A/R: Haha, hello, there! To all you Twifans, I'm sorry this isn't Neph. I know it's been five months since I updated that, but, I really have no excuse. I'll leave that for the angry PMs, however, and get on with this.

I have to say, I was bored. I don't know what I'm doing here, but this is definitely AU. Beca is still a coolio music lover, but not in exactly the same way as she used to be. It'll get there, though.

I don't know if I'm going to continue this, but I've set it up for a second chapter. It's just 3,743 words, definitely not as long as I'm used to writing, but it just seemed to stop there. Maybe I should've stopped earlier, but, I dunno.

Review, favorite, follow, or whatever. Tell me if I should continue this, 'cause I dunno. I'm not sure.

Disclaimer: Though my name IS Bekah, I sadly don't own the character, or anything associated with her. Or YouTube. Or anything even slightly publicly recognizable. These are troubling times in the kingdom.

Housemates Ch.1

I was six when my mother died. It wasn't too tragic of an occurrence since I hadn't seen her since I was two. I didn't even remember her. She had decided a bit late that she couldn't be a mother while in college, and so she left me with my grandmother. It wasn't the best decision to leave me in another state and never visit if she had ever planned on being in my life later on, but Gramma never held much respect for her daughter and told me so on many occasions. Though, she would tell me that I should always respect her for the simple fact that she had given me life, it didn't mean I had to love her. And I didn't. How could I love a stranger?

I was ten when my father died. It was much the same as when my mother did, since I didn't even know I had a father until Gramma had told me that someone found his body dead in a ditch somewhere. It turned out it wasn't foul play and he was just gone with alcohol poisoning. Gramma told me he was sick with grief when he heard my mother had died and had drunk himself to death. Apparently he had wanted to know me, but my mother wouldn't let him because he was a dead beat with no job and an alcohol addiction. He loved her too much to push, and he wasn't even aware when I was moved across the country to live with my grandmother. I felt a little regret at his passing, though. I think I always would. At least he had wanted me.

I grew up normally. Well, as normal as a retired old lady could give me. I was in school until the first grade, when I had to be pulled out because my grandmother couldn't afford it when taxes turned around. She didn't like public schools anyway and felt I would do much better being homeschooled, so that happened. She was right, I did excel faster, but for the first year I missed the other kids. I would try to go play with them outside, but they would make fun of me for being homeschooled, so I got over that pretty quickly.

I never was one for socializing after that. I mean, sure, I could talk to someone perfectly well if they started the conversation, but I would never go up to someone and just start talking to them. That wasn't how I rolled. It just felt awkward, you know? I mean, what kind of person walks up to a perfect stranger and starts up a conversation? A rude one, I'll tell you that.

I was scared of a lot as a child. I couldn't stand big dogs or lizards, I was afraid of the dark and scared of reading (I thought I was going to get a paper cut and was going to bleed out until I was a husk), just to name a few, and don't even get me started on cats. I'm still wary of them. I swear, they're aliens… anyway, getting back on topic. I was scared of a lot as a child. It was intense and I would end up crying a whole lot and wouldn't stop until my Gramma would sing me a song and rock me, petting my head. It got so bad that my Gramma couldn't stand it any longer and sat me down and we had a talk.

"Beca, I'm sorry, but this is getting out of hand." she said to me, kneeling in front of my seven year old self, her wrinkly hands on my shoulders. "You need to stop being so scared of everything."

"But, Gramma," I whined, my eyes tearing up as my mind was brought back to whatever scary thing I had just been subjected to outside. "It's gonna get me!"

"Sweetie, it's not gonna get you. It's not scary, I swear." she kissed me on the forehead, but I just wiped it off and shook my head vehemently, my own kiddie logic excelling over her oldie logic.

"Yes, it is!" I rubbed my eyes and sniffled, snot running down my nose. I'm not proud of that moment. "It's gonna get me and you'll be left here all alone, and then it's gonna get you, too!"

"Aww, sweetheart, is that what you're afraid of?" my Gramma asked, hugging me to her. I nodded mutely, tears rolling down my face as I wiped them away as fast as I could. I wasn't proud of that moment then, either. She smiled and pulled away so she could look into my eyes. "Then if you don't want it to get me, then you're going to have to beat it."

"…Beat it?" I was confused, and my tears momentarily stopped as I tried to think this over.

"Yes, you're going to have to defeat whatever you think is going to hurt you – or me!" she smiled wider. "You can be my own little hero. Would you like that? To be my hero?"

I nodded vehemently, my eyes red rimmed and eager.

"Can I be a superhero?" I asked loudly, my fears suddenly forgotten. Children can be so simple at times.

"Yes, you can, sweetie. You can be my own little batgirl."

And thus was the origin on my Gramma's nickname for me for the rest of my natural life. From that day onward, I would face every one of my fears until it didn't scare me anymore. I learned that lizards weren't so bad if you didn't startle them, books wouldn't suck me dry like a vampire, and dogs were just big ol' softies if you could be patient and slow with them. To help with the dark and my general fear of monsters, my Gramma put me in kung fu. I stuck with that for as long as possible before we couldn't afford it anymore, which was around the time I turned fourteen.

Seven years of drills and getting up early in the morning instilled a fondness for exercise in me, however, and I would often get up at six in the morning to go running and practice some forms before collapsing on the living room couch and falling asleep (who would let all that great self-defense training go to waste by disuse?). I never let myself get out of shape, and didn't particularly care for greasy foods, so I was relatively healthy. Though, I did enjoy indulging my massive sweet tooth every once in a while.

About the same time I was forced to quit my martial art, I took up a job on a paper route. I got it done quickly and was able to make a lot more money than the average person because of how fast I could go on a bike.

However, we were quickly running out of money, my Gramma's retirement fund not having been intended for two people. I had to quit my job on the paper route only a year in because my bike got trashed when a car ran a stop sign while I was walking it across a cross walk. Needless to say, it hit me and I was in the hospital for three months with a concussion, two broken arms, three fractured ribs, and a bunch of cuts and bruises. Oh, and I landed on a pile of trash with a mirror leaning against the trash can. Luckily, the glass missed my spine and didn't go deep enough to puncture anything important, but they had to do surgery to get it all out. I have this wicked scar down my back now, but I would feel uncomfortable showing it to anyone, so I can't even enjoy it.

After recuperating, I was sixteen and strapped for cash. My Gramma wasn't physically able to do the sort of work that would keep us afloat on her own, and had to go out of retirement to work at a convenience store. I got a job as soon as I was able and helped out as much as I could. Together, we managed.

Two months into that, and I realized that I would need another job. Me having been homeschooled and graduated from High school at the age of 14 (my Gramma was a teacher in her younger days, as she'd say), I was already working as much as I could, legally, and the other half was upkeep on the house. The only days I had off were the weekends, and those days I would spend with my Gramma just hanging around or accompanying her to her frequent doctor visits.

I was walking home one day when I noticed that the path I would usually take was blocked off for construction. Not one for daring moves, I took an alternate route which took me by the local park, and noticed a meeting going on. Now, I'm not one for snooping, but there were three adults in the entire group and the rest were kids my age or younger. Odd, am I right? So, not helping but being a little curious, I slowed down and listened in, my interest being piqued immediately when I heard the word "money".

I stuck around long enough to listen to the rest of the meeting, which, get this, was about refereeing soccer. Like, blowing whistles and telling little kids what to do. And you got paid for that? Sign me up. I stayed until everyone left except for the adults and I approached them, curious. I asked them about it and they gave me a web address to go to for more information, a rule book, and the head guy's email address so I could contact him if I ever wanted to be scheduled.

Needless to say, I got on that right away.

After four months of doing that I was rolling in dough. Being my age and having my smarts along with my level of fitness, and I was moved up in the ranks quickly. I got as high as I could, being the lowest grade ref, and would level up as fast as possible. I learned that when you got to a certain rank, you got paid for just showing up, so you could believe that was where I was aiming, though I couldn't do it at my age.

I was bringing home a bunch more extra money, catching an average of ten games a day (at different fields, since they wouldn't give me more than four if they could help it, no matter how I argued that I was young and fit and could take it) at thirty dollars a game and up. I was working only on the weekends, however, still having to work my normal day-to-day job.

It was through that sport that I met probably my only friend. His name was Jesse and he was a defender on a team I had reffed. I had called a foul on him that ended up getting him ejected from the game and kicked out of the complex when he had challenged. After the game, he approached me in the parking lot, probably to just complain about the call and give me a hard time, but I, being an ex martial artist and all, punched him in the nose. After that, he wouldn't leave me alone, and we eventually grew close. He would hang around me, keeping me company between my games and I would cheer him on when I wasn't reffing his games. Sometimes, he would come over at the end of the day and we would relax and play board games or something, but only on the weekends. The weekdays were off-limits because as soon as I was eighteen I would be working full time and would fall asleep as soon as I got home.

The soccer season only lasted for Spring and Fall, however, so I wouldn't have much in between. I would work tournaments as much as I could in the summer, but my Gramma would restrict me, saying I was going to kill myself in the heat. She really didn't like me working as much as I did normally, but she couldn't argue that we needed the money, so she reluctantly let me go.

Sometimes, my Gramma would refuse to take the money I earned on weekends, saying I needed some for myself. She told me to go buy something fancy, that kids my age should be resplendent in gadgets and doo dads. I would reluctantly keep the money, but instead of spending it, I would put it in the bank to collect dust and hopefully earn interest.

My Gramma and I were walking around Mainstreet one weekend since I hadn't been able to nab any games and she wanted to get out of the house, when we passed a tattoo parlor. I was immediately interested and stopped to look in the window and watch as someone was getting a tattoo on their wrist. It was a pretty redhead that was just a bit older than me and dressed like someone from out of the country. When she was finished and they were applying the bandages, she looked up and we met eyes. Curiously, I felt like blushing, but my face went stone straight and lost all emotion. The smile she had been wearing when she looked up had faltered, and I immediately started walking the opposite way we had come, leaving behind the tattoo parlor and all previous thoughts of possibly getting one, one day.

A month later, and my Gramma surprised me with a book of tattoos. I can say I was honestly moved and I might have cried a little, but I'm not confirming anything. She and I went out and got one the next weekend I was free and I couldn't have been happier. I got a grasshopper on my right arm, slightly higher than my wrist. It was kind of a special pick for me, because bugs were the first things I had become unafraid of. Grasshoppers specifically. They were so big and they jumped really high and frightened me to no end. Eventually I ended up liking them, but it was a big step for me. It represented courage to me and reminded me that no matter what, I would face my fears. I hugged my Gramma for ten minutes straight afterwards.

I got more tattoos as time went on (though none in an area I couldn't cover up if need be), each one of them meaning something to me, though I won't get into specifics. The piercings naturally followed the tattoos, and, luckily, my Gramma loved them (she said they were "bad girl personified" whatever that means). Jesse accompanied me every time after the first one, and even got a small one (he said it was a snake, but it was obviously a worm) on his bicep. He cried. Needless to say, I laughed. There was a time, though, after I got my second one, that I watched a street performer playing a keyboard on the side of the road and selling CDs. It was amazing. I'd never seen someone play an instrument before for lack of interest in the topic, but the emotion on his face and the clarity in his voice was amazing. It moved me and I wasn't the same afterwards.

All my time after that was spent listening to music and keeping an eye out for deals on musical instruments that I could get cheap. Jesse gave me my first guitar, and I gave him his first hug from me. He would bring me music and books on learning, but the books never really worked for me. The money that my Gramma forced me to keep came in handy here, and what I hadn't used for tattoos, I used to buy instruments. My free time was spent watching YouTube and teaching myself to play while Jesse watched on my bed and made suggestions. Apparently his uncle had taught him some stuff when he was ten, and I can say I was glad for his input. I can't say I was any good, but I wasn't horrible. I taught myself all the chords on a guitar, the beats to a drum, and the keys on a piano. I had to make do with a paper piano, though, because I could never find the perfect one, but I settled. It was enough right then.

My entire life had been spent working and caring for my Gramma, from seven years old to nineteen, and I hadn't intended on stopping any time soon.

Everything was disrupted however, with a bang.

Literally.

I was sitting alone in my room (Jesse had been busy, and the season had ended last weekend, so I was free to enjoy me time) at my seventy billion year old computer, in the middle of watching a video of a guy do a solo on his bass guitar and trying to commit the chords to memory when my Gramma knocked on the door.

"Come in!" I called, pausing the video and taking my head phones off of my ears and sliding them down to my neck. Out of all my electronics, my headphones and my iPod were the only things that were even relatively new. I spun around in my used swivel chair and looked at her expectantly.

"Beca, I have some news." she said, smiling. I hesitated, not liking the way she phrased that statement, but ultimately I had to ask what it was. The suspense was killing me. (Not really, but I was curious, and she looked like she wanted me to ask.)

"What… kind of news?" I asked, taking my headphones off of my neck and setting them down on my desk.

"Oh… news, news." she said vaguely, her hands vaguely circling in vague circles. She smiled at me and I narrowed my eyes.

"What did you do, Gramma?" I asked, my voice suspicious.

"Oh, my little Batgirl, it's nothing to worry about." she said, entering my room fully and plopping down on my bed. "Just a little change in our lives that will let the workload off our shoulders a bit. It'll be great, I guarantee!"

"Gramma…" I warned. I knew she only called me Batgirl when I was being unbearably sweet or she had done something wrong. I don't remember being sweet, so obviously she was being bad. "What. Did. You. Do?"

"Oh, you know my friend from work, Bernie?" she asked, her eyes avoiding mine entirely.

"The foreign lady?" I asked, my eyebrow quirked. "The one from Scotland? What about her?"

"Well, her house blew up-"

"What!?" I shouted, leaping to my feet, my chair flying backwards and knocking my bag of gummy worms off my desk and to the floor. "Is she okay!? Is her house okay!? Oh, God, is she dead!? Does her family know!? What do we-"

"Beca!" my Gramma interrupted me in the middle of my freak out, laughing a little at my hysteria. "She's fine! She was out when it happened. Gas leak or something. Her house is completely blown to bits, burned down and everything. She just needs a place to stay!"

"Oh," I said, my entire body relaxing as the panic leaked out of my system. "That's good. Great." I sat down on my bed and glanced up at my Gramma. "You sure she's okay?"

"Oh, my little Batgirl, always worrying about others," my Gramma said, the warmest smile in the world on her face. "Of course she's fine. I just wanted to let you know that she'll be moving in with us."

"Well," I said, letting out a relieved breath and rubbing the back of my neck, suddenly tired. "That's fine, I guess." we may not have been doing too well on money, but the house had been in the family for generations so it was no slouch. We could definitely fit another person in. I looked back at my Gramma. "She's still working, right?"

"Yes, dear, and she'll be paying rent, too. I tried to argue against it, but she wouldn't have it. I gave her a decreased rate, though." she winked at me and I smiled. I loved my Gramma.

"I guess that's fine. So when's she moving in?"

"Actually-"

My Gramma was cut off by the ringing of a doorbell. I looked up at her, incredulous, as she got up and scooted quickly out of the room, going to answer the door. I stared after her for a few seconds, stunned, before sighing in exasperation and getting up to go after her.

When I got to the living room I could see my Gramma standing at the doorway with two people carrying bags and talking animatedly with her. I was about to walk up and greet them when I stopped. Wait – two people? I looked confusedly at the lady being hidden slightly by Bernie – though she was obviously taller than the older woman – and when the lady moved forward to set her luggage down, I got a good look at the second visitor.

She was tall, freckled, and had curly auburn locks trailing down past her shoulders. Did I mention she was absolutely gorgeous? I didn't? Well, she was. She sensed someone looking at her and glanced my way and I swear she had the clearest blue eyes I had ever seen, much brighter than my dark navy. My face went completely emotionless in my own odd version of a blush and her eyes flashed in recognition. I mentally scrunched my eyebrows as my outer appearance stayed uninterested. She did seem familiar, but who was she?

"And, I know you've met my granddaughter, Beca," my Gramma said, motioning towards me, breaking me and the redhead from our silent staring contest. I was totally winning, by the way.

"Of course, Joyce, she's a dear." Bernie said, smiling at me. "Though I don't believe my niece has."

"Oh, of course," my Gramma said, her smile brightening. "Beca, this is Chloe, Chloe, Beca. Chloe will be staying with us, as well, until she moves back to Scotland."

The redhead – Chloe – moved forward and took my hand, shaking it firmly, her eyes alight with mischief.

"Hello," she said, her accent is light like her aunt's, probably from spending years in different countries, but still recognizable. "I believe I know you."

A/R: Hey, so, how'd you like it? Feel free to tell me in whatever way you like. Suggest things you want to see, or things you think I should change. Critique my writing, but, please make it constructively critistic.

Also, keep in mind, that just because you suggest something, doesn't mean it'll happen, whether it's a change to be made in the chapter, story as a whole, or something you'd like to see. I will read every suggestion and critique and take them into consideration. I will also be sure to give credit where credit is due if I DO end up making changes or using ideas. I IS FAIR.

Review, favorite, follow, go to sleep because you have to work in the morning, or just go enjoy a good old book.

-Peace, G.C.