Joan watches in quiet horror as he laughs. Is he possessed, too? Is something wrong? But no, idiot, he's just relieved to the point of crying, and that's another new feeling. Why would anyone-? No, no, he's just relieved she's not trying to kill him anymore. That's a sensible thing to feel.

And then I missed you, and that doesn't make sense either. She holds her medal close, eventually ties it back around her neck, setting it firmly over half-healed burn scars, and watches him with intent curiosity, sitting fully clothed in a rapidly cooling bath.

"You're a fucking weirdo. Sure, I'll look you over, too." There's more she wants, though. She realizes it suddenly.

"Is it-" it's vulnerable to ask. She hates that. Joan stands, getting water everywhere, but water's already everywhere, so fuck it. She trudges toward a towel and starts trying to dry herself off, even though she wants to shower instead. She also wants to burn these clothes, which means she's going to need replacements. She walks past Marcus and grabs some clean ones out of her dufflebag, folding them in a corner of the motel room that isn't sodden with water or demon goo for later. "Is it like an infection," she says, carefully, "where once you get it, you're more likely to get it again? Or like chicken pox? Once you had it, you're less likely? Which is it?"

She hopes he won't lie.