The motel doesn't have those little shampoo bottles she was counting on, so she washes her hair with the green stuff that with some luck is soap, as it comes from a dispenser labelled so.
She's not so sure, judging from the smell.
She doesn't bother with the towel as she walks out of the bathroom, hips swaying in a reminiscence of old habits, but he doesn't look up from the book he's holding.
She's still jealous of that.
Eighteen books, the most important ones, all that he had time to pack before... before. Paper worn thin by caressing fingers, each loved and familiar. His hand on the spine, and the pages open before him willingly.
Faith can relate.
They share the bed and they share the nightmares. Sometimes after 3am he wakes up with her scream on his lips and doesn't protest when she tries to kiss it away.
He finally gave in somewhere in Kansas, in a hole of a town like any other, when she pushed him against the wall and he didn't push her away.
She would have been impressed that he lasted for four states, if she wasn't so desperate by then.
She bites his lip and draws blood, and he's grateful.
It washes the ash and dust he feels in his mouth.
He never says a word when he fucks her, something that comes as a surprise to Faith. She always imagined him to be a talker, dirty words and caring words hot against her skin, but what she gets is a quiet intensity and concentration that almost scares her.
Almost, because for most of the time it sort of turns her on, breath hot on her skin, mouth and tongue tracing her veins, as if he wanted to feel her pulse on his lips.
She doesn't talk much, either. It's not her voice he wants to hear, anyway.
When they do talk, when the necessity strikes, it's in short questions and answers, the quick snap snap of his dry tone and her impatient one.
"Two days. They'll catch up later."
"Where to next?"
"I liked Georgia."
"No you didn't."
"No. I didn't."
Silence doesn't scare them. It's when the noise is getting nearer, then they worry.