fangsbared | (no subject)

She knows she's in for it when she misses that one blow during training -- a single misstep, half a second's delay, yielding a critical error that nearly costs her the whole match. She ends up third on the scoreboard, beneath Adora (always beneath Adora), and now bested by Lonnie, too.

The way Shadow Weaver looks at her, stare sharp behind her mask as darkness whips in agitated coils around her, Catra knows they'll be having words.

"Catra," she calls out to her as the cadets are about to disperse for the evening, "you stay back. We'll be having words about your performance."

Like clockwork. It's so predictable that she can only roll her eyes. But Shadow Weaver doesn't take well to that, either. "Do you understand, cadet?"

Catra squares her shoulders and lowers her head, dredging the charred bits of her remaining obedience from deep within her gut. "I understand, Shadow Weaver."

Her fellow trainees exchange looks in awkward silence, where she thinks they'd be sniggering, were they not too scared to. Then they're gone, out the door and down the hall.

Adora is last to leave. Catra catches her gaze on her way out, the usual blend of pity and guilt swirling in those pale blue eyes. Something about it always drives Catra a little crazy inside. She can tell Adora's thinking, oh, this is my fault, I could've helped prevent this.

As if.

By the time Catra's let go, the halls are deserted. Dinnertime's already over. Her cheek and shoulder are sore. She heads into the showers alone, gets ready for bed alone. The lights in the sleeping hall are out, and it's quiet, save for the occasional rustling of blankets and Kyle mumbling stupidly in his sleep.

Catra pads over to Adora's bed, the same as she does every night. But rather than settle at her usual spot in the corner, she lifts the blanket to climb in, crawling up the mattress until she can curl against Adora's back. Forehead pressed into her nape, seeking her warmth in the dark.

It's something she does, sometimes, on nights like this. Nothing big. They never really mention it.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Adora wants to stay the minute she hears Shadow Weaver call out her friend's name. She can't, though, and she's not sure that she could actually make things better. So she just glances at Catra, brow furrowed with worry. It's not fair. Catra's as good as she is - better, even - but somehow it seems like Shadow Weaver always finds fault. Then again... Catra does have a tendency to blow off training or orders.

Adora doesn't quite get it, of course. Why this happens. She just worries and tries to protect Catra by doing her best, so that maybe Shadow Weaver will focus on her or at the very least listen to her. That's what they have to do, right? She spends the rest of the evening worried sick. She picks at her usual dinner slop, half-heartedly goes through the motions of preparing for bed, missing the familiar figure curled up at the end of her sleeping pad.

She tries to sleep, though, even if she has a thousand different horrible scenarios running through her head. Shadow Weaver wouldn't actually do anything permanent to her. Would she? She's managed to fall into a light doze when she feels a tug on the thin blanket and feels the warmth of another body. Catches a familiar scent and then the press of Catra against her back, the tangle of her hair pressed against her just above where her forehead is pressed against her neck. She shifts her weight a little, half glances over her shoulder, still not sure if she should talk about any of this.

"Hey," she finally says, voice quiet, pitched low, almost too quiet under the sounds of the other sleeping cadets and made fuzzy by her half-doze, "What's up?"

Asking her if she was OK wouldn't help either of them. They have to be indirect sometimes.

"The usual," Catra mumbles, fingers scritching idly along Adora's back. She's sloppy, careless, a hindrance to the Horde. She's heard these words so many times now, they've halfway turned to white noise. It's the blows accompanying them that ensure they resound fresh in her mind each and every time.

"Whatever. I'm over it. Go back to sleep."

Adora half turns her head a bit further in the darkness. She only gets a glimpse and the lighting isn't great, but she can still see the angry mark that's been left on Catra's cheek and all thought of just going back to bed and forgetting about this leave her head. She rolls over on to her side, reaching out to gently touch her fingers to Catra's cheek.

"You don't look OK."

Catra winces, hissing through her teeth. "Well, don't touch it, moron," she reprimands, but softens the next moment. Adora's just worried for her. The only person in this place-- in the world-- who ever is.

"If I want to go out on the field someday, I should be able to take at least this much, right? So... whatever."

"Maybe from the enemy, but not..." Adora frowns. Shadow Weaver cares about all of them, right? She just wants what's best. She's... trying to help. In her own way. Still - she doesn't think that she should be striking Catra. Then again, maybe this is Adora's fault.

"Just - there's something I can do, right?"

She leans in, rests her forehead against Catra's as she takes a long, slow breath.

She can feel Adora's breath against her face, warm and lulled from sleep. It's instantly comforting, and Catra's eyelashes flutter before settling low over her eyes.

"Just... be here," she murmurs softly, echoing their old promise for what must be the thousandth time: "They can't really hurt us as long as we're together, right?"

Adora reaches out and drapes her arm around Catra, curling a little closer. It's not often that Catra actually climbs in bed with her like this, but it feels... nice. Warm. Comforting. She likes the sensation of being close, of feeling her frame against hers. She can't put a finger on why.

Just that she does.

"They can't," she replies softly, although she isn't sure she believes it, "Are you sure there's nothing else...?"

Her eyes search Catra's face in the darkness and for some reason, her heart skips a beat.