Chapter Text
Catra's eyes are the same colors that Adora remembers.
That's normal, right? It would be weird if they had somehow changed colors in the last eight years, but there's absolutely nothing remarkable about someone having the same eyes that they did when they were eighteen.
So why is Adora's brain completely fixated on that fact?
Maybe it's because of how much the rest of Catra has changed. Adora almost feels a twinge of sadness at the loss of Catra's long, unruly hair, the hair she so fondly—wait, no, not fondly—remembers brushing into something resembling presentability.
But she can't deny that Catra looks good with short hair.
Catra looks good all over, if she's being honest: the suit she's wearing is definitely tailored for pleasure rather than business and she's wearing it with the top four buttons undone and her tie left untied around her neck. The whole look is just screaming for someone (someone other than Adora) to grab her by the loose ends of the tie and pull her in for a kiss, to scrape their nails down the valley between her breasts, to— stop thinking about Catra having sex, you idiot.
Unfortunately Glimmer had gone and made her life infinitely harder in that regard by informing her of Catra's new reputation. For some reason, the thought of Catra seducing every woman she laid her eyes on and then dropping them like a rock when she'd had her fun made Adora's blood boil, because who the fuck does she think she is? There's nothing wrong with having a high sex drive and a high number of casual partners, not that Adora would know anything about it, but even a one night stand is still entitled to a basic level of respect. It's disgusting, really, the way Catra is just using these women.
Glimmer sure made it sound like they didn't mind being used.
Glimmer, right. That's why Adora was here in the first place. She turns to find that her best friend has wandered off already and is busy making eyes at one of the inexplicably jacked women Adora noticed on the way in, the one with the stark white hair and the elegant black dress. Adora feels an unusual mix of annoyance and pride.
Against her better judgement Adora turns back to find Catra again and only manages a quick glance as she slips out the door, making an early exit.
Adora feels a righteous fury bubbling up in the pit of her stomach, her cheeks coloring. Oh no. You don't get to just walk away from me. Not this time.
Her anger is enough to overcome her self-consciousness and she storms across the room to where Catra's tall, platinum blonde friend still holds her empty glass.
"Where did she go?" She demands of the stranger, who looks down at her curiously.
"My kitten decided to head over to her office to get a little bit of work done, darling. It's just down the hall, can't miss it."
And that, the thought of this ridiculously tall (not even that much taller than her, really, just wearing ridiculous platform boots), elegant stranger calling Catra "my kitten" sparks a new wave of fury in Adora. She grits out a perfunctory "thank you" between her teeth and exits the conference room and storms down the darkened hallway, barging into the only room with light spilling out under the door to give Catra a dang—no, a damn good talking to.
It's been a long time coming.
One of the many advantages of being a very well paid lawyer at a cash-flush nonprofit is the privilege of a private office and an extremely comfortable chair. Right now, Catra is making full use of both, reclining and covering her face with her hands.
And it has nothing to do with Adora.
How could it possibly? In her short but intense career, Catra had gone head to head with the absolute worst the legal world had to offer, ruthless, amoral, pricks with twenty years of experience on her and the kind of reputation that would make anybody want to just toss out a few perfunctory arguments and run. She'd argued in front of the Supreme Court, for fuck's sake, and never once did she let it get to her. She didn't always win, that was just the nature of the beast, but Catra Romero Ortega never lost her cool.
So this? Scuttling away from a party to go nurse a worsening mood alone in her office? Could not be because of some random ex not-even-girlfriend she hasn't seen in nearly a decade.
And the spike in her heart rate when that same woman opens the door to her office and steps inside, cheeks flushed and breathing heavily?
Completely unrelated.
She decides to go for an early killing blow, adopts her best annoyed-and-confused glare, and asks "Who the hell are you?"
"Cut the cr— shit, Catra, I already know you recognized me."
Well. That didn't go as well as she'd hoped. Didn't matter, though, Catra had plenty of ammunition left.
"Oh, you learned a new word, princess," she sneered, "better watch your mouth or your new friends might figure out you don't belong here."
Adora winces. Good. Needling her obvious insecurity about being here was a good tactic.
"You're from the same place I am, Catra. If I don't belong here then neither do you."
Okay, maybe not such a good tactic. Since when could Adora give as good as she got? "I worked my way here, princess, in case you didn't notice. Maybe it's difficult for you to understand but some of us have a job here other than banging the boss's daughter."
That should have got Adora spluttering, doing that cute—not cute, pathetic— flustered act she always pulled whenever someone brought up sex around her.
Much to Catra's chagrin, it only seems to make her angrier, and while there are a few blessed moments where her mouth opens and closes silently, she's either not flustered at all by the topic or already too embarrassed to care.
"I'd be better than you, at least I'd be sticking to one person. And for the record, I'm here as Glimmer's friend, because she asked me for a favor, not because I'm trying to infiltrate your, your, your fucking rich people party or whatever. I didn't even want to come here!"
"Oh, so you're slut-shaming me now? Jesus, Adora, don't take out your sexual frustration on me just because I'm getting more pussy than you."
"I'm not slut-shaming you, I wouldn't care how many women you sleep with if you actually treated them like people instead of just a way to get off."
That makes Catra lose her fucking cool.
"Oh that is fucking priceless coming from you, Adora, or did you just conveniently forget what you did to me?" She shouts, rising to her feet and just about ready to try and claw this woman's eyes out.
Except.
Adora doesn't shout back. She doesn't even respond, at first, just shrinks back and looks at the floor like Catra just hit her, like she did when Weaver used to—
Not the same thing at all, dumbass. She is not the victim here.
Catra decides to hold back, let that one sink in for a little while. She counts the seconds, trying to steady her breathing and get a hold of the trembling in her clenched fists.
It's seven before Adora looks back up and the look on her face just pisses Catra off even more because she was kind of enjoying shouting with Adora, at least until that last part, and now she just looks hurt. It's pathetic.
"Is that… do you…" Catra doesn't interrupt, lets Adora take a breath and try to finish her dumb sentence. "Is that really what it felt like to you? God, Catra, I'm sorry I never intended to hurt you, I just—"
Okay this is officially way worse than fighting. She is not about to let Adora fucking Grey try and fucking apologize to her, not after eight fucking years.
"Whatever. I don't care, Adora. It was a long fucking time ago." Catra sits back down, heavily, feeling hollow without the all-consuming rage she'd just been channeling. "Why did you even come here?"
"I- I told you," Adora says, hands trying to fiddle with the drawstring of the hoodie she for once isn't wearing and settling for clasping each other awkwardly. "Glimmer asked me to."
Catra snorts. "Not the party, dumbass. Why are you here. In my office. Where I am. The person who hates you. Remember?"
Adora looks away again and, much more interestingly, blushes. Her angry flush had faded over the past few minutes and was now replaced with something Catra was rather curious about. "I- I'm not exactly sure. Sorry."
Seeing Adora like this, nervous and uncertain with her cheeks dusted pink, gives Catra an idea. It's not like she'd missed the way Adora's gaze dragged over the skin she was showing off with her shirt half undone like this, she just didn't think it would end up being particularly relevant. Now, though…
So you're pissed off about how I "use" people, huh? I'll show you what it feels like to be used.