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For someone who despises cold weather as much as Catra does, it’s a wonder she still lives in Thaymor. The day she moved here, there was a blizzard that shut down the highways for days, and she spent the first few nights hunkered down in her box-filled bedroom. She should have turned right back around and returned to Halfmoon.
But one year (and an offensively mild summer) later she’s still here, and now she has to shovel snow.
On days like these, Catra flip flops between daydreaming about Halfmoon summers, where you can see the heat waves in the air, and a heated driveway. Fuck, Catra would give her left kidney for a heated driveway.
Plastic shovel in hand, she trudges down the path, convincing herself that a visit to Scorpia’s book café would be worth it. They’d just got in a new queer novel from her favourite author, and as soon as the stupid driveway is clear, she (and a hot coffee) can binge the whole thing in one sitting. Making her first swipe with the shovel, Catra clears a square of the driveway, and feels a modicum of satisfaction at her progress.
Then she promptly slips and face-plants the snow.
Laying for a moment, Catra ignores the stinging of her palms and the cold nipping at her nose to collect herself. She had not, in fact, considered the risk that the ground under the snow would be slippery, and for that, she is paying the price.
“Are you okay?” A voice asks, and Catra flips from being pitiful to embarrassed as she rolls over to face the beautiful woman in a sports bra and shorts looking down at her with concern. “Did you hit your head?”
Catra has seen this woman before, running through the neighbourhood in all weather, always wearing almost nothing as if she’s trying to fluster Catra. Not that she can be flustered. She’s stoic. Calm and collected. For sure.
“How the fuck aren’t you freezing?” Catra asks in lieu of reply.
“I was on a run, and I get pretty hot,” the woman replies, holding a hand out. “That looked like it hurt.”
Catra takes the hand, shaking herself off and finding herself no worse for wear, save for some scuffed palms. The blonde looks at them concerned, gently brushing off the little rocks that were stuck in there.
“Do you have a first aid kit?” She asks.
“Inside, yeah,” Catra nods. The blonde starts to lead her inside when Catra finally gathers her wits. “Woah, hey, I don’t know you.”
“Oh, sorry, I’m Adora. I’d shake your hand, but I don’t want to hurt you.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know, but I feel bad and I want to help,” Adora says before adding sheepishly. “Plus, I stopped running and it’s really freaking cold out here.”
Catra ultimately decides that the dope probably isn’t going to rob her or something, and takes pity when she sees the goosebumps on her bare arms. Her bare, incredibly muscular arms. They’re like a fucking painting—
“So can we...”
“Yes, right,” Catra blurts.
Catra leads her inside, shaking off the snow at the threshold before shucking her coat and boots. Adora slips off her running shoes and bounces on her toes a few times, rubbing her hands together.
“You really ought to get some gloves,” Adora advises as Catra hands her the first aid kit Entrapta had given her (as an apology for almost killing her with slightly murderous programming on her stove).
“You’re one to talk, you’re dressed for a beach run.”
“I don’t slip when it’s frozen outside,” Adora insists, inspecting Catra’s hands. “I’m already hot after the first part of my workout, I’d overheat if I put on extra layers.”
“And how’s that working out for you?”
“Well usually I have to stop to save pretty girls from the snow.”
Catra winces at the cleansing wipe Adora uses to clean the scrapes.
“Sorry,” Adora apologises, gently blowing on her hand.
Catra flushes deep red. From the warmth. Nothing else.
“I’ve seen you before,” Adora observes, packing away the stuff she used. “I run by here a lot; you’ve always got a book in your hand.”
“Not this time,” Catra grumbles under her breath, before smirking. “You’ve been watching me?”
It’s the blonde’s turn to blush.
“You’re all set,” Adora says, rushing to change the subject. “You’ll probably want to stay inside until you get some gloves, wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself again.”
“Are you gonna be okay in the cold?”
“I only live a block away, I’ll survive.”
Adora winks and says goodbye. Catra walks her to the door, watching her ponytail bounce as she runs down the street.
The trip to the café is a bust, so Catra makes herself a hot chocolate instead, putting her favourite album on the record player and curling up on the couch. It wasn’t her plan, but it was a nice way to spend her afternoon.
The next morning, Catra wakes to the sound of scraping. She smooths back her hair, plodding over to the window that overlooks her driveway, where she sees a familiar blonde ponytail. This time, Adora is wearing a sensible coat, a pair of earmuffs and some gloves. If Catra is a little disappointed that her arms are covered, she’ll never tell.
Adora notices her in the window, waving her shovel and gesturing to the almost clear driveway. Catra smiles and throws on a robe, making her way to the door.
“I figured I’d save you from the perils of shovelling snow,” Adora jokes. She seems to remember something, patting her pockets until she comes up with a pair of gloves. Catra takes them gratefully, running her thumb over the warm material.
“Do you want to go out for coffee?” Catra asks. “My treat, to say thank you.”
“I’d love to,” Adora smiles. “I’ll finish up out here, let you get dressed.”
Adora heads back to the driveway, stepping off of the porch and promptly falling on her ass. Catra can’t help but laugh.
“You don’t slip, huh?” She chides.
Adora rolls her eyes, picking herself back up and dusting herself off.
“Mean, maybe I don’t want coffee.”
“Come in, dummy, you can use my medical supplies.”
“Don’t need it,” Adora insists. “Gloves!”