Chapter Text
A random group lets out a flurry of noise as she crashes through them, one falling to their knees, one yelping in surprise, and another yelling obscenities.
Adora doesn’t care.
The venue is too fucking packed--so many people, too many tents, and hundreds of nooks for a small group with a headstart to hide. The sun has faded, replaced by the unnatural light of devices working double time to catch their own glimpse of the band, especially the lead they seek out desperately.
Selfishly, she reminds herself, chest bleeding with worry.
She wants them gone and has never cared so little about other people before--not even bothering to apologize when she repeatedly smacks into bodies, practically a bull in the streets of Spain. In this moment, Adora could actually gore a few people and still trample forward, completely off-put by their obsession and greed for someone they have no clue is being terrorized right now.
And fuck, even if she weren’t it wouldn’t make this any better, but it does make Adora’s plight that much more desperate.
She hates the way she sees Catra’s petrified face flash everywhere she looks--so shattered and vulnerable, like she was being led to her execution. And she just went, too. Like she needed no jury--bribery or not, Catra thought she was guilty and deserved every torture coming to her the second she locked eyes with her and Perfuma.
Would we have listened to her if she tried to explain?
It pains her to know they wouldn’t have--not even Adora.
She’d have immediately tried to play savior and hold her hand, take her off to rehab and shut the door between them, all get better! It’s okay--we believe in you! without trying to understand at all. And tearing through another mob, she can’t help but cry knowing how much that would’ve broken the Magicat--that the one person who promised her everything would’ve been the first to shove her off to “get help” when the actual help she needed was not from a drug, but some slimy, blue bastard.
Adora fells another person and squeezes between two beefy dudes as she exits into the lot.
Everyone’s heading toward the stage, probably thinking that they cornered the band and that they are all in fact there. Adora’s hoping that’s not quite true because if she’s wrong, she has no clue how she’ll get back in and refuses to imagine what that means for Catra. Instead, she races past everyone, running but rapidly turning in circles to see where in the hell they might’ve gone.
Humidity drains down her cheeks like tears--perspiration tripled due to the exertion, panic, and climate. The discordant screams of the fans make her grit her teeth, like their voices are dragging nails and her ear canals are chalk boards, but she tries her best to keep herself grounded, the overload be damned. It makes her vision funny and her breathing erratic to be so panicked and everything seems to meld together, but she forces herself to slow for at least a moment, lest she run away instead of toward.
Her skin burns from the stillness, muscles twitching to go, go, go!, but she has to think as logically as she can and she focuses, sweeping her gaze across the venue, toward their fenced off busses over yonder, and to the packed asphalt in front of them.
There are vehicles everywhere, all glinting with flashes of white light and the growing number of red and blue as Atlanta police arrive to help take control of the crowd. It’s a sea of metal and reflective shells, making it hard for her eyes to pinpoint any one thing, but then there’s something--away from the streams of people on the far end of the lot is what looks like a party bus at first glance. At the second, it almost seems vacant save for the running exhaust. But on her third, she sees it’s completely blacked out and two of the men she saw before are guarding the entrance.
Her real sign, though?
Sea Hawk’s punch catching an unsuspecting goon off his feet.
Adora’s feet have carried her so quickly that she can make out the clang of the man’s head slamming against the side of the bus as the momentum of Sea Hawk’s fist throws him backward. The other doesn’t wait long, swiftly lumbering over to the maroon-haired man who parries his reach with a harsh swat to his arms and a quick kick to the groin. Goon #2 oofs, making a pathetic swipe at Sea Hawk’s legs, but he parries again, kicking over the frantic move and colliding boot to ear.
The man slumps over, struggling to regain his balance as Goon #1 resurfaces in time to rip Sea Hawk from the bus door. He goes flying, rolling a little to soften the impact, but almost doesn’t have time to react before the man is on him again--almost.
Adora only slows moments before impact, crouching slightly, chin up, before lifting the man with her fists dug into his shirt and throwing him onto his ass.
She cares not for the way his head thwacks the ground, rapidly turning around to watch Sea Hawk rip open the door to the bus, shouting in a deep, harsh baritone she’s never heard of him while Goon #2 finishes regaining his balance and moves to follow him.
He doesn’t get the chance, though. Again, Adora’s there covering Sea Hawk’s blind spot--this time from the other side of this beefcaked asshole. She charges forward, foot bracing against the bus to smooth her sudden stop into a bouncing motion as she grips into the goon, throwing him to the pavement.
This one’s got better reflexes, though, so he in turn grabs her, and she comes with.
He hits back-first into the ground, and Adora allows him to cushion her fall, taking advantage of her position with her fists. And maybe it shouldn’t feel relieving for her knuckles to connect with a crack to his messy jawline, but boy does it, and she can’t fucking wait to give that blue sleaze on-board the same fucking--
Turns out?
Goon #1 was thinking the exact same thing of her.
His fists collide with her cheekbones with the pop of sweet revenge.
As far as she knows, Sea Hawk is still on the bus, so this guy actively decided fuck that in favor of whomping down on her, and god does she feel how ecstatic he is with the choice when the second fist hits.
It rocks her for a moment and he screams something nasty in her face before bringing both fists up, ready to hammer them down on her. He’s fucking stupid, though--Adora’s still with it and he left his torso wide open, so she doesn’t hesitate to slam into his kidney before he can act.
He keels over sideways, giving her a chance to sit up but that’s all, cuz apparently these goons are made of cement and the other one is ripping her from the pavement with his hands shoved into her armpits. He yeets her like a shotput before thundering over to her, also going for the me-smash his buddy tried, winding up his foot over her chest to no-doubt crack down onto her ribs, but mercifully, he doesn’t get the chance.
As quickly as he had her defenseless, he’s been just as fast rendered useless with a painful cry and the buckling of his knees.
Adora has to push him away to keep him from falling on her, and she fails to filter out a string of obscenities, snarling in a way that barely seems human, nonetheless Adora-like before looking up and slowing, feeling the tension leave her shoulders even as her face smarts like hell.
Matching her snarl is the person she learned it from, claws extended and dripping as they finish their slicing motion before dropping to the side as the curl of her lips does, too, softening into something disgruntled but concerned. With the same hand, she sheathes the bloody daggers, liquid dripping from her fingertips, and extends her palm.
“Hey, Adora.”
Adora’s battered face going from practically hissing to soft gay in .247 seconds in the least surprising thing to have happened in the last half hour, and honestly?
Catra’s grateful for the predictability.
Enough so that she allows the blonde, upon being yanked to her feet, to crush her body in her arms, whisper-yelling a fevered stream of concerns, reliefs, threats, and apologies directly into her ear.
Even with sensitive hearing, she barely hears it, though--her head is still mostly back on the bus, where Sea Hawk continues to wreck havoc.
Shit, and she has the audacity to laugh.
When she was pulled off to her supposed noose, she’d given in, yeah, but she’d still kind of expected Adora --hero was always her calling-card and she’d always been that for the Magicat. Seeing the pirate cabrón storm onto the bus shocked her enough to bring her back to reality and the fact that she willingly let herself be captured and had proceeded to put the rope around her neck her fucking self .
God, her self-deprecation led her into such a dissociative state that Peekablue had been able to monologue for so long that he not only laid out the details of his plan, but what that meant for him--money, glory, redemption, but mostly money. Fuck, he’d spent a lot of time daydreaming about this shit…
And fuck, she listened to it all in a practically catatonic state before Peter Pan burst in with the scariest tone of voice she’d heard from a man in a long time and a fury that cracked hard lines across his face.
“Get this dick out of here!” Peekablue screeched, voice cracking in fear.
Sea Hawk’s eyes widened to accommodate the flames of anger exploding to life with that new gasoline, and Catra would’ve been terrified if they weren’t being aimed for her.
“Shut yer fucking mouth! If I wanted to hear from an asshole, I would’ve farted!”
The fucking audacity sprinkled on top of the surprise rushed a guffaw from her throat.
A person bolted upright and made a move toward Sea Hawk, but he swiftly grabbed the nearest wine bottle and clocked it across their skull with a single swoop, sending them straight into the floor between her and Peekablue, who watched frozen.
“You,” he seethed, voice echoing loudly in the small cabin and gesturing the broken bottle at the slimy man, “are a putrescent, spineless turd that a leper wouldn’t touch. You are a profane, diseased, and musty leech living in your own Dystopian fantasy where you believe people don’t notice that you’re walking vomit who spreads misery and sorrow wherever you go. In reality, you are a troll, a canker sore, and a greedy and poisonous twat.”
With each line, Sea Hawk edged closer to the frozen bodies mirroring each other, but while Peekablue turned glacial, Catra slowly thawed.
Sea Hawk kicked the body on the floor out of the way, causing Peekablue to flinch.
“And you,” Sea Hawk turned, voice filled with ire.
Catra’s shoulders tensed more somehow, but she watched the fire in his eyes turn warm, the hard features of his face soften and smile, and while exasperated, it lifted so genuinely across his face that she preemptively began to cry.
“You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met.”
A single sob wrecked her body and he dropped the bottle, bringing a strong hand to her shoulder and a calloused thumb under her eyes.
“You are a true gift to the world, and even if your past has mistakes and pain, we are all better for having you still here.” He smiled softer, both hands firmly on her shoulders. “You belong here, but maybe not here,” he smirked quietly.
Sea Hawk was patient while she breathed, settling into herself and coming back to Earth. When she returned, she noticed Peekablue trying to sneak away and her ears picked up discourse happening outside the bus. He followed her eyes, hand abandoning one shoulder to snatch at the fool slinking off and she huffed at his squeak.
She wanted to say something back, maybe a you’re right and fix herself proper or at least a thank you, but her mouth wasn’t working quite yet.
I’ll have to thank him later, she thought when a masculine voice started cursing and loud thumps made their way through the open door. She stood, taking one last deep breath and fixed Sea Hawk with a determined stare. He met it back kindly, but she saw his grip tightening on the weasel. Squeezing her hands into fists, she reminded herself of her strength and felt it return to her body, letting it fill her whole again, and gave him a single nod, brushing past the pair to run out the door toward her other knight in shining armor.
In Adora’s arms, she laughs again, sinking further into her.
“What? What’s funny? Did you hit your head? What about this is funny?”
She cackles. “I didn’t hit my head, pero te pareces a un tomate magullado. ”
Adora pulls back to look in her eyes, and as pretty as she is, she’s also looking pretty fucked up. It’ll be a miracle if she doesn’t have any fractures with the sheer amount of red, swelling, and cuts working across her skin. Not that they bother her--she’s clearly too intent on looking at Catra’s unmarked face, pushing it around gently in her hands as she inspects her.
“Idiota,” she sighs, pushing her hands under hers so they abandon her face and drop to her sides.
As they flop, red and blue lights screech around the corner, headed toward them. Out of instinct, she stiffens but relaxes when Adora puts a hand on her lower back. For a moment, she shifts, turning slightly back toward the blonde to look at her. Cops are shuffling toward them and the bus, but she freezes in the moment, looking into pale blue eyes instead.
For a moment, she’s not there in that parking lot. She’s in the orphanage looking at the blonde for the first time.
It’s her earliest clear memory. Everything else is fuzzy--bits and pieces from an undeveloped brain. But this? Watching as the tops of the box lift and blinding light filters through, revealing shreds of the stale, drab home, but also the excited, face-splitting smile of a young girl with sparkling blue eyes--it’s the first captivating thing she’d ever seen.
Catra wants to kiss her in this moment--feels it surge over the ache of sadness and exhaustion--but knows it isn’t the time, not as people in blue encroach on their space.
She intertwines their hands instead, giving Adora’s busted fingers a hard squeeze.
She can’t escape these feelings much longer; she knows that. Has been fooling herself about the sheer momentum of whatever’s next for them. Whatever it is, she knew it was coming the second she saw her again after all these years, but she’s been delaying it. For Adora, for her friends, but mostly for herself--this was terrifying for her. So many of the important moments of her life started with Adora, were wrapped in Adora, and were influenced by Adora that being back in the present with Adora, nonetheless the future, was both a blessing and a curse.
Gone was the comfort she labored to gain independently, though was it really? She wasn’t alone--Kyle, Lonnie, Rogelio, even Madame Razz, Hordak, DT, Scorpia, Entrapta, and more made sure she wasn’t lonely in her fight. Even now, she has new people in her life, including Sea Hawk, who harshly throws Peekablue from the bus to the ground in front of the oncoming officers. Maybe the self-psychoanalyzing is going too far, but it’s a good point--she’s never been alone; not when she accepted help, that is.
An officer starts speaking, but she’s not listening. Adora responds instead, and Catra listens to her voice, its pitch and cadence, lilting through her ears and entangling itself around her soul.
It’s cheesy to think it, but yet something has always been missing. For a long time, she thought of herself as independent and in many ways she was, but she wasn’t whole. Adora being back challenged her acceptance of the mediocrity in her life--her willingness to accept the barest bits of happiness in order to keep trudging on, hoping to find something better while never feeling complete.
It sucked ass. It might always suck ass, if she’s being honest with herself. But then again…
Catra looks at the side profile of the now adult version of the young girl who opened the box twenty some years ago, and her breath catches.
Blessings, curses, híjole, what did they matter?
Adora was here holding her hand, and maybe Catra has been broken, but she’s sealed the cracks with gold and the warmth from their bloodied hands.
Adora tugs her forward gently with the officers and from the recesses of her mind, she hears Madame Razz whisper to her:
Tarda una hora en conocerte y solo un dia en enamorarme. Pero me llevará toda una vida poder olvidarte.