"Perversity"
Perversely, Roy liked to travel not for the places he might go but for the actual trip itself. There had been a time, yes, a time before when going places was glorious and new, but that had been beaten out of him. He'd once seen a bit of graffiti scrawled on Central's walls: Join the military, go to exotic, interesting places, meet exotic, interesting people and kill them. He'd laughed, perversely, at the pithy little bit of truth.
But for all that he'd come to dread the destination, still, the travel was a joy. It was peace in a life without peace, a long stretch where he could just sit and, buoyed by the hum of the engine, not have to worry of action or inaction – where he could merely let the things to think of turn over in his head. It was a time when he could look at passing trees beauty aflame without worrying about what they might hide, rivers bracing chill without worrying how they might be used against him – when he could watch her without worrying about what she might be worrying about, without worrying about what others might be thinking about.
He loved it for the way the rare passing headlight would transform her hair gray in dark into honey in light, where the requisite short honk of recognition as one military car passed another would cause her to jerk up for one moment, and reach down for her gun, and, once content, slide back down into sleep without ever truly being awake.
Normally he treasured most of all the moments when he was able to speak with her, when she was unguarded and open, not curled against her seat with face obscured. Travel brought out his perversity.