Hollywood had taught Jesse that doors open both ways, both literally and metaphorically. Hollywood had taught him that the endings were the best part.
Late one night, when pizza and video games proved far more interesting than his term paper on modern art, Benji had taught him how a basic lock has five pins.
"That's five miniature puzzles a key has to solve to open the lock," he had said in between bites of pepperoni pizza, his new magic trick sitting in process on the desk next to him.
That meant there's five miniature puzzles to solve to open almost any door that opens both ways. Jesse had assured Beca he was filled with interesting facts. She had quipped, with that damn sexy smirk on her face, that he should let other people tell him they're interesting.
Maybe she was right: there was a line between confidence and trying too hard. That was a line he had inadvertently stepped over when trying to woo one Beca Mitchell. Jesse had just meant to be confident in who he was and not letting her attempts at distancing herself dissuade him. He had wanted her to follow his lead, to let him show her what she was missing when she only looked at the world around her through a filter of cynicism, hard-won through her parent's bitter divorce and a need to stand on her own. Jesse knew that now: Beca felt even letting one person in could be the first sure step in taking her eye off the prize and losing every dream she had. Even though she had fought it every step of the way, college had started to change Beca in every way he had thought it could when she would let it, but in the meantime he had begun to lock the door from his side, knowing he was too close and in too deep. It was during spring break that year when he locked it completely. She had made it abundantly clear that he wasn't allowed to care about her, and while he was pretty sure loved her he wasn't going to allow her to make him one more person she consistently kept at arm's length. He wouldn't settle for that distance. So the door got locked. He had little hope for it opening again. Beca Mitchell was more stubborn than a bull, and he didn't think she was quite prone to changing her mind once made up.
At the national championships, she had wished him good luck just as he was about to hit the stage. It was the first time that he could ever remember seeing Beca without that mask of cynicism he'd gotten so used to seeing. In all fairness, Jesse didn't know for sure what he was seeing there now. Guarded hope? A sense of resignation? He didn't know if he was imagining it, but damn she was so beautiful that it hurt to look at her. It took mentally reminding himself of why he was here to tear his eyes away and fix his focus on the stage. Seeing her like that, though… it was like one pin in the lock: one miniature puzzle solved.
There were fifty feet of people and chairs between him and the stage. He was grateful for the big picture his seat afforded him. Beca wasn't one for the spotlight, so she had let Aubrey have it, placing herself just off-center. Off-center suited Beca: she looked good there, like how some pictures were meant to be taken at an angle. Beca was made more for innovations and accolades than limelight and fans. She was just a little bit different, and Jesse didn't want that to go away. Her influence on the Bellas showed: it was like she told them to bring themselves and the music would follow. Her apparent acceptance of what everyone had to bring to the table told him that she had at least let these girls in and maybe shared part of herself in the process. He knew from talking to mutual friends that she had apologized, which in and of itself was a mighty feat. He had asked her before to figure out why she pushed away anyone that could even think to care about her, and maybe she had found her answer. He wasn't sure, but it was obvious that she had made some changes. When she blew the pitch pipe and softly counted to four, he felt a second set of pins be solved. One more obstacle overcome, another puzzle solved. He put on as ambivalent of a mask as he possibly could, but couldn't quite hide his curiosity.
Beca was the focus now, as her voice rose above the others slightly to call attention to her song. The Bellas parted in the middle, and the moment she sang the first note he heard a third pin solve in the back of his mind. She had listened to him. She had tried to come a little bit into his world. She had sat through a movie for him, which made him happier than he would like to admit, and there she was at center stage with her eyes and voice locked tight on him. It had taken time, but she had followed his lead. It may have been late in the game, but when her voice dropped slightly lower and growled at him, he felt like he owed her something that would let her know he had heard her. Slowly, Jesse raised the defiantly closed fist of a rebellious Judd Nelson in the air and saw her fist punch up in response. He didn't even care that the fourth pin had been solved.
His lock was wiggly, barely hanging on. It was weak, and right now he wasn't too sure if he cared that she could bust the door down. He kind of hoped she would. As she bounded down the stairs and up to the row of seats behind him he tried not to let his hope show, tried not to let it show that all it would take is one more gentle push of the key she had held since he had seen her next to the taxi on that first day. She didn't know it then, but neither had he. There was only one more miniature puzzle to solve, and he was anxious, terrified, and hopeful as her eyes met his once more.
"Told you," he said as she approached, "endings are the best part."
"You're such a weirdo," she said breathlessly.
Her arms slid willingly around his neck, and lips he had only had a chance to fantasize about insistently pressed on his, telling him she wanted in. The fifth pin solved itself without a single note of protest.
It was five in the morning when he heard a gentle knock on his hotel room door. He got up off the bed, where he hadn't been sleeping anyway, and walked barefoot to the door. He undid both of the door locks and pressed down on the handle. Beca was alone in the brightly-lit corridor. Her makeup was smudged, her hair was in a messy bundle on top of her head, and her tank top and shorts were wrinkled like she had just rolled out of bed. She'd never looked better.
"I couldn't sleep," she said after a moment, when it was evident he wasn't going to talk.
"Neither could I," he confessed. "Do you want to come in?"
Now the door was open wider than he had ever opened it before, allowing her one last chance to tell him no, even after that kiss. She had opened the lock – he couldn't turn her away now. Even if her room was only down the hall, it had been a long journey for her whereas it had only been a very long wait for him.
Her white socks walked across the threshold and onto the light brown carpet of his room. She looked around as if the room looked alien to her, even though he knew it didn't, and then she looked at him.
"I didn't know if you would be asleep, or if you'd even open the door if I knocked," she said, unsure.
She looked small and vulnerable. Her weight shifted. Jesse wanted to hold her, breathe her in. He wanted to block the door so she couldn't leave. He wanted to pick her up by her tiny waist and tell her just how badly he wanted her in his life.
"I stayed up all night waiting for that knock, Beca." Soft words moved past his lips without thinking, and she moved to stand directly in front of him. As she searched his face he didn't hide how much he wanted this. Wanted her. Needed her. Loved her. Ah, hell.
"Because the endings are the best part?" she asked quietly as her fingertips trailed down his chest, dark eyes daring him to say no.
"They are," he said as his hands reached for her, his thumbs making small circles on her hips, his feet moving forward without thinking. "But they're so predictable."
Neither of them looked away as they moved gradually. Jesse bent his head down slightly to her left, inhaling the smell of her skin as he left a small kiss on her neck. She gasped softly, her hands coming up to grip on his upper arms. He waited for a protest that didn't come.
"Like the boy sees dead people," she whispered as her back hit the wall behind her, her hand undoing the string at his waistband as he kissed her behind the ear, her head tilting to make his life easier. His hands left her hips, pushing fabric up her smooth stomach.
"And Darth Vader is Luke's father," his voice became even more hushed as he lifted Beca's arms and tank top above her head. The top landed somewhere to his right.
Beca stood on her tiptoes and, bracing her hands on his chest, looked him straight in the eye. There was no question in her face or on her lips. There was no cynicism, no protest. He loved it.
"And the boy," she said simply as her lips neared his and her hands slid across his skin, "gets the girl."