe at Jonathan! And you only do that when you’re trying to look superior, which you only do when you’re stressed, which makes you a terrible —”

“Will you two please shut up?” Jonathan's voice finally cut through the tension, raw with frustration from the back.