His definition of Faith is bound in coils of cigarette smoke. Its fragrance hangs about her always, reminding him of younger days, the fumes of other fires, and magic more exotic than hers, if less deep.
But she is Slayer, leather-feathered mother hen to thousands, and he is Watcher, who watches more papers than battles now. He's given over to bureaucratic hazards, his smoking habit discarded with those other youthful idiocies.
Still, he passes her and knows the acrid scent: the whiff of temptation.
It's when her eyes hold that same smoky invitation that he thinks he might give in.