Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Adora wakes with an unusual thought -- I need to fix this-- and no memory as to what “this” is. A quick scan of her apartment retrieves nothing but self-pity at having only beige and blank walls despite renting the space for two years. She rubs a flat palm against her chest soothingly and shoots off a quick text to Glimmer.

6:05 AM

I hate my apartment. Decorate w/ me this weekend?

She shoves out from under the sheets and gets ready for work.

She usually loves biking to the train. The spritz of morning rain and the feeling of connection with her bike as she’s slicing down a hill into the commuter lane. Music either puts her in the mood for cardio or a cruise, balancing with both hands off her handlebars to bop her head to the rhythm. Her route follows rusted steel bridges, graffiti murals, and an overview of the massive river that dumps into Salineas 50 miles north. 

Today nothing feels right and she turns off her music long before approaching the train. She works as a city planner --inclusionary housing, bike lanes, tree plantings -- and manages the public comment hearings. Most days she loves it and feels fulfilled and duty-bound, but it’s a thankless job. In a broken world hurtling toward self-destruction nobody considers the effort that went into installing four stormwater planters. 

On days like these, Adora fears she may be more of a burden than a help. 

The monitor blinks with an announcement: “NORTHBOUND TO SALINEAS … 2 MINS.”

She hops onto her bike without a second thought and crosses to the opposite platform just in time to carry her bike onto the train. On days like these, she can’t think of anything better than calling in sick and heading to the beach.

There is only one other passenger desperate enough to head for a northern beach in February: a magicat in a hazard red sweater. It is worth noting that she’s never seen a magicat in-person before. The species’ agility and claw-strength made them ideal for mining iridium, coal, lithium, lead. Those that survived in those conditions found consistent union jobs, but those who braved the surface for a different life could expect systemized rejection. Adora cannot peel her eyes away.  

The passenger seems to notice and flicks her ears in agitation, pivoting to look out the window. Adora flushes and returns to her empty journal. She’d mentally committed herself to an extensive journal session when she noticed the magicat and now can’t think of anything worth committing to paper. Is she truly this boring? She pulls out her phone and checks her texts. Glimmer had responded ten minutes ago. 

10:45 AM

YES! I’M HERE FOR YOU </3

Adora frowns. Maybe she should have left out the part about hating her apartment. The broken-hearted emoji matches the vibe of their college days when Adora sent Glimmer a few too many depression texts. 

“Hey.” 

Adora meets the reflective blue-yellow stare of the magicat from before. Red sweater a blaze in a sea of beige. She smiles and gives a quick wave.

The magicat maintains eye contact. “You bike.” 

She nods. With a pale blue paint job, vintage steel frame, new components, and U-shaped calipers, she considers this bike to be the most interesting thing about her. 

“In February?” 

Adora flushes with what she perceives to be a compliment.  “It’s really not that big a deal--” 

“Why’d you bring it to the beach?”

“Uh, I’m sure there’s a bike trail or road,” she smiles politely.  

“Is this your first time?” 

“Yeah, my friends and I usually go to the southern beaches for vacation.” 

“And you thought February would be a good time to go North.”

Adora flushes, “Why’re you going in February?”

“To be alone,” she says, like it’s obvious. “How do you plan to bike through sand?” 

Tightening her lips into a line, she repeats, “I’m sure there’s a trail.”

The magicat appraises her with narrowed eyes, tail flicking, ears faced forward. Her coat looks matte and unevenly brushed. 

“You look familiar.”

All she can think to say is, “Sorry.” For not recognizing her? For being recognizable? Days like this, where apologies feel like the only safe option, make her wish she'd never left her apartment.

“Do you ever go to the used bookstore & record studio next to the river?”

Adora frowns. “Yeah.”

“I work there! That’s how we know each other!” She swats at Adora’s head and kneads the leather seat. “I never forget a face.” 

Adora scans the freckled cheeks, tabby coat, heterochromatic eyes. “That’s weird. I’d definitely recognize you.”

Her ears pin back. “Why?” 

A beat of silence. 

“Not many magicats in your life, huh?”

This magicat seems easily agitated, prone to confrontation. It makes her wish she were alone.

That's not entirely true. She is kind of enjoying the attention, but the hint of condescension and humiliation beneath her every word triggers her anxiety. Adora mutters, “Sorry.” 

The magicat careens back into a playful mood, “Relax, I’m teasing you. Come on, guess my name.”

Adora, who should not be engaging, scans her mind for non-feline names. “Sarah?”

She laughs, “That’s so much worse than if you’d said Kitty.”

Staring at her blank journal, Adora whispers, “I’m sorry. Look, I brought some of my work with me and I really need to focus.”

She narrows her eyes, looking doubtfully at the blank journal. 

“Sure. Whatever.” 

Then she punches Adora in the shoulder, hard, and settles into the seat near the window on the opposite end of the train.

There is no bike trail. Just frozen sand. 

There is a road but it’s a highway with a 35 mph speed limit. Gusts of frigid air ripple the sand into mirrored waves. Adora is not appropriately dressed in her slacks, maroon loafers, white cotton turtleneck, and thankfully, wool cardigan. 

Adora removes her loafers and rests her bike on a bench certain the magicat wouldn’t risk stealing it only to wait with her for the single returning train at 3:00pm. She walks barefoot along the tideline, appreciating the feel of sand molding to her feet. Air bubbles percolate from blinking holes inhabited by sandcrabs. Teeth chattering a little, she crosses her arms over her chest and tries to take relaxing breaths. 

Where is the magicat? She turns and finds only crashing waves and clouds -- gradations of grey. Wait. She squints through the saline spray. 

Her bike is gone. 

She sprints back to the bench huffing from the clamor of foot on sand and finds the telling red blaze descend a moderate hill with her bike toward the only restaurant in town, named terribly, Beach Thyme.  

Breaking out into a steady sprint, she breathes evenly to keep violent thoughts at bay. She reaches the storefront in minutes and finds her bike balanced against the stucco wall, which she immediately U-locks front wheel to frame. Knuckles still clenched, she jerks the door open and hulks into the sleepy diner. 

The magicat is sitting in a booth near the door, blinking at her silently. Her eyes are not smug or sly or even humored. She looks dysregulated, apparently at the sight of Adora fuming.

Adora takes the broad-shouldered approach of a bitch looking to fight. The adrenaline pumping in her system tells her to pull her enemy out of the booth by the scruff of her neck. An insane thought, and she knows it, but one that colors her expression as she looks down at the magicat in her booth who has ordered two piping hot cups of tea.  

Adora blinks at the cup of milk tea nearest to her. 

“My name’s Catra,” she breathes and gestures to the physical manifestation of an apology with "beach thyme" written in cursive on the saucer. 

Adora remains standing. She’ll wait for a real apology.

“Look, I --” Catra fidgets, “I wanted to talk to you, so I took your bike, briefly, but I was never going to steal it.” 

“Taking without permission is the definition of stealing,” Adora says. 

She’s in a weird place today. The insecure people-pleaser in her had an overwhelming presence from the moment she woke up, so she would think by now she’d have taken any explanation as an apology and pushed onward to avoid confrontation, but the threat of losing her most cherished identifier made her feel embodied with rage. Especially after that bizarre interaction on the train. Now her anger has morphed into an endorphin high. 

Catra drops her head in her hands and breathes. Her fingers massage her temple for a beat and then move to her jaw, trying to loosen the muscle. Finally, she lifts her head, and her eyes are markedly calmer. 

 “I’m sorry I took your bike.”

Adora slides into the booth and drags the saucer closer to her with a finger. 

“You don’t know me, that bike could very well be the only thing keeping me alive.”

She takes the cup in both palms and takes a sip with closed eyes. Earl grey tea with oat milk.  

“Maybe stealing your bike is the only thing keeping me alive.” 

Adora takes another, deeper sip, relishing in the warmth. Catra’s herbal tea smells like ginger with a squeeze of lemon. Bizarrely, there is an analog clock on the wall but instead of numbers indicating the time there is only “BEACH.” 

“What, do you need money or something?”

Catra scoffs, “No, I’m just having a bad life.” 

“Well, good thing you’re at the beach.” She waits for Catra to roll her eyes. “Nothing like a beach day to reset and relax.”

She smirks, “In February, no less.”

“Um, you’re on beach time now -- or did you fail to notice this diner’s tasteful theme.” Adora quips, raising a hand to the clock on the wall and the saucer on the table. “Winter’s not in the vocabulary, only beach.”

Catra tips her head back and laughs. 

They spend another hour at the diner drinking tea and eating crab cakes (or chickpea imitation crab in Adora’s case) and then huddle together on the bench next to Adora’s locked up bike, admiring the crash of waves. Adora’s phone goes off a few times and she finds a few concerned texts in the group chat from Bow and Glimmer.

Bow kicks off the chain:

1:20 PM

Hey, Adora!

I heard you took the day today.

Hope you’re feeling okay! Let’s talk <3

Glimmer adds:

1:35 PM

We’re always here for you…you know that, right?

Come over, we’ll make you dinner.

Adora can feel her eyebrow twitch. They’re freaking out, which is not unusual for them, considering her history and tendency to withdraw when depressed, but the trajectory of their concern is unusual. Adora can be unresponsive for a few days before the group chat is activated, let alone a dinner invite. 

“Hold on,” She says to Catra and sends a quick text to the chat.

1:40 PM

Love you both! I’m actually having a good day :-)

Will respond more later.

“All good?”

“Yeah, my friends act like parents sometimes,” she says, shoving her phone in her backpack.

“That’s nice,” Catra deadpans. 

“Not that I’d know what parents are like. I jumped around a lot as a kid, never really settled anywhere although some of my fosters were cool.” She taps her fingers against her thighs as Catra bristles. “How about you? Do you have parents? Unless that’s a stupid question to ask, ha. Most people have parents.”

Catra looks Adora in the eye. Her face is a mask, eyes controlled. 

“Wanna come back to my place?” 

Adora blanks and flushes red. After a minute, she nods and Catra relaxes. 

The run time for the return train feels like a breeze compared to the excruciating journey outbound. Catra and Adora sit side-by-side, chatting about nothing in particular, and Adora is careful not to steer the conversation toward anything personal or revealing. Catra tucks her head into the crook of Adora’s neck while talking about music, whiskers prickling skin, a low purr rumbling. 

*~*~*~*

With her bike U-locked to the apartment complex gate, Adora follows Catra up two flights of stairs and into her apartment. 

With the door shut, Catra peels off the hazard red sweater, revealing a black muscle tee. A few intentional touches to Adora's wrist and bicep suggest sensuality. When her voice lowers at least one register, Adora allows her eyes to wander over her lips and slender fingers. She smiles silently, appreciating the total ease with which Catra exists in her body flipping through a basket of vinyl records. 

“Do you want water? Wine? Gin?” She asks. “This one’s your vibe.”

The selected vinyl spins lazily on the turntable and she cranks up the volume so that her apartment is brimming with an ethereal romantic atmosphere. 

We’re walking in a curved line into something new

The birds are watching every step I take.   

“Water’s good,” Adora whispers. Catra slinks off into the kitchen while Adora scans the room. A maximalist design becomes apparent from the thrifted art prints and ceramic knick-knacks -- her favorite being a yellow songbird on a dog-eared copy of poetry. A series of interlaced string lights replace any need for the overheads.   

Catra reappears with two glasses of water and nestles close to Adora’s body as she hands it off. 

But then there is something moving against me. 

It’s not in line with the world I know. 

Changing the heart, changing the spirit . 

Her forehead hovers above Adora’s collarbone, not quite touching, and her hips sway to align with hers. Adora mirrors the motion and closes her eyes, one hand on her water glass and the other hovering over Catra’s hip. Their bodies relax into a slow dance. 

Why is this stranger in sync with my heart?

I tip-toe here, I don’t want you to see me. 

“Is this okay?” Catra asks. Her lips hover over Adora’s skin. She places the water glass on the table, fearful of spilling it.

“Yes.”   

Catra lifts onto the balls of her feet pressing her lips closer to Adora’s, not quite closing the gap. A question asked in the space between them. Her palms cup Catra’s face in response, catching her lips in a sweet kiss. Catra vibrates against her lips and meets Adora’s eyes. She separates to nuzzle her collarbone and mark her teeth against a pinch of skin on her neck. 

With a hitched breath, Adora draws close for another kiss placing a palm at the small of her back pulling close into an intense embrace. The other hand caressing the back of her neck grasps closer still, deepening the pressure of their lips and mingled breath. Their kiss flows from open-mouthed to melded lips, slowing down to taste or occasionally breaking to laugh at having clashed teeth. Chasing pressure, she tightens her embrace at the hip and elicits a moan.

A well-placed nudge and Adora falls onto the sofa without breaking contact with Catra, who now saddles her hips, claws unsheathed on her turtleneck. Her dilated eyes reflect desire. Panting, she positions her thigh in-between Adora’s legs and clamors for more lip-contact on her neck.

At the contact, Adora snaps out of it. Opposing forces of anxiety and desire magnetize within her at the wet hot kisses Catra trails down her neck, causing her gut to spasm with the confusion. 

“I should probably go home,” Adora rasps. 

Catra groans as she withdraws, nosing her ear. She breathes onto Adora's neck for an extra beat.

"You okay?" 

Adora nods, unable to articulate her internal conflict.

Another slow inhale, then Catra asks, “Can I put my number in your phone?” 

“Yes, please.” 

Catra sits back on her hips, allowing Adora to sit up and draw herself to the opposite end of the couch, chugging the rest of her water. She hands Catra her phone, who enters a few digits and throws it back to her without calling herself. 

Retreating to the bathroom, Catra allows Adora a minute to collect herself. She checks her group chat and sees a heart reaction to her last message, but no other response. She sends off another text.

7:00 PM

I met someone.

Discreet as a statue, Catra observes Adora from the door as she gathers her belongings, patting all the pockets she owns multiple times. Adora smiles at Catra as she approaches the door, flushed with endorphins.

“I had a great time,” she says. 

The smile she receives in response looks carefully applied. “Sure thing.” 

As Adora walks out the door, Catra can't quite manage casual, “Call me.”  

*~*~*~*

The bike ride home is equally romantic and slow as the song Catra played for her, sensations and images intoxicating Adora with their repetition. What a weird day. She pedals past the river and climbs the hill to her apartment in almost no time. 

She ghosts through the lobby, fumbling with the keys in her pocket, bonking the wheels of her bike against the angled hallways to her unit. Dumping her belongings onto a chair in the same faceless beige living room she had this morning, she breathes with the realization that her mood has entirely shifted. She kicks off her loafers and undresses, falling onto her bed. Memory plays on repeat: Catra’s hoarse voice, the feel of her lips.  

Body wired, there’s no sleeping now -- thank the Gods it’s Friday. She pulls out her phone and stares at her new contact for Catra. Her lips quirk at the nickname she gave herself: “no good thief ”  

Fuck it.

She dials Catra’s number. It rings once, twice. 

Catra’s voice is smiling on the other end, “Miss me already?”

Chapter Text

Dr. Dryl twirls a strand of magenta-dyed hair around her finger while speaking into her recorder.

“This is the patient's second time undergoing the ESSM procedure in six months. Reminder for our next round of tests to screen for demographic markers correlated with patterned dependence, such as a history of drug use, criminal background, medical history.”

Catra raises her hand. “This is my first time here.”

Dr. Dryl flips through a manila folder of patient information. “Yes, yes, it’s all here. Memory erasure of ESSM procedure continues to hold under stress of repeated exposure. Impressive!” 

Lowering her hand, Catra furrows her brow. She can’t imagine a role more significant than Adora’s in her life or a person who could hurt her more. Adora, who couldn’t be contained to a single black bag of memorabilia, or even four. Erasing nineteen years of a person (movie stubs, stuffed animals, bangles, rings, broken hair bands, hand-me-down tees, letters, receipts, pictures) is like expunging her estate, an exhaustive task. Catra wouldn’t agree to it unless a fresh start were guaranteed. 

“What kind of screwup becomes addicted to erasing memories?” She asks glumly.

Dr. Dryl spins in her chair to look at her. She has circle glasses and a face tattoo of First Ones writing on her cheek. Her lilac eyes darken with delight.

“With the procedure, patients relive memories as they’re erased. About 42% of participants report feeling euphoric after the procedure, possibly because the body is flooded with endorphins to cope with our micro-lesions; but it could very well be because some of the memories we removed were euphoric and that final chemical trace, their swan song, might create the dependency.”

She grins at Catra, “So, do you want to go through with it?”

Her eyes indicate she already knows the answer. Catra closes her eyes to think, perhaps for the first time since the inciting incident, and remembers the final conversation she had with Adora. 

She’d stumbled into Adora’s apartment at 2am after a three-day bender, wiping gin from her mouth. The overheads had flickered, too bright, and revealed--

“The patient is jumping to another memory. I’m not finished with this one yet.”

Catra snaps her eyes open at the voice. She looks around. “Who said that?”

Dr. Dryl smiles kindly at her. Her circle glasses flash from the overhead lighting. Catra cannot remember the color her eyes had been. Even as the overhead lights disappear, her glasses retain a reflective glare. 

“Just keep her calm. Don’t overreact. We simply guide her back.”

“Wait,” Catra panics. “No, no, it’s not already happening, is it? You just asked if I still wanted to do it. I still have a choice.”  

The walls blur and white out. Dr. Dryl stands now in an empty room. She speaks one last time but her words are lost. 

*~*~*~*

Catra holds Adora’s hand in a backyard garden full of sun-strained tomatoes, marigolds, and peppers, soil cracked from under-watering. A shadow of movement flickers in the corner of her vision, but her eyes stay with the matching blue friendship bracelets on their wrists. A distorted voice calls for their attention, causing Catra’s fur to bristle. Adora places a steadying hand on her shoulder, projecting calm despite being a nine-year-old in the same fucked-up situation as her. They’d only met last week after a random assignment to ( )’s house, but they've become a bonded pair fast. 

“It doesn’t matter what (    ) does to us. You take care of me and I take care of you. Nothing really bad can happen as long as we have each other.” 

The distorted voice threatens a night without dinner, or worse. Frightened, Catra pounces behind a box of tomatoes, hissing. From the mulched soil, she waits for the violent presence to materialize, but no one comes. Adora’s voice calls for her to come out, “It's okay, don't be scared.”

Embarrassed, she stands and brushes mulch off her mesh shorts, squinting for Adora in the sun. She turns around and finds instead a darkly lit living room. 

Adult Adora rests her elbows on her knees, fingers interlaced, head dangling to expose the taut muscles of her shoulders and neck. The apartment zooms into view and the overhead lights click on and blind her. 

This is where you lose her. 

Adora lifts her head, cheeks streaked with tears. A familiar, sweet scent of body odor fills the room--almost comforting if not for the flayed look in her eyes. 

”Where have you been?”

“There she goes again. She keeps jumping before I can finish. I’d hate to leave behind a trace.” 

The inverted image of a handmade friendship bracelet burns in her eyes, forcing them closed. 

“We’ll bring her back.”

Nine-year-old Adora sits cross-legged on the couch where it all ends. Her blue eyes brim with tears: “Why did you do it?”

Then the couch disappears with a pop and they’re standing in the overgrown garden.  

“What?” Catra asks. She's holding Adora’s hand.

Adora smiles gently, says again, “I promise.”

“Increase her dosage. Procedures that span decades like this can frighten the patient when they’re under. She’ll relax soon enough.” 

*~*~*~*

“Fuck you! ” Catra bellows at the sky. 

Adora laughs and mimics the gesture, howling at clouds heavy with the promise of a thunderstorm. Catra’s heart is pounding and there’s a sickly sweat sticking to her clothes that she can’t remember the source of, but she welcomes Adora’s happy disposition. She can focus on that.  

“Who are we mad at today?”

“Anyone. Who cares? I say we get to be angry. It’s our right for having a shit life.”  

“Hey, it’s not total shit.” Adora replies, “We have each other.” 

Adora leans against her courier bike. Hair slicked back into a ponytail. Her athleticism is conveyed in the contour of muscle in her calves and broad shoulders and her youth in equal parts by her acne-spotted skin and gapped front teeth. Her high-vis panniers stacked with event posters and flyers she’ll need to pin up by noon.

In her hands, a legal folder full of signed paperwork. Adora continues, “When I submit our paperwork to the magistrate, then--”

“We’ll finally get the paperwork we need.”

Adora laughs, “And when we file that paperwork, we’ll be free. Legal adults. All we’ll need is each other.”  

Catra doesn’t share Adora’s optimism, but she hasn’t been the one reading the paperwork, scanning the mail for important envelopes, collecting passports and identification, looking for loopholes and eligibility requirements. Even thinking about it makes Catra wish she were on ketamine.

Her contribution looks different. She’s been working non-stop so Adora can keep her minimum-wage courier job and bike the city scouting for apartments. The only job Catra has on paper is as hostess for a hole-in-the wall hybrid-fusion restaurant. She knew it was a front when she applied, so now she also pushes pills, weed, acid -- nothing too hard, you start selling the hard stuff and you make more money, but the threat of lethality skyrockets. Once a month, she’ll take the bus into the ritzy neighborhood and shiftwork the weekend as a cleaner. That's also how she manages to collect fancy linens and towels, silverware, and stoneware.

Achieving emancipation wasn’t as simple as Adora had hoped but by age sixteen they are living in their own apartment with their own income. They share a one-bedroom with the housing authority of Bright Moon. It’s littered with rat shit and in the heat of summer smells rancid with overflow sewage. The rats Catra kills within a week but the raccoons that replace them are harder to kill and even harder to evict. 

A shit apartment, but it’s theirs . They eat canned beans and sausage most nights, which Catra finds tasty sauteed with onion and garlic and Adora finds hard to swallow. She talks about cutting out meat entirely and Catra just laughs, “Save it for the bourgeoisie.” 

At night, they sleep tucked together, nose-to-nose, nuzzling in the comfort of each other’s arms. Some nights, Catra grazes a hand along her hip, thumbing the ridged hipbone with a suggestion: touch can be pleasurable and comfortable. They could be so much more, but they’re too co-dependent, too close, for Adora to notice the sexuality maturing within her; or, that’s the conclusion Catra has come to because at the touch Adora only shivers and covers the wandering hand with her own, caressing and stilling it.  

*~*~*~*

After two years, Adora ruins the tentative peace they had cultivated with three words: I got in. 

She’d applied to college in secret and apparently had been accepted-- the package did not include a full-ride scholarship, but it was decent enough for her to accept and fill in the gaps with loans and savings. 

“Oh, your courier savings?” Catra snarls. “Or the cashflow I’ve been bringing in for fucking years . For us.”

“I did this for us! We need this. We’re barely scraping by  each month and the only reason we manage is because you steal or push, and I don’t want you to do that anymore.”

“So now I need your approval to work?” Catra asks. “Why do you care? I make my money my way and it works for us.”

Adora sighs, runs a hand through her hair. When she speaks again, she puts her hands on her hips and gives the tone of someone demanding acquiescence. 

“This is an opportunity to increase my prospects and I took it. I need you to accept that this is happening.”

Catra balks. “I don’t need to accept anything from you." 

She balls her hands into fists and screams with frustration, “I hate when you talk to me like that, like you’re my parent or my fucking supervisor. You promised we’d stay together. You said that, not me.”

Adora’s right eyebrow quirks like it does when she’s frightened. She crosses her arms.

“I figured you’d want to come with me. I mean, we’ve always made it work. I-I didn’t think we’d separate.”

Catra crosses her arms and looks away, considering the cards she’s been dealt: move with Adora and uproot her life hoping this new place has opportunities for her, or stay with the options in front of her and adapt to the absence. 

When she turns around to look at Adora, the edges of the picture are faded, blurry. The details on Adora’s face blur too -- was she disturbed or relieved when Catra gave her answer? 

It’s too late to take it all back. Were they standing in a room or were they at their favorite spot at the river, in full view of the coke plant and steel bridges?

“You know, I’m erasing you -- and I’m happy.” Catra says, arms still crossed. 

Rolling her eyes, Adora turns to leave. “We’re not talking about this right now.” 

”Did you hear me?” Catra calls after her. “I am e-r-a-s-i-n-g you and I could not be happier!” 

“Good luck, bitch!” Adora calls over her shoulder. 

“Oh please, you’d never have the guts to say that to me in real life! I fucking wish !” Catra screams, white-knuckled. She’s standing in a washed-out watercolor of the city, orange and white lights reflected in the evening river. The memory fades as though an invisible hand were brushing water over and over, removing color and texture and feeling. 

*~*~*~*

“Hey, I got us a hotel for tonight,” Catra chirrups into her phone. Every other week, she and Adora take opposing trains to the mid-point between Bright Moon and Mystacor: Salineas. 

It’s the start of Adora’s second year and she talks with more animation about her life up there. Her friends, Bow and Glimmer, have been so supportive, so great. She gushes about them almost every day. Catra is still adjusting to life without Adora. She lost her job at the restaurant after a drug raid landed Catra, kitchen staff, and the owners in jail. Between the plea deal and her low status, she scraped out with a misdemeanor, but the events transpired over the course of Adora’s first semester of her first year, so that was the worst part of the whole ordeal. Adora complained to her as though she’d orchestrated the arrest to get attention.  

She’s trying a fresh start in Bright Moon. She won’t relocate to Mystacore, so Adora can eat her heart out and quit begging for it. If she leaves now, then she’d have to talk about it with Adora, admit to overreacting even though it was Adora who enrolled in university six hours away by bus and train without telling her.  

The used bookstore and record studio near their spot by the river hired her. They didn’t do a background check, but they pay in real checks, so she figures they’re legit and naive instead of another fronted operation. 

 “I’m so excited to see you,” Adora breathes. “I’m glad we don’t have to worry about missing the last train.” 

Catra’s tail flicks at the sound of her voice. Her hopes for tonight deepen beyond the bus and train schedule and the new perfume she thieved suggests as much, but Adora at her core wants Catra to be safe. If she can appreciate that aspect of Adora as much as she resents it, she’ll consider tonight a win. 

The hotel has an oceanfront view, stocked mini fridge, and patio. Catra purrs upon entering, casting an excited glance at Adora. 

“You really splurged,” Adora gapes. “Are you okay until your next paycheck?”

Adora claims she can't play an instrument but Catra wouldn’t know because her nervous system plays like one around her, and at this moment, she can feel Adora strumming a chord within her (let's fight about money), threatening to end their expensive evening together early.

Applying a practiced smile, Catra turns and flutters her lashes, “My pleasure.” 

Before Adora can think of playing any other notes, she hops onto the bed. “Cool bed! Want a drink?”

They share a bottle of champagne on the porch bench and watch the waves, enjoying each other's company and chatting about nothing in particular.

As the sun sets against the slate of ocean, Catra nuzzles Adora’s chin, tucking into her side. She places a gentle kiss on her neck and waits for a reaction. 

It's subtle but Adora tilts her head to the side for more exploration. They've been here once before. When Adora first came back for summer break and was intoxicated by the sight and touch of her, the exploration stopped at the neck. She kisses up her neck and along the chin line, stopping short at the edge of her lips. Catra guides her face to meet her eyes. 

“I wanna kiss you,” she breathes, causing Adora to close her eyes and sigh. She tilts her head and captures Catra’s lips, surprising her with the initiative. She closes her eyes and feels the motion of their lips as their bodies tighten. 

Adora pulls her onto her hips and grazes her hands along the small of her back, hips, thighs. Catra’s heart pounds with disbelief that Adora wants this and has apparently wanted it for a while by the low moans she makes when they separate to breathe.

“Are you okay with this?” Adora asks, nosing the crook of Catra’s neck and following with a gentle kiss. 

“Are you kidding?” Catra asks, “I’m wondering what took us so long to get here.” 

A pang of sadness as she thinks: we wasted so much time. Adora smiles, rubbing the base of Catra’s ears and tugging lightly, which she’ll allow this one time. 

With nothing further to say, she dips in for another kiss and Catra pulls back. “Wait, why?”

Her eyes soften as she waits for Catra to collect her thoughts. Hands shifting to a comforting, warm caress. 

“I always felt so obvious around you, especially when you’d pull away…I figured you knew how I felt, maybe felt it too, but didn't want me needing you. What changed?”

Adora places both hands against her face and looks deeply into her eyes. 

“I wish you'd asked her that.”

Catra furrows her brow, “Who?”

“Real Adora,” she gestures to the room. “After making out, we went to bed and made love for the first time. You asked what I wanted from you and were so sweet with me, but you never asked how I felt about you.”  

Catra blushes at the way Adora says made love and then closes her eyes with the rest. This is the worst part -- all the attachment and yearning tied with the awareness of loss. 

Adora pulls her in for another kiss, “Shh, I’m here.” 

With deepening contact, an internal coil of desire builds pressure and floods her with heat. Tempted to give in to the urgency inside her, she kisses back and thinks, bed. 

“Do I get to keep this memory if we stay out here?” She asks against Adora’s lips. “I’d like to keep this one.”

Adora looks sad, “I don't know. There aren't many memories left. You might want to enjoy it while it lasts.”

Catra sits up, “What if we go somewhere they can't find us?”

She closes her eyes and tries to conjure up a buried memory. The oceanfront melts into a dark closet with a single lightbulb and a collection of mops and cleaning supplies. The scent of fried food sticks to everything.

“She's jumping again…and fell off the map. I can't find her.”

“The restaurant closet,” Adora observes. “I’m not sure if we're buried deep enough.”

She balks at the sight of Catra leaning against the wall with one hand on a porno magazine and the other rubbing herself off inside her slacks. 

“Don't judge me,” Catra pants. “I didn't choose this memory."

Noticing the magazine, Adora places a hand on her chest, “Is that magicat erotica? That seems really healthy. I'm happy for you.”

“Shut up, I was trying something! Just--close your eyes and be happy you're not erased yet. I can't think.”

“I wonder why,” Adora smirks, but closes her eyes.

The door to the closet opens and a lizardfolk named Rogelio stands paralyzed at the entrance. Catra yelps, hands flying to fasten her pants and throw the magazine behind her. With a stunned blink, Rogelio lunges for a mop bucket and some soaps and closes the door behind him.

“I’m guiding her back.”

The inverse image of the hotel bed in Salineas burns behind her eyes. The dark closet walls move and shift with the impression of ocean waves. The soap burbling from plastic tubs remind her of tidal foam. Pleasurable moans tease at the edge of her hearing, drawing her back.

“No, wait.” Catra squeezes her eyes shut and tries to remember something deeper, more hidden. 

The walls meld and whiten with the faintest impression of a memory. When she opens her eyes again, she finds a familiar muted watercolor-quality of a memory already erased. 

The scratched out shape of ( ) sitting on the front stoop zooms into view. Adora takes Catra’s hand as they step further into the memory. 

Nine-year-old Catra sits on the shape’s lap as it rakes a wood-handle brush through her mane. Her tail flicks anxiously. 

“You are…exactly as I feared you would be,” the shape sighs, disappointment evident even through distortion. “Difficult. Spreading ticks and fleas to the other children… My mother beat me for less when I was your age.” 

Adora squeezes Catra’s hand. “Did ( ) really say that?”

Catra stares at the baffling shape and tries to piece together the context clues. As though memory-activated, an unusual conviction comes over Catra: Adora lies.   

She looks at Adora for clarity: “How do you know her?”

Grimly, Adora answers, “We’re coming to the end.”  

The scene transforms around them into Adora’s new apartment in Bright Moon. Her bachelor’s diploma hangs framed in the hallway next to a bicycle hook for her commuter. Instead of Adora’s hand, she’s holding a letter that’d been forwarded to this address from Mystacore. The letter is addressed to Adora and there is a return address, too, with a name:

(                              )
245 Crystal Ct.
Bright Moon, 0004     

“Why do you have a letter from (    )?” 

Adora peeks at her from the box she’s unpacking and the severity of her expression confirms her fears. 

Catra lifts the letter to Adora’s face. “Why are you receiving letters from someone we had to legally free ourselves from?” 

Adora raises her hands and stands slowly to approach Catra. 

“She used to teach at Mystacore. Apparently she still has contacts there because she knew I enrolled there and found my address. It terrified me at first. I moved apartments every year because I was terrified she would show up one day. She never did, but the letters kept coming.”

Catra takes a step back. “Then what?”

“Well, I still don’t really know how I feel about it. I was scared to tell you that she’d made contact.” 

Her face twitches. Adora continues, “But eventually, I started to feel bad. She seemed lonely and desperate, so I wrote her back. Nothing big.” 

A beat. “How long?”

Adora doesn’t answer, brows pinched together. Catra’s eyes tighten. “Adora?”

“Since my second year.” 

Catra’s mouth pops open and the letter falls to the floor.

“Three years?!” She shrieks, “You’ve been lying for three years? That story about how important it was to explore the beauty of Mystacore through its neighborhoods! Or how you wanted to be closer to Arrow and Sparkles!”

Her claws pull at her mane as details flood her mind. “I visited you in your shitty apartments. I helped you move, once. It didn’t occur to you how un- fucking -safe it was for me to not know this?” 

“That’s why we mostly met up at Salineas. It was safer.”

Careening into hysteria, Catra’s face pinches with laughter and she can barely speak, “That’s so-o much worse.” 

Adora shrugs and examines her shoes, looking miserable. Catra continues, “First you apply to school without telling me and now this? When does the lying end? Why do you always keep me in the dark?” 

“I never lied, I-” She ducks as the letter cuts through the air and hits the wall. 

“How dare you!” Catra scans the floor wildly in search of something more satisfying to throw. 

“I’m sorry,” Adora says in a low, calm voice. “I’m not trying to be defensive, I’m just scared. You’re right. I kept this a secret from you and I should have asked for your advice. I didn’t realize how much I hurt you by hiding. I was trying to protect you.” 

“You should have filed a no-contact order. That’s what I would have advised you to do. You just didn’t wanna hear it so you shut me out.”

Adora shook her head. “No, that's not how it was. I just got stuck!”

Without another word, Catra turns for the door and slams it shut behind her. 

*~*~*~*

This is how you lose her. 

Adora rests her elbows on her knees, fingers interlaced, head dangling to expose the taut muscles of her shoulders and neck. She lifts her head, cheeks streaked with tears. A familiar, sweet scent of body odor fills the room--almost comforting if not for the flayed look in her eyes. 

“Where have you been?”

Catra had stumbled into her apartment at 2am after a three-day bender, wiping gin from her mouth.

She giggles, leaning against the wall. “I hardly recall.”

Adora holds a piece of mail between her fingers: “Catra has had (    ) removed from her memory. Please do not mention their name or details again to prevent confusion.” 

“I’ve been patient with you while you were recovering, but it’s been months and you’re spiraling out of control. We need to talk about this.” 

Catra yawns, “Are you having a stroke or am I? Because none of that made sense.” 

Adora presses her palms against her eyes and breathes. “How can we heal if we can’t talk about what happened?” She blinks into the overhead lights and exhales slowly. “I am so over this. We can't talk anymore. I barely recognize you.” 

Her heart picks up at the phrase: I am so over this.

"Look, are we going to sleep together or are we going to fight? Because if you wanna fight, I’ll just go home.”

Adora hardens. “We're always fighting, even when we're not. I know you had high hopes for the operation and how it’d make you feel, but it’s obvious to me that you feel worse.” She laughs bitterly, “Not that you would know that! You think you’re having a blast.” 

Catra’s heart pounds in her throat. “So, what are you saying?”

“I think--” Adora sighs. “Bow and Glimmer think you and I need space. I haven’t been sleeping and I’m missing deadlines at work because I’m worried sick about you. This isn't healthy.”

“Save me the speech," she scoffs. "What do you want?” 

Adora mulls it over, massaging her knuckles with her thumb.

“I can’t keep staying up until 2am waiting for you to come home only for you to be angry and completely unable to talk about it.” 

There is a beat of silence. If there were ever a moment for an open and honest conversation, it is right now. Feeling the pressure of the moment build and imagining rejection at the end, she chooses the result she fears most.

“Then we should break up.”

Tears well in Adora’s eyes and she seems about to protest, but deflates. 

She nods. “Okay.” 

Catra’s throat closes. Pressure builds as tears burn her eyes. Turning away from Adora’s stare, she fishes for her keys and hastily removes Adora’s copy from the ring in one gesture. The key strikes the vinyl with a final clink.  

Choking, “'Kay. Bye.” 

The door to her apartment shuts like a coffin and the lights flicker to reveal a solitary hallway. She waits at the door, but there will be no last-minute rescue. No more “I know you didn’t mean it” reconciliations. She needs a drink. She needs -- 

*~*~*~*

In the morning, Catra wakes alone in her bed to a flood of endorphins. Her body trembles, wracked with physical sobs and euphoria. The dizzying euphoria of embodied grief. She checks her phone - 2 hours until her shift - and closes her eyes, feeling as the waves of emotion ebb and flow within her -- a release she cannot begin to fathom. 

Chapter Text

It’s early March when Adora bikes to Almandine’s, the used book and vinyl store where Catra works. Soft yellow-orange orbs reflect streetlights in the river at dusk. Shaking rain off her panniers, she enters the shop and immediately clocks Catra at the front register helping a customer. The bell announces her arrival but Catra is busy staring vacantly as a list of recent publications on the Battle of Bright Moon is rattled off to her.

The Almandine’s walls are burnt burgundy, an unexpected choice, but hybrid-owned stores tend to operate in reaction to convention. It’s no wonder Catra’s most successful employment has been with hybrid-owned operations. Hopefully this one turns out better than the last. She busies herself with the book shelves, heart pounding, and pulls a few titles that interest her: Frugal Vegan Cooking, The Art & Science of Bicycle Maintenance, Zen Meditation. She doesn't meditate, but she wonders how Catra will react to it. 

Even if Catra isn’t ready to talk yet, she needs to check up on her. This is the longest they’ve gone without speaking, which is unusual but does show an improvement in their impulse-control. Usually when they’re not on speaking terms, Adora will wake up in the morning to a few 3am texts. More uncommon is when Adora breaks the silence with a 7pm check-in text, all hopped up on adrenaline from her evening workout. Maybe Catra’s finally practicing sleep hygiene. Even if they never date again, lower impulsivity and better sleep is objectively good for Catra. She can make peace with that.

Placing her books on the counter, she rubs the back of her neck and smiles.

“Hey Catra. It’s nice to see you.” 

At the sound of her name, Catra sits upright, eyeing Adora’s work clothes and face before snapping to attention.

“Hey…” her lips press into a thin line, seemingly unable to conjure her name. A bizarre power-move. 

Heart sinking, she quickens through the awkward silence. “Sorry, I know it's weird that I'm here, I just wanted to talk, but I can leave, I didn’t me--” 

“No, I’m an asshole.” Catra interrupts, eager to soothe her anxiety. “I need a warning label.” 

“Okay.” Bewildered, Adora glances over her shoulder. No line forming behind her although there is a scorpion-hybrid poking through the aisles with obvious body-tension that indicates eavesdropping. 

“You’ll have to help me out this time. You met me somewhere out, yeah? Was it a bar?” Catra’s eyes wander to her neck and forearms, “Or maybe the gym.”

Unable to process the question, Adora repeats it. “How’d we meet?” 

Catra genuinely smiles, nods. 

Face reddening, she can’t respond. Her heart pounds in her ears. There is not even a hint of sarcasm in Catra’s eyes. She actually doesn’t remember. Aborting the interaction entirely, Adora points to her selection of books. 

Catra frowns but thankfully takes the hint and registers her books, pausing only to wave off the scorpion-hybrid woman posturing defensively behind Adora. Scraping the contents into her panniers, she taps her card and rolls up her bag, ready to flee. 

“Thanks.” All she can manage before walking out the door.  

That evening, Adora sits numbly on the couch. Glimmer folds Adora’s clothes for her on a loveseat across the room, placing one pressed and folded memento after another onto sorted piles. If she were closer, she would notice the strands of red ochre and brown fur stitched into the weave of her clothes, puncture marks from love bites and kneading, and at least one slashed seam from an abruptly snagged claw. 

Bow treads softly into the living room with a tray of tea and cookies. Adora wraps her arms around her knees and closes her eyes. 

“She didn’t even recognize me.” Adora mumbles. “I should have known after Shadow Weaver…I should have done more.” 

“How Catra reacts to her own choices is not your responsibility,” Glimmer responds, throwing a pressed shirt hard enough for it to land crumpled beside the pile of folded laundry.

“But it’s okay to feel bad too. This is a huge loss.” Bow places a hand on her shoulder as he speaks and offers a small cup of mint tea with his other hand. 

Loss, she realizes, is the word people use when a loved one dies. The permanence of what Catra has done registers for the first time: Nineteen years. She could understand erasing a brief romance that ended in betrayal and hurt, but their relationship from age nine to eighteen was essential to their survival -- symbiotic, like the bacteria in her gut. The day-to-day minutia of dishwashing, cooking, budgeting, and paying rent couple in her mind with complex dramatic events such as escaping Shadow Weaver without getting separated, securing suitable employment and safe housing, incarceration, long-distance; their tacit devotion to each other the only constant in their chaotic environment. 

Now Adora no longer exists within Catra.

This would have never happened if they’d never crossed that line -- the one they’d been toeing for years with brusque kisses and teasing eye contact, culminating into a night together in Salineas after a bottle of champagne. Their dynamic had always been intense. Before dating, Catra prioritized Adora with passion and expected equal reciprocity, which Adora would’ve thought an easy task if not for her own convictions about how they lived, and who they were meant to be. Sexuality had been a dangerous accelerant.  

Adora holds her breath and presses her palms into her eyes as the pressure builds. Her face reddens.

“Woah, Aodra, take a breath.” Bow rubs her shoulder, but Adora shirks out of the touch and leaps off the couch. 

“I need to fix this.” She stares at her hands. “I don’t know how, but I have to do something.” 

Glimmer materializes next to Adora, hand on shoulder. “Let us take care of you.” 

“All you need to worry about right now is the basics. Drink water, eat something, get a good night's sleep.” Bow adds. “The rest, we can figure out later.” 

*~*~*~*

Time passes quicker than she expected it would for such a seismic event. Spring is ushered into summer by the tubular stalks of sunflowers and early-morning birdsong. She bikes for an hour after work and commits to a two hour volunteer shift at a local mental health crisis hotline, busying the vulnerable hours before bed.

Any of the callers to the hotline could be Catra. Most of them describe feeling empty and confused and that they’ve forgotten something or lost precious years. Adora jots a note for all callers describing post-operative symptoms of the ESSM procedure. She finds that staying on the line and asking a few curious questions grounds most callers. Their erased memories evoke pain and torment even by unconscious recall, except now stimulated by unknown triggers. She feels a pang for Catra, who probably felt unconsciously distressed by her fumbling appearance at Almandine’s. It also gives her a creeping sense of hope that maybe they can still figure all this out. Problematic thoughts arise only in the moments between commitments: the shower, falling asleep, cooking. Moments she used to relish become harbingers of rumination. 

With the kitchen window open to the fall of summer rain, she’s chopping aromatics for a bean soup and becomes gradually aware of the past creeping into her mind. The smell of garlic, peppers, and cumin pulls her into the summer before she leaves home with Catra for university at Mystacore.

Catra perched on the counter as Adora chopped aromatics for a spiced vegan sausage and bean dish-- a reconciliatory gesture. The news that she’d been admitted to Mystacore and enrolled in classes in secret had shattered their delicate emotional equilibrium. The whole issue had snowballed from one small application that no one knew about to secretly speaking to financial counselors and coordinating loans to finally enrolling. She’d wanted to tell Catra and include her in her dream for their future and there had been many opportunities prior to enrolling that she had agonized over. After looking at some of the salary expectations for degrees in Public Policy, she’d envisioned her and Catra moving into a sanitary apartment together that had air conditioning and a dish washer and sealed walls. Any time their rampant raccoon infestation flared up, which had been often, she’d nearly told Catra the truth.  

She fucked up by keeping it a secret. Her attempts to communicate how scared she’d been of Catra’s reaction only magnetized them further into their conflict spiral. Even at that moment, as Adora chopped onion and garlic for their dinner, Catra catastrophized over their separation --and not in a sweet, loving way. She would’ve loved to hear Catra admit openly that she wanted Adora and would miss her and that she felt hurt by the secret.

Instead, Catra said, “So, there’s a new girl at the restaurant. A real hottie too.”

Her tail flicked. Adora could feel her eyes watching for a response. She scraped the knife against the cutting board collecting chunks of garlic for mincing. 

“You wouldn't care if I asked her out, right?” She continued casually. 

The white onion she chopped in brief forceful movements. An outstretched foot clawed at her shoulder, begging for attention. Clawed again, Adora snapped. 

“What?”

“Hello-o?” Catra snapped her fingers. “What do you think about me bedding some hottie in our apartment?”

“Catra,” Adora scoffed. “You can do whatever you want. I'm not your keeper.” 

Despite her anger, she chose her words carefully -- had she said “girlfriend” or “mother” their dinner would have been over.

“So I guess I know what you'll be up to in Mystacore,” Catra muttered with crossed arms. 

With a sharp pivot, Adora dumped the chopped aromatics in a pot of hot oil and reduced the flame to a cold and bitter blue. Her heart was pounding. She didn't want Catra to date other people but they weren't even dating, which was a confusing shit-storm by itself, but then they’re fighting because Adora had wanted. Wanted a better life. Wanted new experiences. Was she supposed to deny that to Catra? 

“A-dor-a,” Catra trilled in a dangerous saccharine voice. 

“Let me cook dinner” Adora stated, not looking at Catra, desperate to de-escalate. “Please. I just want this to be nice.” 

“Well. I'm trying to have a conversation. And. You. Won't. Say. Anything.”

Once Adora turned around, it was over. Their reconciliation dinner would burn on the stove, onions and garlic a blackened crisp. She saw that self-righteous smirk that infuriated her and kept her engaged. 

“Dont tell me you want to talk.” Adora jabbed a finger at Catra, whose eyes lit up at the attention. “I have been trying to talk to you for months. I can't get through to you!”

“Oh that's rich. You want me to think I'm the problem. That you keep secrets because I flip out.” 

“I never said that!”

The smell of browning onion brings Adora back to the present. “Shit,” she mutters, scraping the onions off the bottom of the pot with a wooden spoon. Her clothes stick to her sweat, synthetic and uncomfortable. She adds the dried beans, several pinches of salt, and water creating a broth. Rests her palms on the counter. 

Well, she made it. She’s simmering heritage runner beans from a luxury farmer’s market vendor. Her degree hangs framed on the wall surrounded by photos of her and Catra from when they were together. There's even a dishwasher.

Adora rests her head on the back of her hands and breathes.

*~*~*~*

By late September the sunflower crowns have darkened from lemon to burnt ocher and their heads bow to the soil. Adora strives to be of service, working late hours and taking on weekend shifts at the crisis hotline. Helping others and reminding herself that her own life is just a drop in the bucket compared to the suffering around her is the primary motivator these days. 

Bow and Glimmer hide their concern with unbridled enthusiasm. They’ve invited her to an evening meditation session with a friend of theirs, Perfuma, and keep looking back at her, grinning and giving her a thumbs up.

All of them sit cross-legged in a circle around the instructor, a long-haired hippie type with a flower crown and a homemade skirt. The room is softly lit and covered in succulents and praying plants, most other surfaces are decorated with singing bowls and incense. 

“Welcome to the healing circle. I’m going to start us off with some light stretching, then move to a reading, and I’ll start the meditation by inviting the bell.” 

The stretching feels incredible but once it’s time to meditate her body tenses. She breathes through her nose slowly feeling the breath expand in her chest and belly just like the lady said. The muscles in her thighs bunch up and twitch with unease.  

“Let your eyes soften and un-pinch your brows. Let your lips fall open just slightly to encourage your jaw to relax.” Perfuma says, “If an unpleasant feeling comes up, simply observe it, allow it to sit with you, and refocus on your breath.”

Bow’s head nods, already falling asleep, and Glimmer looks practiced. Trying to follow Glimmer’s lead, she closes her eyes to appear relaxed. Her shoulders are cinched up to her ears so she rolls them down and back, enjoying the way her spine readjusts and her posture opens. Now it’s easier to breathe. Pleasurable tingles trail up the back of her neck from the release of pressure, reminding her of another kind of touch. Catra used to drag her claws against the back of her neck and shoulders, eliciting a shiver. Her expression obvious, open mouth and lidded eyes, unwound by anticipation.  

“If a lovely feeling or thought comes up, just as you had with your discomfort or negativity, sit with it, understand that our emotions are a lifelong companion to our experiences, and let it go, returning once more to your breath.”  

While Adora is winning at ‘being with the pleasant feeling’, she’s struggling with letting go. Her breath goes on automatic as memories flit beneath her eyes, landing specifically on one from the start of her third year at Mystacore. 

Adora would have never known how tender Catra could be if they’d never had sex. Sometimes she feared their sexual dynamic would doom the relationship, but these gentle moments together in bed told her otherwise. All her posturing and defensiveness softened to reveal secret thoughts, open and vulnerable eyes, and a constant purr. Her emotions were bare and undisguised. Adora became addicted to giving touch to elicit that vulnerability but struggled to receive it and usually deferred to cuddling instead. 

After riding the comedown, she pulled Adora close and bit her shoulder. “Can I touch you?” 

Adora smiled, “I just want to hold you.” 

Catra obliged with a sigh. Her fingers traced lazy patterns into her skin as Adora tightened her arms around her. 

“Remember when we first moved into our apartment in Bright Moon and we had all those rats?” Adora asked. Catra scoffed and tucked her nose into the crook of her neck, inhaling slowly.

“Don’t remind me.” 

Adora laughed, “And when you killed them, you’d just leave them around. Like I’d go to the kitchen and there’d be a dead rat on the counter.”

With her face buried in Adora’s neck, she can feel Catra shrink with embarrassment. Her teeth scrape the skin of her neck as a warning. 

“I just wanted you to know about it, I don’t know.” Catra mumbled.

Adora scratched the back of her ears. “I mean, you did kill them in really unique and interesting ways. It was kinda cool to see."

“Really?” Catra’s eyes dilated with the compliment. She rolled on top of Adora so that her forearms were folded over her chest and her hips and legs slotted into place. Her incisors peeked out beneath the hopeful grin.  

Cupping her face, Adora pulled her into a slow kiss, moaning softly with the contact to excite a reaction. With a groan, Catra pushed to deepen the kiss and wrapped both hands around the back of her head, begging closer, closer.

Smiling against her lips, Adora pulled back and watched as Catra followed to reconnect. 

“Got you,” she whispered.  

After a second, her comment registered and Catra rolled her eyes. “You vegans are just the worst.”  

“You love me,” Adora laughed, pulling Catra tight across her chest. Her ears flattened against the back of her head as she once again buried her face into Adora’s neck.

They napped through the evening, made dinner, and settled back into bed with the glow of a paused cycling race glowing on the TV in the background. 

Catra had come up to Mystacore to help Adora move into a new apartment, unknowingly assisting her in hiding from Shadow Weaver. At this point, she saw no reason to bring up the letter to Catra. They’re finally in a good place after all the drama and chaos of her leaving, and her address was private anyway. The letter she destroyed was the last. She was certain of it. 

A knowing thought entered her mind: Tell her anyway. Do it now while things are good. The letter was destroyed. It was the hiding that hurt you.

Adora tightened her arms around Catra. She volleyed the subject with a seemingly unrelated segue. “Do you like my new apartment?”

“I see literally no difference from your old apartment,” Catra deadpanned. “But the view is nice.” 

“Well, I didn’t have much choice.” 

Her stomach turned as she veered toward the subject. Catra turned toward Adora and met her gaze with a protective glint.  
 
“What?”

Adora muttered, “I didn’t feel safe with university housing anymore.” 

“Why?”

Her heart pounded in her ears. She broke eye contact and found Catra’s unsheathed claws, an instinctual response. What might Catra do if she learned Shadow Weaver had contacted her? She still lived in Bright Moon at the same address. Wasn’t Catra more at risk of running into the old woman? 

“Adora?” Catra prompted. “What happened?”

Shadow Weaver contacted me.

Her desire to release herself from the burden of this secret seemed equally counterbalanced once again by her fear of Catra’s reaction. Not toward her this time. She feared Catra might act impulsively and hurt herself.  

The old woman had been unduly cruel toward Catra. Adora’s issues with Shadow Weaver stemmed from the high standards of success she placed on her and what happened when she failed to meet those expectations. But for whatever reason, Catra had triggered Shadow Weaver from day one and brought out a totally different side of her. 

Placing a gentle kiss on Catra’s lips, she made her decision. It was only one letter. She won’t threaten Catra’s mental or physical safety over one letter. 

“Nothing much. Just a creep who wouldn’t take the hint. I’m all good now.”  

The peal of the singing bowl breaks her reverie. Adora covers her head in her hands to hide the tears welling up. Hands trembling. 

“Thank you for sharing your practice with me today. Please enjoy the peace we've cultivated together this evening.” 

Hands still covering her face, she feels Glimmer wrap an arm around her. Bow stands unsure beside her. 

“Adora,” Glimmer whispers. “What happened?”

Tears silently roll down her cheeks. She bites her lip to keep from crying. To remember a relationship that has ended and learn from it, that she can accept. But to go through it all knowing that it was completely one-sided - that no repair or reconciliation would come - felt unbearable. Catra could not hope to recognize her let alone comprehend an apology about their relationship. Worst still, she’s completely alone in the experience.

Whatever emptiness grips Catra in her quiet moments of solitude wouldn’t touch the hopelessness of knowing you are alone in your remembering.

“I’m not getting any better,” she whispers into her hands. “How long until this feeling goes away?”  

*~*~*~*

Winter is dark and dreary, all shadows and moonlight. Hardly any color. She wakes before the sun rises and leaves work once the sun has set, biking slowly along the river trail that passes Almandine’s. Sometimes she sees Catra talking to the scorpion-hybrid behind the counter or catches a glimpse of her outside the storefront pulling on a vape. She has no idea what moves her these days. What thoughts could possibly burn in her mind with both Shadow Weaver and Adora gone?

She lasts until February before scheduling an appointment for the ESSM procedure. Her appointment lands on February 14th. The doctor, Entrapta Dryl, sends her home with several black bags and a packet of information and liability waivers to sign and return. 

On the night of February 13th, she empties her apartment of everything that once represented Catra: drawings, photos, recipe books she had scribbled in, gifts, vinyl records, and a gag mouse trap Catra had written her name on in sharpie. Once she’s done bagging up her apartment, leaving it a beige and emotionless model of the one she used to have, she sits back and sighs. 

Bow and Glimmer will disapprove, more out of concern than anything else. Someone from the clinic will deliver a note to their apartment tomorrow with news that Adora had Catra removed from her memory. Seeing that she hasn’t responded to any of their texts in two weeks, she’s certain the news will come as confirmation of two realities: she’s still interested in living; and, she can’t continue living like this. Both are certainly true.  

Tomorrow after work, she will bring all her bagged memorabilia to the clinic, endure the memory-capture procedure, and return home with a pill that will knock her out for the actual procedure, which will be completed by morning on Friday February 14th. 

She follows all but one rule: No physical evidence of the erased one. She writes a letter as a final act of love to the version of herself that will be erased, and to Catra. She funnels into this letter all of her self-reflection from the past year, allowing herself to fill three pages with all that had been left unsaid. Voicing her fury at having been erased and her regret for having failed to trust Catra with the truth again and again. Grief and tenderness and every contradiction, their post-mortem in a letter.  

At last, she folds the letter into an envelope, dates it, and writes one simple instruction: Adora, Do Not Read. 

Removing her diploma from the wall, she undoes the frame’s backing and slips the letter behind the diploma. She returns it to the wall. One last secret, a taste of her own medicine. 

Chapter Text

Her claws tink against the glass of her second espresso. The streetlights blend gold into the indigo-dye of morning. Adora sits opposite her in a window booth at Jitters, the closest 24/7 diner. Craning a handful of fries over her mouth from the shared plate, Adora gives the impression of a burnt-out college student in her University crew sweatshirt and joggers.

“Not bad.” Adora says, licking the tips of her fingers mindlessly while squinting at the three-page menu. “I’m craving a good vegan sausage.” 

Catra scoffs but doesn’t comment. Expecting vegan meat at a 24/7 diner is like asking for gruyère cheese at Burger King. The question is meat or no meat, not what’s your best plant-based alternative?  

Her body is frenetic with excitement and dread, uncertain whether to want Adora or distrust her. That Catra chose to answer Adora’s call and then leave her apartment after dark in winter is unusual for her. If a girl flees her apartment after making-out and then calls her an hour later to talk, her reflex is to ignore the call and see if she’s even interested by morning. 

Last February, she began experiencing regular anxiety attacks and optic migraines. Her year has been defined by the nights she spends alone in her apartment pacing, sweating, breathing through it. She masks her vulnerability in the tink-tink-tink of her claws and twitching tail, which could easily be interpreted as impatience.     

Beneath the table, Adora has her legs sprawled wide so that occasionally her knees knock against Catra’s crossed legs, further frenzying her. She can’t remember the last time she stayed up all night with a girl who wasn’t going to have sex with her, just to lose her mind over the slightest brush of skin.  

Adora continues, “What’s your favorite dish?” 

“Nothing really, it’s a shitty diner.” Fried anchovies.

“No, I mean, what do you like to eat? Salty or sweet? Sour or savory?”

Catra frowns, tail flicking. This shouldn’t be a difficult question, it’s no different from asking about her taste in music or movies, which they’d already talked about; but her taste in media doesn't touch on basic needs. Any response she gives here will immediately emphasize her fucked-up childhood in that nobody taught Catra how to eat well, let alone how to cook. How Adora managed to learn how to cook as a vegan in the foster system is beyond her. She must have been loved. Food is survival, to be scavenged and scraped, not savored. Her body tenses under Adora’s gaze despite seeing nothing but open curiosity. 

“I’m not picky,” Catra says quickly. “What about you?”

Adora’s eyes lighten with passion. “I love cooking. I usually go for umami flavors, like eggplant and tomato stew with chickpea. But in summer I really crave bright, fresh toppings, like red onion, jalapeno, lime. So tacos are a must.”

Catra’s ears flatten as she listens, feeling ashamed about her own lack of skill. She eats shelf-stable foods like canned anchovies, beans, and rice. She once tried making batter-and-bake tilapia but used cornstarch instead of flour, not understanding the difference, and hated every bite. 

“That’s cool.” 

Tink. Tink. Tink. Her claws against the espresso cup punctuate the silence. She should have stayed home. 

“What do you like to do when you’re not working?” Adora asks. A sullen undertone has begun to creep into her voice but her body language is buoyant.   

“I collect things.” 

“Oh?” Adora perks up “Like what?”

Her apartment is full of stolen tokens from years of cleaning houses in ritzy neighborhoods. She seeks out elegance -- perfume, potpourri, leather-bound books, Rococo ceramic dinner plates.  

Catra shrugs, unwilling to elaborate. 

“Come on,” Adora prods, “I’ve seen your apartment. You clearly have an eye for art, so tell me about it.”

Catra bristles with the extra push. “Is this how you talk to people in city council meetings?” She bats her eyes. “You clearly have an eye for design. What do you think about this bike lane?”

Adora looks embarrassed. “Whatever, I like to make people feel engaged in the change happening around them.”

“Okay. What do you do when you’re not saving the world?” 

Adora’s right eyebrow twitches and a vulnerable expression passes over her eyes. Then she rolls her shoulders back and her expression hardens into an irritated stare.

“I like to bike around the city. I also volunteer at a mental health crisis hotline.”

Feeling stuck and miserable, Catra mutters, “Well, aren’t you Little Miss Perfect?” 

Adora taps her fingers against the table and closes the menu. “I’m-- not hungry anymore.”

“Great.” Catra responds, unable to look at Adora. 

“I can walk you to the bus stop.” She offers, dampening the blow with politeness. “You’re probably exhausted. This was a bad idea.”  

Catra shrinks from Adora and hisses. “I don’t need you to walk me anywhere. Go home if you want, I’m not forcing you to be here.” 

“What?” Adora snaps in a hushed tone, leaning toward her in the booth. “I’m the one not forcing you to stay. You clearly want to leave.” 

“I was fine until you started prying information out of me.”  

“Prying?” Adora leans back with a frustrated laugh. “Oh, I’m so sorry for wanting to get to know you. I didn’t realize every detail of your life was off limits.”

Catra slams her hands against the table and growls at Adora. Eyes widening, Adora holds her hands up in retreat. Her stomach churns at the complete overreaction. Shame threatens to overwhelm her and rationalizations begin to form in anticipation: None of this would have happened if you had just asked easier questions! 

“Hey, so…” The waitress’ deadpan voice cuts the tension. “Can you, like, not fucking do this here?” 

Their attention snaps to the waitress. Catra’s claws are digging into the table. Adora's right eyebrow looks as though it could reconnect with her hairline and her skin flushes. The waiter crosses her arms against her chest and looks between the two. Her expression says, you heard me. 

“I’m so sorry,” Adora gushes, pulling a money clip out of her sweatpants and placing a generous tip on the table. “We were just leaving.”

Tugging Catra’s arm, she pulls them both out of the diner and into the brisk winter morning. Walking silently under the gaze of the diner staff, she and Adora turn the corner and huddle under a streetlight next to a sheltered bus stop. Adora and Catra’s bus runs through this stop in thirty minute intervals starting from the first bus of the day, which according to her phone will arrive by 5:15am. They both have to wait an hour. 

“Too bad you didn’t bring your bike,” Catra mutters. “Looks like you’re stuck here.”

“What is your problem?” Adora asks. She’s taller, more muscular, than Catra and intimidating when angry. Her jaw tightens as she stares down at Catra. Breath vapor touching her cheek. Red vascular lines flaring the edges of Adora’s nose in the frigid air.

Pressure constricts her chest, keeping her breath shallow and tight. The conditions of an anxiety attack-- no sleep, caffeine, the loneliness from her year, from her life-- coalesce. Had she stayed home huddled beneath the covers and rocked herself to sleep, she would have saved herself this humiliation: her confident persona imploding from simple conversation and revealing the strange loner freak beneath.  

With a hiss, Catra pushes Adora back. “Just go, and delete my number while you’re at it.” 

Adora softens at the torn-up sound of her voice. Her mind swirls with dizziness as the episode washes over her. Stars burst into her vision and scatter over Adora, briefly crowning her in gold light. Dazed by the sudden whirl of stars, Catra closes her eyes and leans against the support of the bus shelter. 

“Woah,” Adora murmurs. Her hands hover over Catra, not touching but ready to catch her.  

“I’m fine.” 

Feeling for the bench, she sits down and tucks her head between her knees. Breathing in, she counts to four. Hold. Breathing out, she counts to four. Full exhale. She repeats the technique with her eyes closed until the stars dim to a shimmering distortion and finally return to black. 

When it's over, Catra cushions her forehead on her crossed arms and waits for Adora’s presence to disappear. Just go. Just go. Just go.

Her presence shifts, seeming uncertain, and sits beside Catra on the bench. 

Still breathing slowly, Catra opens one eye and peeks at Adora, who’s biting her bottom lip as if mulling something over. Catra closes her eyes again. Now that she's in her body, the exhaustion she’d been likely feeling for hours threatens to take control. 

“How did you…do that?” Adora asks. “Like, come down, again.” 

Catra lifts her head enough to rub her face, applying pressure to her temple and massaging down her jaw, releasing tension. Scorpia taught her the breathing technique. The tension-release routine has developed over many, many months of jaw, neck, and eye pain.

“I was going to lose my job if I didn’t figure my shit out, so a friend helped me -- and apparently this is super common knowledge. Like, everyone knows this stuff,” Catra explains, pulling tension out of the muscle of her jaw. Adora’s stare flicks from eyes to hands to lips, back to eyes, to the pull of her fingers, back to lips. 

She thinks, fuck it, and shares the story. “The first time I got caught stealing from the store, it wasn’t a big deal. They’re very forgiving. But then, I got caught again.” Catra takes a breath. “This is their family business, so they convened a family meeting - Scorpia, her moms, her grandfather had me over for dinner and they tried to talk to me about it. They wanted to understand why and, obviously, wanted me to stop.”

“Oh.” Adora rubs her knuckles with her thumb, listening with intense focus. “And?”

Catra sighs, “And I freaked out.” 

“What happened?” 

“Scorpia really - cares about me, for some reason. I don’t know.” Catra admits. “She pulled me aside and held me really tight, I felt like I was going to pass out, and she started breathing, like that. Deep slow breaths. Counting each one. All the while, I’m scratching the shit out of her, and her family’s watching. They’re stuck at the dinner table, staring. I’m surprised no one called the cops. It was so weird.” 

When she meets Adora’s eyes, she expects to see judgement or criticism as she had felt about herself; instead she feels a strange zip in her body as she connects with a warm, openly affectionate gaze. 

Lips pulling into an odd smile, Adora says, “I think I know how that feels.” 

A pleasant tingling sensation washes over Catra at having shared and been accepted and she deepens the eye contact. Then she registers what Adora said. 

“How could you possibly relate to that?” She laughs, feeling slightly hysterical. “That was so specific.” 

“I think my friends have tried to do that for me before. I just never realized it.” Adora replies. “A few times actually, now that I think about it. I figured Bow really liked slow 90-second-long hugs.” 

“Wow, a minute and a half. That’s a long time to wait for a hug to end.” 

“I figured that’s how normal people hug.” Adora laughs, embarrassed. “I didn’t mind.”

“It could be. I wouldn't know,” Catra considers.

Adora’s right eyebrow quirks again and this time Catra notes it as a facial tic. The expression looks young. She can almost imagine nine-year-old Adora’s eyebrow twitching, eyes wide with uncertainty. She smiles at Adora and a peaceful silence falls between them. 

She nudges Catra’s shoulder. “So what happened? I’m guessing you didn’t get fired.”

She can visualize that night. Scorpia held her in a vise until her instinct to self-destruct passed and she followed the breathing which enveloped her. The confused tears that streamed down her face as she explained how stealing makes her feel (powerful, independent, dominant). Her shame and embarrassment as Scorpia’s mothers and grandfather, Almandine, listened to her, astonished by the dramatic turn of events, and accepted her apology. 

“They grilled these long sticks of marinated chicken and served it over rice. I think it was the best meal I’ve ever had.”

“I love that for you,” Adora’s eyes beam, allowing the deflection.  

Another pleasant shiver convinces Catra to share more. “Okay, fine. I’ve been with them for a few years, so they wanted to work with me, but it was hard for a while. I told them I was going through something.”

An unspoken question waits on Adora’s lips: Were you? Thankfully, she doesn’t ask.  

The abrupt screech of mechanical brakes bursts their privacy. The 51R bus wheels into the curb and opens its doors. The destination sign blinking with Adora’s neighborhood. She stands and steps onto the bus before looking back at Catra. 

Holding out her hand, she offers, “Come with me?”

*~*~*~* 

Adora closes the blackout curtains in her bedroom as Catra observes her apartment. She notes the bike hanging on a hook in the hallway, the clean minimalist design, and workout equipment tucked into a chest in the corner. There is a framed diploma on the wall in Public Policy from Mystacore.  

Wait. Catra leans closer to inspect. From beneath the laminated paper peeks an envelope, a curious secret. 

“Interesting,” she whispers.

“Are you comfortable if I take a nap?” Adora asks, startling Catra away from the wall. “You’re more than welcome to join me, or you can stay out here. Whatever you want.”

Catra watches her face flush with an amused smirk. “I’ll take the bed, thanks.”

The bed is extremely firm. Adora pulls off her sweatshirt and wraps her arms around a pillow, looking small in her white cotton T-shirt. Her triceps bulk as she tightens the pillow around her chest. Catra lets her eyes flit from her dirty-blonde hair, shaved undercut, ear piercings, and the spatter of scars across her face -- boxcars from acne and a curved row of white raked across her jawline. The impulse to press her lips against the scar along her jaw and drag open kisses down her neck burns in her mind. 

Her kneading catches Adora’s attention, whose eyes swell with affection. She seems to consider touching Catra, but smiles and murmurs, “Get some rest.”

Without a word, Catra curls into a fetal position at her feet, reminding herself that Adora had fled the last time she’d acted on impulse. Only friendly touches unless Adora says otherwise. 

Twenty-minutes pass with the slow, relaxed exchange of breath. Adora nuzzles her pillow, murmuring under her breath for comfort and letting out soft sighs. Catra watches as her face relaxes, lips part, shoulders and neck release tension, everything growing heavy. 

There is something so satisfying to Catra in watching-- 

Adora kicks Catra through her sheets. With a yelp, Catra readjusts and thwaps her tail against the duvet as she stares at Adora, now once again completely relaxed.  

This continues in intervals of increasing frequency -- she absorbs a kick to the thigh, stomach, and face-- before Catra loses it and pounces on Adora, pinning her body to the mattress, wrists above her head.  

“Stop kicking me!” 

With a startled yelp, Adora jolts awake with a firm headbutt, causing them both to cradle their heads and shift to opposite sides of the bed. 

After a few adjustments, they settle on their sides facing each other, nose to nose, legs and hands intertwined. Catra rakes her fingers along Adora’s wrist and forearm, eliciting pleasant shivers as they both close their eyes. 

“Is this okay?” Catra asks.

“Yeah,” Adora shivers again.

Hours pass. Light broadens into day, casting haze into the edges of the curtains. Catra wakes first, somewhat rejuvenated, and watches Adora’s face as she sleeps. Her expression has changed with the hours, sinking into a grimace. Fingertips brushing against Adora’s temple, she feels the stir of her resting pulse. Whatever’s upsetting her lies beneath conscious awareness. 

Catra risks another touch along the hairs at her forehead split by her ponytail. The combination of their body heat and their bus-stop conversation feels like an aphrodisiac. Adora’s expression had been rapt with attention while Catra shared, for the first time, one of the most humiliating moments of her life. The image drums in her mind, reverberating warmth in her core. She’s felt attracted to bodies and aesthetics all her life, but never to this feeling of connection. She removes her hand and nuzzles into the bed sheets, inhaling their mingled scent. 

As if called by name, Adora opens her eyes with a hollow, sullen expression. When she sees Catra, their eyes connect, and a look of recognition flashes across her face. Sensing her sexual desire, Adora pushes her body flush against hers. Her seduction moves in slow-motion, dragging her cheek across the skin of Catra's forehead to the bridge of her nose and rubbing cheek to cheek. Catra has to hold back a moan as she feels the skin contact and her body thrums with excitement. 

“Can I kiss you?” Adora asks. Her voice mirrors the gloom in her eyes. 

Catra’s breath hitches, scanning her expression. “Do you want to?”

Adora’s eyes soften and she smiles, “Yeah.”   

“Okay.”

When Adora presses her lips against Catra, she can sense the difference from last night. Her body feels removed as though observing her performance and not experiencing it. Adora pulls her closer with her shirt, deepening the kiss but not the passion. 

With a turn of her head, Catra breaks the kiss. “Let’s just rest.”

Her eyebrow tics, expression bare. “Did I do something wrong?” 

Catra opens her mouth, baffled by that response. Feelings of bitterness, hurt, and desire twist inside her chest. 

“I don’t know. I just feel like you’re lying about wanting this.” 

“Not at all!" Her eyes well with fear. 

“Then why are you acting so weird?” 

“I-” Adora sputters, looking to the side. “I don’t know!”

“Well, I don’t know what to do with that.” Catra crosses her arms with a huff. 

“Okay, bu--wait,” Adora stops, listening closely. “What’s that sound?” 

Catra listens, noticing at once a gentle knocking at the door. Her hackles raise and ears pin back.

“Someone’s at the door, genius.”   

Adora flies off the bed in search of her phone. Her face, cast in blue, looks mortified. 

“My friends are here.” She grimaces. “I’d asked them to help me decorate this weekend but never said when.” 

Scrolling through texts and missed calls, she groans. “I did ghost them a bit.” 

"What time is it?"

"Two p.m."

From behind the door to the apartment, a voice peals, “Ado-r-aa!! You’re gonna love the supplies I brought!” 

Chapter Text

With a detached sense of calm, Adora listens to the knock at the door and mentally returns to the mute dreams that had evoked such raw shame and grief from her. A distorted voice haunts her thoughts, a nightmarish reverb, sets her teeth on edge. She closes her eyes and considers submitting to the hollow ring tempting her back to sleep. Maybe Catra will even stay and she can make up for her awkward, forward kiss.

The knocks change, roiling with impatience. 

“Adora,” Catra tugs at her sleeve. “What’re we doing?”

Overwhelmed by the question, Adora gapes at the door. “Uh, I’ll tell them I have someone over and reschedule.” 

“Are you sure?” Catra seems skeptical that she can follow-through. “I can slip out the window.”

A pang in her heart. She plays with Catra’s fingers, skimming over her knuckles and nails. She likes the dense little furs between her thumb and pointer finger, the calloused pads of her palm. Both delicate and strong. She finds that touching Catra now excites her, anchors her, unlike the disconnected kiss she had given a minute ago. 

“I’d like it if you stayed.” 

Catra scans her face, eyes dark. Then with a sense of trust, she leads Adora’s hand to her chin and rubs softly. 

“Okay.”

The persistent knock at the door has flipped from cheery to agitated. It only stops when Glimmer hears Adora’s heavy approach. Once the door opens, Glimmer launches into a full-body hug, swinging dense tote bags around her like nunchakus.  

“The hermit comes out of her shell!” 

Surprised by her passion, Adora returns the hug with a squeeze. She watches pliantly as Glimmer drops her bags on the coffee table with a wave of her hand. “Leave the door open for Bow, he’s getting some paint from the car.”

“See, I actually have s-”

“So, accent wall. I’m thinking it’ll either be this wall in the living room or that one by the hallway. I brought some colors I thought you might like: terra cotta red, golden ochre, and blue.”

Adora smirks. “Just blue?”

“Funny you noticed that cause if you had answered your phone, you might’ve gotten ocean turquoise or interdimensional indigo.”

“And none of this could have waited until I got back to you?” Adora sighs. “It’s not like I ghosted you for a week.”

The front door yawns open to reveal Bow ambling in with two pails of fresh paint.

“Well, sorry.” Glimmer rolls her eyes. “Hate to barge in on your precious alone time! Far be it from me to actually show up when you ask for me.” 

With a warm smile, Bow sets the pails down and opens his arms for a hug. He settles down for the long haul, breathing slowly. 

“How’ya doing, buddy?”

“Oh, you know,” Adora flushes, pulling away. “Thanks, Bow. Thank you both. For coming.” 

“She wants us to leave.” 

“Wha-at, no,” Adora heaves, out of breath. “It’s just, I’m kind of with someone right now?”

“Wait, what? The girl you met yesterday?” Glimmer appraises Adora with a mixture of approval and concern. “That’s very unlike you.” 

“We’ll give you privacy,” Bow adds easily. “Just try to get back to us today with your availability.”

Glimmer nudges him with an unusually reserved expression. 

“We’re both so happy that you met someone you’re excited about. But, considering that you -- uh, weren’t feeling well yesterday, I just want to emphasize how important it is to rest and heal, you know, really take time to be with your-self.” She clasps her hands with a grin. “Or with your best friends!”

“That’s funny. You don’t sound happy.”

Catra steps out from the bedroom hallway with crossed arms. “But then again: What do I know? You being best friends, and all. Maybe condescension is, like, your love language.” 

An electric charge sears the atmosphere. Bow and Glimmer react in opposite, but equally strange, ways to Catra. An abrupt fit of laughter overwhelms Bow, straining his mouth wide. 

Launching a paintbrush over Catra’s head, Glimmer shrieks, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Unlike you, I was invited.” Catra delivers with a fierce snarl, hunching into a defensive position. The frightened bush of her tail thrashes behind her.

“What, huh? What?” Adora turns her head in slow-motion, disassociating. “What’s going on?”  

As if doused in cold water, Bow and Glimmer abruptly stop, stare at each other, and back at Catra. Bow clears his throat. 

“I mean--lovely to meet you.” 

Glimmer hastens to explain, “You scared us coming around the corner, is all! We need a bell for you next time!” Her face purples with embarrassment. 

“In the most non-derogatory sense possible,” Bow adds.

“Exactly.” Glimmer looks extremely flustered. 

Unease hardens in Adora’s stomach as her attention bounces between them and Catra, who rakes a hand through her hair once, twice and unconsciously works at the tension in her jaw. 

A prolonged silence falls over the room.

“I forgot what we were doing,” Adora states, at a loss. 

Gesturing to Catra with unhinged enthusiasm, Glimmer sings, “Oh, my, you’re gorgeous! What’s your name again?”

A subtle eyeroll is her only response. Face souring, Catra smooths her tail with a quick hand.  

“Catra,” Adora supplants numbly. “Bow and Glimmer.” 

“Great meeting you, Catra.” Bow cuts to Adora. “Can we chat privately in the kitchen for a quick sec?”

Adora connects eyes with Catra, who sulks darkly in the entryway, as Bow and Glimmer drag her into the kitchen. With flushed cheeks, Glimmer checks over her shoulder to make sure Catra hasn’t followed them. Bow’s body language is rigid, but his eyes are markedly calmer as he guides Adora into a seat at the small two-person dining table. 

“You’re both freaking me out!” Adora scream-whispers. 

“You and Catra met for the first time yesterday. Right?” Bow asks. 

“Yeah, on the train to Salineas. Why?” 

With a meaningful glance Adora cannot discern, Bow and Glimmer align and step closer, bracketing Adora with gentle shoulder touches. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Um, bad.” Adora glares at them. “You threw a paintbrush at Catra’s head -- and you, I’ve never seen you act that way in my life. What happened back there?”

“Yeah, that was intense,” Bow laughs.

For a moment everyone blinks at each other. Then Glimmer squeezes her shoulder. “But otherwise, you're okay? No headaches or, uh, hemorrhaging nose bleeds?”

Combined, Glimmer and Bow are a master class in deflection. Adora deflates with a sigh, fatigued by their artful evasion of basic questions. 

“No, I'm not hemorrhaging, Glimmer. Shit.” 

Evidently she won't be getting any answers; she crosses her arms and looks out the kitchen window, where a bare tree waves at her stiffly. 

“If you think you need more time with Catra, we can leave this stuff at your apartment and come back tomorrow.” Glimmer murmurs, her tone surprising Adora by stirring up a feeling of hurt. Tears well and she wipes a flat palm across her eyes.  

Bow notices. “Or we can stay.” 

Her eyes strain toward the window. Trying to steel her voice, “You don’t approve.”

Glimmer sighs. “No, it’s - more complicated than that.”

“Okay.”  

“What’s going on in there?” Bow asks, touching her head. 

Although her heart pangs at the gesture, Adora’s eyes don’t leave the window. Her bottom lip firms.

“Alright, fine. I…I can honestly say that my opinion on you two is…that you’d be smart to take things slow, with her,” Glimmer admits. “It’s healthy to take space around someone new, savor it. You know? And if things come up, you can talk with us.”

Turning her head, Adora meets their eyes with a small smile. “Can you stay for breakfast? Maybe you’ll like each other more.”

Pursing her lips, she volleys, “Coffee.” 

“Deal.”

She lunges to her feet and peers around the wall calling for Catra, who fiddles with leveling the diploma on the wall. At the sound of her name, Catra’s fur stands on end and she leaps away from the frame, facing Adora with a casual lean.

“What's up?”

“They’re staying for coffee!” Adora gushes.

As this was not the plan they’d discussed, Catra’s expression flattens. Tucking something into her back pocket, she concedes with a subtle roll of her eyes.

Breakfast at 2:40 PM looks like fried vegan sausage links, sauteed leftover beet greens, and a fried egg for Catra. In her element, Adora places an espresso pot on the stove as she dials up the heat in the pan. She throws white beans over the greens with a squeeze of lemon and salt. 

Glimmer and Bow smile awkwardly at Catra from their stools on the counter. Catra idly flicks at a fork on the table.  

“So, Catra… What do you like to do in your free time?”

Looking pained, Catra glances over at the espresso pot on the stove burbling with fresh brewed coffee.

She shrugs. “You know...”

Barely aware of their conversation, Adora cracks a second egg for Catra in a fit of self-consciousness. Bow and Glimmer blink at Catra, lips pursed expectantly. 

“Oh. You’re done talking,” Bow infers at last. “That's cool!” 

Glimmer mutters under her breath. “Still an antisocial brat, I see.”

The atmosphere in the room shifts enough to call for Adora’s attention. She looks over her shoulder to find Bow and Glimmer exchanging plastic smiles. Bow tilts his head suggestively at Glimmer, blinking at her with widened eyes. Glimmer mimics him passive aggressively.

Catra is appraising her -- eyes flitting over her shoulders and biceps, to the bulge of muscle along her calves and thighs -- but when their eyes meet Catra visibly bristles and returns her attention to Bow and Glimmer.

After a beat, Catra points at them. “What’s going on?” 

Glimmer turns her plastic smile to Catra. “Forget it.” 

Adora places a plate of food on the table for Catra and hands two ceramic mugs to Bow and Glimmer. She pulls a chair next to Catra and begins tearing into her food. From the corner of her eye, she watches Catra take a packet of anchovy flakes out of her pocket, eagerly dumping its contents on her plate. Must’ve lifted a few seasoning packets from the diner. 

With Adora fully present at the table, the energy in the room settles. Conversation flows from inside jokes, self-effacing stories, to nostalgia. At one point, Glimmer throws her head back to laugh, grasping at Adora’s shoulder and Bow holds his ribs, gasping, as he finishes his story from their college days. Catra mostly keeps her head down, observing her dynamic with Bow and Glimmer, but there’s something about being watched by Catra that makes Adora thrum with warmth. 

When the time comes for Glimmer and Bow to leave, their voices are layered with the warmth of connection. Even Catra seems affected, following Adora as she accompanies them to the door. 

Even with Bow and Glimmer gone, the feeling lingers. Catra leans against the wall and crosses her arms, eyeing Adora teasingly. 

“Your friends are weird.” 

“I know. It’s strange being around people who only want what’s best for me,” Adora says fondly. “Like, all they want from me is what I also want for myself. I’ve never experienced that before.”

A flicker of vulnerability passes over Catra’s eyes, dampening the feeling in the room. The look sends a shiver of fear down Adora’s spine. For a tense moment, Catra considers her words, holding herself. 

“Do you know what’s best for you, Adora?” She asks, staring at the door, avoiding eye contact. 

There is a hint of insecurity in her voice that makes Adora want to hold and protect her. She steps close to Catra, steadying her with both hands on her shoulders. Catra doesn’t meet her eyes, but smiles at the contact.  

“I know I like spending time with you-- and I like that my friends met you. Even though Glimmer almost knocked you out with a paint brush.” 

Catra laughs. “What was that about?” 

“Don’t ask me. No one tells me anything.”  

“Me neither,” Catra replies. Her tone is playful with an undercurrent of sadness. 

Placing a hand on Catra’s cheek, she draws her eyes back and looks into hers. “What’s going on in there?” 

“You can tell me things, you know,” Catra whispers. “Even if it’s scary or weird or painful.”  

Adora scans her face for clarity. “Is this about our kiss earlier?” 

“Not entirely.” 

A current of emotion washes over Catra’s face - insecurity, longing, distrust - as she looks into Adora’s eyes. 

“I’m not hiding anything from you, I promise.” 

Her words cause a reaction in Catra. A surge of electricity connects them, closing space. 

“What do you want, Adora?” She breathes. Her hands trace a path of energy from her shoulder to collarbone to neck. Her hips slot against Adora’s as her thumb traces a scar along her jawline. Adora sighs at the touch, causing Catra’s eyes to dilate and her breath to puff hot against her mouth. 

She wants to press Catra against the wall and kiss her breathless-- but even at the thought, some part of her disassociates. It’s a frustrating reality check. Fighting to mask the reaction, she pushes closer to Catra. 

Opposite forces of fear and exhilaration magnetize within her. It’s a complex feeling she doesn’t understand. There is so much to learn about Catra in these moments. That’s the exhilarating part. A unique mind pools within the dilation of her eyes that Adora could peer into forever. She wants to listen as her breath reduces to a gasp; to unravel every tangle and knot of tension inside her and watch Catra fall apart in her arms.

Another voice haunts her with a warning, reverbing from a memory she can’t place. 

Adora refocuses on Catra. She’s trying to come back, watching Catra watch her with lidded eyes, back arched against the wall. Adora steadies her hips. The tension in her mind threatens to pull her away into a dreamy, dissociative state. But her body-- wants this. 

She presses her lips against Catra’s mouth. 

Sweetness at first is all she tastes; the tang of wet lips. Then Catra grabs her chin and drags it sideways, breaking the kiss to suck at the skin of her jaw. Again, with the damn scar. 

Adora chuckles. “You’re so obsessed with me.” 

Catra pauses. Her tongue moves to her ear with one long lick. “Oh, fuck you!” Adora laughs, squirming. Then Catra tongues her ear. “Stop that, you little shit!”   

Adora grabs her wrists, swinging her laughing onto a collision course for the couch. She lands on top of Catra, gripping her thighs. Then stops, watching the mischief drain from her eyes with the awareness of what was about to happen. 

Pressing close, Adora positions her thigh between her legs, watching for signs of distress. Catra puffs. A beautiful innocence enters her eyes. She lowers her thigh to her center and Catra gasps, tilting her hips. Warmth radiates into Adora’s thigh. She closes her eyes and presses her face into Catra’s neck, suckling the skin; the steady roll of her hips a new constant as Catra claws for purchase at her shoulders and back.

Weaver said you’re impulsive and dangerous. You may want me right now, but you will never want what’s best for me -- you can’t love me. 

Adora’s eyes flash open. Catra is still moving against her, sounding more desperate. Her face flushes at the sounds, but her heart plummets. 

She pulls back, retreating to the other end of the couch.

Catra groans, “What’s--what’s up?” 

Adora’s hands shake with panic. She pulls her hair back into a ponytail, breathing raggedly through her mouth. Her heart pounds. Those words itch at her brain. She can’t quite place it in a place or time, but she knows where to look for more. Her eyes dart to the closet door.   

“I think - we may be going too fast.” 

Pulling herself together at the other end of the couch, Catra rakes a hand through her hair.

“Okay, we can stop.” she murmurs. Adora sighs with relief. 

Catra holds herself, continuing. “Is there anything else?”

Adora shakes her head. “No, that was amazing. I just--” she gulps. “I don’t know what happened.”

Catra stares at her. Her voice is small when she speaks again. 

“Do you want me to leave?” 

Adora pulls Catra into a hug, pressing a kiss against her temple. Catra softens, leaning into the kiss. 

“I think I do need some time by myself. Can I text you?”

Catra nods against her lips. Then turns to kiss Adora’s cheek.  

The door closes with a click, leaving her alone. Adora walks to her closet and pulls out a storage container with hinged latches from beneath folded blankets and snow boots. She opens to reveal a pile of nondescript moleskin journals and a bundle of letters from Shadow Weaver bound by rubber bands. Flipping through a few journals, she finds pages torn out and names redacted in black marker from long-winded paragraphs. Taking note of dates, she gradually proceeds to the older, thrashed journals with yellow pages and starts skimming passages. She finds the passage with the words burned in her brain stuck behind an uneventful page about seeing a horse one time. The pages had at one time been wet and are now wrinkled together.

Separating the pages carefully, she smooths the paper and startles at the younger voice that presents in furious scribbles and flowery doodles. She must have been fourteen from the date. Although she has no memory of the event, she can tell how deeply felt the words on the page are by the hard press of the pen, which had wet the paper with its ink and caused the words to glint like scars. 

Adora reads her entry silently:

“I feel so angry at myself. I needed stitches for my jaw because of our stupid game!! We were just rough housing, but you lost control. Anyway, Shadow Weaver kept counting her money and looking at the clock, telling me we wouldn’t have enough for food, that I was wasting her time. Urgent Care is really expensive, I guess. I think she was more nervous about the questions the nurses asked me, but she shouldn’t have been. I don’t want anyone to get in trouble. I feel sick writing this down, so if you’re snooping on my journals, you better stop or I will never speak to you again!!”

Further down the page, her writing seems calmer after having apparently taken a break to scream into her pillow. 

"Weaver said you’re impulsive and dangerous. You may want me right now, but you will never want what’s best for me -- you can’t love me. She actually said it like that. She’s never used words like that before. I told her I had no idea what she was talking about, but I think she knows we plan to leave; she knows…things I’ve never admitted to anyone. She clearly doesn’t approve…”

The light in her apartment has changed. Adora groans as she lifts onto her feet, pushing off from the closet wall, where she’d apparently slumped face-down into her winter coats. Wiping sweat from her upper lip, she whimpers as the numbed nerves in her legs flare to life. She glances at the back of her hand. 

Oh. Not sweat.

A surprising amount of blood smears the back of her hand and as she turns her head to inspect a fresh spout marks the front of her shirt in a perforated line. 

“Shit.”

Pinching her bloody nose and lifting her head, she chants a mantra of shame. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”  

She grapples for her phone in her back pocket, opening the screen to find multiple missed calls from Catra. 

And 13 unread texts. 

Chapter Text

What's it for? What’s it for? What's it for?

I don't know anything anymore

A retro dance beat envelops the room from a MC-505 groovebox. The lyrics loop in Catra’s head as she whirls about her apartment, letting the upbeat drum and synth replace her racing thoughts. 

Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?

I watch the day go by

She bops into the kitchen and pours another shot of gin.The first few were an anesthetic to her panic, the kind breathing won’t stop, but now she’s having fun and celebrating with more gin. The hidden letter she stole from Adora splays across the floor. Her phone waits to be retrieved from the foot of her wardrobe, where it was thrown in a state of white-hot fury. 

What’s a lie? What's a lie? What's a lie?

Why can't I believe anything I hear?

Adora has been lying to Catra this whole time. She thought she had recognized Adora and now the precise memory jolts to the front of her mind: Roughly a year ago, Adora had gawked at her from behind a stack of books --had recognized her, called her by name--then left abruptly. 

Where's the wind? Where's the stars in the sky?

I don't wish anything anymore

From the contents of this letter, it sounds like Adora has known Catra for most of their lives. After finding each other in the foster system, the pair had dated for a few years and then broke up, prompting Catra to understandably erase her. Now, despite it all, Adora has enveloped her life.  

What's that song? What’s that song that I like?

I can't remember anymore

When was she planning to announce their shared history? “Hey, by the way, that expression you make right before you sneeze is the same as when you were nine and very similar to the one you make when you come.” 

Has Adora orchestrated this ploy to recreate their relationship or has she been accidentally sucked into Catra’s orbit and is trying to passively escape? Her mind roves over her memories of the past 30-hours. It’s confusing. In equal measure, she remembers feeling Adora pull away and draw near. 

After slamming back a shot, she remembers she has to pee and retrieves her phone before stumbling onto the toilet. Immediately her heart picks up as the lock screen opens to reveal no new texts from Adora. She drafts another text and deletes it; her thirteen prior messages stare back at her, unimpressed.

She needs drugs -- preferably X. Scrolling through her contact list, she finds Rogelio’s number from her time at the restaurant. 

Her first text doesn’t deliver. She shoots off another. A caution mark flags it as undeliverable. The goon must have blocked her after the restaurant went under and everyone got booked. So much for hybrid solidarity. 

“Fuck you, too,” she mutters and deletes his number. 

New plan: she needs to dance, somewhere dark and scummy. She needs someone’s body grinding against hers (someone who, unlike Adora, will actually get her off). She stares at her phone, conjuring the perfect combination of trustworthiness, dependability, sweetness, and crucially lacking in romantic chemistry. 

With gin soaking her brain, the answer comes easy. Her fingers scroll to the contact for Scorpia, for whom her past-self has helpfully labelled: Supervisor. Don’t Text.

Catra calls her. 

Scorpia answers immediately. “Hey, are you okay?” 

The time on her phone reads 8:30 PM. Considering she’s never texted Scorpia more than a thumbs up emoji, her sudden cold call does come off as - abrupt. She panics, almost ends the call, but decides to play it casual. 

“Nothing, I was just bored. Thought we could chat.”

Catra squints at the molding grout seating her bathtub as she waits for the silence on the other end to break. 

“Oh. Okay. What do’ya want to chat about?” 

Scorpia’s voice swells; it occurs to her that an evening call to the only stable pillar in her life is all but casual. Part of her mind screams to end the call now while another heartbroken part thinks: Fuck it, at least she wants you.

“Tonight’s dyke night at the Velvet Glove. Wanna come?” 

“Are you serious right now? Yes!” Scorpia beams. “Give me an hour to get ready. I’ll drive.”

Ten minutes before Scorpia arrives, Adora texts back. She’s applying makeup in the bathroom mirror, wiping the edges of red pigment from her lips and dabbing gold flakes to the corners of her eyes. She’s about to pull the black and red bodysuit over her shoulders when her phone pings with the notification and she immediately leaps to read it.

9:20 PM

Sorry. I just woke up

Call me?

Two opposite emotions pull at her heart. She craves the comfort in her voice, but suspects that whatever tragic reality currently suspends in the air between them will materialize if they talk. Her current plans promise a few hours of mindless motion and layered synth-beats.    

9:21 PM

busy.

heading 2 dyke nite

Adora responds immediately. 

9:21 PM

I’m confused.

Are we okay? You seem upset.

Infuriated, Catra almost throws her phone again then re-reads the text and softens at the question. She glances at the stolen letter strewn across the floor. Did she miss something?

She retrieves the pages and scans a few lines. Like before, the magnitude of pain being expressed is immediately apparent. She can hardly process a single sentence before skipping to the next. 

"You left me alone with our past---" 

"I’m so sorry for not trusting y--"

"I can’t carry us by myself anymore--"

The tension of shame builds in her shoulders and neck and a migraine aura shimmers at the edges of her vision. 

These pages read like a diary entry. So why would Adora hide it in a self-addressed envelope behind her diploma? Why instruct herself not to read it? Questions spiral in her mind. The answer is on the page -- Adora writes it obsessively-- but she can’t comprehend it. A strange form of blindness. Her vision tunnels with iridescence. 

Unable to bear another word, she cuts her eyes to the mirror. A scratched-out shadow glares back at her from the glass. Even without a face, the shape conveys pure disdain. Catra’s eyes slam shut. Her arms cross overhead for protection as the sheer force of shock throws her on her back heel.  

The hallucination terrifies her. Shivering with sweat, she leans against the counter, steadying her breath. 

“Come on. Get it together.” 

She can't answer Adora right now. Can’t sort through her mind. 

She turns off her phone and tucks it along with the folded letter in her waistband. Pours gin into the nearest shot glass and knocks it back with trembling hands. Eyes screwed shut, she waits for the pain to pass. 

As the buzz returns, Scorpia rings from the lobby.  

Within the Velvet Glove, a frenetic beat sets the pace of movement.  

Type, type, type, that's my type

Type, type, type, that's my type

Bodies whirl around her streaked by light. Everyone here is horny, high, and hypnotized by the textured music enveloping the space. It doesn’t take long to calm her agitation as she orients to the collective synergy of rave. 

We don't need nobody to confide in

Let me put you on some game, no lying

She and Scorpia cycle through multiple songs on the outskirts of the dance floor, tapping into their own style and rhythm. Catra moves with agility and aggression, a lash of energy. Scorpia, whose burly frame seems most comfortable bashing to the beat, can be swept up into unselfconscious movement so feminine and sensual that it surprises Catra.

Has she ever seen Adora dance? She wonders what would come out if she were to really lose herself to the feeling. Her heart pangs at their innocent slow-dance from last night, which somehow feels so long ago. This version of their relationship won’t even last 48-hours. Her quickest implosion yet. All this relationship stuff doesn’t work with her. The letter only confirmed a version of reality that had previously been intuited. Other people can fall in love and cope with the contradictions of intimacy and independence to co-create flexible lifelong attachments; their misunderstandings and fears are manageable, ruptures in trust easily repaired. 

But not for her. Where others adapt and thrive, Catra spirals and self-destructs. Maybe it's her base animal instincts. That’s what ( ) always told her.

She startles at the thought, freezes mid-motion. A body jostles into her and swears. “Watch it!” 

There she goes again. Returning to the confusion in her mind, even drunk, surrounded by distraction. She needs immersion.

Noticing a group of hedonistic moshers grinding against each other near the stage, she raps a knuckle against Scorpia’s shoulder and points. Scorpia swallows, but follows close behind and settles into an outer tier. 

They start off far-apart and orbit closer with the jostle of bodies until Catra’s hands roam over her torso and arms. She grips a firm bicep, genuinely curious, and then pulls Scorpia to her hips with a slow sensual grind. 

Lights pulse white and red, intensifying Scorpia's uncertainty. Shadows move synchronously, highlighting parts of her expression in beats: lips smiling, eyebrows furrowed, eyes cautious. Catra’s thoughts drift to a future scenario back at her apartment, the validation in being wanted, the release of pain and tension. From there, her thoughts diverge into separate paths. An energetic, craving part of her wants Adora to confront her in the morning, push her against the wall and kiss her possessively. The other part, vague and near silent, wonders if she’ll still have a job tomorrow. 

That's when a hand from behind clamps onto Catra’s shoulder and separates them with a fierce yank.  

She’s met with furious eyes and a stubborn set of lips. Freckles and scars and blonde hair. Oh.

Her heart quickens with excitement. Fantasy be damned, Adora went looking for her tonight and found her dancing with Scorpia. That ugly steel bike of hers is likely U-locked outside next to a pile of ice melt. Adora has changed her top into a white and gold lace turtleneck, an elegant choice. Not even close to the dress-code for this place.

“Oh, Adora,” she drawls. “You dressed up to see me. How sweet.”

Her eyes narrow. “Are you drunk right now?” 

“It’s dyke night. Everyone’s drunk.” 

“I don’t drink, actually” Scorpia interjects, looking anxiously between them. “How do you know Catra?”   

“Yeah, good luck with that one. She won’t tell you anything real.”

Adora pulls back. Hurt slashes across her face. Her eyebrow twitches. 

“What’s wrong with you? Why are you lashing out at me?” She sputters, then points angrily at Catra. “You’re the one who blew up my phone. Don’t text me twenty times if you don’t want me to come and find you.” 

Scorpia positions herself between them protectively. “You know, I am not loving your tone.” 

But Catra is looking closely at Adora now. Her eyes, red and inflamed, have a feverish gleam that makes her look out-of-it. Her messy ponytail has multiple strands of hair loose, some sticking with sweat to her neck and cheeks. Dried blood rims the edges of her nostrils. 

She raps a knuckle against Scorpia’s shoulder. “It’s okay, I wanna talk with her.” 

A hint of rejection pierces Scorpia’s protective mask. Stepping back, she diverts her eyes from Catra.

Heart spiking in all directions, Catra grabs Adora’s hand and pulls her toward the bathroom.

The door to the bathroom swings open to reveal a tagged stall and urinal with a single grime-stained sink, soap bar, and mirror. Avoiding the mirror, Catra kicks open the stall and peers inside. Slipping her hand from their grip to Adora’s cheek and forehead, she feels with the back of her fingers the burn of fever.

“What happened to you?” 

Adora smacks her hand away. 

“I’m fine. What happened to you?” 

Catra crosses her arms. “Not one to sit and ponder, are you?” A beat of silence. “The letter, Adora.”

Her eyes tighten with a strange combination of recognition and confusion.

“Which letter?”

Catra huffs. Adora seems genuinely confused. She removes the pages from the waist cut-out to her bodysuit, pushes the paper against Adora’s chest.

“The one you wrote about us the day before we supposedly ‘first met’.”

Adora checks the date with a furrowed brow. She flips the wrinkled pages over in her hands and scans the pages. As she reads, her eyes reflect astonishment, confusion, pain.

Catra watches Adora read the letter for the first time, discovering it line by line, and the pieces come together. Her perceptual blindness finally lifts. One of the excerpts she’d read over and over come back to her:

"When I first learned of what you’d done, I promised myself that I’d never erase you. I thought I could fix us somehow; that we could be together again, even if only as friends. But I was wrong. The truth is, you wanted this and you seem happy enough. There is no “us” anymore -- it’s just me here, remembering you. 

You left me alone with our past and now it’s time I choose for myself. " 

This version of Adora, who biked through winter darkness to find her, doesn’t remember their shared history. They found each other by mistake. She pounces, wrapping Adora into a tight embrace. With eyes closed, she buries her head into that familiar crook of neck. Adora’s pulse hammers against her lips. 

She whispers, “You weren’t lying.”  

Adora does not soften to her. Seconds strain through tension like a sieve. Now too scared to face her, she clings to Adora with the childish instinct to hide.

Firm hands press against her shoulders until their eyes meet. Catra lowers her gaze and her arms drop to her side. 

“Catra, how did you find that letter?”

She stares at Adora’s shoes. “I mean-- it was hard to miss.”

Adora lifts her chin, forcing Catra to meet her eyes. She relents, “Okay, fine, I might have found it. Behind your diploma.” 

“You stole it."

Stunned, Adora returns to the letter. She reads a few more lines in disbelief.

Trembling with rage, she continues, "This is extremely personal. I can't believe you read it. Why would you do that? What did I do to deserve that level of intrusion?”

“Oh please, you don't even remember writing it.”

“All I did was ask for space -- a few hours. And this is how you react? How can I possibly trust you?”

“You think I freaked out because you asked me to leave?” Catra bristles. “Get over yourself."

"Then, what?"

Reaching for an answer, she finds only a vague fear: Adora thinks you're weak. 

Her lips firm. "You have no idea what I've lived through.”

“Do you?”

Catra startles at the question, pulls back. Aggression hardens Adora's features. An aura shimmers at the edge of her vision. 

“What?”

“I read another journal of mine earlier--one you’ll never find--and I remembered something,” Adora grimaces. “It was you. Shadow Weaver tried to warn me about you.” 

A beat of silence. The name is clearly significant to Adora. Catra watches her closely, waiting for an explanation that won’t come.    

“Who’s that?”

Something within Adora snaps at the question. With a frustrated scream, Adora sweeps her foot behind Catra and delivers one rough shove. As she falls, Catra claws her ponytail and forearm out of instinct, dragging them both to the ground. Adora clamors on top and grabs Catra’s wrists, face contorted with effort. Her movements are both powerful and constrained, expressing rage and a confused sort of pain.

“Adora, wait--” Catra pants. “We can talk about this.”

The fever in her touch burns her wrists. Adora has wrestled control, but does nothing with it. She pants down at Catra, eyes welling with tears. An open stream of blood drains from her nose to her mouth and chin, wetting her lips.

“Now you want to talk. It’s too late.” 

There is something so familiar about this wrestle of power between them. The feeling of Adora’s hips against hers and the hold of her hands. Wild and good-natured, she seems unwilling or unable to cross the line into violence. Their bodies remember what the mind has lost. Inflicting a brief but firm bite to Adora’s wrist, she wrestles her hand free. 

“Adora, you need to relax.”

With her hand clamped against Adora’s neck, she presses her fingers around the vagus nerve and applies a strong consistent pressure. Adora struggles against it but after 40-seconds she groans weakly and slumps against Catra. Body loosening. 

Wrapping her arms protectively around Adora, she whispers, “I’ve got you.”  

Sometime later, Scorpia opens the bathroom door with a pincer shielding her eyes. Her mouth pops open at the sight of Catra’s wild reflective eyes blinking back at her from the floor. On top, Adora breathes slowly through her mouth, blood bubbling with spit.

Scorpia stares at them for a long moment and heaves a sigh. 

“I’ll drive.”

Adora and her bike lay crumpled on their sides, each leaving unique stains behind. The bike’s drivetrain smears grease against the carpet of the trunk while its front wheel spins dazedly free. Adora shivers in the back seat and fogs the passenger window with her breath. 

Scorpia and Catra occupy the front seats in total silence. The soaked pleasure of gin recedes to reveal the debris of her life. Beyond Adora, she senses sadness from Scorpia and catches a sheen of wetness on her cheeks from the yellow glow of headlights.The power dynamic between them, previously unspoken, weighs heavy in the atmosphere. 

Scorpia turns on the radio to the whine of a queer punk-rock band.The drumbeat and cymbal tangles with a lonely base melody. 

I'm just the prop, I'm just the puppet tonight

I'm just the trick without the magic, alright.

The lyrics pierce Catra’s heart and she holds herself tighter, turning her head out the window. Scorpia shuts off the radio, returning them to silence. 

“Scorpia, I--.” Catra stops to pull at the skin of her jaw. “I understand if you need to fire me. I don’t have to come to work tomorrow.” 

The flurry of snow distracts Scorpia for a moment and she slows the car.

“Fire you?”

“I know this was my last chance to pull my shit together,” Catra mumbles. “I never should have pulled you into this.” 

Scorpia watches the road, downcast. “I should’ve known better. It was - unusual of you to call.”

Humiliation burns. She bites the inside of her lip.

“Seriously, I’ll look for another job.”

“Catra, I’m not going to fire you,” Scorpia glances at her. “I’d never fire you for something that happened outside of work.”

They could have fired her the first time she stole from them. Could have filed a report after the second time. She’s been living on borrowed time. 

“You don’t have to protect me. I don’t deserve it.” 

Silent for a long moment, Scorpia seems to consider her words seriously. Catra closes her eyes, preparing for her new reality tomorrow. 

“My grandfather had a hard time keeping jobs, too.”

“Almandine?”

She nods. “I think part of the reason he opened up his own shop was ‘cause no one wanted to hire him.” 

“Why?”

“Life never went easy on him either,” she tilts her head. “And he lived hard too.” 

Catra lifts her eyebrows. “He always seemed so straight edge to me.”

“He is now.”

Ah. Here comes the speech. She mentally withdraws and puts on her best listening face. She has looked into Alcoholics Anonymous before. She’s unconvinced that her only path to a healthy, happy life requires her to admit powerlessness to her “addiction” and yield control to a divine authority. She doesn’t even drink with regularity. 

Scorpia continues, “Look, I’m not trying to lecture you. Just trying to share what I know, okay? He wasn’t much of a drinker until he was hurting about something, then he’d always make these bad decisions. Like, really awful, terrible, no-good--.”

“Yep. Got it.”

“Anyway, we all hurt for it. But he’s been sober now for almost two decades.”

With a measured voice, Catra replies, "That's impressive.” 

Scorpia turns onto Adora’s street and idles a few feet from her apartment. 

“When I realized a few years back that I was solving my issues all wrong, he helped me out. Connected me to the right people, listened without judgement.” Scorpia laughs, suddenly lighter. “Anyway, if you’re ever interested in that path or just wanna try something new, let me know. I can connect you with some good people.”  

Unable to meet her eyes, Catra nods. But there's something else there too - a gentle curiosity.  

Scorpia and Catra carry Adora into her apartment and place her on the couch. At once, she curls up into a shivering ball with cherry-flush cheeks. Catra darts from the kitchen to the bedroom for a glass of water, wet towel, and a change of clothes. 

She places a water glass to Adora’s lips and watches as she groans, jutting her mouth to the side. Catra proceeds to her clothes, smacking Adora’s helpful hands away as they attempt to rip her turtleneck open. Pushing the hem to her waist, she allows Adora to shove out of the rest and fist blindly into the shirtsleeves of a cotton tee. When she starts to lose energy at loosening her pants, Catra tugs at the pant leg until Adora resumes, kicking into a pair of joggers. 

The wet towel she wipes heavily against her mouth and nose, folding each corner as it saturates with blood. Beneath her steady strokes, she can feel Adora’s body tremble with feverish exhaustion. A gradual relaxation comes over Catra as she cleans her mouth and neck of blood, pleased at the soft sounds Adora makes, the sweet gift of care.

Leaning close to her ear, she whispers. "Sorry I couldn't save your war paint." 

A faint smile pulls at Adora’s lips. “I have more.”

Catra taps her forehead. "Let's keep it that way, dummy.” 

Dropping the wet towel on the coffee table, she tries for the water glass again. Adora takes one sip and coughs, winces. 

Scorpia sighs. “We can’t leave her alone like this.”  

With a nod, Catra touches Adora’s shoulder. “You have to ask your friends to come here, okay?”

Adora’s face tightens with fear. “Don’t leave me.”

Her unfocused eyes open as she reaches for Catra, but anyone in her position would cry for closeness and comfort. Her friends are trustworthy. Her thumb gently strokes Adora’s cheek. Scorpia diverts her eyes. 

“I’m right here. But I can only stay until your friends come.” 

When she places the phone in Adora's hand, she sighs but doesn't protest. Squinting at the bright screen, she begins to text. 

*~*~*~* 

Sunday hits her like a brass-knuckled bitch. 

Feeling thoroughly pummeled, Catra slumps behind the cash register at Almandine’s. She had felt sober by the time they'd arrived at Adora's apartment, but mornings never cease to surprise her with their clarity. The entirety of last night soaks her in shame. 

Fuck.

Using the desktop computer, she types endless queries into the browser: 

= “essm procedure” AND “reversal” 

= “positive outcomes”  AND “essm memory loss” 

= “reverse essm procedure” near:Bright Moon within:4 miles

After scrolling past a few conspiratorial discussion posts, she finds a website for REMEMORY INTEGRATION, LLC. 

Pinching her lip between her fingers, Catra navigates through multiple menu options: data, theory, research application. She lands on an introductory video of Light Hope, the AI program at the center of the facility. 

She plays the video.

Countless LED pinpoint lights sweep across a dark room and create the three-dimensional image of a woman draped in magenta and lilac. Her eyes, pupiless and blank, unsettle Catra. It’s as though Light Hope can see her, can peer into her mind. 

“The intended purpose of the ESSM procedure was to return the mind to its original state of boundless potential, untethered by the cluster of impulses and behaviors reacting to traumatic memories.”

Light Hope’s expression softens. “That which interests me is the very cluster of impulses you tried to erase."

Still listening to the video, Catra begins searching the website for pricing, location, insurance.

"You thought you were destroying an external source of torment -- a person, conflict, or event -- and instead lost access to an integral part of yourself.”

Her heart is pounding. For the third time in 24-hours, her vision shimmers with an iridescent aura. She wipes her palms against her leggings.

The hologram’s voice strides in a neutral tone, “I was created in direct response to this failure. Come. Access your true potential with Rememory Integration.”