i.
The first time they had met, she was clad in leather and black jeans, skin tight and ripped in all the places that they shouldn't be, held together by safety pins and whatever else was closest to her at the time, and the smell of cigarette smoke enveloped her. On the other hand, Mira was clad in greens and blues, eyes fiery and tired after staying up for twelve hour shifts, three days in a row. They had met at a café in the hospital – Mira was getting coffee to try to stay up for the rest of her shift, Saxa was getting coffee so that her hands would have something to do instead of choking Agron to death because he was barely hanging on as it is – the stupid fuck had gotten into a motorcycle accident, of course she was going to fucking worry – and that would have been counterproductive to the doctors who were currently trying to save her cousin's life.
They weren't expecting to bump into each other, or that their coffees would spill and Saxa would get her hand burnt. Which then lead to a string of curses in German and English, and she needed a cigarette. Mira on the other hand, was firm and calm, and her hand was warm when she took the other woman's – a stranger, but she was a doctor so she couldn't just leave the woman alone, and it was her fault anyway, for not looking where she was going.
Saxa hated to be coddled and treated as if she was a fragile little girl – she wasn't, she was fucking 24 years old, she knew what the fuck she was doing for fuck's sake – but Mira didn't do that sort of thing and Saxa let her lead her out of the café lounge and up to her office, where she kept a spare icepack and some bandages, just in case.
Needless to say, Saxa was a fool when it came to love.
ii.
The second time they had bumped into each other, Mira was a bundle of nerves and short fuses; Saxa was wind swept and drunk.
They had exchanged words, even had a bit of wine together – Saxa says that Mira was making her nervous and really, no one liked to end the night with a bitter taste in their mouth – and somehow they had ended up a tangled mess in Saxa's little studio, on a old futon bed that creaked under their weight.
It became a common thing between them – they'd somehow meet at the most unexpected of places, get drunk, and manage to get up to Saxa's studio, wandering hands and lips kissing even though they were practically strangers.
It was the third time that it happened that week, and she thinks that maybe she'll give this woman the time of day, all windswept and smelling of cigarette ash.
iii.
The third time they met, it was raining – Mira had just finished her shift at the hospital and was heading home, hair wet and sticking to her face, like little hands that would stretch her skin. She feels the blood that is crusting underneath her fingernails – heart surgery – and she sighs as she pulls her threadbare coat around her, the wind unforgiving and cold.
She didn't expect to hear the rumble of a motorcycle nearby, nor the familiar head of blonde curls and the distinct click of boots that were too worn out and paint stained to stay together – yet they somehow did.
"Hey! Mira!"
Speak of the fucking devil.
"C'mon, you'll catch a fucking cold out in this weather"
She could only nod and lean her head against Saxa's leather jacket, wrap her arms around her waist and let the rumble of the motorcycle lull her to sleep.
iv.
She vaguely remembers meeting Saxa and the rain falling down, the smell of piss and shit and pigeon feathers with the mix of antiseptic and the rumble of the trains that were near the hospital. She remembers closing her eyes for a second and leaning her head against the other's strong back, all muscle and warmth. She doesn't remember them stopping in front of Saxa's building, walking up the stairs to the third floor (because she couldn't live on a even number, that'd be too mundane for Saxa's tastes, and three was a good number), or the sound of a door unlocking.
She does remember the sound of someone singing something – something German? – quietly and the sound of a kettle screaming and the smell of paint. She's groggy when she sits up – there's a warm duvet cover that's haphazardly draped across her, her shoes are off and her hair is escaping from the bun that she vaguely remembers stuffing it into before she had gone into the emergency room to start working on that surgery that had drained her completely.
"About time you woke up, Mir " Saxa chuckled, before coming out of her kitchen, carrying a tray that had two mugs, a small ceramic tea kettle and a plate of sweets on it. "Mir? Since when did you give me a nickname?"
"Since you decided to be a cat and latch onto me on our way here. Besides, I think it suits you."
"But it doesn't even mean anything!"
"Nicknames don't have to mean shit, Mira"
She laughs, tired and rubs her eyes before she watches the other woman move around – graceful like a cat – in her own domain, pouring them both tea that filled the room with a myriad of smells.
"Chamomile?"
"It helps me relax, figured it would help you too"
She nods, because she feels like their meetings have a deeper connection – or maybe that's just her sleep addled mind trying to figure out Saxa's angle because why would she even bother giving her the time of day unless there was something that she wanted for herself – and takes a sip of the tea, hiding a smile behind the rim of her cup.
Glancing over to the plate, she raises an eyebrow at the assortment of sweets – "Those are high in sugar, you know that right?"
"Yeah yeah, I know that. I didn't drag you here just so that you can rattle off the nutrition facts and spew info at me as to how I'm a walking, talking health hazard, Mir. Though if you aren't going to shut up you can at least be useful and drink your tea and let me think."
"Somehow I get the feeling that once you put 'thinking' and 'Saxa' together that something terrible is going to happen."
"I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to come over there and kiss your mouth shut for you, Mir"
That being said, Mira only glared at the woman from behind her cup before laughing to herself because this was a bit odd and weird but somehow it felt right.
Without thinking about it, she leaned forward and took one of the gingersnaps that was on the plate and ate it, watching Saxa hum to herself and dance around her easel and canvas, dashing paint everywhere as she multitasked; as the radio on her kitchen table played a slow jazz song and the rain fell outside, pitter patter against the window pane.
Mira could get used to it, perhaps.
The silence had stretched on between the two women, but it wasn't awkward. It had added a sense of warmth to the room, made it almost nostalgic in a way, as if they had met each other before and they had fought and bickered and there was wine involved and the taste of blood and the word 'Roman' rose to Mira's mind but perhaps that was just her thinking about that special that she watched on the history channel a few nights ago when she had actually stumbled back home to her little flat on the other side of town for the first time in a little over two weeks.
Eventually she had dozed off a little, because the rain and the warmth and her tired mind tended to do that to her, and she felt safe, almost as if she belonged here despite her and Saxa being only familiar with each other in passing and drunken dazes (not that she minds).
She doesn't notice Saxa stand up from where she was painting - it's a blur of blues , greys, with yellows slapped on haphazardly on the canvas, a mix of oil and paint and a bit of water tossed in there as well, all forms that make no sense to Mira but maybe they make sense to Saxa and she's too tired to understand.
(Or no one)
She doesn't feel herself getting shifted and moved around so that she's lying down on the couch again and the mug of warm tea is near her on the table, and the duvet is over her form again, doesn't feel Saxa's smile on her face.
She falls asleep and vaguely hears a quiet little goodnight whispered in her ear before a kiss is graced on her forehead and maybe it's one of the gentler sides of Saxa that she has seen so far.
She falls asleep to the sound of a radio playing, the rain singing and a artist finding her muse.