Chapter Text
“Are you gonna help me with this or not?” Adora asks, rising onto her tiptoes so she can actually reach the top of the sodding tree that Catra had warned was gonna be too tall to decorate without a step ladder.
“Not.” Catra replies from where she’s sprawled inelegantly over the couch. Her tail swaying languidly over the cushions.
Adora huffs lightly. Before, and it’s with an uncharacteristic level of caution, slipping the white and gold bauble in place on a branch above her head. “That’s not very helpful.”
“I never claimed to be,” Catra disputes, folding her arms. “Besides, you’re the one who wanted the tree, I didn’t sign up for any of this grunt work.”
Adora, ironically, grunts like she’s finally accepting the refusal. Which is a shame really, because Catra doesn’t think it would have taken much more for her to have rolled her eyes and joined her.
The TV’s on, Catra’s not watching, it’s mostly just background noise at this point because she’s certain anything entertaining in this room won’t be found on the screen. Because, a; she’s pretty sure the ornament Adora’s just picked up is made of glass, and b; it’s Adora.
On her tiptoes.
It also doesn’t fucking hurt that occasionally, when Adora's arms raise, the hem of her sweater lifts just so and Catra gets a view of the taut flesh of her abdomen that has her mouth turning dry. Rolling hills and valleys of muscle — and she doesn’t want it to be so unreasonably stunning. But it is. Because... well, refer back to point b (she’s not ready to say it so bluntly yet).
It’s not an unexpected sight. Adora’s been on some track team or other pretty much from the moment she could walk. It was one of the few extracurriculars Weaver granted because it was a ‘constructive and valid use of their time’.
Catra hadn’t understood, at first, how running could give someone abs. Until Adora had dragged her out the front door one day in sneakers and yoga pants, and Catra had wound up panting with stitches like fire just under her ribcage. The vow to never do it again was burning just as brightly.
Catra presses her cheek into the backrest of the couch, feeling the skin there heat up, because she doesn’t need Adora to see this while the room is cold enough that her own breath is visible. While there would really be no valid excuse for blushing right now.
Maybe if we hadn’t gotten such a laughably huge tree we would've had a chance at keeping the apartment above freezing this month.
Adora must have caught her grumbling into the cushions because she’s suddenly asking, “why do you hate Christmas so much anyway? You got a personal vendetta against Santa Clause for never visiting the home or something?”
It’s a fair question, she’s not really sure how Adora ended up so oppressively festive while Catra’s like this, considering they were raised in exactly the same household.
“I don’t know. I can help feeling like it’s all just a bit, like… imperialistic, I guess.” Catra shrugs. ”And anything that was ever genuine about the whole thing has been leached out and plastic, capitalist bullshit shoved in its place.” She’d worked retail last January, she’d witnessed the influx of gift returns. It was nauseating. “It’s just stupid.”
“Aww. You’re so cute when you're grouchy.” She hears Adora say, and Catra realises she’s scrunched up her own nose in that way Adora had once described as like a bunny rabbit. Normally she’d glower, but—
Catra’s attention darts toward her immediately. Adora’s still busying herself with the tree — which is a help, because this time, when Catra lets her face smush into the back of the couch, it’s because her eyes have gone watery. God damn it.
It’s a perfectly innocent comment. More so for the fact, and no matter how much Catra wishes otherwise, she means it entirely platonically.
She wants to scream into the cushions a little (a lot). But she thinks Adora will send her to an asylum or something for being incapable of explaining why. And that’s no way to spend the holidays; not that either of them have much of a baseline of what that should be, in all honesty.
Christmas wasn’t really a thing at Weaver’s. Trees definitely weren’t, and apart from the mandatory set up in the school library or the centrepiece of the mall, they’d never actually had one to sit beside.
Evidently, Adora’s trying to make up for that this year. Like, all of it, at once. (Catra’s actually slightly worried the tree’s gonna fall over from the weight of everything Adora’s crammed on there, and it looks messy as shit)
But.
Adora’s smiling. The lights reflect in playful colours as they flicker in her eyes, and the room smells like pine and the woods they used to escape to as kids.
So, she thinks she can let her grievances go for a minute.
“Hey, you okay?” Adora says, in that soft way she does what she’s just acknowledged something might be wrong and she’s already apologetic she hadn’t noticed sooner.
“Yeah,” Catra’s voice cracks, she clears her throat before promising, “I’m fine.”
Adora moves across the room, joining her on the couch and picking up Catra’s ankles so she can sit, placing them on her lap instead. Catra’s more than a little bit aware of the contact. The yoga pants she’s wearing stop midway down her calf so when Adora’s thumbs start to drum it happens straight against her skin. She forces herself not to flush.
“What do you think?” Adora gestures with one hand toward the fir that’s only gonna wilt and drop a million needles in a few weeks.
But it’s glowing and shining right now. “It looks great Adora, there’s no way that could possibly be a fire hazard.”
Adora beams, either because she didn’t pick up on the sarcasm, or because she knows that half compliments are as good as it gets from Catra.
You dork.
Catra slips her phone from the pouch pocket of her hoodie, trying to find a distraction from the fact her legs are in Adora’s lap right now, and there’s no way for her to remove them without being really freaking obvious about it.
They’ve always been touchy, affectionate, she doesn’t want Adora thinking she’s suddenly uncomfortable with this, because she knows Adora will think she’s done something wrong. That she’s damaged them, somehow.
But it’s not that kind of uncomfortable. And Catra’s certain this kind might actually be worse, because damage can heal — bruises fade and scratches turn to scars, she knows, they’ve been there before.
Wanting more though, when she’s sure Adora doesn’t share that sentiment, is borderline perilous.
Primarily because Adora’s her oldest friend, her best friend, and the heartache would likely be the death of her. Sidelined is the acknowledgement that if this blew up while they’ve only been roommates for a fragile few months, Catra would have nowhere else to go.
See, Adora has other friends. Catra’s part of the same social group sure, but only ever as Adora’s plus one. Catra’s tolerated, endured. But Adora, she had options, she’d been invited even, and Catra can’t really understand why Adora had chosen her anyway. Probably because she knew Catra was gonna end up alone otherwise.
Ageing out of the system is a fucking bitch.
She realises she’s been staring blankly at her home screen for the last minute when Adora taps against her lower leg, and Catra’s eyes drift upward.
She finds her friend still staring at the tree, like a corvid with its eye stuck on some shiny thing. Adora’s voice is quiet when she says, “I just want things to be different this year. Better. Now that we’re free to do what we want without anyone holding us back.”
Catra replies slowly, one eyebrow hiked, “okay?”
Adora swivels, facing Catra now, one arm actually draping over the length of Catra’s shin. She tries not to visibly swallow. “I know this whole tree thing was really self-indulgent of me, but I want us to have that, to be allowed that. And I want you to have that too.”
“Uh,” Catra’s jaw loosens like she’s trying to answer a question without knowing what it is she’s being asked.
“We have control of our own bank accounts now, Catra,” Adora points out, as though it’s some sort of revelation. “Our own apartment, our own lives. We could literally go crazy with all the stuff we wanted as kids that always failed to turn up under the non-existent tree. There must have been something you wanted, some stupid thing you wished for every year.”
Catra can feel her heartbeat thumping in her chest. The only honest answer she can think of is you.
Always, every year, constantly. You.
Catra averts her eyes — wanting is hard when you’ve taught yourself over a lifetime how not to. The big things she can recognise, because they’re blinding and loud and demand to be felt. The smaller things, however, are so quiet at the back of her mind she’s not even sure they exist anymore.
It’s funny. Wanting Adora had started off that way too.
"I think you're forgetting said bank accounts are practically running on empty right now."
Adora rolls her eyes all too fondly, and that’s not helping, Catra thinks. “If that’s supposed to be snark over how much I spent on the tree, I’d like to remind you of the months I endured walking to work just so I could avoid the bus fee. I saved up for that tree. Purposefully.” Adora reminds her, and Catra’d been fully aware because she’d been smitten with the dedication the whole time.
Adora continues. “And anyway, it doesn’t have to be some big or expensive thing, it could be, I don’t know, stuffing your face with chocolate because she’s not around to scold you for it. Or maybe one of those giant stuffed polar bears they have at the store right now—”
Catra raises an eyebrow. “You literally just said it didn’t have to be big, doesn’t ‘giant bear’ kinda negate that?”
Adora scoffs heatlessly. “It can be whatever you want, that’s the point. Something Weaver wouldn’t have allowed, something wasteful and ridiculous and beautiful.”
Catra’s jaw sets, not tightly — but thoughtful.
She’s never been one for wanting things, not really, not beyond what she indisputably needs. Stuff can be broken or lost or thrown away. And it’s not things that make her smile, that make her feel warm the way Adora does.
Perhaps if she actually had any hobbies she could splurge a little on them. Collect a few more sketchbooks like the one abandoned on her bookshelf, still full of white, empty pages. Because as much as she’d tried, her hands seemed incapable of resurrecting what Shadow Weaver had killed.
See, drawing was not something she’d considered ‘constructive or valid.’
And too many sketches had ended up kindling for the fireplace.
“Hey,” Adora prompts, apparently noticing Catra’s attention had fallen back to the screen in her hands. “Stop glaring at your phone like that it’s gonna give you eye strain.”
Catra pulls her legs from Adora’s lap. She can handle the contact to an extent, but what isn’t fair is having Adora fuss over her like that. She tries to ignore the way Adora’s fingers brush over the skin of her ankles as she does so. “I’m fine.”
“You’re gonna get a headache,” Adora argues, stern. “I don’t understand why you won’t wear your glasses.”
One of Catra’s ears flickers like a lion swatting away a fly, as though that’s supposed to be answer enough. “Because they look ridiculous, and because I can read perfectly fine, thank you.”
Adora huffs a little. “Yeah, so long as you’re squinting.”
And look, this? This attentive, caring Adora? Is the exact reason she has these feelings problems in the first place, among other things, obviously, of course. Aforementioned abs, for example.
“I’m fine, Adora.” And it’s only true because she’s looking through her phone more than she’s trying to read anything on it.
Adora’s silent for a minute.
Catra takes the moment to actually open up the stupid dating app she’d instaled in a desperate attempt to get over this, but then Adora’s standing and the weight over the cushions shifts while Catra’s left feeling like she should have been a tad less argumentative.
Because now Adora’s leaving.
Her legs tuck up against her body, and she lets the phone fall back into her pocket. Footsteps pad down the hallway toward the bedrooms and then the apartment falls silent. And cold. It’s always so cold in here.
Frost’s gathering on the windows, she notices, and the tree is nice, pretty. White and gold seems to be a theme, Catra probably would have chosen red, honestly-
Adora reappears in the living room, and it’s hard to miss her because she’s suddenly kneeling in front of where Catra’s sat.
She flinches back when Adora’s hands are suddenly moving toward her face, stilling, but then she realises she’s holding her glasses, and Catra doesn’t wiggle away as Adora delicately places the frames in place over her ears.
"There," Adora says. The glasses are new, relatively, the headaches were not. Weaver had never cared to investigate the problem, but when Adora had poked fun at how large the text was set on Catra’s phone screen, she’d quickly put the dots together. “They do not look ridiculous, they’re cute and they’re hip, and I don’t want you getting headaches.”
Catra actually swallows, she hopes Adora doesn’t notice. “I can’t believe you actually used the word ‘hip’, you nerd.”
Adora’s eyes roll, but she’s smiling. “You’re the one wearing glasses.”
“You just told me you thought they were cool!”
"Don't dish out insults if you can't take them, babe," Adora rises, making a clicking noise with the corner of her mouth that she knows Catra finds aggravating beyond all get out. But Catra’s distracted, and her eyes are going wide. While Adora casually, oh so casually, turns to look back at her handiwork surrounding the tree, before announcing, “I think we should go for a walk. Look at the Christmas lights around town.”
Catra can actually feel her pulse in her throat. It’s thumping. The last few vertebrae of her tail twitching as she tries to calm herself.
But Adora, and it’s very on theme for her, seems unaware of the consequences of what she’s just said. Like it was nothing. Like it meant nothing. Just some casual back and forth, because that’s all this would ever be.
“No,” Catra replies, folding her arms around herself. (To fend off the cold, she’ll pretend.)
Adora, honest to god, pouts. “Why not?”
It’s not adorable, it’s not.
“Because it’s practically sub-zero out there. Do you want me to get frostbite?” She flutters an ear for emphasis.
“You could wear a hat, or ear muffs?"
Catra shakes her head. “I can’t. They’re uncomfortable — you can't just pin them down like that, they're sensitive."
She hears Adora hum, like she’s trying to figure out a solution. “What if we just really loosely wrapped a scarf around your head?”
“Adora—”
“It could work.”
Catra narrows her eyes. “I am not gonna skip around town with you looking like a grandma.”
“You’re a very pretty grandma,” Adora tells her as the walk, breath catching in the cold of the air like a steam train.
“Shut up.” Catra shoves at her shoulder, earning a snorted laugh from her friend. But actually, please, please shut up, it hurts.
She'd left the glasses at home, because she's really not gonna wear them unless she absolutely has to, and she slips the scarf down to sit around her neck when she acknowledges that maybe it's not actually that cold.
And perhaps it’s worth it for the way Adora lights up brighter than anything they find along the street.
Catra accepts, while she’s watching the way the glow of it dances over her friend's eyes like starlight, that this unfathomable, uncontrollable thing that's growing in her chest is going to ruin them.
She can’t let that happen.
Adora must notice Catra’s mood drop, she only drags her along the avenue for ten minutes before they’re heading back to their apartment.
But then Adora’s suddenly stopping. Saying, with a voice so soft Catra immediately recognises she’s not talking to her, “hey.”
Catra turns, realising Adora’s stopped a few paces behind, her eyes fixed down a dark alleyway, and that’s—
“Jeez, Adora, you wanna find a creepier place to stop?” She asks, hands shoved into her pockets, tail swaying near her feet. Is this safe?
Adora kneels. Catra’s a breath away from cursing at her when she notices the cat Adora’s now holding a hand out toward in greeting.
Huh.
It’s a tabby — she thinks it’s ginger but its hard to tell in the dark as it pads across the tarmac. Bumping it’s forehead into Adora’s touch.
“Hey, baby.” Adora coos, whispered. “I hope you have a nice warm home to get back to.”
“I’m sure he does. He’s got a collar.”
Adora frowns. “What sain thing would voluntarily be outside in this weather?”
Catra sends her a look that reads somewhere between ‘really?’ and ‘you, you would, you dumbass’. But then she kneels, joining them.
“How do you know it’s a boy?” Adora inquiries.
The flash of his nametag under the streetlights hadn’t been hard to make out through Catra’s eyes. Her long-distance vision is fine, thank you, sharp, even. “I don’t think many people would name a girl cat Robert.”
“Robert?” Adora does this strange sort of grinning frown (it might be one of the most endearing things Catra’s ever seen, whatever) before checking the metal tag herself. “God, that’s awful. I’m so sorry your parents hate you.”
Catra snorts. Then, cautiously, she reaches out her fingers towards the tabby. Inviting.
She wasn’t intentionally trying to steal him away from Adora, but it works regardless.
He kinda… melts. Her hands move to scritch under a cheekbone and he leans into the attention so heavily she’s worried he’ll faceplant into the pavement if she pulls away. Her hands work in exactly the same spots Catra knows she loves, but won’t admit to anyone (she thinks Adora’s the only other person who’s ever found them).
The fur is soft against her fingertips like satin, and she understands, for a moment, why Adora loves it so much when she purrs.
Catra hums, absentmindedly admitting, “I want a cat.”
If it were possible to see exclamation marks pop up behind someone's eyes, she would have described Adora’s rection as exactly that. “Oh my god!”
Catra’s forehead creases for a beat, and then, “No.” She shakes her head. “No, we are not getting a cat, that was just— That wasn’t—.”
“Oh, come on, Catra. Please?” Adora blinks, and Catra might almost describe it as doleful. “That’s the first time you’ve admitted wanting something in years and you’re just gonna shove it under the rug?” The sudden noise startles the tabby away into the shadows again, and a moment of Adora looking remorseful passes before she’s wide-eyed facing Catra again.
Catra stands, hands back in her pockets, huffing. “Do you have any idea how expensive pets are?”
“We could make it work.” Adora follows onto her own feet. “We could get one from a shelter, it would be cheaper that way!”
Catra groans, her eyes shooting directly upwards for a second. “It’s not the initial cost that’s the problem.”
Adora shrugs. “I don’t need a bus pass. I think I proved that.”
“Adora.”
She’s continuing anyway. “We could sell the dining table — it’s not like we ever actually use it.”
“Adora!” She grabs her friend roughly by the wrists, looking directly into her eyes with enough intent she hopes it will kill this before Adora lets it spiral into something logic can’t subdue. “We are not getting a cat!”
Adora blinks at her, and then says, simply, “okay.”
One of Catra’s eyebrows raise. “Okay?”
“Mmhmm.” She nods, smiles innocently (that should have been a sign, really) and then pulls Catra by the hand to get them walking.
Naturally, Catra’s a little too dazzled by the contact to pay attention to anything else.
They curl into the couch when they get home. Mugs of hot chocolate keeping the palms of their hands warm. Except Catra’s hasn’t got any chocolate, or any milk, because she can’t have either of those. Adora won’t change the name, because it’s the spirit of the thing, she explains — and it’s cozy and it’s nice.
It’s the kind of comfy that threatens to make Catra purr.
Because it’s still a bit too cold, Adora arrives with a blanket draped over her shoulders and sits next to Catra like she doesn’t want an inch of space between them, repositioning the material to fold around both their bodies.
Catra does not choke on her drink. “Uh, personal space is a thing.”
“Oh, sorry.” Immediately Adora shuffles away, and a chill seeps in where she left. “I wanted to keep you warm, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
Catra sighs, and it takes effort to not let it become a groan. “I know, I’m sorry, that was asshole-ish.”
“No. No, it wasn’t. It’s good you’re sharing boundaries rather than snapping when someone oversteps. It’s good, I’m proud of you.” Adora promises, but it breaks Catra’s heart just a fraction because she’s never wanted boundaries with Adora. And she doesn’t want Adora thinking she does.
“I could have said it nicer,” Catra says, soft, before removing the gap between their bodies again. Their thighs, like, right up against one another.
Adora smiles, so she thinks it’s not unforgivable.
“What.” Catra begins, trying not to have an aneurysm five seconds after arriving home from work. “The fuck.” Her teeth grind. “Is that?”
Adora beams at her. “It’s a cat!”
Said cat then wails, which accurately sums up how Catra’s feeling right now too, she notes.
Adora’s sat on the floor, by the way she’s positioned it almost looks like she’s spent the last ten minutes trying to pull the poor thing out from under the couch. The cat is, amazingly, visibly distraught as Adora picks the creature up under its armpits, holding it out toward her like that scene in the lion king. “I got him from the shelter. He’s a Russian Blue!”
Catra folds her arms. “He’s a’ goin back.”
“Catra.” Adora pouts, lowering the feline back onto the floor and letting him loose. He crawls under the couch immediately.
“I’m serious!”
Adora observes her for a few moments, seemingly wondering if Catra’s gonna give, but her arms don’t unfold. Her best friend’s voice is more sincere when she admits, slumping mildly where she’s sat, “they were gonna put him down tomorrow.”
Catra growls, low and rumbling in her chest, pointing an accusatory figure toward her friend. “That is not fair.”
“It’s true. He’d been there for three months already. Nobody wanted him.” It’s always amazed her how Adora could go from mournful to bright-eyed at the drop of a hat, it’s a facade, she’s always thought. “So I figured he’d fit in perfectly with us!”
The cat wails again from his hiding place.
“This is gonna be a disaster,” Catra says, and Adora’s smile widens when she takes that for the acceptance she knows it is.