A/N: I swear to god this show will be the death of me. It's got me looking at tumblr and writing fanfiction for God's sake! On that note this is my first fanfic. Ever. So be as harsh or gentle as you like, as long as you're fair about it. This isn't as long as I would like it to be but the pacing just ran away from me and I felt that if I didn't break the chapter where I did that it wouldn't be as —powerful? moving? emotional?— something an ending as I would like. There is also at least one more chapter to come, but I make no promises about when that may be.

Finally, I should say that this story was written at one in the morning the day (or day after, I suppose) I watched episode 3 for the first time, so no, I have no idea where this idea came from.

Enjoy.

Chapter 1 - Breaking Point

There are moments when you find yourself doing something so completely out of character that it forces you to take a good, long look at yourself. And, depending on what exactly you're doing, ask yourself what the fuck?

The first time was an accident; a moment of anger, hurt and desperate, heady need. Like so many hasty decisions, it also involved quite a lot of alcohol.

Amy didn't normally drink, in fact, left to her own devices she wouldn't go anywhere near the stuff, and not just because of the fuzzy memories of her father yelling at one in the morning. She was different when she was drunk. Some time after the fourth or fifth drink her shy, reserved nature gave way to the blunt, sarcastic, in-your-face facet of her personality that only Karma had ever seen before. When she just cut loose, said what she thought, did what she wanted and damn the consequences.

Consequences like waking up in a bed that isn't yours in a house that you haven't been to before with someone laying next to you that you have to struggle to remember their name.

Jess, she thought. A slight frown. Or was it Jazz?

After leaving said house as fast as she could without obviously running away, she made her way home —wandering for around ten minutes before finding a street she knew— and managed to breeze past Bruce and her mother after mumbling something vague about "being at Karma's."

Secure behind her locked door and huddled up in every blanket in arm's reach, she finally, painfully, pulled herself out of her willfully numb state of mind and let herself break down into tears.

She was at a party she didn't like, surrounded by people she barely knew and having her ears nearly deafened by the loud music and pure, unadulterated noise of dozens of drunken teenagers. Again.

And her best friend —who was still pretending to be her girlfriend for whatever illogical, irrational reason she had come up with— was practically throwing herself at him so obviously she might as well have been carrying a sign saying "I want to fuck you." Again.

And she was sitting, seething, silently glaring daggers at him and fighting the urge to run over there and introduce his face to her fists —for whatever irrational, illogical reason she was still deliberately not thinking about. Again.

She needed a drink. Badly.

She wasn't sure how long the girl had been there. One second she was drifting in that not-quite-drunk-but-far-from-sober way and imagining doing things to him that were a far cry from karma's fantasies, the next there was a click, a flurry of hand movement and a girl was standing in front of her, snapping her fingers to get her attention.

"Hey there. Back among the living?"

Despite the circumstances, it took a while for her to register that this girl was speaking to her. She was still sober enough to know she wasn't sober at all and it took effort to bury the immediate "obviously" that tried to worm its way out of her throat. Somehow, the "What?" that she did manage to choke out fully communicated the who are you, what are you talking about and why the hell are you talking to me that was running through her head.

Or maybe she actually said that and she was drunker than she thought. She was a little fuzzy on that point.

"Hi, I'm Jess. We have Chemistry together."

A statement, not a question. I know her? Running an eye over the figure before her, she took in the red hair pulled back into a short ponytail, the tank-top that hugged her upper body tightly and bared a single inch of smooth skin; the denim short-shorts that left little to the imagination and the long, tanned legs that ended in a pair of battered, well worn converse.

Shaking her head to clear the alcohol-induced cloud that had settled over it —and mostly failing to achieve that goal— she leaned back and looked up at the redhead's face, desperately running through everything she remembered about the girl. Chemistry... chemistry... An image of a blonde and a redhead giving a speech on something flashed through her mind. Redhead, sporty. Some kind of athlete, I think. Always sits in the back with the blonde with the big breasts. It wouldn't be until much, much later that she would consider just how she was classifying her classmates, but she forced a friendly —in her mind— smile onto her face and replied in as polite and friendly a voice as possible, "Amy."

The voice made it quite clear she was not feeling particularly polite or friendly.

Somehow the redh- Jess, took that in stride. Amy's particular brand of biting sarcasm met witty optimism and they just kept rolling from there. Barb for barb, joke for joke, mildly-insulting-anecdote for mildly-insulting-anecdote. At some point the gir- Jess had sat down next her, squeezing a little closer than absolutely necessary. Neither of them seemed to notice.

Then, after what seemed an age but was probably closer to ten minutes, Amy glanced back over at her best friend. Karma's jacket was off, draped over the back of the couch and she was alone, eyes following something off to one side. A further glance revealed him facing away from them, receiving a pair of cups from a faceless teenager she didn't bother paying attention to. Looking back at Karma, she had to fight down bile at the look of mixed lust and desire that was plastered all over that perfect face, at the way her friend was alternately clenching her fists and drumming her fingers —a nervous tick she knew meant that Karma wanted something. Badly.

Tearing her eyes away from the sight of her love-slash-lust crazed friend, she returned her gaze to the redhead beside her, focusing on hiding the flare of dull, empty pain that rose up in her; on ignoring the burning ache of desire. She was so focused on Karma, in fact, that when she was once again facing her new acquaintance her guard was down and she noticed Jess in a way she had been pointedly not noticing her; the way her eyes gleamed in the light, the silky smooth feel of the girl's fingers running up and down her arm, the way her chest rose and fell with her breathing... which made it quite clear that Jess was not wearing a bra.

It was with an oddly disconnected, dispassionate feeling that Amy realised one, she is so hot; two, holy crap she's flirting with me; and thirdly, oh I am so gay.

Strangely comforted by these new, unexpected, and frankly scary revelations, she risked one more glance at Karma, at her crush, at the girl she was so clearly in love with...

And let out a low growl as she was in time to see Karma's face light up with joy, her eyes gleam and her head nod; to read the words on his lips, "Want to go somewhere more... private?"

Pain was too bland a word to describe it. It was agony; white hot, burning claws tearing into her chest, stopping her breathing, stopping her thinking, stopping her living. And then, like warm breath on a Winter's morning it was gone, lost to the winds of incandescent fury.

In all her fifteen years, Amy had never been so angry. Not when her father walked out, not when her mother had started ignoring her "sinful" daughter, not even when Karma had sung for him, had done something for that-, that-, boy that she would never do just for her.

So she used it. Molded the pain, the anger and turned it into confidence as she settled her gaze fully on the girl in front of her, as she moved closer, placed her hand gently but firmly upon Jess' bare thigh and ran it down those long, toned legs as she whispered in a low, husky and totally un-amylike tone, "Want to get out of here?"

She relished the small shiver that ran through Jess, the way her eyes widened slightly and the smirk that graced the redhead's face, mischievous and lustful as the girl closed the distance between them, pressing her body against Amy's arm as she whispered in just as low and husky and sexy a tone, "Your place or mine?"

And she answered. Amy wasn't in love, and she didn't want a girlfriend, because Jess wasn't Karma. But right then, at that moment, she was good enough.

There was kissing, groping; pleasure. The delicious feel of skin on skin, mouth on mouth, mouth on skin. Sound; rich deep moans, shortened breath and of lips on lips. More pleasure.

For a while, for those few, short, glorious hours, she forgot. Forgot she was in love with her best friend since forever —her straight best friend since forever. Forgot that the girl in her arms wasn't the one she really wanted. Forgot that there would be a tomorrow, that she would have to think, have to feel again. So she reveled in it. Buried herself in the passion, in the action and reaction, in the pleasure.

Right before the exhaustion and alcohol claimed her, when her head finally hit the pillows, she felt a tiny sliver of guilt squirm it's way into her stomach. Then she threw her arm over her bedmate, pulled her close and lost herself in blissful sleep.