It's obviously true what they say. No good deed goes unpunished. You were expecting Rachel to tip-toe around you after you bore witness to her (literal) fall from grace, but she seems to think that just because you stopped her face from getting intimately acquainted with the floor, you're her new BFF. She's sneaking glances at you even more often than usual and, after a week of enduring her apprehensive smiles, you're starting to wish that you'd just let her take a nose-dive, and christened her Little Miss Owen Wilson instead.

You stay true to your word, and don't expressly mention the incident in class, but you get your kicks in other ways. She knows it's not a coincidence when you illustrate the importance of spotting your turns by performing a rousing rendition of 'Dizzy,' and her eyes narrow when you come out of a series of fast-paced spins and pretend to flake out, landing gracefully in Aaron Newton's arms.

"I'm so dizzy my head is spinning, like a whirlpool it never ends, and it's you, girl, makin' it spin," you sing, smirking at her suggestively, and she looks outraged, like she can't believe you would stoop this low. Her hands fly to her hips as she glares at you, but you can tell it's mostly for show.

"The first time that I saw you, girl, I knew that I just had to make you mine. But it's so hard to talk to you with fellas hangin' round you all the time..."

She's blushing now, and you don't take your eyes off her, even when the male students in your class drape themselves all over you in a literal embodiment of the lyrics. You used to do this to make her feel uncomfortable; to make her painfully aware of the fact that she was (and still is) sorely lacking in sex appeal; that she'll never have your innate desirability. Even now, when you perform a scissor kick right in front of her, you catch a fleeting glimpse of the wide-eyed, sexually repressed schoolgirl who looked at you with something approaching consternation when you cornered her against a table and sang to her about lust at first sight. Then she moistens her lips and meets your gaze without flinching, levelling you with a self-assured smile that seems to say, 'go ahead, do your worst,' and you almost feel proud of her.

You're three quarters of the way through the song now, and your eyes take on a mischievous twinkle when you sing, "I need to call the Doctor for some help."

You drag out the last syllable as you feign disorientation again, allowing Mark to scoop you up in a honeymooner's lift, and when you glance back at Rachel, you see her expression transform from pink-cheeked embarrassment to grudging amusement.

You wanted to humiliate her, not entertain her, but when you see your other students exchanging puzzled glances, you realise that this seems less like an exercise in intimidation, and more like you're singling her out for special attention. You're starting to think this wasn't the most effective way of re-asserting your boundaries, and you don't want to give people the wrong impression, so you spend the rest of the lesson steadfastly ignoring Rachel's existence. You can't help but glance at her on the way out, though, and she rolls her eyes at you, shaking her head despairingly. You're expecting some kind of outburst about your lack of sensitivity, but then her eyes crinkle at the corners and she starts to laugh, and you can't stop your lips from twitching in response.


You're used to students parting like the Red Sea when you walk through NYADA's corridors, staring at their shoes until you're at a safe distance, so when Rachel actually waves at you when you walk past her in the hallway, you conclude that enough is enough. She doesn't seem to realise that you were contractually obliged to intervene when she collapsed right in front of you, and she's clearly blown your professional concern out of all proportion. She's in desperate need of a wake-up call, so you decide to catch her off-guard in your next class, and pounce on her as soon as she walks through the door.

"I hate to break it to you, but a spray tan isn't going to make you any easier on the eyes, Schwimmer. That would require a cosmetic surgeon," you observe, taking in her bronzed skin and heavy eye make-up with an amused smirk.

Rachel's expression goes from expectant to crestfallen in the blink of an eye, but when she starts walking away from you, you loop a conciliatory arm around her shoulders, trying your best to ignore the way your body reacts to her proximity.

"I know; I know, experimenting with stage make-up is the closest you're ever going to get to the big time, but you look like a child beauty queen at their first ballroom competition," you inform her, relishing the way her jaw tenses in response, "Face it, Schwimmer, your face is only ever going to be fit for radio."

She whirls around to confront you, and you wait for the indignant sputtering to start.

"I've known plenty of girls like you, Miss July," she tells you instead, in a voice that's eerily composed, "In fact, one of them is asleep on my couch right now. She used to spend all of her time denigrating my talent and criticising my looks, too, but now she's cage-dancing to pay her share of the rent while I'm at the most prestigious Arts School in the country."

You know exactly what she's trying to say. One day, I'm going to be a Broadway sensation, and all you're ever going to be is a cautionary tale; a bitter, old has-been who's chalked up a lifetime's worth of regrets in the space of a decade.

It hurts, but you know better than to let her see how much.

"Well, bully for you," you snipe sarcastically, but then you lean closer, lowering your voice to a seductive rasp, "But just for the record, Schwimmer, there's only one of me."

When you're in danger of losing your edge, you play to your strengths, and Rachel somehow manages to look both flustered and intrigued at the same time. Even still, she holds your gaze, and it's clear that she intends to stand her ground.

"That may be so, but it doesn't change the fact that I've heard it all before. And I stopped letting it hurt me a long time ago."

She's lying – you can see it in the way her eyes briefly flicker away from you and the motion of her throat as it bobs up and down, like she's trying to swallow too many bad memories – but you have to admire her gumption, if nothing else.

"Well... thank you for that thrilling insight into your tragic past," you say, abruptly turning on your heel. When you stop feeling the lingering heat of her gaze, you glance back at her. She looks preoccupied, but she knows better than to let her guard down again. When your eyes lock, she immediately snaps back to attention, and you watch her weary expression turn into a neutral mask.

You've seen Rachel desperately trying to make friends here, chasing guys around the room and smiling at them in the hopes that they'll partner up with her (usually to no avail), subjecting innocent bystanders to her incessant chatter, latching on to Brody even though he didn't think twice about falling into bed with you when he was supposed to have a thing for her. Now she's apparently helping out the girl who made her life a living hell in high school. You wonder where her unwavering optimism stems from; where she gets the strength to keep on trying; how she can still see the good in people who are habitually cruel to her.

You avoid her for the next forty-five minutes, but when everyone's packing up their things, you cast another fleeting look in her direction. You catch her staring straight back at you, but she quickly averts her eyes, snatching up her bag and making a beeline for the door.


You continue making an example of her (you hand her a casting call for the Broadway Revival of 'The Frogs' and tell her she's a shoo-in for Frog Number Five), but you can't resist flirting a little bit, too, because it's clear she's still fighting an attraction to you. You're careful not to make her the subject of your performances anymore, but you can see how much she hates it when you dance with the guys in your class, and so - naturally – you bump and grind against them at every given opportunity, watching her disgruntled reactions with delight. She either looks away in disgust, or glares at your partners ferociously, until one day, you catch her by the hand and pull her into hold.

"Come on, Schwimmer, we can't have you feeling left out," you tease her, and she lights up like a Christmas tree as you twirl her around the room. You wait until she relaxes into your arms, guiding her through the steps until she has them down pat, and then you step away from her when she's least expecting it, leaving her flailing. You can't deal with the pang of longing that comes from being this close to her, especially when she's looking at you like that, so you instinctively lash out.

"And that's how not to do it," you inform the rest of the class, and the look Rachel gives you when they start sniggering – like you just ripped out her heart and stomped on it – cuts through you in a way you weren't expecting. The next time you use her for a demonstration, all of her eagerness is gone. She's stiff and self-conscious in your arms, and you know she's not just turning her cheek away from you because the dance requires it.

Even still, she continues watching your every move, and you wonder if she's started calling out your name during sex or something, because the next time you see Brody, he's in a foul mood. He's communicating in monosyllabic grunts and has a face like a slapped ass, and when he screws up a lift and nearly sends you catapulting to the floor, you lose what's left of your temper.

"OK, Weston, we're done here. If you can't make time for me in your busy schedule, there are plenty of other people who would jump at the chance."

He reaches for a towel, drying off his face. "Look, Cassie, you know how grateful I am for this opportunity, but I can't come running every time you call. I barely get any time alone with Rachel as it is, and now she's working late shifts - " He trails off, and you watch the look of horror dawn on his face when he realises what he's just said.

"Working late shifts where?" you interject sharply, and you hear him mutter 'shit' under his breath.

"Forget it, OK? I shouldn't have said anything."

"No, you shouldn't," you say acerbically, "You know damn well freshmen aren't allowed to take on paid work during the academic year. Not unless they have the Faculty's approval."

"Yeah, well not all of us have rich parents, OK?" he retorts, ducking his head. "Plenty of students have jobs on the side. You'd be surprised what we do to make ends meet."

If Carmen knew her precious little snowflake was breaking the rules and burning the candle at both ends, she'd hit the roof, and Rachel would probably find herself on probation for the rest of the semester. Months ago, you would have jumped at the chance to stir up some trouble for her, but now all you can think is: no wonder she looks so tired.

"So, what are you saying?" you ask him warily, "That her parents can't afford to pay her tuition fees anymore?"

"No!" he exclaims, and you can see that he's frantically trying to back-pedal. "I think she's just... saving up for a new wardrobe or something, you know? She wants to fit in with the rest of the NYADA crowd. She said it would only be for a month or so."

You snort incredulously, because you find it hard to believe that Schwimmer would risk everything in the name of vanity.

"What kind of work is she doing?" you ask him, and he shrugs, avoiding your gaze.

"I don't know."

"Like hell you don't, Brody," you spit out, but then you make a conscious effort to soften your tone. "Look, I'm not going to tell Tibideaux, if that's what you're worried about," you assure him, but he looks sceptical.

"Come on, Cassie, do you honestly expect me to believe that? Rachel says you hate her with a passion."

"I hate all of my students with a passion," you retort, and he regards you in amusement.

"Are you including me in that sweeping assessment?"

"Do you really want me to answer that?" you ask him, and then you burst out laughing when you see his deflated expression. "Jesus Christ, Brody, you didn't actually think this was going to become a thing, did you? I was horny and you were the closest available solution, that's all. I'm not going to risk my job by staging a repeat performance," you inform him, with your usual brand of brutal honesty, "You weren't that good."

"So Rachel was right. You were just using me to get at her," he observes, and you try not to roll your eyes at his butt-hurt expression.

"Oh, get over yourself. I gave you the ride of your life, and you still got to walk away with the consolation prize," you remind him, trying not to let your irritation show, "And I'm sorry if Schwimmer's too tired to sleep with you, or too uptight to give you what you want, but I fail to see how that's my problem. So how about you suck it up and learn the damn dance routine?"

"Look, forget it, OK?" Brody snaps, making a grab for his gym bag, "I can't deal with you when you're like this."

You watch in amusement as he storms towards the door like a toddler having a tantrum, but then he seems to change his mind, turning on his heel to face you again.

"But for the record, Miss July, you weren't that good, either. The whole drunk-and-dead-behind-the-eyes thing doesn't really work for me."

He has more balls that you gave him credit for, but he's going to have to do better than that if he wants to put a chink in your armour.

"Really?" you ask him curiously, "Because it took you all of three minutes to blow your load."

He turns beetroot red, and you watch him flounder as he tries to come up with an adequate response.

"Yeah, I bet you didn't tell your friends about that part," you observe sarcastically.

"I didn't tell anyone anything!" he protests, "But I'm done defending you, Cassie. I mean, you know that everyone hates you, right? They're just too damn scared to say it to your face. And the next time Rachel comes home and complains about you being a heartless, soul-sucking bitch, I won't be making excuses for you."

For a moment, all you can do is blink at him. Then you ball your hands into fists, digging your fingernails into your palms.

"You're fired," you tell him coolly. "Get out."

"With pleasure," he retorts, and you freeze when he slams the door shut behind him. Then you pick up your water bottle, hurling it across the room, and wonder why you even care what Rachel thinks about you anyway.


There's a hesitant rap on your office door, but you're so hungover, it sounds more like a gunshot.

"What?" you bark, but you don't bother looking up from your computer screen.

You hear someone delicately clearing their throat, and you finally deign to acknowledge them, massaging your temples when you clamp eyes on your unwelcome visitor.

"I'm busy," you tell Rachel, promptly turning your attention back to your student evaluations. She's the last person you want to see, given that she's largely responsible for the empty bottle of rum on your kitchen counter and the worst night's sleep you've had in weeks.

"I know, and I'm sorry to bother you," she hastens to apologise, looking uncharacteristically meek, "But Brody told me about what happened last night, and I -"

"You're worried that I'm going to spill the beans about your extra-curricular activities?" you conclude, and she nods, ducking her head.

"It's just that I... I really need this job, Miss July," she informs you earnestly.

"Then maybe you should tell your boyfriend to keep his big mouth shut," you observe wryly.

"Miss July, please. You don't understand - " she starts to plead, but you don't have the patience to listen to her whining today.

"You're all paid up for the rest of the semester. I checked," you inform her pointedly, "And the bursar's office would have refunded your residence fees when you moved off campus. So what exactly do you need the money for, Schwimmer?"

You see the unfettered panic in her eyes, but she works hard to hide it. "I'm just having a few budgeting issues when it comes to rent and general amenities, that's all," she tells you, staring at the floor.

If you had the energy, you'd call her out on her bullshit, but you're too tired to try and wheedle the truth out of her.

"You're already taking the maximum number of credits," you remind her, "So don't come crying to me when you burn yourself out."

"I'm sure my schedule will be even more demanding when I'm performing eight shows a week," she informs you brightly, and you roll your eyes.

"See? The pressure's already making you delusional," you deadpan, and she gives you a strained smile.

"So... you won't say anything to Madam Tibideaux?" she ventures hopefully, and you shake your head, hoping that she'll finally leave you in peace. Instead, she regards you searchingly.

"Why?" she blurts out, and you raise an eyebrow at her, "I just... I thought you'd relish the opportunity to turn me in, " she admits, sheepishly.

"That would imply that I actually care about your welfare, Schwimmer," you tell her, in a bored tone, "Which I don't," you hasten to add.

An array of emotions play across her face – you can understand the relief, but the hurt takes you by surprise, given her alleged opinion of you.

"Well... thank you," she eventually concludes, "I promise I won't let it affect my performance."

"Judging from Brody's mood last night, it already has," you observe with a sly wink, regarding her in amusement.

"I'm not even going to dignify that with a response," she replies primly, and you have to admire her, because even when she's begging you for something, she won't relinquish her pride.

"So many secrets, Schwimmer," you drawl, tutting your disapproval, and she folds her arms across her waist defensively, until you decide to take pity on her, and wave her towards the door.

"Now get out of here, before I change my mind."


You manage to overlook the bloodshot eyes and the sporadic yawns, but when you notice Rachel walking with a barely perceptible limp, you find yourself examining her even more closely than usual. She's making a concerted effort to pretend that everything's fine, but when the class is practising batteries in formation, you see her trying to conceal a wince. She looks like a novice ballerina trying to break in a new pair of pointe shoes, and you'd be willing to bet that her toes are riddled with blisters. She doesn't change out of her ballet slippers at the end of the lesson, and when she's pulling her street clothes out of her gym bag, you catch a glimpse of the logo on the T-shirt that she hastily pushes to one side. Busted.

Later that evening, you find yourself standing outside of a dive-bar that's doing a shitty job of masquerading as a restaurant, and your nose crinkles with distaste when you push open the door and find your feet sticking to the laminate floor. The place smells of spilt beer and rank sweat, with undertones of cigarette smoke, and the music blasting from the jukebox would be better suited to a honky-tonk bar full of hill-billies. In fact, you wouldn't be surprised if there was a Bucking Bronco stashed away somewhere.

It occurs to you that what you're about to do is probably tantamount to stalking, but you chalk it up to professional concern, and reluctantly take a seat at one of the dilapidated tables. You spot Rachel almost immediately, taking an order from some overweight guy whose grubby jeans aren't doing anything to conceal his ass crack. He already looks like he's taking full advantage of Happy Hour, and he seems to have developed an unhealthy fascination with Rachel's legs – not that you can really blame him, given that she's wearing a black mini-skirt with no pantyhose. You'll never understand how someone so short can have legs like a lingerie model, but Rachel's clearly a firm believer in making the most of her assets.

"I haven't seen you around here before, doll face," he observes, and you see the look of disgust that registers on Rachel's features when she becomes the focus of his smarmy charm offensive. She does her best to disguise it, though, and somehow manages to muster an affected smile.

"That's because I'm new," she informs him cheerfully, and he licks his lips like some kind of paedophile grooming his prey.

"Well, I look forward to getting to know you better..." His lecherous eyes seek out her name tag, and then linger on her breasts, "Rachel."

Rachel steps back a little, crossing her arms over her chest, and you wonder if she's dreaming up ways to 'accidentally' dump steaming hot coffee in the bastard's lap. Or maybe that's just you.

"That's a double cheeseburger and fries, coming right up," she chirps, and you cringe when the greaseball watches her walk away, shamelessly ogling her ass. No wonder the other waitresses look like they've lost the will to live.

Rachel's limp is more pronounced now that she's not trying to hide it from you, and when you glance around at the other women, you realise that four-inch heels seem to be one of the dress requirements. You're not sure what bothers you more – the fact that Rachel must be in agony after enduring a gruelling dance class and then spending another eight hours on her feet, or the fact that you actually care. Either way, you know she wouldn't be putting herself through this purely for the sake of buying new clothes and, not for the first time, you find yourself wondering what the hell is going on with her.

When Rachel emerges from the kitchen again, you hide behind your menu, until you hear soft footfalls working their way towards you.

"What can I get you?" Rachel's voice is polite, but you can hear the underlying exhaustion.

"I guess a Long Island Iced Tea is out of the question?" you ask her drily.

She sucks in a strangled gasp, and you catch her notebook before it hits the floor, handing it back to her before she's even registered that it's slipped out of her hands. Your fingers brush for the barest hint of a second, but she pulls back as though she's made contact with poison ivy.

"You can't afford to be clumsy in this line of work, Schwimmer," you remind her, and she finally stops gaping at you for long enough to reclaim the power of speech.

"What are you doing here?" she hisses angrily, casting an anxious glance towards the kitchen, and you slam shut your menu, regarding her intently.

"Oh, I come here all the time," you tell her, barely managing to keep a straight face, "It's one of my favourite haunts. I mean, the music's great, the beer's cheap, and there are so many eligible guys to hit on. What more could a woman want?" You finger the menu contemptuously. "Oh, except meat, meat and more meat."

She stares at you for a moment, and then her lips quirk at the corners.

"Did you just come here to mock me, or are you actually going to order something? Because if you're not, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave," she informs you, and you regard her in amusement.

"There's no way in hell I'm ordering anything from that cockroach-infested kitchen," you tell her, shuddering at the thought, "But I suppose I could risk sampling the coffee. I mean, that's presuming they even have any."

"It's instant," she whispers, leaning a little closer to you, "And they use full-fat milk."

You affect a horrified gasp, mostly for her amusement. "You're killing me here, Schwimmer."

She starts to laugh, and it's enough to elicit a death-glare from one of the older waitresses. Rachel promptly sobers up, shooting her an apologetic glance, and you raise your eyebrows in disbelief.

"Wow. They're a happy-go-lucky bunch here, aren't they?"

"This is the only place that would hire me at such short notice," she confesses, and in that moment, you can see how miserable she is, "I've never worked before, and everyone else wanted someone with previous experience."

"Come on, Schwimmer, if you wanted to wait tables, you could have at least gone for the big guns," you admonish her, "Hooters, or Coyote Ugly... but then again, I guess that would require you actually having a rack of some description, and we both know your dancing ability isn't up to scratch."

"Do you want me to spit in your coffee?" she retorts, and now it's your turn to laugh.

"Don't even think about it," you warn her, and she rolls her eyes at you, disappearing into the kitchen.

A few moments later, you hear the manager chewing her out - "I don't pay you to gossip with your friends, Berry!" – and the thought of anyone mistaking the two of you for casual acquaintances is enough to make you snort with laughter. Rachel tries to fight her corner - "But I didn't ask her to come here!" - and it just seems to incense him even more. Your smile rapidly fades when he carries on screaming abuse at her, though, and the language he's using is colourful, even by your standards.

You haven't felt this all-consuming anger for a long time, but you recognise it as the same blind rage that incited you to pick up that baseball bat and terrorise an unsuspecting audience of theatre-goers. You're suddenly overcome with the urge to march through the swinging doors and knock seven shades of shit out of this guy, who clearly gets his kicks from bullying fresh-faced kids. Then you remember that you've been every bit as cruel to Rachel in the past, and it stops you dead in your tracks.

When Rachel finally emerges from the kitchen, the dickwad she was previously serving lets out a low whistle.

"Oooh, someone's been a bad girl," he teases, and Rachel shoots him a murderous glare, which only makes him laugh harder.

She sets a cup of coffee down in front of you, and her hands are shaking so violently, it sloshes over the rim.

"Schwimmer," you say softly, but she won't even look at you. "Rachel," you try again, more firmly this time, "Look, I know I haven't always been your biggest fan, but we both know you're so much better than this."

She looks at you, then, and it's the first time you've ever seen her close to tears. She blinks rapidly, frantically trying to cling to her composure, and your stomach twists into a painful knot as you watch her fight to get her words out without crumbling completely.

"Can you please just leave?" she asks you, and her voice catches on the last syllable.

"Not until you tell me why you're putting up with this crap," you counter, leaning back in your chair and regarding her expectantly.

Her chin starts to tremble, and she makes a show of straightening the condiments on your table.

"Miss July, if you stay, I'm probably going to cry, and I really don't want to give that jerk the satisfaction," she tells you desperately, "So please..."

"OK, OK, I'm going," you finally concede, pushing back your chair, because that's not a spectacle you want to bear witness to, "But for what it's worth... I'm sorry, OK? I didn't mean to get you in trouble."

"Then why..." she trails off, shaking her head, and you're glad she decides not to question your motives, because you're not entirely sure if you could explain them.

"Look, it doesn't matter OK? Just go," she says, abruptly turning her attention to a new customer.

You watch her paint on another sunny smile (at least she can hone her acting skills here, if nothing else), and you pull out your wallet, leaving a $20 note on the table. You head towards the door, but you can't help but glance back at her as she moves to clear away your cup and saucer. She picks up the money, regarding you quizzically, and you offer her a small smile. You're a little taken aback when she marches over to you, digging around in her apron to hand you some change.

"I don't need your charity," she tells you firmly, and you can't help but laugh, because you thought you were stubborn.

"It's not charity, Schwimmer. I've always been a generous tipper," you tell her with a salacious smile, and then you crook your finger inside her apron pocket, drawing her closer so you can deposit the change back into the pouch. You don't anticipate just quite how close it's going to bring your hand to her crotch, though, and you hear her suck in a staggered breath as she registers the intimacy of the gesture. Still, apparently it's enough to quell her protests, and she gazes up at you in confusion, like she wishes she could figure out what you're thinking.

"You'd better go, before Attila the Hun goes on another rampage," you remind her, and her expression softens into a look of heartfelt gratitude.

"See you on Thursday," she says, and you nod, gently squeezing her shoulder.


All of your sympathy flies out of the window when she turns up to your next class dead on her feet, though, and you grit your teeth to keep from yelling at her when you watch her hobble her way through your latest routine. You at least have the decency to wait until after class, but then you seize her by the elbow, dragging her back inside the studio before she has chance to leave for the day.

"OK, Schwimmer, let me make this easy for you," you tell her intently, "You're going to quit that damn job – tonight – or I'm going to march straight into Tibideaux's office and tell her that you're dancing like a cripple because you're spending your free time waiting tables in a seedy bar that no self-respecting NYADA student should be seen dead in."

"It's just for a few more weeks," she tells you weakly, but you're done making allowances for her.

"Let me see your feet," you command, and her eyes widen in alarm. "Now, Schwimmer."

She reluctantly edges off her ballet slippers, and you suck in a sharp breath when you see the raw, bloodied skin underneath. There are a couple of band-aids hanging limply between her toes, but they're rendered useless by all the exercise she's been doing.

"OK, that's it," you tell her, and your tone is uncompromising, "You're done. I don't give a damn what you're saving up for, Schwimmer - even if it's a nose job – I'm not letting you do this to yourself anymore. "

"Cassie, I can't - " she whispers, but then she trails off, and you watch the colour drain from her face. She clamps a hand over her mouth, and you finally catch a clue when she sprints out of the studio, leaving her shoes – and everything else – behind.

"Shit," you mutter, burying your head in your hands, and for a moment you're paralysed by the cold, hard truth. Then you follow her to the rest-room down the hall and listen to her puking her guts up, and by the time she's finished heaving violently, you're feeling a little nauseous yourself. Nauseous, and angry. You should have recognised the signs; put two-and-two together, but you've spent so long trying not to think about Rachel and Brody being together, it was easier to convince yourself that she was still the inexperienced, sexless little ingénue you encountered back in September.

It's 5.30pm, and classes are finished for the day, but you still check to make sure all the other stalls are empty before you lean against the sink, waiting for Rachel to emerge from her hiding place.

The chain flushes, and the door swings open. She turns an even sicklier shade of grey when she sees you standing there, and for a moment, she freezes, but then her expression becomes an inscrutable mask and she walks calmly over to the sink to wash her hands.

"I guess I caught that stomach bug that's been going around," she says, in a voice that sounds a little too thin, but you just stare at her reflection in the mirror until she's forced to look away from you.

"How could you be so stupid?" you demand, because you're not going to pussy-foot around her idiocy, "Or didn't they have Sex Ed. back in that podunk little town of yours?"

"Look, I'm handling it, OK?" she tells you, but her voice is shaking now, and you can see the fear in her eyes.

"Does Brody know?" you ask her, and her back goes rigid.

"No," she says quietly. "I'm not sure if he's – if he's - "

"Jesus Christ, Schwimmer. How many candidates are there?" you ask her, with a snort of incredulity. "I mean, I'm still finding it hard to believe that there's one guy out there who finds you attractive enough to sleep with, let alone two - "

"This is a student bathroom, Miss July, so if you want to use the facilities, I suggest you go elsewhere," she cuts in, and you regard her with amusement.

"You're going to have to do better than that."

You start to pace around the restroom, still trying to wrap your head around all of this. You're aware that the situation calls for a certain amount of tact, but you don't see the point in patting her on the head and asking her if she's considered her options, because there is no option. Not if she wants to stay here.

"I thought you, of all people, would've had enough sense to put your interests ahead of some horny guy's," you tell her, even if it makes you sound like a disappointed parent, "Because if you were serious about your career - if you wanted this as much as you say you do - then you would've used a damn condom."

"Look, I made a mistake, OK? And believe me, I'm suffering for it," Rachel informs you in a tone that's starting to sound half-hysterical, "But you don't get to call me stupid, because you're the one who had the role of a lifetime and threw it all away, Miss July. You're the one who went crazy just because some poor guy forgot to put his cell phone on silent before your show. You could have been great, but now you're just a nobody."

You know people lash out when they're backed into a corner, but you still can't believe her nerve. She called you a joke once, but telling you that you've amounted to nothing somehow hurts even more.

"Well, now you're going to know exactly what that feels like, because when Carmen finds out about this, she'll have you shipped back to Ohio before you can say 'Planned Parenthood.'"

"And you'd love that, wouldn't you?" Rachel spits out, "Because you've had it in for me right from the start." She regards you confrontationally. "How do you think Madam Tibideaux would react if she found out you were having sex with your students? Or that you're incapable of being sober for more than forty-eight hours at a time?"

"Do you really want to go there?" you ask her, advancing towards her menacingly, but you stop in your tracks when she sinks to the floor in a defeated heap.

"No," she whispers brokenly, "I just want all of this to be over."

Her face crumples, and you realise that you've finally accomplished the impossible. You've made Rachel Berry cry. You watch her eyes flood with tears, but then she tucks her knees under her chin, burying her face in her arms so you can't see her face. You can still hear her hitching sobs, though, and they make your heart wrench with empathy.

"Crying never helped anyone, Schwimmer. Believe me, I know," you tell her, and you crouch down beside her, gently rubbing her back. You finally stop to think about how hard this must have been; to keep up the act for so long; to lie to everyone around her. You think about how terrified and alone she must have felt, and then you remember that she's only eighteen, even if she often seems a hell of a lot more mature than you.

"Rachel - " you murmur, stroking her hair, but she won't let you comfort her.

"Just leave me alone," she whimpers, shrinking away from your touch. "Please."

And because you've already done enough damage – because you don't know how to fix it - you do.