They met at LEOs, this bar on the west side of town that catered pretty exclusively to cops and the like.

Clarke'd been there to celebrate the retirement of one of her father's oldest friends, and Lexa, drug there by her partner to burn off some frustration after a long day of chasing down idiots on her beat.

And maybe it was the booze, or dim lighting of the place. Maybe it was the songs coming from the jukebox in the corner, reminding them both of things they'd rather forget, or the terrible day they'd both had.

Or maybe it was just time and chance and fate, but whatever it was, the moment Clarke caught Lexa's eye the air seemed to arc and spark with blue-hot electricity, pulling them together across the beer-sticky floor, through the raucous clash of people lifting and toasting before draining their pints.

They ended up in the alley. A late-summer storm threatening to rip open the sky and drown them in much-needed rain as they grabbed and pulled and tore at each other's bodies. Lightning crackled across the cityscape in the distance and Clarke bit at the brunette's lower lip, laughing as the hand struggling to open the button of her jeans finally, finally succeeded and two firm fingers slipped into her wet, hot sex.

They met at a bar and they fucked in an alley, Lexa's head banging violently against the brick wall behind her as Clarke drove her higher and higher into the heights of pleasure, the rumbling thunder swallowing her loud moans.

"Careful," Clarke said, "I'm not taking you to the E.R. if you split your head open," and then curled her fingers and thrust faster.

When the rain did come, moments later, they just laughed and let the cool droplets wash away the scent of lust and sex and release from their skin.

It was supposed to be a one-time thing, Clarke thought to herself as she tried to hail a cab in the middle of rush-hour. It was kind of embarassing, how they'd met and had sex before they knew anything about each other but a name and a shared sense of restrained desperation. It had been impulsive and reckless and so, so good, but it wasn't supposed to happen a second time.

Or a third.

She wasn't supposed to have given Lexa her number, or answered the police officer's call.

But she did.

She did.

And somehow, three months later, she still was.

Neither of them had been looking for a relationship, had even wanted one, and yet, somehow, that's what they'd gotten themselves into.

Because booty calls became hanging out and hanging out became dates and dates became dating. Despite the fact that neither of them had any faith in anything like "love." Their pasts, their families, had cured them of that.

Lexa, with her abusive father and her drunk of a mother, had told her flat out, "I don't believe in love. It's something that makes you do things you shouldn't."

Like take your husband back a third, fourth, fifth time. After he breaks your arm. After he steals your savings. After he cheats on you with the neighbor's wife, again.

And Clarke agreed. Because her past may not have been as violent, but it certainly held its share of tragedy. "Even when it's good," Clarke told Lexa one night over whiskey and ice cream as they sat on her couch, "love is a terrible thing."

Like watching someone you love suffer from a debilitating disease with no cure. Like sacrificing everything–your career, your daughter's faith, almost your freedom itself–to write a prescription for a fatal overdose of painkillers, and then watching as your husband killed himself in a misguided attempt to spare everyone any more pain.

Love, they agreed together, made people weak.

And they'd both had enough weakness in their lives.

Still, there was something there. Something more than sex and fire between them. There was Clarke's Saturday morning bacon pancakes, just enough to soak up the remains of their hangovers as they watched the Top 20 countdown. And there was meeting Lexa's partner and buying the entire crowd a round of shots to celebrate the end of her rookie year. And the way that Clarke's sketchbook seemed to be filled with images of a single subject, from every angle imaginable. From memory. From dreams. Lexa's back, Lexa's thigh, the hard curve of Lexa's jaw.

There was something more between them, something growing, and it made Clarke's breath all the harder to keep under control as she threw a couple of bills at the driver and ran toward the big, wide doors of the ambulance bay.

"I'm looking for Lex–for Alexandria Woods," Clarke said to the nurse at the admitting desk of the busy ER, "she called me to pick her up?"

The nurse didn't bother looking up from her computer when she finally replied with a curt "Exam three–but she'll be out in a minute" and then continued her almost violent typing.

Clarke hesitated, torn between the desire to march past the swinging double doors into the emergency room beyond or the more sensible option of grabbing a seat and waiting for Lexa to appear. In the end, it was the realization of just how badly she wanted to go back and find the other woman that kept her on the public side of the doors.

There might be something there between them, but that didn't mean she had to make it easy.

It was only a few minutes, anyway, before a short but muscular orderly pushed Lexa into the waiting room in a wheelchair.

She looked awful. Her nose was covered in white gauze and tape, and had clearly been broken. It must have been a bad one, whatever it was that hit her, because the swelling and bruising extended up toward her eyes. The left one looked to be almost swollen shut, in fact.

No wonder the officer had called her–there was no way she'd be able to drive home on her own.

Clarke'd be surprised if Lexa could even see out of the left one, honestly.

"You ready?" she asked, and stood, "do we need to pick up anything? Food? Pain killers? A tub of ice for you to stick your face in?"

Somehow, even battered and bruised, the glare Lexa shot in her direction came through loud and clear.

Clark'll get the full story later, the one about the perp who head-butted Lexa and then fainted at the sight of blood spurting out from the officer's nose, but for the moment–after Lexa has signed the discharge paperwork, after the lecture on aftercare, after the prescription for pain meds has been picked up from the hospital pharmacy two buildings over–they sat quietly in the back of another cab, waiting for someone to make room for the driver to merge into traffic during the Friday night rush hour standstill.

And Clarke wondered to herself if maybe it wasn't okay, to feel something for the woman struggling so hard not to nod off at her side. As if to let the drugs take her under would be letting the idiot who rammed his head into her face win.

"Here," she said, and moved her bag off her lap, "we'll be stuck for a while. Just lay your head down for a bit–you'll feel better."

Lexa refused at first, but then, unable to find a comfortable position to sit in otherwise, gave in.

"You know, Lexa," Clarke said as she gently smoothed her hand over the wisps that had escaped the other woman's braided hair, "I've gotta give it to the guy, this look might actually be an improvement."

Lexa's snort was pained, and earned her a soft "Lex" from the blonde, feeling guilty for having teased.

The rest of the ride, they spent in a comfortable silence, as Lexa dozed in Clarke's lap and Clarke tried to figure out how she felt about the fact that her racing pulse and tight chest had only just begun to ease.

She wasn't sure what it was.

But it was something.