It’s a miracle they managed to find a mirror at all; Earth’s not known for its luxuries anymore. But the Garrison provides them with a nice room of their own, and Kolivan is dozing in an armchair by the window, and Keith sits in front of a mirror with Krolia behind him. She twirls their shared blade in her hand, running her fingers through his too-long hair.
“What if I cut it short?” she muses, and in the corner of Keith’s eye the knife flashes violet.
Keith raised his hands to cover his head with more speed than he’s ever mustered before. “No.”
She taps the flat of the blade lightly against his fingers where they’re tangled in his hair. “Keith. You’re tense.”
“Mom. You’re insane.”
Krolia snorts and sets the blade aside next to Keith, raising her hands to pry Keith’s away from his head. She tells him, “I wouldn’t actually do that. I was just thinking about how you’d look.” She hums a bit, still holding one of Keith’s hands, and meets his eyes in the mirror.
“Like Dad, maybe,” Keith offers, because of course that’s what she meant, and someone’s got to say it.
Her eyes go soft for a moment, and her thumb strokes idly along Keith’s wrist. “Maybe,” she says softly. Then she ruffles his hair with her other hand, just barely grazing him with the familiar scratch of her claws, and says, “But you’re Keith, and you’re very attached to this hair. How about a trim?”
Keith grins and sits back, handing the blade to Krolia over his shoulder. “Just like yours,” he orders, and in the mirror, Krolia smiles.
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