Just Give Me A Reason
A/N: I've been working on this since the first episode, adding bits and pieces with every Kate appearance and the continuity may be a little off but it's not like the show even recognizes anything that happened five episodes ago, so I should be good. It's written mainly from Cassie's p.o.v. and contains minimal dialogue and at this point it's mainly headcannon. It'll be a two shot that I might add onto later depending if Kate is in the back twelve episodes. Enjoy!
Part 1
It's embarrassing how much attention you focus on the girl. Since day one, when she gave you that look of disappointment for singling out Thunder Thighs. You tried to humiliate her, several times, vicious biting comments that have sent many fleeing from the studio choking on their tears and failure, except her. She fell, right smack dab in the middle of the line and you chuckle as the others continue to dance around her sprawled carcass as if she were roadkill. Then it happened, through your vodka soaked vision, you watch as she picks herself up and gets back into line like nothing occurred. It's admirable…and it totally pisses you off that you'll need to work harder to break her.
You're nearing the 'Round Room' when you finally get to witness what you were so rudely deprived of this morning. A curly haired girl sits just outside the door crying into her phone. She rocks herself back and forth as she blubbers about being cut.
'Ah, the freshmen reaping,' you muse. Tibideaux is ruthless as she hacks off the malignant tumors that are the pathetic wannabe's who butcher our craft. You're damn near giddy, tiptoeing to the heavy oak doors, to listen in on the slaughter and even more excited at the familiar annoying voice concluding her long winded introduction. 'Streisand, how predictable.' You roll your eyes at the obvious correlations.
She's about 20 bars in when your ears really begin to pick up on what you dreaded. She's good, like really good, perfect pitch, clear diction…Fuck! Tibideaux hasn't interrupted her yet and you're pretty sure she's not going to, so you poke your head into the room to see what the harsh woman really makes of this performance.
There's no place to hide but you're Cassandra P. July, the flask in your bag attests to the fact that you do whatever the fuck you want, whenever the fuck you want! You scan the class and you bite back a scoff when you spy every person in the crowd enraptured by her performance. The freshmen look scared shitless, the upper classmen look worried though many try to hide it behind a mask of indifference. Brody what's-his-face is practically vibrating in his seat and if that smile is any indication, he's just found the latest edition to his harem.
The most troublesome look comes from Tibideaux, with that barely there smile dancing in her critical eyes. When she hits the bridge, you can feel her voice bounce off of the walls and slither around your stoic body. Having heard enough, you take one final glance at the girl, her eyes are closed as she rides out the high of a flawless performance. You fight the urge to step into her line of sight and hopefully trip her up but your feet aren't cooperating and leads you back into the hall, away from Little Miss David Schwimmer in all her nerd girl chic, bathing in the golden lights of the theater. Shaking off the residual effects of that goosebump inspired performance, you make tentative plans for Wednesday's class. 'Welcome to New York Schwimmer, I'll have you scurrying back to Iowa before Halloween.'
Your students are sheep, all it takes are a couple of well placed jabs and they're avoiding Schwimmer like she's got the H1N1. You tell them to pair up for the Tango and immediately glare at any guy who so much as glances in Schwimmer's direction. 'There's an odd number', you explain and just to take it one step further, you poke a little at her confidence. You're hoping for tears, you see her strong chin tremble and her big doe eyes scan the room, afraid that the others heard you basically call her undesirable. She accepts your criticism with a firm nod and primly takes a seat as you walk the class through the dance. You occasionally sneak a glance her way every few minutes, dying to catch her zoning out so you can pounce on her inattentiveness. You scoff when you realize she's avidly studying the best couple's form, counting off the beats and memorizing the movements.
You strut by her, very closely twirling your cane towards her head, momentarily breaking her concentration. Her head snaps up, she gives you a wounded look that almost…almost makes you feel bad for fucking with her but she quickly schools her pretty features into a half hopeful half antagonistic mask that clears away any regret you may have felt. You tower over her menacingly for a long minute, waiting for her to crack and drop her head in submission. You can hear the others footsteps become distracted and you know that they're now focused on this showdown instead of sharpening their footwork.
They're waiting for you to make a move, to devour this tiny slip of a girl, who they have all already dismissed. You stretch the cane across your shoulders and drape your arms over the ends, unintentionally pushing out your modest breasts and chiseled abs. That's when you see it. That flicker of arousal that ignites in her eyes that silently informs you Little Miss David Schwimmer is not as innocent as she appears. You smirk down at the girl one last time before barking out an insult to the first couple on your left.
Your students scramble back into formation, you zigzag through the room, your eyes fall on the lone figure sitting ramrod straight through the mirrors reflection. It might be your imagination but you could swear that Schwimmer is smirking right back at you.
She's trying to get you fired! That's the only plausible explanation why Schwimmer was dressed like a reasonably priced callgirl, air fucking a table, all while singing about not being so innocent. Three and a half minutes of absolute torture and a silent mantra to remind yourself she's still a minor, if you were more of an bastard, like Brody, you would be crawling all up on what she's desperately throwing at you. Instead you settled for gripping the head of your cane, crossing and uncrossing your legs and filing away this peepshow for later on tonight when you can safely alleviate that throbbing between your legs. You'll deny it to the day you die that this… child even has the ability to turn you on despite the evidence soaking through you panties. You heave a sigh a relief when the song finally ends, pasting on an apathetic expression and proceed to complement everyone but her.
You're harsh, even for you, just as you wave off her presence she comes back with a one-two punch that knocks the wind out of your chest. The nerve of this uppity little cunt to bring up the biggest mistake of your life. You've spent a decade trying to live that down, you avoid YouTube and Twitter at all costs because some of your more vindictive former competition would flood your inbox with links to the incident. Everyone else has the good sense to shrink away from your impending explosion but not Schwimmer, no bitch takes a step forward, moving within arm's reach, daring you to throw the first punch. Your hands are shaking with the need to smack that pretty little face but you can't afford to lose this job or rack up another assault charge, so you inwardly seethe and settle for kicking her out. Her dancers scatter like rats on a sinking ship and soon the only person in the dimly lit studio is you, reflected in the mirrors several times yet all alone.
You pace Tibideaux's office, so angry that you can't even curse intelligently and it only infuriates you more when you realize Carmen is sitting calmly, hands steeple and calculating eyes tracking your manic movements. You're calling for a student's head on a pike, the least the Dean of students can do is show an iota of concern for the lack of respect you've had to endure. She tells you to give Schwimmer a warning and turns back to her paperwork. You feel your blood boil and your throat hurts from all your screeching, 'A fucking warning!' that's all the punishment the insolent brat gets for humiliating you, in your own mother fucking dojo!
You stamp down the urge to throw something or knock that stupid purple turban off of Tibideaux's head. You demand retribution, Carmen fixes you with an icy glare and asks for the details of what proceeded the incident. You fumble over your words, listing every infraction the girl has made, minus the whole alcohol on your breath thing, since the beginning of the term and once it's all laid out in the open you come to the conclusion that you're being a bitch just because a kid asked you to teach her. Plus, you can't really tell your boss that you're frustrated that your student may very well be flirting with you but she's trying her damndest to make you work for it.
Carmen reaches into the bottom drawer of her desk and produces two tumblers and a bottle of finely aged bourbon. You raise an eyebrow and open your mouth to mock her private stash but her hand hovers over your glass, threatening not to pour, so you chew back the snark on your tongue. You're taking well measured sips and nearly choke when Carmen confides that Ms. Berry is the front runner for the freshman slot in this year's Winter Showcase.
You roll your eyes and mumble, 'only if I don't murder her first', and it amuses you when Carmen calls the girl a 'pain in the ass' but her talent overrides the… 'diva bullshit', you helpfully supple the phrase. Grudgingly, you promise to cut Schwimmer some slack even though you loathe giving second chances, not that you're keeping track but Schwimmer's got to be on chance number four and the first semester isn't over yet.
You'll give her one thing, the girl's got guts and a bit of a masochistic streak. She's still a little mouthy and that skanky (sexy) makeover is giving her an abundance of confidence that's making it harder to tear her down. You hear the whispers in the halls that there's a dopey gargantuan creature shadowing her to all of her classes. You skip her class, making senior Monique cover for you and spend the hour stewing in your office. You hear Monique just outside of your door, heaping praise on her and when you tilt your head you can see them through the blinds. You wanna puke at her pleased as punch expression and you snort at the confused constipated look upon Apache Chief's face as he slowly, very slowly pieces together the puzzle that he's totally out of his league now.
She's not in school the next day and you only notice because she's usually in your studio by 7am, practicing before classes begin for the day. You strain your ears to eavesdrop during your junior class when Pascal compliments Brody on his duet last night and asks if he sealed the deal with that sexy brunette. Your face feels hot all of a sudden and you shake off these weird tingles by working Brody harder than the others.
You were only exaggerating a little when you describe how tough Ivan was during your audition. He worked you hard through two, count them two, call backs only to offer the role to a woman to whom Schwimmer bears a striking resemblance. Except that chick had a sharper jawline and bigger boobs, not that you've noticed Schwimmer's rack. The only satisfaction you can gleam from that epic fail is that Sharon? Shelly? Totally washed out while the show was still in Tech and was replaced by a bigger name.
Offering Brody the permanent position as your T. A. is the least you can do to make up for being an ass to him yesterday. And if he's got no time to chase after wide eyed ingénue's then, bonus.
Your radar is going haywire and you just know that she's in your studio before you even round the corner. Honestly, she spends more time here rehearsing than the majority of your seniors. You've long since tried to convince yourself that it's because the other classrooms are booked and everyone else is too terrified of your wrath to step foot in your dance room outside of mandatory classes. The girl's got balls, so you'll ignore that she essentially jimmy's the lock to let herself in whenever she feels like it.
You hear a male-ish voice whining about something or other and your eyes are instantly drawn to her amazing legs on display. He has a mini orgasm at the sight of your abs, which is…okay weird, and you turn your head to hide the pleased smirk when she glares at him with what he may assume is mortification but you know she's being territorial from the way she herself was just panting over your sculpted body. You take a perverse pleasure in stretching right in front of her and listening to her breath hitch and stutter as she tries to get 'Just Jack' to stop moaning about their exes.
You're still peeved that she's not heeding your warning about Ivan but whatever, rejection is a huge part of showbiz. You just hope she doesn't flip on a very influential director the way she did on you when he inevitably tells her she's too Pollyanna and devoid of true heartbreak. Handing over your Jet Blue frequent flyer points may be overstepping the line of teacher/student but Just Jack doesn't seem to care as long as he gets to relive his glory days and stalk his ex. Schwimmer reluctantly accepts, she makes a point of stating yet again that she's over her ex. You tell her you 'don't give a shit,' but soften the words with a small smile and purposely type in Schwimmer as her surname when you book their seats. She rolls her lovely eyes and returns your smile.