Chapter Text
She’s just standing there on the very tip of the stage, toes hanging over the edge in her scuffed leather oxfords, beat up tenor sax case clutched in her right and a gig bag in her left. Her suit jacket drapes casually around her shoulders, hanging on by the bony ridges at the top of her arms. But without arms occupying her sleeves, she’s probably been a sight to be seen. Forget it, though.
She can finally be who she wants to be.
A breath in for 4, exhale for 8. Keep going, dude.
At this point in her career, she just knows when it’s going be a good gig, and when it isn’t going to be. Tonight’s definitely going to be an enjoyable set, judging not only by the eager anticipation that jives through her veins, but also from the excitement flickering out from the people flowing in. Watching the people stream through the front door is one of her favorite things to do, especially when they have this assortment of characters happily ambling in. She’s already seen a clownish boy with gangly legs, and a pack of men in highly tailored zoot suits similar to hers. The best of all in the crowd is an elegant blonde girl with large doe eyes, long limbs and graceful fingers that flick and roll restlessly at her side.
She seems innately familiar to Cosima, a feeling that roils under her shoulder blades and dances weaving rhythms through her brain, but she can’t quite place her.
Let it go, Cosi. You’re here to play, to beat out the big boys and show ‘em what you’re worth- far more than any of those damn fools coulda imagined.
First time she tried joining in a jam was a bitter memory. She’d stepped in, tiny frame heaving a case that was nearly larger than she was, and the boys in there had laughed her clear out of the club. Her peculiar looks- wire-rimmed spectacles and barely tameable chestnut hair- probably didn’t help her much though. It took her a while to work up her chops, build them enough to convince herself she was finally good enough to play with them. She went again to that same place downtown about half a year later, obscured by her father’s too-large hat and tired bomber jacket. Boy, had she showed them then. She had slid into the club, all slouching stance and confident poise to immerse herself in the smoky shadows of an environment that endeared itself to her. Only after a few sets, once it’d all ramped up, had she jumped in and blown them all away.
Man, those were the times. Everyone was jiving and swingin’ and having a swell time, and here she is, after years and years of hard-ass practice, being rewarded with her own gigs and combo, and- hopefully in the future- a girl or guy of her own.
War might be going on, but hey- she’s standing here with her horn in hand, nearly ready to play and have the time of her life. Behind her onstage the jumping clank and twang of piano and bass warming up helps to ease her tension for the night, and an experimental roll of her shoulders sets her mind in gear, and she’s already forming complex mental melodies around rapid chord changes that float casually through her brain as she prepares.
A shout from behind her jolts her out of her music induced daze and she whirls around to face her bassist standing there expectantly, tapping a leather clad foot in time to the beat that thrums in the background.
“Oi, Cosi! Are you ready t’ play, or not?” Gritted teeth slide words along the edge of a cigar pursed between chapped lips. There’s the one and only Sarah Manning with her lips curving up in what Cosima can only assume is a smile, and Cosima grins widely right back at her. She’s got what has to be the only Brit upright player in all of America in her band, and along with Ali Hendrix from good ol’ New York on drums, they’re going to swing it so hard the house is gonna bop along with them. She’s not quite sure who the pianist is, even though she’s played with them before - some girl named Rachel Duncan or other? - but she didn’t want to commit to them, and honestly, Cosima didn’t really want her to commit either.
“I’m always ready to play, Manning! Always ready to play, always stoked to play.”
“Naturally, tha’s what I thought,” Sarah mutters. She turns on her heel and started striding back to her bass. “Downbeat in 10, Cosi!” is her call over her shoulder as she walks away.
Cosima’s grin spread even wider, and she steps over to the side of the piano and lovingly sets down her case, the pads of its worn feet thunking down hard against the splintery floorboards of the stage. She flicks open the latches, humming the opening bars of Take the A Train as she sticks her cane reed into her mouth and starts piecing together the various parts of her tenor sax.
She’s played many horns in her lifetime, but this tenor is her baby. She fought with it for ages when she first got it, but once she finally figured out her perfect kit and tamed the beast of a horn she owned, it was true love.
Once she’s done setting up, she loops the neck strap around and hooks her horn onto it and plays a few bursts of sound. It’s nothing incredible, but it dims the noise that bounces around the interior of the rooms. In the corner of her vision, she can just barely see the girl from before level her gaze at her steadily, and it makes her all the more excited to play this gig. She’s going to show her just how good she is, like she showed those jerks at her first jam.
Another roll of her shoulders bounces the horn a bit from where it hangs around her neck, and now that she’s loose and warmed up, she’s ready to play. Puffing up to her outstandingly tall height of five foot three, Cosima claps her hands and waves them in the air, catching the attention of every soul in the room. The club is now jammed full of people, their shadows illuminated by red-blue-purple light hazed with tendrils of smoke floating gently up to the ceiling.
“Uh, ‘scuse me? Hey, ladies and gents! I’m Cosima Niehaus, and this is Sarah Manning on bass, Ali Hendrix on kit, and Rachel Duncan sittin’ in on piano. We’re gonna start off with a lil’ song you might know. Here we go with Duke Ellington’s great tune!”
Snapping her fingers at a moderate tempo, Cosima counts off while Ali starts a swing ride groove in time, kicking the bass drum with a smooth snap of her ankle. Taking in a massive lungful of air, Cosima starts the opening lick of Take the A Train, and the haze of the room slowly starts to fade away, sharpening into the brilliant technicolor shapes of the sound that flow effortlessly from her horn and the other musicians around her.
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After, when she’s just finished packing her horn into its case, and she’s so dead tired she wants to flop over from the exhaustion, a voice rings through her muddled consciousness to where she’s kneeling on the side of the stage.
"You're Cosima Niehaus, yes? The famous tenor saxophonist?"
The voice is above Cosima’s line of sight and it forces her to look up, so she jerks her head up, glancing briefly at the long legs that are leaning gently against the back of her case, causing it to tilt slightly forward. She stands up hurriedly, skimming her eyes up and down the girl’s body, sleepily examining her as she straightens and stretches a little.
She says famous like fay-moose, and almost instantly she’s front and center in Cosima’s attention span, which is undeniably short for most things unrelated to jazz. Jazz is what makes her life bop and jive along like it does and she definitely loves it, just like she’s quickly coming to like this girl - oh God, no, Cosi, she’s not a girl - this woman standing before her.
Hey, it’s that mysteriously beautiful gal from before- wait.
Shit. Delphine Cormier, the one and only. The most desirable jazz pianist in America since Duke Ellington himself.
Any trace of moisture that had previously been in her mouth evaporates immediately at the gorgeous blonde before her, and her brain kicks back into gear.
"You're fine, doll. Has anyone told you that before?" Cosima’s mouth opens and the words pour out, just as genuinely as her tunes do. Mentally, Cosima smacks herself upside the head and makes a note to stop being so nervous around beautiful girls.
Delphine only quirks an eyebrow and continues on, seemingly unfazed by Cosima's lack of subtlety. "Well. I hear you're very good, Cos-i-ma."
"Then you've heard just right! They tell me I'm good, anyways. I wouldn't be any better than any other average Jill without my band, though. A swingin’ rhythm section is the only reason I'm anywhere near where I've come now. I could always use a piano playa’, though." She shrugs, a smooth jump of shoulders stilling her restless hands for once.
Be slick, be smooth, and you've got her in the bag, Niehaus.
“But… do you not already have a pianist? Who is that girl, then?”
“Ah, Rachel? She’s a snooty broad, don’t need her. Besides, she’s inconsistent and definitely doesn’t wanna commit.” She finishes off her statement with a wide smile, her tongue poking against the back of her teeth sweetly.
“Are… are you trying for something, Cosima? You’re a- erhm, I hate to use this foul word, but it is as the men in my band say it- a dy-ke? They say you’re… fruity? Queer?”
Oh dang, you better ease up on this. She’s on to ya, but you gotta keep your cool or nothing’s gonna happen your way.
“It’s not quite like that, hun. See, I swing both ways. I mean- ah shit. I play swing, bebop, West Coast, bossa- you name it, I gotcha, babe.”
“…So I see. Alright then, Cos-i-ma, I’ll see you around then. We shall see about playing together, perhaps.”
With a flick of those talented fingers in a half-moon wave and the swish of those hips that sway along with the maroon hem of her precisely tailored dress– Dear lord, what a doll – Delphine Cormier goes off to her first gig of the night.
Needless to say, Cosima’s pleasantly dumbfounded. Well, at least that wasn’t a no for either request. Now she’s determined to hear Delphine play live, and hopefully in the future- if she’s really worth her salt - get her to join the band.
For now though, all she can do is pour herself into her music, and hope that Delphine receives her lyrical message.