It feels strange, not to be on the road already. Like they're not where they should be. It's not like the situation can get any worse, though, and they might as well be properly prepared for what's to come.
So Martin is packing their bags while Jon stares out of the window, absently combing his fingers through his long hair. It's grown dramatically during his coma, and it's not like he'd have had the time to get it professionally cut afterwards. Martin thinks it's gorgeous, of course; black interlaced with strands of silver, silky and thick - he almost wants to stop what he's doing to reach out, replace Jon's fingers with his own.
And then he remembers he can now, so he does just that.
Jon blinks out of his reverie, and his eyes are severe when he turns them on Martin (ringed in that unsettling bright green, still) until he fully comes back to himself. Then he smiles and sighs, leans into the touch like a cat.
"Alright?" Martin asks softly.
"Hm," says Jon pensively. "You like my hair like it is, don't you?"
Martin nods. "I do, yes. You look very -" pretty "- regal with longer hair."
Jon's smile grows fonder in a way that lets Martin know he has Heard the unsaid word. Martin refuses to be embarrassed, but he still feels himself blush a little.
"Shut up," he mutters, and Jon chuckles, and for a blessed couple of seconds everything is right in the world.
Then Jon says: "I want to cut it."
"Cut it?"
"Mhm. If we're going to trek across the apocalypse, I should have a practical haircut. Will you take care of it?"
"Of course," Martin says.
Jon smiles warmly. "Thank you. I think I saw scissors in a kitchen drawer."
+
They decide to wash his hair first. Martin offers to do it - perhaps because Jon looks so tired, or maybe just - because he wants to. The shampoo smells like pear and chemicals; he rubs it in Jon's hair slowly after having dampened it with warm water, and Jon's eyes drift shut as his face relaxes.
"Good?" Martin asks quietly.
Jon hums. "Perfect."
It feels incredibly intimate: the two of them in the bathroom, bent over the tub, Martin's sleeves rolled up, Jon's glasses left on the edge of the sink, Martin's fingers carefully massaging Jon's scalp . The quiet is far from comfortable - the weight on their shoulders is too heavy for it to be - but it isn't exactly painful either; it's the calm before the storm, the last chance they have to experience a semblance of normalcy.
Jon sighs in contentment, and it's with regrets that Martin pulls away, grabbing once again the shower head to rinse off the suds.
+
There is indeed a pair of scissors in the kitchen. It looks old but sharp - of course Daisy would be keeping her blades in impeccable condition. Jon sits on one of the wooden chairs, a towel around his shoulders, and looks expectantly at Martin. Martin shuffles awkwardly on his feet, fiddling with the scissors.
"So," he grimaces, "is this a good time to tell you I've never given someone else a haircut?"
Jon laughs. "That's quite alright, Martin. I'm not asking for much anyway, just - cut it all off."
"All?"
Nod. "Yes."
He sounds so sure of himself, and for a moment Martin wonders if that's not his way to recover some amount of control over his life, no matter how small. Then he shrugs.
"That, I should be able to manage."
He gets to work, methodically clipping the long locks despite the tiny pinch in his heart every time he sees one fall to the floor. It's almost soothing, the snip-snip-snip of the scissors as he makes his way up and down Jon's head; again, he thinks of a better universe in which they get to do this in their own tiny London apartment, without the pressure of an ended world to keep them on their toes. It sounds cliché even to his own mind, but he wishes this moment could last forever.
But - as all good things do - it finally comes to an end. Jon's hair is short, shorter than Martin has ever seen it, but the smile on Jon's face as he runs a hand across his shorn head confirms that it's exactly what he wanted.
He gets up, shaking off the pieces of hair clinging to his clothes, and puts the towel on the back of his chair. Then he turns toward Martin, and throws his arms around his shoulders.
"Thank you," he murmurs in Martin's neck. "Thank you."
Martin hugs back, and holds him as if this is the last chance he has to do so.
"Good day," Marguerite leaned forward and patted his cheek, then whispered in a voice only he and Thomas could have heard, "I told you my daughter would love you. You really are my best birthday gift ever."
Lissiana stared at him in amazement. It had all been a con? Her mother had just been manipulating her in an effort to get them together? She'd been playing matchmaker?
"That's probably my fault, Anne. I'm afraid I've kept him rather tied up with one thing and another the last couple of days."
Greg choked at her choice of words. He'd been literally tied up.
Lissiana pursed her lips. "We aren't allowed to murder or rob each other."
"Each other?" he asked, tone sharp again. "What about mortals?"
"Not without a good reason," she assured him.
