Work Text:
27 April, 1002
Dead rabbit. Dead rabbit. There’s a dead rabbit called Toast. Dead rabbit.
Oh, this is stupid. Who even – why would a – well, that’s why you’re here, no? Shut up, you agreed we weren’t being there – Adora? – shut it, you’re doing the thing again, just – dead rabbit. Why would someone call a rabbit Toast? Good. The toaster had a slice of cold bread in it this-morning; she should-
“Hey, Catra. Was that alright?”
Smile, bitch.
“Mm-hm.”
You loved it. You loved it. Open your mouth and say something, bitch. Don’t do the thing. What thing? There’s – elsewhere – no – right here there’s a – same thing – look, it’s Shadow Weaver.
Netty walks on one side of Catra, and Spinny on the other; parents do that; it’s supportive. It’s warm outside. There’s a bicycle tied to the stair-railing with a striped scarf.
Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t – like I would talk to you. So say something else, go on. I told you to shut up, didn’t I? You shut up, pansy.
“What did you do, then?”, asks Spinny. “If you’re okay to discuss it.”
I stared at the – no. She was wearing loud glasses. Dead rabbit, dead rabbit, dead rabbit.
“Colouring book.”, Catra says, because there were colouring books in there. Weren’t there? Is that what people do in counse- not just - shut your face, bitch. Peel it off your skull.
Netty smiles.
“Sounds good. Did you get on with Dr Kaye?”
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm ha ha ha ha ha no. She hates me. I hate her. Catra nods.
“She seemed really nice.”, Spinny contributes. “Hey, look, there’s a-! Oh, it flew away. I don’t know the name of those, the little grey ones, but they’re so cute.”
Why’d we supposed to care? Grammar. Oh, great, so she can talk in theory, that really helps. Be nice to her! She’s delicate. Shut the actual fuck up. Wow, we agree for once! Once? You know I’m here to keep you alive.
“Don’t look at me, darling,” Netty giggles, “you know I dropped Geography soon as I could.”
It’s a fairly nice walk back home, actually. There’s a river on the way. Catra likes staring at ducklings; she’s adamant it’s not because they’re cute, but, well… they’re cute.
You should grab one and bite its head off! Would Adora stay with you? Ew. Don’t do that. Okay, maybe you should avoid looking at the ducklings if you’re going to be like that. Get help, crazy. Hah! No. What do you think that was? We’re trying. You weren’t. You could try saying something; that just might work. Ha, ha, you’re so funny. Wow, sarcasm? Shut up.
Stop talking about talking. It’s not a complicated issue; we don’t want you turning fucking inside out for these fucking strangers trying to-
Dead rabbit dead rabbit dead rabbit there’s a dead rabbit called Toast. Breathe, moron, you like oxygen, don’t you?
“Aww, look at the ducklings!”, Spinny exclaims, and Netty goes “Awww.” too, and bitch? Bitch are you listening? Join in. Now. Fucking now.
Nope, too late, I did tell you. What did we tell you?
“You alright, Catra?”
And Netty looks concerned, as if she thinks that maybe today didn’t go so well and maybe Catra didn’t fucking love sitting in there and no and shut up, this is unhelpful, and I told you to smile, didn’t I?
“Just a bit tired.”, she shrugs. There’s you and Shadow Weaver. You don’t know what you did wrong this time – that time – okay, hold on, is this really good for her? – it’s working, isn’t it? – but Shadow Weaver’s fist is in your hair and you go flying across the room.
The three of them are walking again. Since when? Pay attention, bitch. You’re being unnecessarily rude. It’s not rude if I’m insulting myself; that’s called funny! Ha ha haa. Dead rabbit.
Spinny and Netty don’t look worried any more; good? Good. You can get alone soon. Is that safe? Oh, shut up, you know you can’t do anything about it. Yes, I could. Mm? Planning on asking for help anytime soon?
Thought so.
30 April, 1002
"Seriously, you'll be all bald by your thirties if you keep it like this.", Catra insists, pulling out Adora's hair-tie and chucking it across the room - it disappears under a chest of drawers. She giggles, and presses her face into Adora's shoulder, running her claws through the now-free hair and completely messing up the twenty minutes Adora spent re-arranging it that morning.
She's never cared less about her hairstyle in her whole entire life.
"Catra."
"Mm-hmmmmm…?"
Those claws trail slowly down the back of Adora's neck, feather-light and barely sharp, to play at the collar of her t-shirt.
If it wouldn't pull her away from Catra, Adora would lean back into the sensation; as it stands, she presses a long kiss into the fine fluff just below Catra's ear. One hand moves from Catra's back to her waist, prompting a pleased trill, and Catra bites gently at Adora's collarbone. She tends to bite - which is unsurprising, her being, well, her - but she's unexpectedly careful when she does. Adora's never had so much as a bruise from it.
Rather vaguely, Catra pulls at the neck of Adora's shirt, slipping her hand down it and tracing the shape of her muscles; so Adora nudges her thumb underneath Catra's jumper, which has ridden up slightly in the last half-hour. She touches something that feels far too much like medical tape.
Catra freezes.
"Catra?"
Still leaning on Adora's shoulder, Catra tries, words muffled, "It's not what you think it is.", but Adora knows they both know it is what she thinks it is.
She pulls Catra's jumper back down.
"You want to talk about it?"
"Absolutely fucking not."
"You want me to heal it?"
"Go ahead."
It takes a bit of effort, this time, to call up She-Ra - not in her entirety; that's big and loud and bright; just enough to let the glow of magic settle over both of them. Closing her eyes, Adora pushes it in the direction of what's apparently four long scratches across Catra's middle: deep, but properly treated, and already starting to heal organically - how long have they been there? Adora hugs Catra slightly tighter.
The claws still resting against Adora's back press, still lightly but very firmly there, into her skin.
"Have you told them?", she asks, hoping Catra will read the you kind-of have to as implicit, because she doesn't want to start an argument.
And, seemingly, she does.
"Can…"
She sighs shakily, and tucks her head further down against Adora's shoulder.
"Can you?"
"Why?"
For a while, Catra doesn't respond. Then she gives a squashed-up approximation of a shrug and a shake of the head.
"Okay.", Adora murmurs to her. "I can."
Bright Moon goes quiet as the sun goes down. It’s one of Catra’s favourite things about it – that she can sleep without the sounds of machinery and thundering boots and slamming doors – and one of her least favourite, because there’s no noise to hide behind.
Nobody else hides anything, do they? – no, because they’re Princesses; the sappiness is pre-programmed, or something. It’s not sappiness and we know it isn’t. What, because you would know, you paragon of emotional availability? Leave her alone. We’ve been over this before, and it’s not going to change.
I want it to.
Mm – say that again. With confidence this time.
Catra tightens her hand around the key in her pocket, letting its teeth dig into her thumb.
It’s getting properly into mid-spring; blossom everywhere; and even this late in the evening it’s possibly too warm to be walking around in a jumper, and she’s on the verge of dizzy besides how her knee is hurting like a bitch and one shoulder’s not quite in place. She’d maybe like something to lean on, but Melog’s having fun with Entrapta, and anyway it doesn’t much enjoy being around her when she’s – angry? ‘Angry’ like this? No, ignore that, moving on. She can take the jumper off and lie down when she gets home.
That is, if Spinny and Netty aren’t waiting at the door worrying. They’re going to hug you, you know. They’re going to grab hold of you and you’re going to hurt them and they won’t even shout at you for it – no – Netty would sit you down and make you clip your claws and you’d do what then? Stab yourself? Man, Adora would get mad over that. Catra smiles. It’s not funny.
Fuck, they know, they know, they know. Why the fuck would you tell Adora to tell them? I’m doing a pretty bad job of it, then, aren’t I? Fuck. Don’t go in.
But the key’s already in Catra’s hand, and she can’t exactly remember how she got home, and she goes in. Okay, then, the fuck am I here for? Decoration?
There’s nobody waiting by the door. Catra shuts it quietly – maybe they won’t even notice – and starts up the stairs.
“Catra?”, Spinny asks gently.
I told you. Once again, I have fucking told you. Not going to lord it over you or anything. A burst of adrenaline blooms uncomfortably warm in Catra’s chest, and she doesn’t turn around.
“Hi. How’re you doing?”
Yell at her. Tell her Adora was exaggerating. Tell her Adora was understating. No, seriously, don’t. Break something – throw something – she’s still holding her house-key; that wouldn’t even be the worst thing she’s got in a temper and thrown this week; fuck, you really are dysfunctional. Tell Spinny it’s her fault.
“Did Adora…?”
“She did.”
Spinny pauses.
“It’s been a long day. I was hoping we – Netty, too, and Adora if you’d like her to be there – could have a chat together after breakfast tomorrow?”
“Mm.”
It’s not the optional kind of ‘I was hoping’. Catra wants to scream about that. People should say what they fucking mean. The words for that don’t line up in a coherent order, though, so she just presses her claws into the too-soft wood of the banister. She’s dizzy.
“… If you need anything, we’re right here – don’t worry about waking us up. Nighty-night, darling.”
Say it back. Don’t say it back, you wet rag. You should make a joke about sui- the fuck did that come from? Don’t fucking do that; are you insane? Oh – see, you’re not just decorative.
“Yeah.”
Catra heads up to bed.
5 May, 1002
Yawning, Netty snuggles further into her wife’s shoulder and watches her knit. ‘One more row before bed’ has turned, inevitably, into just five or ten or twenty more, although Netty wouldn’t say she minds in particular. It’s warm down here, and Spinny is intermittently placing little kisses on the top of Netty’s head, and she could very well fall asleep.
It’s relaxing in itself to watch the wool go: slipped onto the second needle, and the long end wrapped around, and pulled by some kind of magic into the structure of the material as that stitch comes off the first needle. Again and again and again, punctuated every so often by Spinny sighing and re-doing one that turned out wrong, before returning to the same pattern.
There’s the creak of the staircase – Netty looks up, and Spinny puts her knitting down – and Catra appears in the doorway. Not entirely willingly, it seems; Melog’s beside her, holding her sleeve in its teeth, and Catra’s staring at the floor so her hair half-covers her face.
Spinny smiles at her.
“You okay, darling?”
Not looking up, Catra gives a stilted shrug. But Melog lets out a low trill and nudges at her side, and she shakes her head just slightly.
“Come sit.”
Netty shuffles to the other side of the sofa and pats the space between her and Spinny.
It takes a moment more of pushing from Melog before Catra relents – she folds herself into the gap, legs crossed under her rather than tucked up in front of her like usual to allow Melog to shrink itself half a size smaller and curl up on her lap, its head leaning against her chest, purring.
“What kind of not-okay?”, Spinny asks. “You don’t feel well? D’you need anything?”
Catra – it’s unclear whether she’s being stubborn, or very not-okay, or just herself – doesn’t respond. She and Melog are staring upside-down at each other, and she’s copying its little ear-flicks. Its ears flatten; hers do too; one of its swivels forward; she does the same and smiles faintly.
After a while of that, and a quick expression-based telepathic conference with Spinny, Netty clears her throat.
“Catra, is there something important you need to tell us – have you hurt yourself? – or do you just want to sit here?”
“… Sit here.”
Catra’s claws extend briefly and then go back to normal, and she looks away from Melog.
Spinny goes back to knitting and Netty picks up her book again. Melog purrs.