Author's Note: I know it's after Christmas, but this has been in my head and now I finally have the chance to write it out. It's probably only be about three or four chapters, just a little Christmas tale about the two extremes one girl's Christmas. Bechloe endgame. Enjoy! Read and review, please! (It will encourage me to post faster...)

"Rebecca! Come down here!" Beca's father called but she didn't notice. She did however notice when her headphones are yanked off her ears.

"Hey!" she yelled, protesting at whoever is disturbing her concentration. She turned to face her father. "I was in the middle of something."

"You're always in the middle of some P Diddy thing, Rebecca," he said, disapprovingly. "I've been calling you for nearly ten minutes. It's time to go to the Christmas party, and you're making us late."

"I don't see why I have to go. I'd really rather just stay here and get some work down."

"It's family, Rebecca," he said, exasperated. "Christmas is a time for family."

"It's not my family," she protested, yet again.

"You are my daughter, I am married to Sheila, therefore Sheila's family is your family. Stop this childish pretending."

"I still don't see why I couldn't have just gone to Oregon and spent it with Mom..."

"Your mother has had you for the last eight Christmases. It's my turn now. She agreed."

"It should be my choice. It's not like it's an issue of child custody anymore. I'm nineteen, an adult."

"Then get your act together and start acting like it, Rebecca. Downstairs, five minutes, wear something reasonable. No plaid, no jeans, nothing torn, cover your ears or take out those spikes, and absolutely no headphones. If I don't like what you're wearing when you come down, Sheila will choose something for you and you will have no choice in the matter." He left without waiting for an answer.

Sighing, Beca closed her laptop and turned to face her closet. "Hard to act like an adult when you refuse to treat me like one, Dad. And it's Beca. How is that so hard to remember? It's one syllable less even. It's not like I want to be called...Wilhemina, or something like that..." She finally pulled out a pair of black slacks and a dark green scoop neck sweater, figuring that they couldn't find something to complain about even if the shade of her sweater wasn't quite the right Christmas shade. She added her favorite pair of black boots, a black jacket, and a dark grey scarf. No plaid, no jeans, nothing torn, leave my hair down to cover my ears, tuck earbuds in pocket. Requirements, check.

"REBECCA!" And just in time too. She grabbed her purse and walked leisurely down the stairs, knowing that it would piss them off.

And indeed it did. "I thought I told you to hurry," her dad grumbled. "At least you put on something decent for once, even if you look more like you're going to a funeral than a Christmas party."

She pulled her jacket open, revealing the sweater. "I'm wearing green. That's a Christmas color."

"True," he grumbled. "But ditch the bracelets; they're tacky."

"Daaaaadddd..."

"Now, Rebecca."

"Fine," she said, stripping them from her wrists and depositing them on a side table. "Happy?"

"Are we done fussing over the girl? Can we get going now?" Sheila asked impatiently. "We're late. I hate being late." Beca got the distinct impression that her step-monster would prefer her to stay at home as well. As much as sharing an opinion with the step-monster irked her, she wondered if maybe they shouldn't team up against her father on this one. But it was too late, as she was already being ushered into the back seat of her father's car.

Sheila's aunt lived in Barden as well, but across the town from the university; it was her Christmas Eve party that they were attending. The party was, apparently, a family tradition, complete with a big dinner and going together to Midnight Mass, an activity Beca definitely wasn't a fan of. She was not Catholic, her mother was not Catholic, her father was not Catholic when she remembered living with him, but Sheila was and now suddenly her father was going to Mass every Sunday. And, apparently, in the middle of the night on special holidays. And now, Beca was, too, and being forced to participate in a religion, especially one she was not a part of and knew nothing of, was not exactly her cup of tea.

She pondered over the changes in her father as they drove across Barden, while staring out the window at the lighted houses. She hated him prancing into her life last year, forcing her to go to Barden (for free) so she could have the "college experience" rather than helping her pursue her dream. Then there was the times he would just show up unannounced at her dorm, acting like he belonged there. And then there was the whole incident with the police, when he did come and bail her out but then got all angry, refusing to even hear her side of the story. But eventually, toward the end of the year, they did start to have a semi-congenial relationship again, and he helped her realize that she should go back to the Bellas, which turned out to be the best decision she ever made. And the fact that she stayed at Barden for the next year certainly made him happy, which was a side effect though not her original intent. But then he blew hot again when she declared a major in Music and a minor in Business, yelling at it not being a responsible choice that would lead to a good job and career. Well, it's not like Philosophy would've been a good choice either, she thought. And following this, there were other incidents where he'd cycle between negative and positive, and it all just made her head spin to the point that she just couldn't anticipate how he'd react to anything. Take tonight, for example. Seemed a little over the top, didn't it?

Sheila's aunt lived in a big house, a really big house that spoke "old money". And there must've been a dozen cars in the driveway and on the street. Great, a bunch of people she didn't know. Dragging her feet and trying to go unnoticed, she entered the house behind her father and step-monster. A blur of faces and introductions, comments and conversations later, she finally found herself in an empty hallway, breathing a little heavily. Crowds of people weren't her strong suit at the best of times, except maybe when she was in her element, and the comments about the "little alt stepdaughter" bothered her. Even Aubrey had finally stopped calling her that. Her phone buzzed in her pocket, signaling a text.

Chloe: Happy Christmas Eve! :)

Beca: Somebody likes the holidays. ;)

Chloe: It's the most wonderful time of the year. :)

Beca: So says you.

Chloe: What? Are you being Grinchy, stuck in your room mixing? :(

Beca: No, though I'd rather be.

Chloe: Where are you?

Beca: Got dragged to Sheila's aunt's Xmas party, full of people I don't know who I think have been talking to Aubrey.

Chloe: What?

Beca: They call me the "little alt stepdaughter".

Chloe: Hahahaha. No worries though, Aubrey's home with her family in South Carolina, and I'm fairly certain her family has no connections with Sheila's, or else we would have figured that out by now.

Beca: What about you? Why are you texting me Xmas eve, not hanging with your family?

Chloe: My family all came up to my grandmother's for Xmas, she lives in Atlanta. The house is overflowing with people; I just needed some air.

Beca: Chloe Beale, not at the center of things on Xmas? I'm shocked!

Chloe: Hey, I'll get back there in a minute! ;) But it's literally so crowded, I'm sleeping at my apartment tonight.

Beca: Don't drink and drive! Make good choices!

Chloe: That's what you said to me at the initiation party. Remember what I said?

Beca: That we'd be fast friends.

Chloe: I was right, wasn't I?

Beca barely had a chance to read Chloe's message before her phone was abruptly removed from her hands. "Hey!" she yelled, protesting the intrusion. Just like earlier that evening, she looked up to see her father.

"Stop being antisocial, Rebecca. You're making Sheila and me look bad. Since you obviously can't be mature enough to keep off your phone during a family gathering, I'll hold onto it for the rest of the night." He shut it off completely and slipped it into the pocket of his blazer. "Now, come on, Rebecca."

"It's Beca," she muttered. Sometimes he actually got it right; why couldn't he seem to remember tonight?

He marched her out to the living room and seated her on a empty chair, settling himself in a neighboring chair. When one of Sheila's relatives offered her wine, he said she was underage and poured her sparkling apple cider instead. She didn't even like sparkling apple cider, so she just held the glass to give her hands something to do as the conversation swirled around her, about people and places she knew nothing about and cared nothing for, as she let her mind wander, building musical castles in the air.

"Rebecca?" Her father's voice brought her out of her mental mixing. She noticed that conversation in this group of people had ceased, though she still heard snippets of it coming from other rooms.

"Sorry, what?"

"Stop daydreaming. George asked you about Barden, and how it was going." He gestured to a man sitting a few chairs away.

"It's going well. I'm in my second year, taking music and business classes. I also intern at the radio station and I'm the captain of an acapella group on campus." She kept it short and simple, hoping that would satisfy him.

"Music and business? Are you majoring in Business? I have an MBA in Economics from Princeton. Have you taken any economics yet?"

"I'm majoring in Music, actually, and minoring in Business. I want to produce albums in L.A., work with the big names of the biz."

"Oh. That seems impractical." He deflated a little, eying her skeptically, before turning to her father. "John, what are your thoughts? Are you supporting this dream, by funding her college education?"

"I have been telling Rebecca for many years that her dreams are impractical, and yet she still does not listen to me. At least I'm not wasting my money on her tuition; it's free due to my position on the faculty."

"Well, that's something I guess." He turned back to Beca. "Little girl, I hope you realize what your father is trying to tell you before you end up homeless, on the streets."

"It's that, or try to marry money," a woman broke in. "But dear, you're really going to have to do something about that look of your's if that's your goal."

"Then I guess I'm just fortunate it isn't."

"Do you intend to find a man at all?"

"I've had relationships."

"She recently broke up with her boyfriend," Sheila interjected, now joining the conversation. "He was a nice man, too. I just don't see why you had to ruin that, Rebecca."

Beca started to say something, but the first woman beat her too it, "Kids these days. Why, in my day..." At this point, she zoned out again, picking up her mental mixing right where she left off. Sentences that started out that way – "in my day" – never ended well.

Pretty soon, they all sat down to eat (and pray) at the huge dining table. Beca was near one end, between her father and a man she didn't know, but who ended up not saying a word through the entire meal, which was fine by her. Her father didn't speak much to her, either, except to tell her to pass this dish or that dish. Beca ate lightly, these not being foods that she particularly enjoyed. They were far too rich, and the main dish was fish. Beca had not eaten fish in years, a fact of which her father knew, and yet he dumped a big hunk of it on her plate anyway and scolded her quietly when she refused to touch it.

And the end of the meal, he volunteered her to help Sheila's cousin clear the dishes. Sheila's cousin turned out to be the daughter of the woman who had talked about marrying money, and it was clear from her attitude and clothes that she had taken her mother's advice. Catherine was about ten years older than Beca, and they were the youngest two people there.

"Are there no children in this family?" Beca asked, commenting on the fact that they seemed to be the youngest two people there.

"They are otherwise occupied at a Christmas party of their own, geared towards their more tender years," she answered primly, with a look at Beca that suggested she wasn't sure Beca herself qualified for the adult party. "Now rinse these," she ordered. "In hot water."

Sighing, Beca turned on the faucet and accepted the plate, running it under the hot water to get what food crumbs Catherine didn't scrape into the trash can off, before putting it in the dishwasher.

"No, you're doing it wrong. Don't you know anything? You have to scrub the food off, or else it will stick and not clean well. My eldest is nine and she knows more about washing dishes than you. And you're getting your sleeves sopping wet," she complained, reaching over to tug them up herself before Beca could move to stop her.

"Wait..." Beca plead, too late to prevent what the sleeves had hidden- the thin lines of red, tan, and white from being revealed on her forearms.