What Was and What Could Have Been

Author's Note: The timeline of this particular (lengthy, I apologize) one-shot is six years after Pitch Perfect 3. This one is also not completely plot-driven and more of an introduction of sorts, to their family and moments within their life together - as small or as big as they are, mostly through Beca's memory and some as she's living it, present day. It'll make more sense as you read it, I promise. :) If I get an actual readership I may write more miscellaneous, unconnected, one-shots of their life together, as adults. I love these two, they're my favorite couple out of the franchise (and I was so upset about the whole thing in the third movie). Anyways, read, review, let me know if you like it! :)


What Was and What Could Have Been

Their house was quiet this morning, Beca had noticed, looking around at the unoccupied furniture – the pillows upright and the cushions straight. The hallways were bare too, aside from the few pictures they'd put there.

Their wedding picture was hanging on the wall as if it were a promotional poster for one of the greatest movies ever made in cinematic history. And in her opinion, it was, even if she didn't usually have much of an opinion when it came to movies, or one that was positive, anyway.

In that picture, it was just the two of them, foreheads pressed together with the most solemn of expressions on their faces, underneath a willow tree. Or was it love?

Jesse had told her after it was taken, that holding that expression took work, a lot of work, because all he had wanted to do as he waited for that flash, was smile. She remembered this anecdote in particular, because one of her most vivid memories of that day three and a half years ago now, was his mouth pressed aggressively against hers, with a smile so big that she could feel his front teeth grazing her top lip, seduction notwithstanding. So, yeah, it was love.

The picture right next to that one was another one of their favorite wedding photos. Granted, despite her husband's pleas, they didn't take a million of them because her hatred of getting her picture taken outweighed his request, but still this one was a definite favorite. It was of them making their entrance into the reception.

The train of her dress was flowing behind her, even though it wasn't that long, not as long as most – this was another request made that she'd also gotten, despite Chloe's pout – and her smile was the biggest it has ever been in her entire life. His was, too. Their hands were clasped together, and their opposite ones were making fists in the air; emulating which film? You guessed it. The Breakfast Club.

"Mr. and Mrs. Swanson!" the MC – Benji, who was also doubling as Jesse's best man – had called out and everyone had whooped and hollered and laughed at the cheesiness, the mind blowing cheesiness, that Beca was suddenly having an intense love affair with as Jesse whispered "we did it, Bec. You and me, we did it" into her ear. No, it wasn't love. It was aca-crazy love.

As Beca dried the last of the dishes from dinner the night before, her gaze travelled away from that picture and to one on the opposite wall.

It had been taken in Hawaii seven months ago. Their family was on what the locals called the most popular beach on the island of Maui, with the waves crashing timidly behind them, as if afraid to disrupt the serenity of the windless sunshine, and four of them were wearing smiles. The fifth person was sleeping droopily against his mother's chest, a baseball cap casting a shadow over his blissed out face.

Jesse was shirtless and holding a little boy with shaggy dark hair and equally dark eyes, who wore a toothless grin to match the shark on his lake shirt; he also held their daughter, a tiny girl – even for her age - with long, thick hair and those same eyes that were framed by envied lashes, who was smiling broadly, an identical gap in between her teeth.

Her eyes zeroed in on the tautness of her stomach. She didn't have a tough time losing the baby weight after any of her pregnancies, luckily. Despite her smaller frame, it just seemed to fall right off her, literally like meat off a bone. Michael was six months old in that picture, and the twins were smack in the middle of their terrible twos. Their first big family vacation was a little nuts. She sighed, staring down at her belly that was now obnoxiously peeking out of her tight, black shirt.

Maybe she'd change. Into something looser. More color. Of course, Jesse loved her baby bumps – all three and a half of them, he had fussed over, cooed at and touched his hands against her bare skin, every chance he got. Being in public never stopped him. It was embarrassing. With a smirk, she shook her head. Maybe she wouldn't change. She'd stay like this. Embarrassment be damned. This was love, right? Ugh, no. It was a crock of shit.

"Morning, lover."

Beca looked up to see him coming down that same hallway, finally leaving their bedroom at the end of it. For the first time in a long while, in four and a half months to be exact, he was awake after her. Usually nowadays, with the rush of everything pregnancy once again kicking her ass, she would sleep at least two hours longer than him. Today though, it seemed to be the other way around.

He came up behind her and nuzzled her neck, leaving a kiss there and winding his hands around her midsection, splaying his palms flat against it.

"And top of the morning to you too, aca-baby number four."

She snorted, rolling her eyes. "Irish, huh? Let me guess, by some weird, distant cousin whom you have completely forgotten about until right now, you've found out that you're Irish?"

He kept a straight face as he moved to stand in front of her. "One-eighth and five quarters."

"Is that even a real fraction?"

His carefully crafted expression never faltered. Impressive.

"Yes. Obviously. I passed third grade math, didn't I?"

"Actually nerd," she said with an eyebrow raise, "you didn't."

"Well that wasn't my fault!" he exclaimed quietly with a frown. "Ms. Ryder was a total bitch."

"Is that right?" She leaned in to him, lowering her voice an octave to the tone of seduction. "I think that you were just a bad little boy…"

"Jesus Bec," he murmured, connecting their lips and forcing hers open, not that she was resisting. "You have a son – no scratch that, you have two sons, so don't you think your choice is a little – "

"Ah," she interjected, breaking away to shake her index finger at him in a tsk-tsk motion. There were tingles in her spine, because she knew just what he wanted to do to her, the silver glint of the devil in his eyes, and what he very well could be doing, if he was quick about it, because their children were still very much asleep.

"Do not take the Lord's name in vain, Mr. Swanson."

He chuckled darkly, sucking hard on the fleshiest part of her neck. "Oh, Bec, I thought you knew…"

Before she could even ask, he bit down on her skin, causing her to gasp, loudly.

"I'm Satan."

"Who's Satan?"

Both Beca and Jesse whipped their heads towards where the voice had come from, startled. Although, that word didn't do her emotion justice. She could feel the hammering of her racing heart threatening to break through her chest.

There, standing in the entrance to the kitchen, was their four year old son, Anthony. His curls were messy, well, they were always messy as typical of the age but right now they were even more so and Beca could picture him tossing and turning in his Ninja Turtles pyjamas, dreaming fitfully, all night. Her paranoia told her it was night terrors but Jesse and their pediatrician told her it was normal. She wasn't sure who to believe.

"Hey there, little Treblemaker. Did you have a good sleep?"

Anthony nodded his head, his thumb tracing his bottom lip but he took it away and forced his hand to his side, quickly, as if worried about being caught. Too late. Beca hated to bring it up, knowing it embarrassed him, but both she and her husband wanted to break the habit as soon as possible. Funnily enough, his twin sister didn't have the same habit and stopped thumb sucking without any encouragement.

Speaking of –

"Mommy, can I have something to eat?"

Beca smiled warmly at her son, going to him and hugging him to her chest. She let him go a few seconds later, kissing his head before he left her arms, and she reveled in the scent of morning breath and sleep still emanating from his pores. Why did the staleness of her children's breath not disgust her, but before he brushes his teeth, Jesse's breath makes her gag? She shook her head imperceptibly. Forever a mystery.

"Where's the rest of the Swanson Brat Pack?" Jesse asked their little boy, who was now busy swivelling on the barstool, probably seeing just how many times he could swivel completely around before Beca told him to stop.

Anthony shrugged his shoulders but offered an answer anyways. "Don't know. Molly's still sleeping?"

This was phrased as more of a question, which made her chuckle as she set a bowl with a spoon and the box of Mini Wheats in front of her son. Watching him remove the spoon and open the box of cereal, she smiled as he carefully tipped the milk jug forward. He was one of those people that put milk before the cereal.

"Weirdo," she'd often say to him while ruffling his hair as he'd give her his Daddy's famous crooked grin. Just like she did now.

At this, Anthony shot her the grin, the grin that was famous for making her weak in the knees – as stupidly cliché as that sounded - or melt her heart, depending on the day and the person giving it to her, while he poured his cereal. She loved seeing his independence. It was so stupid and so insignificant – pouring a bowl of cereal, but it was also a start. A start to independence with bigger things. Better things.

"Should I go check on her? She usually doesn't sleep this long…"

"Jess, I'm sure she's fine," Beca told him with a sympathetic look. "Besides, Sleeping Beauty, look at pregnant one was up before you this morning. She's probably crashed out from her damn sugar high yesterday. Ice cream, Twizzlers and a soda."

Jesse gave her a wry smile. "It was a special day. And she said that Twizzlers were her favorite."

She rolled her eyes, albeit good naturedly.

"Oh please, Daddy. If she said lions were her favorite you'd find a way to get that girl a pet lion. And I'd come home to find it wearing my great grandma's pearls or swimming in the underground pool. Oh god, that sounds like it could be straight out of a Taylor Swift music video."

With respect to her song writing chops, Taylor's newest music videos were a little out there, even with a metaphorical intent. They just didn't add up, Beca thought, rearranging her momentary grimace into the smirk where her mouth had been resting before.

"Do you want me to call her PR? She's on speed dial," Jesse gave her an identical smirk and laughed, but it was subdued as he raised his hands in surrender.

"What do you want me to do, Bec? She's my little girl."

"If we get a pet lion can we name him Linus?" Anthony asked. "I like that name."

She sighed. "Whatever I choose to say right now will not make one bit of a difference with you spoiling our children, will it?"

"You could try," he told her, reaching out to massage her lower back, where it had been quite the bitch lately. "I'd like to see you try."

Oh, how badly did she want to smack his hand away for that comment but refrained, because damn did he have the magic touch. Her muscles were loosening already.

"The 39th – holy shi – poop – did I just say thirty-nine? Wow, Jess. We're old as fu- ever."

He laughed, squeezing her arm. "You're still foxy as fuck, I'll tell you that," he hissed into her ear, and she shoved his shoulder. Hard. If there was one thing she most definitely wasn't right now, it was foxy.

She hated that word. It made her think of her grandmother, who sang show tunes at the top of her lungs well into her eighties, sans any actual music. She wanted to laugh, thinking about her very spirited – a nice way of saying certifiably insane - jowly grandmother now. Looking back, her thrived college acapella career actually made an almost prophetic amount of sense.

"But seriously. I'll give you the tenth, or even the twentieth anniversary of the damn thing, but anything after that is just stupid. The Breakfast Club has been a thing for thirty-two years, which means you have watched it approximately ten million times, give or take, and it does not warrant you spoiling our children rotten like it's a fricken national holiday."

He glared at her and she glared right back. Wifely duties be damned. He pouted. Just like Molly when she didn't get her way the first time around. And then the second time. And then the third – by then her frown lines were so deep and her bottom lip stuck out so far, that Beca was afraid her lip would eventually droop and stay that way. It was 95 percent annoying and only five percent cute.

"Come on, BeCAW, you're such a party pooper!"

She grinned, slapping a hand over his mouth. Okay, maybe it was only 80 percent annoying and a whopping 20 percent cute. "Shut it, weirdo. You're going to wake the baby and Moll –"

"Daddy, why are you screeching like a banshee?"

Their little girl stood with her feet firmly planted on the last bit of carpet before the hardwood in the kitchen began, as if she had no intention to either go back to bed or to come join them.

Her hair was a scraggly mess, like a bee hive gone rogue, one side of her head a flattened crimp job, and on the other side, one braid had managed to survive, although it was loose in odd places, the fact that it had been a French braid now very questionable.

Beca noticed that her face was flushed and that she was physically itching to get out of her flannel pyjamas with bedazzled butterflies on the shirt. (For the record, that was Emily's choice, not hers.)

The kid hated pyjamas, and would one hundred percent sleep naked if they would let her. They didn't, because her Daddy feared it would lead subconsciously to no-no future job prospects – prostitution, or stripping – he'd whispered to her when their daughter first suggested she sleep in the nude instead of wearing her blue pyjamas with ducklings on them. She didn't believe him. Not one bit.

Molly had been two at the time, and Beca just laughed, assuming that it was just a phase. After all, at that age, her own mother had to physically force her to keep her dress down in public. Two years later, and Beca had gotten over the fascination with her little girl parts, but Molly on the other hand, it seemed, did not.

Was it a cause for worry? No. But Jesse being Jesse, worried anyway. All the time. Right now, for example, she could see him eyeing their daughter carefully, worriedly, as she pushed the hem of her top up with one hand, showing them a peek of her tiny, pale, tummy.

Molly had an outie bellybutton, she was one in however many children and now Beca was looking at it with a little bit of intrigue. The only time her bellybutton – it usually looked like it was nonexistent, drowning in untanned skin - ever looked like that was when she was about ready to pop out a kid.

That's when her dork of a husband geeked out the most. He loved to call it cute and adorable and other childish words like that, which held no real meaning for her because in her humble opinion, she looked (and felt) like a beached whale. Scratch that. She felt like a beached whale that was dying a slow, uncomfortable and grossly sweaty death.

"Daddy was screaming like a banshee at your mother," he told her with a grin. "She doesn't understand my deep, impenetrable love for The Breakfast Club."

She rolled her eyes. Now that was definitely not a good time to use the word penetrate.

Watching as Jesse walked over to their daughter and pulled her top down, with what she guessed he saw as nonchalant but other, normal people saw as obvious, she shook her head discreetly at him. He saw this and shook his head right back.

So, maybe she was a little jealous of her daughter. Which felt almost perverse and kind of psychotic but she did. A little. Jesse loves Molly's bellybutton. He goes crazy for it. That's what's adorable.

Whenever she's lying on the couch or sitting on a kitchen chair, or just generally unwitting, he would come up to her and repeatedly blow raspberries on her stomach, pretending to nibble at her protruding bellybutton with these, incredible, really, sound effects.

He would do this a lot after bath time, and especially when she would run around the house, fighting bedtime, her top half completely naked (that little bugger), screeching and living life. When he'd finally catch her, he'd lift her up from behind, turn her around in his arms, dip her as if he were dancing, and munch away on her tiny, clean, bare bellybutton. She would squeal and giggle but has never once told him to stop. Which Beca found funny, because she absolutely despises being tickled.

One time, when she was around five years old, her dad had tickled her for so long and in her most ticklish of spots – behind the knees, but as if she'd ever say a word about that to her tickle monster husband – she threw up from laughing so hard. Puked all over her herself and her blankets. It probably had something to do with having the stomach flu, but taking chances she was not.

So, she never, ever, never-ever, wanted to be tickled again in her lifetime. Seriously. She wasn't kidding. Jesse had discovered that on the day she'd come to join him in Los Angeles. He carried her over the threshold of his apartment door, which looked very odd to the elderly couple next to them, heading towards the elevator and had started to tickle her sides, all spidery.

She'd slapped his chest about fifteen times before he put her down and said, 'Woah there, Half Pint, chill out.' She looked him straight in the eye and threatened to walk out. Right then and there. He's never dared to tickle her since.

Oh, but Molly, poor little Molly, got all of the tickles. Not that she seemed to mind. Miss Molly, as Auntie Chloe affectionately calls her, can rally with the best of them. Her pain tolerance was solid, and so was her patience. There was no question of whose child that little girl was. She was a perfect split, right down the middle, of the two of them. Jesse loved to say that she looked more like Beca, but Beca would always fire right back: she looked a lot like Jesse.

She really did. The twins shared his dimpled, wide smile, the literal epitome of unadulterated happiness and his curly hair, but man, did his daughter ever look like him. Right down to and around the nose. She had his angular bone structure, with the feminine softness that her eventual-woman self, will one day appreciate. She even had her father's ears. Oh, those ears.

Whenever he'd call her something, really anything related to her height – Thumbelina, Tiny Temper, Reece's Pieces, (she'd give him props, he's gotten quite creative over the last however many years they've been together – she didn't even want to think about it. Beca Mitchell in a committed relationship? A marital relationship? One that now included kids? As in plural? No way! Stop the presses!)

Whenever he would refer to her with one of those names, she would flick his ear with her thumb and finger or with her tongue depending on her mood and whisper 'Dumbo' in his ear.

He was never particularly sensitive about the size of his ears, or so he said. His face never gave away any indication though that he was lying to her. He called them a wonderful if not convenient gift from his own father. She thought his words were a little extreme, but whatever kept him from being self-conscious about those whoopers that always stuck out of baseball caps at a weird and precise angle.

(Fine, they weren't whoppers. She was acting as though they were ginormous and very much abnormal, even though they're really just a little big.)

Sometimes, she felt it was unfair for her to be saying this, but he never fails to remind her – affectionately or not – that her entire body is just a little small.

Then it felt fair again and she would tease him like he teases her and that's what makes them work. Makes them balanced. Equal. In love. (Ew, okay, too far.)

His face gets flushed every time she calls him 'Dumbo,' his blush gets deeper as she kisses his cheeks and laughs– especially when they're in front of their college friends. He's quick to nip at her neck – if that was how she's playing it – and murmur 'shove it, Shirley Temple' against her skin.

Even though Molly was genetically predisposed to her father's ears (and her height, ironically), she was never bugged about it. Her family (well, her parents) wouldn't dare, and her preschool buddies were all too young to register anything it seemed past basic gender and some associative norms, like hair length or clothes.

(Beca had seen these drawings – including those of her twins – strewn in an organized way around their classroom. She had quickly concluded that every single one of them looked like potatoes, even 'Mommy and Daddy!' but to her children she used some sort of description like 'lovely' or 'amazing.' Maybe even aca-amazing. (Oh, Christ Almighty did she disgust herself sometimes.))

Seriously. Thinking back, she thinks she can remember nearly all of the times that she felt more than vaguely disgusted with herself because of Jesse Swanson. (Okay, that sounded absolutely terrible, and he was a little offended when she'd told him about this revelation, but come on, buddy, let it go – it's not like she had just told him that she didn't love him anymore. No need to get all bugged out. But that's Jesse for you.)

The one that came to her mind first was when they'd just came back to Barden after summer break. They were on their fourth 'official' date (yes, he loved to keep tabs, cue eye roll); and by 'date' she meant that they were snuggled up in his bed (did she just use the term 'snuggle up'? There's the – what is it? - nine-hundredth time? she has been more than vaguely disgusted by herself because of a certain someone. A certain nerd who uses the term snuggle up way too liberally.)

'Come 'ere Minnie Mouse, snuggle up in bed with me, your precious Bellas can be as pouty as they want. You're worth it.'

That's how it started. Minnie Mouse. Ugh. She had wanted to do something – glare at him, give his arm a shove, roll her eyes and huff exaggeratedly, but she didn't do any of it. She just got up from where she was at her desk, impassively staring at her Intro to Philosophy textbook (her dad had made her take that course again because she failed it the first time. Apparently never showing up to class will do that. He wanted her to be 'enriched by what college education has to offer' As if the Bellas didn't enrich her enough already), and joined him on the bed.

He pulled her close to his chest and she settled in comfortably, comforted instantly by the tasteful aftershave he wore and his kiss to her hair. She watched as he simultaneously dug his hand into the popcorn and pressed play on his laptop.

For a minute nothing happened. Then, a picture appeared. It looked to be a theatrical poster for the movie, she was assuming; the background was a blue sky, with a baseball bat, going up its length, to its end, were kids' hands and at the top was a dog's paw.

"The Sandlot" she said aloud, which was the scratchy, red scrawl going across the bat.

"It's a coming-of-age baseball film which tells the story of young baseball players in the summer of 1962. Released in 93."

"Wow," Beca said, "that sounds oddly verbatim. And did you pirate this!?"

He shrugged, seeming nonchalant. "So, what if I did?"

She gasped exaggeratedly, a hand to her chest. "No! Jesse Swanson pirated a movie? This can't be true! Say it isn't so!"

He shoved her shoulder and she responded by laying her head on his, smiling.

"I lost my copy in the move to Barden," he grumbled as if it still affected him. Which, it probably did. "Anyway, Becs. You'll love this one. I promise. And you'll cry. I promise that, too."

"Please," she scoffed. "Movies don't make me lose my cool."

"The Breakfast Club did," he reminded her with a grin, and before she could say anything at all to defend herself, he started to sing to her, louder than was necessary. "Don't you forget about me. I'll be alone, dancing, you know it baby."

She bit her lip, suppressing a smile, like the one she knew she must have worn at the ICCA's that year both on stage and after their performance, when she was practically shoving her tongue down his throat. She hoped that it looked as elegant as it felt (did she seriously just use the word elegant to describe a kiss? 'It was elegant, magnificent!' Gross.

But then again, it was their first kiss, and she sincerely hoped it was classy because the devil knows that their very many kisses since than have been so far from that, it would make even Bob Saget's lip curl.

"Shut up."

He grinned. "You love me."

"Whatever."

Just then, the movie started to play. "Sh! It's starting."

Jesse leaned back, surprised. She saw him from the corner of her eye. "Did you just shush me? Really? Come on now, Bec. That's my job. You stole the fun."

When she didn't say anything, he sighed, and she knew he just wanted to get a rise out of her. "It's really the only fun I get out of this relationship."

It worked. Kind of.

"Yeah, well, the feeling's mutual, nerd. Shut up."

He did.

They watched the entire movie in silence. And she didn't cry. The prickly sensation in her eyes was dryness. She'd been staring at the stupid screen for too long. It was very bright.

"You're crying. Beca Mitchell, do not turn away from me, dear lover," Jesse chuckled, his thumb pressed under her eye.

Why was his – dammit. She was crying, wasn't she? Dammit to hell. Way to go, tear ducts. You're obviously faulty.

"Shut up," she mumbled before leaning against his body and kissing him, as though her life's mission was to give him amnesia and make him forget what he'd just seen.

"Ah, ah, Bec. You cannot kiss your way out of this one. Sorry, babe."

Well, shit. When did that one stop being foolproof? Could she screw her way out of things? Hm.

"Okay, fine. If you really want to know my thoughts on this movie," she paused, somewhat melodramatically, and she watched his chest rise and fall in pathetic yet endearing anticipation. He wants her to like it so bad.

"I was rooting for the small one."

"Smalls," he supplied.

"Smalls," she repeated. "Well that's painfully ironic, isn't it?"

"Yes," he smiled at her. "It is."

He was staring at her. Why was he still staring at her?

"What?"

A slow, Cheshire grin spread across his face. She was totally the canary.

"Seriously, dude. What?"

This time he leaned over her, holding himself up by his arms. "You can go back to kissing me now." He raised his eyebrow in question, then his face placated. "If you want to."

No reply was given. Instead, they kissed like two, drunken, sloppy teenagers with lustful, heady moans (on both parts.) That is, until Aubrey busted into her room, without any common curtesy as per usual, and coughed too loud.

"Kindly, get a room."

Beca resisted the awful but tempting urge to point out the irony and to add 'kindly, fuck off' after she did.

She smiled ruminatively, which prompted her husband to ask her what it was that she was thinking about.

"Just how much you make me want to vomit," she replied, then chuckled. "And how much I love you."

Beca watched their daughter climb up onto the chair with the grace of a drunken high school student and her smile widened as Jesse kissed her temple, watching her too.

"Do you remember when they were born?"

"Of course. I wish I could've just blacked out – you know like that time after my graduation when we practically drank Jose Cuervo suppliers dry and woke up almost an entire 24 hours later, naked on the quad with no memory of how we'd gotten there?"

He nodded, but she could tell that he still had no clue where she was going with this little tidbit.

"That's ideally what I wanted. Go into the hospital, be put out by some nice anesthesia, and wake up with two beautiful babies in my arms. Easy peas-y. But, no. What I got, was a brutal 34 hours of what felt like eternal damnation. Christ, I felt like Satan personally had came down from Hell and made me his sex slave with how much pain those little hooligans put me through.

"It hurt to pee for a very, very long time. And we didn't have sex. At all. Us! Nothing. Nada. Zip. And why? Because the second you tried, I would flinch and that would be that. Even when it calmed down to mild discomfort, you still wouldn't touch me. We didn't have sex again until the twins were one. And that led to – "

Just then, a piercing cry made all but Beca jump. Baby cries has been the first thing she hears waking up and the last thing she hears before going to sleep- and waking up again, and sleeping, then waking – it never seemed to stop.

So, it never exactly startled her. If anything, it gave two nice matching stains onto the chest area of her new dress. So, lucky her. (And yeah, sundresses and lactating were not two things one might have once associated with the name Beca Mitchell, but there they were. And she loved it).

Beca Mitchell may not have taken too well to the idea of being a mommy, but Beca Swanson, as she reached into the crib and picked up her baby boy, her growing two year old, couldn't imagine a life otherwise. Spent doing other things, like drinking too much, or slutting it up for those Treblemakers, what she used to do, it was all so childish.

This – these beautiful dark eyes, and pursed, spittle coated lips – was all that mattered, was all that could ever matter to her now. Her babies. Her loves. Her prides and joys. Her gorgeous, little, very planned (to the surprise of both the Bellas and her parents) aca-children.

"Hello there, little Mikey. Who's a fussy little baby this morning? Huh?" she smiled down at him as his pinched face smoothed and his cries faded, with a smile at her.

"Mama! Morning!"

"That's a big boy. Do you wanna go see your brother and sister? Daddy's downstairs with them, yes he is."

If only the girls could see her now. Three and a half kids deep, wearing yesterday's maternity clothes and up before noon. They wouldn't know what to do with themselves. Except that they did, and they awed relentlessly over the child rearing, apron wearing, grocery shopping momma who'd made home in the body of Beca Mitchell – college acapella girl extraordinaire.

They'd all kept in touch over the years since they'd graduated – what's it been, like fourteen years? Holy cripes. (Damn Amy for pouring all of that Australian slang down her throat when they were younger. Look where it's gotten her).

Speaking of, Amy was rich as hell, currently travelling the world with her mother's inheritance and the stand-up (the sarcasm here is only seventy percent genuine) guy that she met on Tinder (he makes her happy – with his dark goatee and spiked up hair, so what could she say?)

Chloe was nearly finished vet school and engaged to her smoking hot marine (Beca may be married, but she wasn't blind, seriously, damn).

Cynthia Rose was still married and thriving, with flight school under her belt.

Stacy was on husband number three and raising little Bella like a champ.

Ashley and Jessica (right? Those were their names?) were living together (last she heard four years ago) with three other roommates like a mini sorority house on the outskirts of Barden.

Lily was a chef at a little hole in the wall restaurant with wicked knife skills and an authority to be reckoned with.

Aubrey had two children of her own with her cardiologist of a husband (whom she'd met after a particularly grisly panic attack) – one boy and one girl (Theo and Tia – they were prim and proper children, at five and four they spoke with the eloquence of adults and had not a hair out of place, ever).

Little Emily - Beca only called her this with affection, because she was a bit younger than the rest of them and it didn't seem like the woman minded too much, had finished grad school 2 years ago and she and Benji were planning a summer wedding. Emily was the Bella she'd been talking with most often because of her connection to their family (being Jesse's best friend's fiancée and all).

The four of them had weekly dinners (they only lived a few streets over from each other) and the couple was practically a built-in babysitter – out of all of the Bellas (though she would never dare say this to any of them) Auntie Emily was their children's most legitimate honorary aunt.

She saw them all the time. Molly was practically in love with her, begged to stay over for sleepovers and play Wii Karaoke while Emily braided her hair and Uncle Benji made cookies and put on a magic show. Anthony would jump at the bit to be one of (okay his only) volunteer from the audience – and squeal in delight when his Uncle Benji would saw him in half.

Beca could totally picture them with children of their own and Jesse bets that time will be in two years, max. She kind of hoped it wasn't too far off and that her husband was right, so that their kiddos could grow up together. But she only thought this in secret, of course.

Gently holding Michael against her chest, Beca descended the stairs from his nursery, smiling down at the baby as he began to mumble softly to himsef in her arms.

Jesse met her halfway and took him from her, leaving a kiss on her cheek as he did. Looking down at the child, he smiled animatedly. "Hey, buddy. How's little MJ Fox this beautiful morning?"

Beca rolled her eyes, watching as Jesse put their son down and he began to toddle around their kitchen. She should have never let him persuade her into naming their children after (apparently iconic) 80's movie stars. That was her mistake. The mistake that led to this one however, happened on their first Thanksgiving as an engaged couple – they spent it at his parents' house, to much chagrin from her father and step-monster (sorry, mother).

Over the long weekend he forced her to curl up beside him (this part didn't take much convincing at all) and watch as many of his favorite movies as they possibly could (this part did). It was the longest movie-cation in the history of the world. And they didn't even take make out breaks like they would've in college, because his mother kept popping her head in every ten minutes to make sure they weren't horizontal on his grandmother's sofa.

Geez, Janene, don't you want aca-grandchildren? Beca had always thought, each time she came into the room to ask if they wanted a drink or a more popcorn, like they were children incapable of doing anything for themselves).

And okay, Beca sort of loved Jesse's parents – she'd told him that at the end of their stay, only to see his eyes light up as he kissed the corner of her mouth, alert for any footfalls outside his bedroom door, closed for the time being.

Until Janene noticed and would likely open it again with zero discreteness and Stuart would give the two of them a nonverbal apology as he coaxed his wife downstairs once again, so that they could watch the eleven o'clock news (and leave the kids alone) is what he never said, but the intonation was there.

Janene and Stuart Swanson were the cookie cutter parents. She was the overprotective mama bear, always watching out (a little too closely) for her baby boy, and he was the go-with-the-flow, nonchalant-is-my-middle name, dad. He got involved, but not overly. He was the middle ground, keeping his wife sane as their son grew up, from a boy, to a teenager, to an adult. A man. A very nice man.

And so, because Jesse Swanson was a very nice man, who felt that celebratory sex would trump makeup sex, every time, Beca admitted to him that she actually enjoyed the Back to The Future trilogy. Even thought he bore resemblance to Michael J Fox a little bit. This one may have been a little bit of a stretch, but wow, did it get her laid. It got her laid in the back of the cab on the way to the airport, but still, it did what she hoped it would.

When the twins were born eight months later (their twins, like most, were early) Beca had joked with him that they should name the babies Taxi and Cab. It didn't go over all that well, because Jesse was exhausted, hadn't slept for thirty-six hours, and all he wanted to do, besides sleep, was hold his babies with normal names against his chest.

He'd been such a dad. From the second they were born.

When he suggested Molly for their little girl with her ruddy face and eerily silent breaths, he tried to have an air of spontaneity to it, but he couldn't fool her.

Molly Ringwald had been his celebrity crush since he was fourteen years old. The Breakfast Club defined his adolescence, his young adult years. It kind of defined hers, too. When she asked him about Anthony for a boy, without directly saying anything about their daughter's name, he knew. He knew that she was on board.

Though, still, she'd convinced Jesse to let her play a little joke on the Bellas. When they came into the room to see the babies, Beca stared lovingly down at them there on her chest and said, so solemnly, "aca-bitches, I'd like you to meet your honorary niece and nephew: Taxi and Cab Swanson."


Aubrey nearly had yet another panic attack, akin to the one she'd had thirty four hours before, when Jesse had called to say that she was in labor; Chloe's mouth dropped open, but she stayed silent; Cynthia Rose and Lily shook their heads, Emily tried to hide her grimace behind her hand and Amy mumbled 'nice' under her breath, nodding pensively, as if she actually were in favor of the name choices.

Beca gave it a minute and then burst out laughing. "Guys, actually? I'm not serious." She turned to Jesse with a smile. "Jess, did you want to do the honors?"

In response, he grinned, splaying out his hands, palms up. "Thing 1 is formally known as Anthony Robert Swanson, and Thing 2 is formally known as Molly Lincoln Swanson. They're fraternal," he supplied, when nobody said anything for a minute.

"No, shit," Aubrey said, bending over to hug Beca lightly. "Good going, Mitchell. I'm proud of you, maggot."

Beca rolled her eyes but hugged the woman back. "Thanks."

Chloe was next. She leaned over and kissed Beca's cheek. "Love you, Becs," she whispered, "They're adorable. And don't think I didn't catch your daughter's middle name. Lincoln Center. These other girls might not, but I did, and I think it's aca-super-sweet." She drew back with a secret smile.

"Thanks, Chlo. I mean, I may be biased but I think so, too."

Amy was last. She knelt down on the floor and took in the babies' faces for a minute, both sleeping peacefully. For now. Then, she spoke.

"They look like peeled potatoes. With their bald heads and thin eyelids. You can barely tell they have them. Are you sure your babies aren't aliens, Shawshank?"

Beca scoffed. "Yes, I'm sure. Jesus, you really have no filter, do you?"

Amy looked at her quizzically. "I thought you knew." Then she smiled. "Nah, they're cute. Enough. But really, The Breakfast Club? Beca, where's your spine?"

Before she could respond, Jesse beat her to it, squeezing her shoulder. "The Breakfast Club has been the guidepost of our entire relationship. Does Beca tell you guys anything?"

"You mean, other than about all the body-rocking sex you two have that's the total muse for another smashing Justin Timberlake hit? No, she really doesn't tell us much else. What's your name again?" Amy joked, amicably punching his shoulder.

In time with Jesse's scarlet blush, Amy continued.

"Of course, she does. We're her best friends. We know the details of your first kiss – okay, well so does everyone else in the whole acapella universe. You have strong tongue muscles, my man," she laughed, and Jesse almost chocked on his horror.

"That's nothing to be ashamed of, Jesse. I'm sure Beca will tell you the same thing, right Bec?" Chloe winked, and she shrunk further into her hospital bed, beyond embarrassed.


Of course, during that kiss, she was anything but, and appreciated his tongue muscles immensely, but the next day, when it was all over every news outlet in the state, man was she horrified. He'd felt the same, which made her feel a little better, and from that moment on, it had been the two of them against the world.

Beca shook her head to clear it of the memory. When she came out of it, she saw that Jesse was feeding the baby his bottle at the kitchen counter, where two empty bowls with spoons inside still sat. But no children.

"Jess? Where are the Twinners? Did you – "

He looked up from feeding their youngest his cereal to smile at her.

"I told them to get their little butts in gear and change out of their pyjamas, so they could be ready for Uncle Benji to pick them up in ten. Don't worry, I've got these daddy duties down pat. It's been three years, Bec. Don't doubt me now."

"Okay, good. Thanks," she told him, going up behind him and wrapping her arms around his torso and kissing the middle of his back – the only place she could reach, feeling the protrusion of his spine and the fabric of his t-shirt against her lips. "I love you."

He reached behind him with one hand and pulled – well more like smushed her closer to him. It was a little awkward, but she appreciated the gesture nonetheless. She loved being close to him. She had lost out on it for too many years, so to never take advantage of any moment this way would be an awful crime. It didn't matter that she could barely breathe.

"What brought this on?" he asked, smoothing her hair and then grabbed her hands, moving her so that they were face-to-face.

She stared into his searching gaze, the curiosity making her want to shrink into herself. She knew it wasn't but to her, it felt like scrutiny.

"I just – when we – "

His eyes softened even more, if that were even possible, and he ran his hands up and down her arms.

"When we, what? Bec, don't you hold out on me. When we what, sweetheart?"

He had never called her sweetheart when they were younger, said it reminded him too much of his father, and it was also something Beca had appreciated in her own way. At the time. For him, it seemed to be a nickname that came with age, or maybe, dare she say it for risk of sounding corny and stupid, it was something that came with tenderness.

When they'd broken up after their last year at Barden, there was yelling. So much yelling. It meant that they were serious about it. Too serious. She didn't want them to be serious, couldn't take it if they actually were, and yet, her last words to him were a screaming mess of some choice words and an "I don't even think I actually loved you!" for good measure.

She'd thought they didn't do dramatic, it wasn't ever something they'd made a habit of. Whenever they'd fought before, it was usually in sullen silence, until one of them – usually Jesse – would hug her close and whisper "I'm sorry" into her ear. It would happen at any time, too; she could never predict when, although she'd love to think she could, if only to plead the case of knowing her boyfriend better than he did himself.

Their first big fight was before they were even together. "Jesus Christ, that's perfect, of course you're here right now! I don't need your help, okay!? Can you back off!"

Of course, she'd felt terrible for saying that the second she said it. Of course, she did. She was pretty sure she loved him back then, in fact, she knew she loved him back then. She'd spent countless hours and all those Jesse-free days letting herself come to terms with that.

She could remember Benji calling out her name, could hear him running after her, but knew that if she turned around, she would end up in a hug that she desperately needed, in the middle of a god damn break down, tearfully admitting to his best friend, that she was so, totally, aca-unbelievably, in love with the one, the only, Jesse Swanson. And she couldn't do that. No way. She hadn't been ready, then.

So, she kept going, out the back door of the stadium and as far away from it all as she could get.

That ended up being against the fountain in the quad with her knees pulled up to her chest and tears streaming down her face, like she'd just gotten the news that someone very close to her, somebody who was so important to her, had just died. Or, like a girl who'd just lost the love of her life. Wasn't that the truth. It wasn't allowed to be until much later, not until the day she marched up to his dorm room and nearly lost it when she looked at his face.

Okay, so she did lose it a little bit. So, what? She was in love, dammit. It was protocol. "Jesse…"

When he closed the door on her, she just stood there for a minute, before walking away. Halfway down the hallway, she felt tears start to fall and swiped at them, angrily, murmuring a half-hearted. "Jesus," under her breath with a wet laugh that lacked all conviction.

When she got to her dorm room, she was glad Kimmy Jin was out because she let out a scream. A real, visceral, gut-wrenching scream, slamming her fists into her eye sockets and falling, actually quite ceremoniously, onto her bed in a fit of tears. "Beca Mitchell, you are such a fucking idiot," she berated herself, hiding her face in her hands.

Her mind flashed to their kiss again. "You're such a weirdo" Their lips had come together and separated and then came together again. Just before he kissed her again, he'd murmured 'I'm sorry,' against her mouth and she'd grinned against his, "me too," both of them fighting to keep their lips together. They didn't do dramatic. No, they did not.

So, when she walked out of his apartment in Los Angeles she didn't look back.

"Do you remember when we broke up? After Barden?" she asked him, and he stroked her cheek with a nod.

"Yeah. And baby, I wish I didn't," he told her with a sigh. "It was awful. It's topped every fight we've ever had and probably ever will have."

She agreed.

This wasn't like the time he ate the last of her favorite cereal from the dining hall their sophomore year (before the Bella's got their house, there was a lot of dining hall action – it was included in tuition and none of them were exactly in a position to refuse such college amenities). When she got back to her dorm, he was standing in the middle of the room with a sheepish grin and a miniature box of Fruit Loops.

With the pout she'd been rocking all day still in place on her lips, she walked up to him, sighed, took the cereal out of his hand and stared at him. He pulled her into a hug with a chuckle, and whispered "I'm sorry," into her hair.

She couldn't help it. She laughed. "Jess. We just fought about breakfast food. We're in the big leagues now."

It wasn't like the time when she got aca-seriously wasted at their junior year hood party. Chloe's words, not hers. She was sloppy and said some things, but he'd stayed with her throughout the entire night, and in the morning, with her skin dry and her head pounding, he told her he was sorry before she could've even thought to apologize to him.

She told him that he had nothing to be sorry for, but he refuted.

"It doesn't matter. Apologies are really important to me, Bec. You know that. No matter who was in the wrong. It's about smoothing things over on both ends."

The both of them prided themselves on mutual apologies since day one, it's what made their relationship work. It was steady. Equal. They could teach their own conflict resolution workshop on campus, they were that good. Until they weren't.

There were no apologies that day in LA. There was tears and general upset, but no apologies. For the first time in four years.

They fought about the distance, about it impacting her career, to which he responded "that internship!? Really Bec, it's been two years and they haven't bumped you to a paying job? Just blow them off. They don't need you."


"Yeah, well. I could say the same thing. Your job doesn't need you. Jesus, Jess. If you didn't take this stupid, next to nothing job, we'd still be happy right now. Probably living in New York. With two cats."

He crossed his arms over his chest. "I hate cats."

She mimicked him. "So do I."

He groaned in frustration. "Then why would we have cats? You're not making any sense, here."

"My point Jesse, is we could have been happy, until you came here. Fuck, dude. You left me the morning after graduation. You let me wake up alone, with the worst hangover I've ever had. How could you do that!?"

"I left you a note."

"Yeah, so, suddenly a note next to my pillow that says 'Love you, Bec. Call you when I get to LA. Hope you're not feeling too shitty. Jess. Xoxo' is the same as actually giving me a hug and kiss goodbye? You didn't even say it! And I hope you were puking your guts out in that tiny airplane bathroom. "

"I said xoxo! Kiss, hug, kiss, hug!"

"But you didn't say goodbye, Jesse! Just like my dad! The middle of the god damn night he just up and left! You know goodbyes are essential for me. And you ignored that."

He sighed. "Because I hate them. I know it's selfish but if I actually looked you in the face and said goodbye, I wouldn't go. I wouldn't have left."

"And maybe you shouldn't have. Maybe I hate that you did. I think I might actually hate you for leaving me."

"Beca, no. That's childish. Don't do that with me. We're adults. We can make it."

She rolled her eyes. "Clearly, we can't."

"Okay, in total, I used fourteen barf bags on that flight. Does that make you feel any better?" He tried to laugh, but it fell flat.

She fought the urge to scream. "Be serious. I'm done. I can't do this anymore. We tried. It didn't work, so what?"

Hurt flashed across his face and she had to look away. "So what? We love each other. We aren't just going to give up."

"And that's your choice to make? Feminist my ass. And you know what – "

Before she said those last, awful words, she paused. And he waited. His eyes never left her. Not even after. She could feel them on her back.


Before she even knew what was going on, there were tears. Tears just like the ones he couldn't see that day. She looked at her little baby in his high chair, at his eyes, his nose, his mouth, and at the little dimples in his knees. She marveled at how much he looked like her, at how much he looked like Jesse, and Molly, and Anthony, and fought the temptation to full on sob.

"Oh, Bec," he sighed, hugging her tightly to his chest. "I know you never met what you said. It's over now, done."

"He's so beautiful, Jess," was all she said, her tears strangling her words.

"Could you imagine if he never existed? And the twins? What if they weren't on this earth, either? If we were apart and god forbid you married Caroline and had tone deaf children and I – I married some guy who reminded me of my father to echo my daddy issues and had no children at all, or children that weren't yours.

"What If it wasn't inevitable after all, and our aca-children were just the hypothetical product of naive college kids boozed up with warm beer? What if I really did fuck it all up?"

"And you didn't," he hummed into her ear. "These what ifs are not doing anybody any good. I love you, I will always love you. And if you ever forget it, just look into the eyes of our wonderful, gorgeous aca-children and they will tell you all you need to know. Now, wipe those tears, my lady-love, before the Twinners see them."

Beca nodded with a lilting laugh and a shove to his shoulder. "I love you too. So, so, much. When did we become the mushy couple?"

Before he could answer her, the sound of little feet pounding down the stairs roused them completely from their thoughts.

"Mommy, Daddy! Are Auntie Emmy and Uncle Benny here yet?"

Both Molly and Anthony crashed against their parents' knees, hugging them tight, like they were both taking a stand to never, ever let go. She needed that.

She roped her hands through both heads of hair and then her husband's too, as his palm lay flat against both of their children's backs, the other one against hers.

"I don't think so, little chicks. I think – "

Just then, the doorbell rang, and both of the kids ran to get it as Michael moved his arms around with a smile and laugh, feeding off of the excitement of his siblings.

"Molly are you wearing your pyjamas still? And Anthony? Did your Momma and Daddy not get you two jumping beans dressed this morning?" Emily could be heard asking, and Beca rushed to the door, leaving Jesse with their youngest.

"Hey, Em. Oh my god, it's true! I thought Daddy told you two to get dressed fifteen minutes ago! Goobers," she chuckled, ruffling their hair as they leaned into her affection. She couldn't be mad at them right now.

"Hey! How's pregnancy treating you this time around?" Emily asked, her eyes on Beca's protruding belly as Jesse came into the entry way, the baby in his arms.

Michael walked towards her, his hands outstretched and Beca smiled, taking their littlest boy and nuzzling his soft, baby cheek. "It's been okay. Not glamorous. But okay."

She looked back at Jesse, who was nodding at her with a smile of contentment on his face that likely matched her own. "And I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world."


Author's Note: So? And I'm aware Beca's gotten slightly cheesier and that her young adult self would (and does) hate her for it. Even her thirty-something self wants to kick herself sometimes (as I hope it came across) but I'd like to believe Jesse brings it out of her. :)