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Adora is not standing in front of a waterfall when it happens, so she doesn’t place the moment at first. She’s sitting on her bed, instead, and she’s the one with the hairbrush, tugging it through a last-minute snag and still not quite used to the perils of wearing her hair down. Glimmer finds her there and - to her credit - only laughs a little at Adora’s struggles.
“Here, let me try,” she says, and Adora relinquishes the hairbrush even though she knows her friend will be less than gentle.
They sit like that for a little - Glimmer cursing at the tangle and Adora trying to neither wince nor laugh - before Adora asks “where’s Bow, anyway?”
“Trying to help Catra get ready.”
“Trying?”
“She insists she can put herself together just fine on her own-”
“She can,” Adora interrupts only a little lecherously, earning herself a wack with the brush.
“-but she’s mostly humoring him, I think. She let him help with hair and accessories, but I had to get out of there when he got out the body glitter.”
Adora laughs incredulously, trailing into a snort, “no, he is not gonna-“
“He’s trying. It might get violent.” Glimmer picks up Adora’s tiara from the bed, starts situating it onto her head, “this really is lovely, you know? Very She-Ra, but not exactly.”
“Yeah, I thought it would be...nice.” Adora replies a little haltingly, her eyes caught on the discarded hairbrush.
(She remembers - no, imagines - no, remembers an image of it back in Glimmer’s hands, Glimmer in something still pink and lavender and blue and gold, but with a different style to it, a cape, a single drop of an earring. Laughter, still, but it’s not just them, and Bow isn’t the one threatening Catra with beauty supplies.)
“It is,” comes a voice, low and appreciative and warm, “very nice.”
They turn to see Catra lounging in the doorway, and the look she’s giving Adora is much stronger than very nice. It’s all heat, and Adora feels it through her whole body, one of those familiar things she’ll never get used to and never wants to, heady and strong and clear and intoxicating all at once, like falling off a cliff or flying through space or transforming into She-Ra. Catra opens her mouth to add something, but she’s interrupted by Bow, who tugs her into the room with him.
(Bow matches Glimmer, he does, but not how Adora not-remembers. There’s another version of him with a cape, with hair just a little shorter and without glitter dotting his skin like he was just at war with it, and for a moment that man is superimposed on the one before her. Their smiles, she finds, are exactly the same.)
Bow grins at them all, urging Catra into a grudging little spin and a very big eyeroll, “what do you think?”
Adora finally takes a good look at Catra, and it shouldn’t make her mouth run dry, but it does. After all, she knew what to expect. The shirt is a few shades off from Adora’s not-memory, the pants unstriped, unforeseen rings of gold winking from Catra’s wrist and an errant streak of glitter smeared against her collarbone, but Adora’s the one whose appreciative comments had lead to the overall look. Adora’s the one who’d proposed it would be fun to swap their usual hairstyles, trying to keep the suggestion casual and offering her own trove of hair ties. Adora’s the one who’d enlisted a surprised-yet-enthusiastic Castaspella to design the dress for herself and Catra’s matching coat, dodging perplexed looks at her sudden interest in fashion and the too-specific nature of her requests. It isn’t an exact replica of her not-memory, but it’s close enough to be no surprise. And yet-
“You’re staring,” Catra says, entirely smug, “got a problem?”
“No, of course -“ her eyes stop on their pathway back up to Catra’s, stuck “-actually, yes.”
Adora barely notices Bow’s affronted exclamation, or Glimmer’s laughter, or even Catra’s unbarbed “way to make a girl feel special,” because Adora is already out of her seat and at the closet, rummaging through her day-to-day clothes. When she emerges, she ignores their banter, striding firmly to Catra and tugging her forward by her wide collar, fiddling just under its lowest point.
Bow and Glimmer are throwing around comments about giving them alone time (despite making no move to do so), but Catra goes easily, and it still sends a thrill through Adora when she does. Albeit with her standard requisite bitching.
“Forceful today, aren’t we? You do realize we have company and a party to get to, not that I’m compla-” she cuts off with a sharp intake of breath, and Adora knows she’s caught sight of the little gold wing pin as Adora fusses with its placement.
Adora freezes then, the reality of the moment catching up to her. This isn’t a dream, and this isn’t her fantasy. It’s not a set of paper dolls she can dress up to fit a mental image conjured in a years-old moment of longing. What she’s doing isn’t as simple as matching a picture and she’s struck suddenly cold by its implications. Because people know this symbol, and they know this pin - Adora wears it every day - and it’s very possible that a sign stating “Property of She-Ra” would be the only less subtle way of making a very public declaration. On Catra, who lived for so long in her shadow; Catra, who has spent her life railing against anyone or thing that might seek to control her, let alone own her. Catra-
-Catra, who stops her from stepping away, whose mismatched eyes, when Adora musters the courage to look up to them, are bright with what could only be called wonder. Catra, who grasps Adora’s hands where she was pulling them back and uses them to instead tug her into a searing kiss.
(Later, at the ball, Adora will recall another memory, a real one this time. Catra’s voice asking “what do you want, Adora?” and her own giving an answer that is no answer at all.
She’ll look for Catra, then, and find her theatrically commiserating with Mermista while Sea Hawk sings, one hand holding a drink and the other fidgeting idly with the little gold pin on her shirt. Adora will wonder how many other times she’s answered that long-ago question without even knowing it, in a gesture or a comment or a look, and will realize that she couldn’t even begin to count, wouldn’t even know what they were. And then Catra will catch her looking, will flash her a smile, and Adora will think that Catra - Catra could probably name each one.)
They break apart quickly, to the tune of Bow’s “Really? Really? Now?” and Glimmer’s “Come on, you’re gonna make us late, ” though they don’t move away from each other. Adora recovers first, but she’s still not entirely present when she replies “yes, I know, Scorpia will kill us if we’re late for her first ball.”
Catra groans, “oh, no, please don’t make jokes about that, she gets all sad when we talk about her trying to kill us.”
“I think she only does that with you, actually,” Glimmer says, stepping towards the door.
“Yeah, she’s usually pretty good with it,” Bow adds, following, “but you did tell her she could guilt you about anything she ever wanted forever, so…”
Catra blinks. “No. Scorpia wouldn’t...no...I’d know if she...would she?”
No answer comes from beyond the door, so Catra’s question is to Adora alone, and she’s too joyful to respond with anything except laughter.
(In her mind’s eye, she sees the memory of a wish, sees almost-this-Catra hold her hand out, ask “you coming?” with a smile.
In her mind’s eye, she sees a flash-second possibility, just two steps forward and a turn, and maybe she’d find Catra stalled, caught examining the pin again with that starstruck expression, and Adora would hold her own hand out, ask the question herself.
They’re fleeting thoughts, inside jokes with herself, unnecessary. Because her hands are already clasping Catra’s, warm and tangible and real, and Adora sees no reason at all to let go.)