For all that he talks about going back to sleep, he stays awake and fakes it until he's sure that Faraday is out like a light. He doesn't want to risk any more moaned names, or worse, his body gravitating back to him in the middle of the night selfishly seeking heat. He sighs, aware that this is a problem for him to address, one that's been lingering since those early days of sitting at Faraday's bedside, but it always seemed easy to ignore.

Now, with jealousy hot in his head from the girl and the drinking, he's not sure he could stand it to watch it happen for real. Once he's sure Faraday is out, he starts to move around the camp again, leaning into the wager with the new intention to win.

There's no reason for him to be jealous if he can draw all the attention away from Faraday. He ducks behind some of their things and changes into a spare set of clothes, black button-down shirt (he'd stolen it on the road, after seeing how good it looked on Sam), a pair of slick calf-skin leathers, and his usual boots. He uses the dull reflective surface of one of the canteens to use some of the oil in his hair and beard, make it glossy and curly and shiny as he pushes them back.

He even takes one of the razors to his cheeks, cleans himself up a little. When they get to town, maybe he can see about washing his hands up, splashing rosewater on their face, but by the time he has breakfast out (not much more than bread and jerky), he feels like he's going to win. Passing Faraday, he gives him a light prod with the toe of his boot. "Awake, Faraday," he demands. "Breakfast so we can head into town."