He makes a low scoffing noise, the heel of his hand pressing in against the wet heat of his side. The jazz station must be inoffensive enough because he doesn't complain or make a move to go trawling through the stations. Instead he lets himself settle: head on the rest and eyes set to some point ahead of them--

And then he coughs sharply, fingers spasming at his side as blood comes up with his spit. Stains his teeth and tastes like shit. "Aw, fuck," he slurs, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. "'Gonna be sick - slow down." The road's all blurring together. He feels light headed, fingers numb and hot all at once.