Well, this was going to drive him insane. In any other circumstance, the peace and quiet in the car might have been welcome or appreciated, a respite from the constant chaos and activity that plagued him every other hour of every other day, but no. Not when it was in this situation, with this person in the passenger seat.
A small part of him is still vaguely bemused that of all things, Mushitarou Oguri had believed him the head of the Seventh Agency --- him. Really. His only direct contact with them had been freeing Dazai from the mafia (an act that the utter bastard had thrown away in his quest to deal with Dostoevsky, how the hell was he going to fix this again, damn it, he’s always making things difficult) and other than that he just knew of them from reputation and the organization also being under the Special Abilities Department. Him, the head? Flattering in a strange sort of way, but wrong. Yet even so, the wariness and uncertainty is heavy in the air of the vehicle, despite the conversation between them and the remnants of the ADA, and...well.
It’s either that oppressive atmosphere that does it, or the fact that the other man won’t stop tapping the door with his fingers, or the fact that he’s as of now running on nearly a week without sleep and six cups of coffee in the past twelve hours and he has no idea when that idiot is going to contact him again, but---
“If you have something you’d like to say, you’re more than welcome to say it, Oguri-san,” he says once they hit a red light, his voice as forcibly mild and polite as he can make it. One can only passive aggressively ignore someone completely and tap the steering wheel in pettiness for so long, after all.
