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As someone whose world is made of squiggly notes in between bar lines, majors, minors, diminished and augmented triads, Beca Mitchell knows that she's a little slow on the other aspects of life.

She excels in theory – she's someone who manipulates music, duh – such as how Hollywood plots its movies, that getting hurt doesn't compensate for missing out on certain things, and how maybe some couples are just better people when separated than when together.

And as a child of parents who overindulged her with electronics to make up for missed outings, empty seats in performances, and a table-for-one at dinner five times a week, she's learned to rely on Wikipedia, Google and message boards for survival advice.

She knows – she knows that she should run away from strangers who barge into her shower, coerce her to sing their lady jam and bring her into a cult. She should slam the door at the face of the goofy boy-next-door, who's managed to knock a few bricks off her wall through sheer bullheadedness. And now, she should consider her end of the bargain well fulfilled, and hightail it to the place of her calling.

So when she does nothing of that sort, and finds herself running back to said cult after storming off, into the arms of said boy-next-door, and planning the set for next year's competition, she knows Chloe must have been talking out of her ass the night she handed Beca the chalice and told her it was Boone's Farm.

She's willing to bet her headphones that it was industrial strength Kool-Aid that Chloe probably doesn't even know about. She wouldn't put it past Aubrey.

Speaking of which.

The co-captain was waving all the Bellas over for a group photo with the trophy. As they gather on stage, people half covering their ears against the shrill-as-always places, everyone, Beca hangs around at the back and contemplates shifting her Bella's scarf from her wrist to her neck.

One never knows if working for Aubrey Posen involves a twenty-four-seven stand-by – and, in this case – for disobedient Bellas. Even if the Bella-in-suspect helped give the Treblemakers their biggest beat down in years.

But before she can search Google on whether wolves preferred to use their nails or teeth when gently extracting vocal chords, sweaty hands pull her to the front.

"Wait, don't –"

…make eye contact.

Or any sudden movements.

Or blink.

By the time she realizes that she's done all three things, their photo's taken, and she holds up both hands to ward off Aubrey, who's reaching out for her –

"Chloe!"

Time to call for reinforcements.

But maybe these are invisible wolves because the way Beca asked for her other co-captain resembles a toddler's squeal, instead of the powerful alto of an ICCA champion.

"Beca!"

Then again, maybe not, since she's pretty sure Chloe's done nothing to invoke the wrath of the Bella Gods(-disguised-as-Aubrey-Posen).

"Thank you – thank you for coming back," Chloe whispers into her ear, and despite the screaming and shouting and someone telling the Sockapellas to put a sock in their – nevermind – around them, Beca knows that it's not just exhaustion or nerves.

Many of her learned 'theories' may have been proven wrong tonight, but this is sound, and this is Chloe.

"Hey, what happened to your thro – dude, did you cry?"

She grimaces at her tone as soon as the words come out, and a strong arm – strong enough to slap the butts of every Bella three times a day for months – loops around her shoulders.

"She's just happy," Aubrey reassures her, and she looks back at Chloe, who nods to confirm it. As Beca watches them look and smile at each other, there's something about this that she can't quite explain. It sounds like a song that has different key signatures, changing beats and it's jovial, but…

There's something else, and as soon as she starts to protest, someone else places their arms around her. She wonders if everyone's just forgotten about basic manners and decides to drag people around and interrupt as they effin –

"Hey, babe. Ready to roll?

Oh.

And there's that smile on the faces of her captains again as they step away to give her and Jesse space. Her ears are still slightly deafened by all the raucous in the hall, but judging on how Aubrey's lips moved, she's pretty sure she's saying "thank you" instead of "Off with your vocal chords".

Even though Aubrey's hugging her really tightly and has the perfect opportunity to make death threats without being overheard.

The night is full of surprises, she guesses.

But not all of them are pleasant, for when Chloe moves forward, she barely looks at Beca in the eye, and her hug – if it even constitutes that – lasts for a millisecond. In an attempt to determine what's wrong – if her nodes are hurting, if she needs tea, ice, anything – Beca accidentally mushes her lips to Chloe's face.

For someone who flung apart her shower curtains, spoons her when coaching dance moves, stepping back from an accidental kiss on the cheek like she's been electrocuted would probably never be on the list of 'expected reactions'.

All her life, being – and wanting to be – best with what she hears, Beca's reconciled with herself that she'll be behind in whatever else. Like maybe she can't sometimes can't see that she's being an asshole to people who care about her, or miss what's in front of her, or mistake the scent of sincerity for bullshit.

So as she watches her captains rush off to some interview, with Chloe's 'happy tears' lingering on her lips, she's amazed to learn that she can taste sadness in salt.