Work Text:
The final big crossroads in your life–so far– comes a month after the "Ring Incident", as you've secretly been calling it. It comes unassumingly, on a random Friday morning that you both happen to have off.
You find him in the kitchen, sitting at your kitchen table in one of his chairs, still in his pajama pants, eating scrambled eggs from one of your novelty record plates and drinking coffee out of his favorite film reel mug.
The whole scene hits you like a freight train.
It's been so easy to build a life with him, already so intertwined even though it's only been a month since he moved in. He fits like a puzzle piece you never even realized was missing; something vital that makes the whole picture truly complete.
And you never want him to leave.
He looks up, and smiles like a star when he sees you, and suddenly you're blurting out the answer to a question that's never been asked of you, an answer you didn't even know you had until this very moment.
"Yes."
"...whuh?" (You shouldn't find his puzzled expression this adorable.)
"The answer's yes. You know. In case you were wondering."
He's fully staring at you, utterly confused, fork forgotten halfway to his mouth. "...I don't think I asked you anything?"
You take a deep breath to steel yourself.
"No, uh... You haven't actually, you know, asked this question yet. You were going to, but..." Another breath. "You didn't ask, back when we were at Barden; and you didn't ask in Copenhagen."
His eyes widen, the hand wielding the fork slowly dropping back down to the table.
"You didn't ask when I visited you, here in LA; and you didn't... You didn't get to ask in New York, either." A pause, another breath. "But that's ok, cause... I wouldn't have known how to answer, back then."
"And now?"
His voice is hoarse, and a little shaky, but the hope in it is unmistakable.
"Now... Now I know what my answer is." You pause, thinking about what to say next; you decide to continue with honesty, the way you did when you pulled him into your apartment months ago and handed him your heart in the moonlight, hoping he'd take it. (Hoping he'd still want it.) "I suppose I could have waited, I guess; wait until you asked, do this whole thing the 'traditional' way."
He scoffs, breaking the serious moment to make a smile break across your face.
"I know right? Since when have we ever been traditional? And besides, you said... You weren't even sure you were going to ask, cause it didn't matter to you what my answer was."
"It still doesn't," he cuts in. His voice is steadier now, sure. "'No' isn't a deal breaker for me; I'm not going anywhere."
"Yeah. I know that now. So... Why should I wait? Cause... My answer isn't going to change, and... And you deserve to know that, when you ask me. If you ask me."
You step closer, keeping your eyes locked on his; you see tears shining in them, but he's smiling softly, lovingly, up at you. "So, whenever you decide to ask, if you ever decide to ask... My answer is yes." A single tear falls. "Jesse... It's always gonna be yes."
A comfortable silence falls over the two of you, sitting with you as the magnitude of your words sets in. Unbidden, you reach for his hand; he takes it automatically, never once breaking your gaze as he interlaces his fingers with yours.
Eventually he clears his throat, breaking the silence. "What... Um, what made you...?"
"Change my mind?"
He nods.
It takes you a long time to gather your thoughts, to put into words how you felt when you found the ring, when he told you its story... When he admitted just how long he'd had it for. How long he's been thinking about forever with you.
It all came back to Jesse, didn't it.
"Here's the thing: I think you did. You told me... That I could say 'no'; you told me, for probably the first time, ever, in my whole life, that 'no' didn't mean 'goodbye', the way I'd always assumed--no, feared it would, if someone asked me that question and didn't like my answer. But I... I realized, just now, that– that I don't want to say no. You're the only person that's ever really made me want to say yes, you know? You made it so that it would never be a choice of either being true to myself... Or keeping you, because I didn't have to say yes just to keep you."
Suddenly you're moving, kneeling on the kitchen floor that he's been meaning to mop for days, mirroring that day, so long ago and so far away, when your heart shattered into pieces. You pull his hand down into his lap with you, and take the other hand in yours with a kiss to his knuckles. When you look back up at him, you can't figure out why his face is so blurry– but then he brushes your joined hands across your cheek, and you finally feel the tears as he helps you brush them away.
Your next breath is shaky, but you push past it; he needs to understand just how much this means to you, how he's changed you for the better.
"Jesse, You– you told me once, that we were inevitable. I didn't believe you at first, you were drunk off your ass at the time, but, sometime in our years at Barden... I started to. Believe you, I mean. I thought we were inevitable, that we would make it."
The tears come faster now, for the both of you.
"But we weren't. Of course we weren't. We broke up, we dated other people, we moved on, and– and I never thought I'd see you again, you know?"
"Yeah." It comes out choked, barely audible.
"But then suddenly there you were, at that piano, in the last place I expected you to be, playing a song you wrote for me, and– God. For a moment? I thought it was fate. I've never believed in that shit, you know that better than anyone... but for a second I thought the universe had brought us together again for a reason." You take another breath, closing your eyes for a moment; when you open them again, they're shining and clear. "But here's the thing, Jess– I don't actually think it was the universe, or any higher power, that brought us back together. They didn't have anything to do with it; it was an accident, or a coincidence, or whatever."
He looks confused, not understanding what it is you're trying to say, but you're not done yet. "Jesse, my point is that– that we weren't inevitable. Quite frankly I don't think we ever were."
One more breath.
"But we're here anyways."
You see the recognition dawn on his face.
"This was a choice. We could've chosen a thousand different paths that led to a billion different lives; I could've stayed in New York; you could've followed her to Italy. There were so many times that we could've said 'no' to this. But we didn't; we chose the path that led us here, back to each other, intentionally or not, and that? That means more to me than it ever could have if this were fate, or destiny, or something."
Slowly, so slowly, you rise up on your knees; and Jesse meets you halfway, just like he always does, and leans his forehead against yours. Like this, you only have to whisper for him to hear a truth that feels too big for your heart.
"So, I choose you. I want to keep choosing you, Jesse, for the rest of my life. And I know that doesn't have to mean marriage if we don't want it to, but..." You huff out a strangled little laugh, and meet his eyes as best you can, pressed together this way. "As lame as it is, I want to spend my life doing the mundane shit, the taxes, the daily commutes, the budgeting and grocery shopping and laundry sorting and everything else... With you. So why not do the marriage thing too, huh? A-and I can't think of a better way to say 'fuck you' to every divorcee in my family than to spend my life happy with my favorite weirdo in the whole world."
His answering laugh is bright, a shining bell through the quiet apartment, infectious. "I never thought of it quite like that, but yeah, I guess that would be a pretty sweet 'fuck you', huh?" And you're laughing too, both of you shaking from the force of it; you almost fall into him completely, but he moves his hands to your shoulders to keep you upright, and–
–suddenly, the laughter falls away, and you're just staring at each other, a reflection of your love shining from his eyes. He moves his hands up further, until he's cupping your face in them.
"I love you, Beca."
"I know." The cheeky grin he gives you more than makes up for your own mental horror at willingly quoting a movie.
"So... You're sure this is what you want? It's not just... What you think I want? Or what you think our friends, or our families, or society expects of you?" His expression is open, honest, and trusting; saying 'I believe you, I just need to be sure.'
"Yes, Jesse. I want this. I want you. No pressure needed."
He stares intently into your eyes for a long moment, searching for something you know he won't find; you've never been more certain of anything in your life, barring the moment you decided to pursue music production as your career. You've left your own expression as open and vulnerable as his; no walls, no curtains, no shadows. Just you. Just your love for him.
So he nods.
Stands up.
Pulls you into the chair he just vacated, and says "Wait right here."
The moments you spend waiting for him feel like an eternity, though you know it can't be more than a minute or two. You keep your gaze forward, never glancing behind toward the door to the bedroom you know he's disappeared into. You want it to be a surprise.
(It's not really a surprise.)
You hear soft footsteps, and suddenly he's walking around the chair, hand brushing over your shoulder as he comes to stand before you–
–and then he's not standing anymore, kneeling, instead, on one bended knee, a ring box you know all too well in hand.
You can't help the giggle-snort that erupts from deep in your belly, and–oh, there's that still-way-too-adorable confused face again.
"What's so funny?"
"I'm sorry, Jess, I just–right now? Really?"
"Why not? I've already got my answer, so why wait?"
You make a vague gesture with your hand. "I dunno, I just kinda expected you, of all people, to go for the big bombastic movie-worthy proposal, you know? Take me down to a secret cove on the beach or some botanical gardens or the boardwalk or somewhere else that's suitably romantic; get our friends inexplicably all in the same city for once to perform a choreographed song and dance number behind you as you serenade me with, I dunno, Bruno Mars or something; maybe bring in the LA Philharmonic Orchestra for extra oomf cause you've somehow befriended half its members. Something like that."
His grin widens as you speak, and he's outright cackling by the time you finish, reigniting your own laughter. You're still snickering even when he replies. "Alright, as cool as that would be–and we're definitely doing that for the engagement party everyone's gonna make us have, oh don't even give me that look Beca you know they will–I thought it might be a bit more... Fitting, to do it like this." He sighs, sobering up a bit, but though his smile drops from his mouth, it never leaves his eyes. "You know, if I had asked... Before, I probably would've done something like that; I always imagined doing a big movie proposal for my future spouse, even before I met you. But... Over the years, and especially as I've fallen more and more in love with you, I kinda realized... I don't need a big 'movie moment' to prove my love for you. Maybe I never did. I'm not marrying you for the big, dramatic moments; the blowout fights, the big stage serenades, the kissing in the rain– all that stuff that movies insist is necessary for love. Those are great–don't get me wrong!– but they're not what makes our relationship real, you know? I'm marrying you for these lazy morning breakfasts, and sitting at different desks working on our own projects, and cuddling on the couch during your Moviecations–and all those snarky comments we trade back and forth instead of actually watching the movie. I'm marrying you because you buy me my favorite juice pouches without asking, and let me get your coffee when you won't let anyone else do it because I know your order better than I know my own, and because... I wanna keep building this jumbled jigsaw puzzle of a life I see whenever I look around me... with you." He huffs out another laugh, still staring at you with love shining in his eyes. "You want the mundane shit of taxes and laundry and grocery shopping with me? I want that too; I'd love nothing more than to spend the rest of my life doing all those things, just as long as I can do them with you."
You watch as he looks down, staring at the ring box in his hand, before taking a deep breath and popping it open. His hand shakes a little as he holds it out (not that yours are any steadier), and when he looks back up you can see the telltale sheen of tears in his eyes; it matches your own.
(Figures that you've never been much of a crier, but this one man has brought you to tears more times than you can count, for better or for worse.)
His hands might be shaky, but his voice isn't. "So, Rebeca Renee Mitchell, my amazing, terrifying, awesome, Acapella girl... I know you've already given me your answer, but, could you tell me one more time... Do you want to do taxes with me, every year? Split our chores evenly, only to forget who's supposed to do the dishes a week later? Build a life together, get a dog and a cat and a ferret, and... maybe have a family, later on?" You're snickering through your sniffles by the end of his little speech, but he's wearing his sincerest smile when he finally asks the question you've both been waiting for.
"Beca... Will you marry me?"
As your giggles finally subside and the tears blur your vision, you can't help but think he's never looked more beautiful than he does right now, with ruffled hair, wearing an old t-shirt and sweats. At first it's all you can do to nod, but then the words punch out of you from somewhere deep in your soul.
"Yeah. Yeah. Yes, Jesse, you weirdo, of course I'll marry you."
(He tastes like salt and sunshine when he presses his grin to yours, slipping his mother's–grandmother's–great grandmother's–great great grandmother's–ring onto your finger–and it's a perfect fit, of course it's a perfect fit–and spins you around in his arms with laughter as bright as daylight.)
(And in your whole life, you've never heard a sound so pitch perfect.)
Three Years Later
You slide the last instrument track into place on the master file, and hit save on the editing program before leaning back in your chair with a sigh.
There. All finished. The girls you're mentoring will just have to listen to it and give you their final approval, then you can send it on to Distribution for release. As you glance at the clock, you idly think you might even be able to do that today–oh. It's been 3 hours since your last break.
....Tomorrow. That's definitely gonna be a tomorrow problem.
You stretch your arms above your head with a yawn, a crack audible from your poor back. (Damn, that felt good though.) As you drop your arms, you glance around your office, taking in the familiar sights all around you: Jesse's keyboard on the other side of the room, next to his own laptop desk; the various instruments in their cases beside it; the shelf of awards, still mostly bare but proudly displaying two golden men and one golden phonograph; the plaques from your time at Barden on the wall underneath the shelf, 4 ICCA Champion's and one World's; the photos of friends and family across the other walls and desks; and the blocks and balls and toy xylophone strewn across the floor (yeah, it's a tripping hazard, but you can't bring yourself to put them away on behalf of the tiny hands who own them). Your smile is soft, as you taken in the messy puzzle pieces of your life.
You're content to sit there, for a moment, in silence (a rare commodity these days), but all too soon you turn back to your computer to finish shutting it down for the day. As you do, though, a piece of paper catches your eye: a sticky note, handed to you by one of the girls on this track, with a song recommendation written on it in her messy scrawl. You study it as you turn off the editing program on autopilot, remembering how she gushed about this song in particular.
("Yeah it's a re-release, but she changed so much about it that it might as well be a brand new song, and it's so much better now, I can't BELIEVE you haven't listened to it yet Beca!")
You glance back at the clock. Jesse won't be home for another 15 minutes, and his parents won't be back for another 45 at least if past excursions are anything to go by. You've got time.
You pull up a music streaming site, connecting your Bluetooth speakers as you do, and find the song on the front page of new releases.
You press play.
It starts unassumingly enough, plucked guitar chords over a nice drone. It's sweet, if a bit wistful. You turn around in your chair to face the rest of the room, closing your eyes and just basking in the music.
And then the lyrics start.
Later, you won't quite remember how you ended up on the floor, curled up under your desk; you won't remember how many times the song played, a loop you couldn't even begin to stop.
Later, you won't remember when the tears started.
When you come back to yourself, it's to the sound of your name, echoing down the hall, and footsteps coming near.
"Beca? Where you at?"
You can't bring yourself to speak, suddenly certain that he absolutely cannot see you like this, covered in snot and tears with bloodshot, puffy eyes.
(No, it does not occur to you that he quite literally watched you give birth, and so absolutely nothing could phase him now. You never claimed to be particularly logical.)
(Certainly not when it comes to him, anyways.)
You scramble further under your desk, hoodie pulled up over your hair, knees pulled up to your chin. (You've never liked all the short jokes, but even you can admit being small has it's advantages.)
(And, no, it also doesn't occur to you that you haven't actually turned your speakers off. Or that your husband knows you better than he knows the back of his hand–namely, that when in doubt, follow the music.)
(You'll laugh at your own idiocy later. You know. Just as soon as you stop bawling your eyes out.)
Despite your best efforts, he's soon striding through the doorway and over to your desk, where he crouches down and peers into your tearful eyes with concern.
"Hey, Million Dollar Baby."
"...Hey." Your voice is barely a croak, but he hears it nonetheless.
He waits, a beat, two, then, "You uh. You wanna talk about... whatever this is?"
You stare at him mutely for a long moment.
He stares right back, patient.
Eventually, you slowly shake your head no. Talking about it will either reveal just how ridiculous you're acting, or bring on a whole new wave of tears, neither of which you want to confront with him here in front of you.
(Naively, you think maybe he'll accept this as an answer and leave you to wallow in peace.)
(He has never once left you alone to wallow, ever, in the 10 years you've known him.)
Jesse's eyes dart across your face, searching for something. Maybe he finds it, after a moment, because he nods in acceptance. You'd breathe a sigh of relief–except you're squawking in surprise as he drops down and crawls under the desk, squeezing in beside you.
"Dude– what the fuck?!"
"Oh, now she speaks. You just seemed so cozy under here, I figured I should try it out for myself, you know? Plus this is perfect practice for that sardine impression I've been working on." He's nonchalant as he settles up against the wall, his left arm brushing against your right; when he speaks, his voice is calm and casual, as if this whole situation is no more remarkable than talking about the weather.
You stare at him like he's grown a second head.
"Seriously, Jesse?!?"
He looks at you with an expression that almost manages to be innocent, if you weren't intimately familiar with his trademark shit-eating smirk hiding just behind it. "What?"
"You can't be under here right now."
"Why not? You're sitting under here, why can't I?"
"Because you're not 5'3", dude! You can't fit!"
"....the fact that I'm already under here says otherwise."
"I'm squished against the wall!"
"Well then maybe you should get out, then. Some fresh air could do you some good, dear."
"This was my hiding place first! And don't call me 'dear' like I'm a '50s housewife or some shit."
"A HA! So you admit you're hiding!" That shit-eating grin comes out in full force now as you blanche–seriously, how did he catch you this easily?
You stammer as you frantically try to come up with a more reasonable, err, reason why you're (definitely not) hiding under your own desk. "N-no, that's not– I mean– I was just–"
A hand brushing across, then taking hold of your own stops you in your tracks, and you look down to see your right hand clasped in his left, his thumb already brushing gently across your knuckles; you can just barely feel the cool metal of his ring against the underside of your palm, grounding you in the here and now.
(Dammit, how does he always know how to calm you down?!)
You look back up to find Jesse already looking back, a touch of concern in the light lines around his eyes. Once it has you, you can't break his gaze, sucked in by twin pools of dark brown. Somehow, you find yourself relaxing further.
The song still plays in the background, surrounding the two of you in a cocoon of sound. It feels like nothing can touch you here, in this moment, with him by your side.
("🎶When you're young, you just run; but you come back to what you need...🎶")
(....oh.)
He finally speaks, his tone more gentle than before. "Becs... Why are you hiding under your desk?"
He pauses for a second, contemplative.
"...What, or who, are you hiding from?"
It's an honest question, and while the girl he first met at Barden might have lied, or misdirected... The woman you are, here and now, can't help but give him an honest answer.
"The past. The song. The emotions it brings up in me." A breath. "...Myself, maybe."
He nods, and looks away, unseeing as he stares out at the rest of the room. The song has restarted, and you find yourself watching him, watching his expressions as he just sits and listens.
(You've always liked watching him, ever since that first night, when he squeezed up next to you much like this, a laptop in front of the two of you, eager to share his passion with you.)
(Even the greatest movie of all time pales in comparison to seeing every emotion humanity knows cross his face, watching the utter joy light him up from within.)
So you watch, and he listens; he's contemplative through the first verse, immersed completely in the music in a way that matches your own fervor. You watch as realization dawns on his face, just as it had for you, as the first chorus plays.
("🎶These hands had to let it go free and-- this love came back to me, ooooh... 🎶")
He turns, suddenly, brown eyes wide with shock, surprise, and a question. You nod, the smallest quirk of your lips your only expression.
He stares for a beat, two beats, three, then turns away, staring out into nothing once more as the second verse plays. You can tell that he's listening, though; little twitches of his mouth, the tightening of his hand in yours, and, eventually, the way he closes his eyes as the bridge shatters his veneer of calm.
(🎶"Your kiss, my cheek; I watched you leave; your smile, my ghost–I fell to my knees...🎶")
You can't help but tug him closer, letting him lean against your body further, forehead bumping against his temple. He twists, nose brushing with yours, eyes opening and letting a couple of drops fall down his cheeks. You lift your unjoined hand to brush them away, and you can't help but to mouth along with the final lines of the bridge, and the final chorus.
(🎶"This Love left a permanent mark–This Love is glowing, in the dark…🎶")
As the song fades away, you're left with just this: blue tears in your eyes, golden cracks in your heart, and one pair of your favorite brown eyes locked with your own, filled with understanding. In the resonating silence, you're left with peace.
In the silence, there is only love.
You synchronize your breathing with his, eyes falling softly closed as the first chords begin once more, albeit much quieter. Neither of you can speak for a very long time; but, then, you don't really need to right now.
Eventually, it's Jesse who breaks the silence between you two, a sharp intake of breath preceding a single word.
"...Oh."
You open your eyes and find him staring right back, open with adoration. Your lip quirks up again on one side.
"Yeah. Oh."
He brings a hand up, softly brushing against your cheek, while his eyes search yours. "...I think I get it, now."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
And that was all he needed to say.
(Later, the two of you will laugh at how dorky you both look, crying over a Taylor Swift song written, originally, far before the breakup ever even happened, no matter how fitting it felt. He'll joke around, saying 'raise your hand if you've ever been personally victimized by Taylor Alison Swift', and you'll cackle into the sleeve of the Treble hoodie you're still wearing.)
(Later, he'll call his parents and ask them to bring Molly home early, and if you cuddle her extra close as she rambles about her day in the way only a 2 year old truly can, marveling at how many stars had to align to get you here, well. That was for you to know, and no one else to ever find out.)
(Later, much, MUCH later, you'll add a new light blue vinyl to your collection, solely for one specific song.)
(But for now? Now you'll just sit, with your husband, and thank every deity you don't believe in that, This Love?)
(Yeah, it really did come back to you.)