--And that, it turns out, is all she needs. For Adora to hold her as her chest wracks with silent sobs, for Adora to bear with her as she clings to her, for Adora's arms to tighten in a protective, defensive shell around her.
She had never understood how people could do that, Catra thinks to herself once it all begins to slow. Once the pressure atop her head registers as Adora's kisses instead of a vague and distant sensation, once she becomes aware of the blood on her tongue and pain in her cheek. Her throat is painfully dry, and she feels -- wrung out. Exhausted and frail, more than she's ever felt in her life. She'd never understood how people could let themselves fall to pieces, how they could trust themselves not to shatter into shards when they did.
In the safety and warmth of Adora's arms, she's realizing the vital part she'd been missing. She'd never thought to consider the possibility of people having someone to catch them when they broke apart.
It's one of those things they probably learn from family. From parents who hold them. From people who give praise when it's earned and who you don't half-expect to kill you when they pass by your door. But then, how did Adora learn it? Maybe it was just something innate. Some sort of skill that Catra missed out on.
Catra's always been good at flopping; always had an innate ability to become seemingly boneless, usually put to good use to frustrate people during grapples or (she thinks idly of Bow and Glimmer) kidnapping.
But the sort of boneless she is in Adora's arm is different to that. It's the same feeling as when she'd woken in Adora's arms on the spaceship, with a distant struggle to breathe in her lungs and an overwhelming feeling of peace; of gratitude; of relief; of love.
"I'm sorry," she breathes apology again against Adora's neck, throat dry and sore for no good reason. Before she can doubt herself, she presses a kiss against Adora's skin. Lingers there so long she forgets what she's doing, just breathing deep and gathering back together all the pieces of herself she'd felt fall from her grasp. And then, so quietly it's almost more of just a movement of her lips than a sigh of words: "I love you."
no subject
She had never understood how people could do that, Catra thinks to herself once it all begins to slow. Once the pressure atop her head registers as Adora's kisses instead of a vague and distant sensation, once she becomes aware of the blood on her tongue and pain in her cheek. Her throat is painfully dry, and she feels -- wrung out. Exhausted and frail, more than she's ever felt in her life. She'd never understood how people could let themselves fall to pieces, how they could trust themselves not to shatter into shards when they did.
In the safety and warmth of Adora's arms, she's realizing the vital part she'd been missing. She'd never thought to consider the possibility of people having someone to catch them when they broke apart.
It's one of those things they probably learn from family. From parents who hold them. From people who give praise when it's earned and who you don't half-expect to kill you when they pass by your door. But then, how did Adora learn it? Maybe it was just something innate. Some sort of skill that Catra missed out on.
Catra's always been good at flopping; always had an innate ability to become seemingly boneless, usually put to good use to frustrate people during grapples or (she thinks idly of Bow and Glimmer) kidnapping.
But the sort of boneless she is in Adora's arm is different to that. It's the same feeling as when she'd woken in Adora's arms on the spaceship, with a distant struggle to breathe in her lungs and an overwhelming feeling of peace; of gratitude; of relief; of love.
"I'm sorry," she breathes apology again against Adora's neck, throat dry and sore for no good reason. Before she can doubt herself, she presses a kiss against Adora's skin. Lingers there so long she forgets what she's doing, just breathing deep and gathering back together all the pieces of herself she'd felt fall from her grasp. And then, so quietly it's almost more of just a movement of her lips than a sigh of words: "I love you."