She can barely believe it: it's the same damned fedora. That first night--well, the second night, technically, because the first night they slept in the jungle and between the bugs and the animals Marion didn't have any interest in anything but getting out of there alive. So, the second night, they find an aging but clean hotel in a town whose name she's forgotten two seconds after she learns it, and she kicks them all out while she takes a damn bath.
When she's done and wrapped in a spare sheet because there aren't any towels, she goes back into the bedroom, and Indy's on her bed with his filthy boots on the coverlet and the hat over his face. Same damned hat, so far as she can tell.
For years she swore she was going to slug him the next time she saw his face. She's not sure why she hasn't, really. Except she nudges the brim of the hat up, just a bit, so she can see his jaw, and the scar on his chin, and there's that damn clenching in her chest.
Thirty years, it's been, since the first time she took off her clothes and crawled into bed with this man, and aside from the obvious, she thinks as she drops her sheet and puts the fedora on the table--aside from the obvious, not much has changed at all.
"Wha? Whaizzit?" Indy mumbles as she rolls him over to pull the blankets free. "Marion?"
"Shut up," she says, and puts her head on his shoulder. "Go to sleep, Indy."