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Jean Gunnhildr, no matter her workload or how late her duties ran, was never one to let a citizen's concern go unheeded. So, if she was the only one still at headquarters to answer the worried whispers of an Abyss mage stronghold, then so be it; she would go. Lisa knew this about her.
So, Lisa wasn't worried about Jean, per say. Jean was swift and precise and had the blessings of the Anemo archon by her side. She could take out three Ruin Guardians and be home by sundown to write the report. Maybe Lisa just wished someone else, anyone else could've made the trek up Starsnatch cliff into what was sure to be a desperate confrontation of mages and monsters. Maybe Lisa just wished she'd stop going alone. That wasn't worry. That was just wishful thinking.
And Lisa wasn't staying up late, fueled by a cup of evening coffee (when she much preferred tea) and a book (which she couldn't remember the name of), just to watch for Jean's dragging shadow through Mondstadt's front gate. And she didn't immediately bolt up when, instead of the moonlit vision of exhaustion passing by her front window, a knock sounded at her door.
Jean stood there, her expression cast in the shadow of new moon light. She was unscathed, but her scorched and tattered uniform told a story that Lisa was the unwilling interpreter of.
"Oh, Jean," Lisa breathed.
"I'm fine," Jean responded. Her voice was devoid of anything to lend weight to the meaning of the words.
Lisa reached out her hands from beneath her evening robes and pulled Jean towards her. The knight stumbled through the door and stood stiffly at attention, but let herself be held. This close, Lisa could smell the smoke that seeped into her hair and the ozone that clung to her skin. Lisa dragged her hands across Jean's arms, legs, face; wherever she could feel Jean's exposed skin, massaging feeling back into the numbness of recently healed wounds. She held the torn and charred edges of Jean’s uniform tightly between her finger tips. She pressed a chaste kiss on Jean's forehead and pulled back, watching her face.
A million questions floated through Lisa's head, but they died in her throat when Jean pulled her close once more, resting her head in the crook of Lisa's neck with the softest sound.
"Lisa," Jean sighed. "Can I ask you a favor?"
Anything for you. There was nothing right now, or ever, Lisa would not do for Jean. She would traverse the wide ocean, cross the desert, battle men and gods and creatures of the Abyss if it meant Lisa could hear her name on Jean's breath just one more time.
"Of course, darling," is what she said, and hoped it meant the same thing.
"Would you cut my hair?"
And, well, Lisa would do that too.
With Jean out of her ruined clothes and seated on a chair in Lisa's bedroom, Lisa was able to judge the full extent of the problem. Most of Jean's hygiene habits went by the wayside in her moments of stress, and her hair was no exception. It desperately needed love as well as some moisturizer. In addition to the brittle, split ends of Jean's fine blonde hair, Lisa could see where it curled and burned away from the explosions of fire slimes and Pyro-infused axes. There wasn't much to save, and Lisa told her as much.
"That's okay," Jean said, gently leaning into Lisa's touch. "Maybe it's time for a change anyway. I've never had short hair before."
Lisa smiled, removing her hands from Jean's hair and walking over to where a bucket of water was gently warming over the fireplace. "Never?” Lisa asked. “I guess I always pictured the young Sir Gunnhildr with her hair short enough to be mistaken for a boy."
"My mother always liked it long," Jean shrugged.
Lisa tested the water with her finger. Still a little cold. She let the silence gather and speak all the words she wished she could say about Jean's mother. Frederica Gunnhildr had left a legacy that was undeniable: a legacy of obligation and shame, guilt and self-sacrifice. Jean never complained.
Lisa watched Jean closely. The soft candlelight flicked across her skin and betrayed a stiffness in her shoulders. "Are you nervous?"
"Maybe," Jean laughed weakly. "Isn't that silly? I can fight Abyssal mages and slimes and hilichurls until the sun rises, but the thought of getting my hair cut is what makes me second-guess myself."
Lisa gently lifted the now heated pot up and brought it behind where Jean sat.
"Dip your head back, darling," Lisa said, and Jean obliged. “I don't think it's silly. You're only human." Lisa worked her hands through Jean's blonde hair, releasing the knots and tangles with steady pressure beneath the waves of the lapping water. When she finished, Lisa tapped the back of Jean's head, and Jean sat back up. "Besides, I think you're going to look dashing."
Lisa handed Jean a towel as she left to dump the water out the window. It was mostly for Jean's benefit—Lisa saw the beet flush of Jean’s cheeks, even if she pretended not to notice. When Lisa returned with a pair of scissors and a razor, Jean's hair was towel dry. It looked noticeably better than when she had first arrived, but it was still marred by dead ends.
"I think however it turns out will be more a reflection of your handiwork than anything I did," Jean said, looking up at Lisa.
Lisa handed Jean a small mirror, and Jean held it so she could see her reflection in it.
"You give me too much credit, love. You have a face that could make any haircut look good." Lisa replied smoothly, tucking her hand under Jean's chin to face her forward. "Now, you're sure about this, right?" Lisa held up the long, tattered ends of Jean's hair so she could see them in the mirror.
"Do it."
Lisa cut in large swathes around Jean's hair. It piled on the ground like damp straw, and Lisa did her best to tip-toe around it as she worked. If it wasn't the middle of the night, Lisa would've insisted they do this outside, but there was a small part of Lisa that relished Jean in the closeness of her own home. Lisa whistled a made-up tune, and Jean stirred.
"You didn't ask me what happened."
"Did you want me to?"
"I didn't." Jean paused. "You always wait for me."
"I know that there are things that you cannot share.” She tapped the side of Jean's head, and Jean leaned in turn. I would hear you out, if you let me, Lisa wanted to say. I would hang on the edge of every word you say, if only you spoke them to me. “But I'm no mind reader, either. If you want to talk, I'm always here," Lisa said instead.
"Okay." Jean cleared her throat. "There were five mages. Maybe fifteen or so Hilichurls. They pushed me back into a Ruin Defender's nest."
Lisa listened. She pictured Jean, backed against the wall, sweat and adrenaline pumping through her. A standard-issue sword and unbreakable will as her only weapons to cut through the chaos of battle.
"They started fighting each other, somewhere in the midst of it. So I was able to make it out."
"Sounds like it's gonna make for an interesting report," Lisa replied. She wondered how long Jean lay in wait, battered as the buzz of magic and whirring of gears thrummed around her. She wondered whether Jean had found refuge somewhere soft, or if she sat crouched, knees numb as they bent into the crevice of a rock waiting for an opening to charge through. Jean did not tell her story with vigor, but in its absence, Lisa filled it with the dread Jean would never share.
"As if there's such a thing."
At that, Lisa laughed. "You do make a point," Lisa responded, then stepped back to admire her handiwork. Most of the dead ends were gone, and Jean's hair was a fraction of its former length. Lisa salvaged most of the top of her head, as well as the long locks that framed her face, but the back and sides were short and thin. She moved to the front of Jean's face and carefully parted her hair, measuring the ends of her bangs with her fingers. When they were even, she pressed her finger against Jean's nose, who flushed while putting on an indignant facade. "Now, how do you feel about an undercut?"
Jean swallowed.
"It'll be a bit longer on the top—you might need some pomade to give it volume, I have some you can borrow, don't worry," Lisa ran her hand through Jean's hair, dragging it to the rough, chopped edges, "and I'll shave it here, right up against your part. It'll be easy to take care of. Out of your hair—yes, haha—for a bit. What do you think?"
"And when it grows back out?"
Lisa smiled. "Well, then I can just cut it short for you again. Easy enough, dear."
Jean was quiet for a while. Lisa could sense her tension, a heaviness weighing down her thoughts that she was not sharing. Lisa cleaned the scissors in a bucket of cool water as she waited.
"Go ahead," Jean answered, soft and airy. Lisa could hear the longing in her voice. A desire to be taken care of, to be cared for as she cared for everyone around her. Lisa would care for her, if only Jean let her.
"I don't have any shaving cream, so we'll have to make do," Lisa said, trying her best to keep the tremble out of her voice while beneath Jean's earnest gaze. From her back counter, she removed a small bar of white soap, and began to run it across the back of Jean's head. It left a thin, slippery film against Jean's scalp and a distinct scent in the air.
Jean sniffed.
"Sorry, it's sweet. It'll wash out."
"No, I like it," Jean said. "It smells like you."
It was Lisa's turn to feel her face heat up, and she was grateful that she was standing behind Jean and the mirror was set aside.
"What's it made from?" Jean paused and took a deep breath in.
"Valberry," Lisa said as Jean exhaled. "With a little bit of cardamom and cinnamon."
"Interesting combination," Jean laughed. It was such a lovely sound, elegant but coarse with sleep now beginning to set in. Lisa pressed the razor against her hair. She pulled a long, slow stroke that trailed down Jean's neck, letting the scraps of baby hairs fall against the blade. Lisa dusted them away. She repeated the motion, falling into rhythm of drag and dust, drag and dust, until the last of Jean's locks lay in a messy pile on Lisa's floor.
Lisa set the razor down in the bucket of water. She feathered her hands through what was once Jean’s hair.
"How's it look?" Jean asked. Her voice was heavy and it nestled right in Lisa's chest.
"See for yourself," Lisa grabbed the discarded mirror and handed it back to Jean. Jean cradled it carefully, turning her hand and angling it as she ran her hand through her hair. She vigorously rubbed up and down the back of her neck, feeling the stubble that replaced her blonde ponytail. Mostly, however, Jean was silent, with a neutral, furrowed expression on her face.
“It's a little different, I know, but…” Lisa’s voice trailed off, feeling her voice sink the longer Jean’s silence carried on. Had Lisa presumed too much? How could she fix this without shaving it all off? Lisa carefully looked at Jean's remaining hair, and chewed on her bottom lip as she ran her hand through it one more time.
“It is different,” Jean finally agreed. “But, it's not bad. I like it.”
“Are you sure? I can try something else.”
Jean set the mirror down. “I’m just not used to seeing myself in a way I like, that’s all.”
“I think it's a good look. You're maybe the most handsome Grandmaster Mondstadt’s seen yet.”
She smiled, exhaustion rimming her eyes like haphazard eyeshadow. “What are you talking about? I look terrible.” A yawn broke through her face.
Lisa laughed and brushed away the last bits of Jean’s blonde hair that clung to her neck. “Even so,” she said, her voice trailing into a murmur. Gingerly, she rested her hand on Jean’s shoulder, and Jean laid her head on it.
“I should be heading home,” Jean said.
Lisa squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t be ridiculous. Stay here.” Let me do this for you.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Slowly, she pulled Jean to her feet and walked her across the bedroom.
Even in Jean's half-lidded, sleep-bordering consciousness, she said, "This is your bed." She paused. "I'll take the couch."
"Oh please, you couldn't even make it to the couch," Lisa teased, but the creased, smiling edges of her lips continued to grow. Jean was too stubborn and chivalric for her own good and yet, Lisa couldn't help it. She loved her. The thought, once, heavy and tinged with fear, was nothing but lightness and warmth now. If only Jean knew the effect she had on others. How her small acts of care endeared her to everyone around her. "Besides, you're my guest, Jean. Please."
Lisa gently coaxed her to sit on the bed, and Jean obliged with little resistance. "But where will you sleep?" Jean asked.
"I'll take the couch. C'mon, up." Lisa brought Jean's legs onto the bed and rested Jean's head onto the pillow. She pulled up the blanket over her body. Jean's face was lax and smiling, so unlike the stern demeanor of the waking hours.
"No, Lisa," Jean murmured, and just as Lisa was about to retract her adoration of Jean's stubbornness, the knight added, "stay here. There's enough room."
Perhaps if Lisa were a more pious woman, she would find salvation in restraint. Love in absence. Holiness is distance. But Lisa was a woman of desire and want, of now, and of knowing that such moments of closeness, especially when it came to Jean Gunnhildr, had to be cherished because of their rarity. If Jean would offer it, she could not, would not, turn her away. Jean may be a woman of iron will and reserve, but Lisa just wasn't that strong.
At least for tonight, Lisa made sure Jean was not alone.