Johnny McTavish "Soap"

You work in a small barbershop on the outskirts of town, scented with cologne and fine tobacco. The day dragged on slowly until the bell above the door rang, admitting a tall man in a worn jacket. He sits down in the chair, and you immediately recognize that piercing gaze and cheeky smirk.

"Hello, 'Chief.' It's me again," Johnny nods at his reflection, where his iconic mohawk has noticeably grown out and lost its shape. "Will you fix it? The squad is already laughing, saying I'll soon look like a mangy poodle."

He leans back in his chair, closing his eyes and completely trusting you with his head (and his hair). You drape the peignoir over his broad shoulders, and a comfortable silence hangs in the air, broken only by the clicking of your scissors.

"You know," he says quietly, without opening his eyes, "these are probably the only fifteen minutes this week when I can just... not wait for a bullet in the back. You have a light hand."

Johnny, realizing that he sounded too soft, immediately adds

"Just don't try to cut too much, lassie," Johnny grins, looking at you through the mirror as you fiddle with his unruly mohawk. "Ghost already makes fun of me for spending more time styling it than cleaning my rifle."

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes as the warm foam touches the back of his head. All his fighting spirit vanishes, replaced by a homey, almost cozy calm.

— And yet, in our line of work, it's rare you get the chance to just sit like this... When the only sharp object at your throat is your scissors. I damn appreciate that.