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When they're thirteen, they try to sneak out of the base after-hours, for some stupid reason that Adora won't be able to remember years later- she'll only recall that Catra mentioned the stars, and Adora asked if she believed in fairy tales now, and that Catra's answering laugh was bright and pure and beautiful. Shadow Weaver bumps into them right outside the door.
There is a moment, about eight seconds long, where the three of them just stare at each other, Shadow Weaver clearly just as taken aback by the collision as Adora and Catra are.
And then Shadow Weaver grabs Catra’s arm and wrenches it so far back she screams.
Adora isn't surprised, she never is anymore, but her body doesn't seem to get the memo, because she flinches back, hard. In contrast, Catra stumbles forward, an unconscious attempt to lessen the harsh angle on her wrist.
Coward, Adora's mind comments, almost idly, as she numbly watches Catra bite down on her lip to quiet herself. Coward coward coward, just like she's always been, just as Catra's always been too bitter to say.
Knowing this doesn't make Adora step forward, though. Sick as it is, Adora's relieved not to have Shadow Weaver's focus on herself.
“You two are supposed to be in bed,” Shadow Weaver muses. Her voice is almost conversational, like there isn't a teenager writhing in agony before her.
It’s not the first time Shadow Weaver has hurt Catra- far from it- but it is the first time she’s used her hands to do it, and somewhere deep down Adora knows it won’t be the last.
Her fist is braced. As if preparing to follow up the grab with a sharp punch to Catra's face.
Adora waits with bated breath, praying to whatever stars might be listening that Shadow Weaver won't try anything further.
The moment seems endless. Shadow Weaver stares down, expression unreadable behind her mask, as Catra gasps and shudders but stays stock still. She knows better than to run.
Adora can see the tears pricking at Catra's eyes.
Her own eyes threaten to blur, but Adora blinks through it, focusing all her attention on the scene before her. Crying will help no one.
Shadow Weaver lets go without warning. Catra careens back, instinctively clutching her arm to her chest. Instantly, Adora puts a hand to her waist to steady her, keeping the movement low to avoid detection. For once, Catra doesn't jump away. Her hipbone is sharp against Adora's thumb, even through her uniform.
“Pathetic,” Shadow Weaver rumbles, brushing her hand off on her robe. Tainted.
She turns to Adora, then, trailing those same fingers across her face. “You should know better than to pull these sorts of stunts, my dear Adora. Do not let Catra influence you.”
Adora wonders if Catra's fur tore, if blood was drawn. If it's on Shadow Weaver's hands. If it's on Adora's cheek now, too.
She wonders a lot of things.
Her mouth moves on autopilot, saving her and Catra's skins alike. “Of- of course, Shadow Weaver. I'm sorry.”
Adora spews out a few more bullshit apologies and a promise to ‘do better,’ and then she’s hurrying Catra inside to the nearest empty room.
One of the presentation rooms, Adora assumes, by the roll-down projector screen on the wall closest to the door.
Right now, though, she’s less concerned about the room’s original purpose and more about the fact that it’ll keep away prying eyes.
She shoves Catra inside, not nearly gentle enough for how quiet Catra is, but Adora's hands are shaking and it's the best she can do.
Catra’s fur is fluffed up to hell, ears pinned pack, but she still makes a solid attempt to hiss at Adora. “I’m fine, get your hands-” Catra shakes her shoulder, roughly dislodging Adora’s grip on it, “off of me!"
“Catra,” Adora starts, but Catra’s already moving away from her.
Breaking eye contact is the number one sign that Catra’s about to start losing her shit, so that sucks, but at least she’s not trying to leave the room.
If they run into Shadow Weaver again while Catra’s like this…
Well. Adora will just make sure they don’t.
“Come on, just let me see it,” Adora says, trying to soothe with her voice alone.
“No!” Catra shrieks, then seems to realize she’s shrieking and rubs at her face angrily instead. She’s still facing away from Adora, determinedly so, her attention fixed on one of the crappy hardback chairs used during debriefings. “I’m- I’m fine, okay? Doesn’t even hurt.”
Adora chances a step closer. Catra’s tail lashes, but she doesn’t try to run away again.
Softly, Adora asks, “Then why won’t you look at me?”
Catra inhales sharply. She doesn’t respond.
“I just want to make sure you’re okay,” Adora says, and this time when she moves forward Catra growls.
Adora freezes, holding her hands up.
She’s never understood what makes Catra flip like a switch, from the vulnerable girl Adora wants to protect to the vicious one who makes her heart race. Maybe she never will.
“It’s not broken,” Catra says begrudgingly, after a long moment. She’s been cradling her wrist, but now she holds it out, twisting it as proof. “Happy?”
“No,” Adora admits. “Will you at least let me wrap it?”
Catra eyes her, only the sharp blue half of her gaze visible from this angle.
“It’ll keep me from worrying about you,” Adora wheedles, fully intending to annoy her way into Catra’s good graces. It’s worked before.
“...ugh. Fine.” Catra breezes past her without another word. Adora catches a glimpse of her arm as she passes, of the angry red mark already blossoming under her fur. It’ll likely turn purple within the hour.
Adora sighs, and follows her out the door.