A/N: Who doesn't love a good sing off?
There are two things the Trebles love.
Singing and fart jokes.
Needless to say, gaining entry to the a cappella party is not a problem.
"Trebles. I'm so glad y'all came!"
Whatever Jesse was expecting, their host isn't it. He's bright and effervescent, not wanting in either the friendly or inviting departments, but he's still disarmingly mature to be hosting an a cappella showdown. Jesse's brain immediately supplies kidnap for ransom when he thinks of possible motives for their appearance. The Trebles exchange meaningful looks as soon as their host turns to lead them farther into his mansion, a silent battle of wills taking place until at last Jesse steps forward and they fall in line.
He's their front man. Wherever the front man goes, the Trebles follow.
He can't say that he's actually bubbling with confidence as they enter a labyrinth of long hallways and high ceilings, eventually stopping at a bar for a drink. "Can I get you boys anything?" their host asks. Jesse subtly crushes the in-step of a nearby Treble when he opens his mouth to respond. Benji is actually speechless at his side, which is probably good, because if Jesse needs to talk their way out of this he definitely won't need any help.
"No? All right then."
"So – when's the sing off?" Jesse asks, playing up his confidence as he folds his arms across his chest.
"Did you not read the card?" their host asks with an amused smile, tipping the drink to his lips.
Jesse racks his brain for details.
At last, Benji says, "The other teams aren't here."
"Exactly! But make yourselves at home. We're just waiting on two groups."
They're always fashionably late crosses Jesse's mind as he follows their host down another lengthy hallway, the Trebles keeping pace. He can't shake the analogy of a mother duck and her ducklings, aware that they're following a mongoose deeper into its lair and he should probably call the whole thing off before someone gets hurt.
Before he can make any executive calls, they halt in front of a massive game room, filled with pool tables – two of which are occupied, and Jesse's heart skips a beat because no frickin' way – and a wet bar at the far corner. Chatter fills the air as a hundred conversationalists mingle, the cracking of pool balls evidently irresistible to the Trebles as they break away to join the fun. He doesn't try to stop them – they're adults, and Benji hasn't left his side, anyway – but he does take a slow sweep of the room before following their host's lead to the bar.
"So what is this place?" he asks, taking a seat at the bar stool and patting the one next to him so Benji will do the same.
"This is my humble abode," their host replies, fetching more drinks that they accept, Benji sipping his like a kindergartner while Jesse chugs his in one fell swoop. "A sanctuary for a cappella teams to meet and compete." Then, nodding eminently in the direction of – yep, that's Clay Matthews, holy shit – the Green Bay Packers, he adds, "And it's our biannual chance to meet up and have a drink together. I once pulled them out of tough financial times and they've been friendly with me ever since."
It takes every ounce of will power not to abandon his seat and trip over his own feet in his haste to be at their side, prodding their host for more details about the event as he surreptitiously watches the boys engage in pool and drinks alike. There are, thankfully, only a handful of women, keeping Jesse's job relatively simple. (Even if the Trebles don't discriminate and the room has a few smoking hot specimens, forcing him to be on his toes.)
"Would you excuse us for a moment?" he asks, their host humming along to The Other Side and flapping a hand dismissively.
"Oh, sure, sure, you boys have fun," he tells them.
Jesse offers his most winning smile and grabs Benji's arm, all but dragging him off his chair as he holds his half-finished drink close to his chest.
"You don't think the Bellas will show up, do you?" Benji asks, white in the face, and Jesse rubs his back, hoping to instill a sense of confidence in him as he walks them across the room.
"We're gonna kill it," he assures him.
Benji makes a tiny doubtful noise and Jesse releases him as they reach the Green Bay Packers' sides, the air in the room thinning noticeably. "Hi," he squeaks, actually squeaks, before clearing his throat and adding in a high-pitched approximation of his normal voice, "hi."
Ever en pointe, Benji holds out a hand to shake and says, "Benji Applebaum." Then, as Jesse tries to force a meaningful word past his sudden paralysis, he adds helpfully, "Jesse Swanson. Big fan."
Clay hugs them and Jesse might actually black out for a moment, but Benji has a hand on his shoulder to keep him steady and he just hugged a Green Bay Packer.
A feat he repeats four times in relatively quick succession, making a strangled noise of delight as he laughs and claps them on the back.
Two drinks later and a couple rounds of pool and they're chatting each other up like boys in a locker room. It isn't until he's pleasantly buzzed and not entirely reliant on the sensory information provided by his own eyes – the room has definitely not acquired a blurry, bluish tinge – when Clay talks about how much they love a cappella and the other Packers join in.
The competition is far from his mind as Jesse grins and warbles Pour Some Sugar on Me as the Trebles join in.
Their host claps the loudest when they finish, crying out, "Wonderful, Trebles, absolutely wonderful!"
"Don't go easy on us tonight," Clay jokes as Jesse accepts a punch to the shoulder that almost knocks him off his feet.
He'll totally have a monster bruise tomorrow and Beca will notice it with an "oh my god what happened?" and he'll make a wordless noise of delight because he was punched by a Green Bay Packer.
You are so weird, she'll tell him, cozying up to his opposite shoulder instead.
My life rules, he thinks, grinning as he kicks back his feet and sings along with the radio.
Of course, once the Trebles start singing, the Tonehangers aren't far behind, crooning country songs and even giving pop a try. Aside from the Bellas, Jesse doesn't know which team is missing – they're already got a good crowd going – but his phone is silent in his pocket and for once he feels no temptation to call and hurry them along.
The later they are, the more time he gets to spend breathing the same air as Clay Matthews.
Awesome.
And then Das Sound Machine arrives.
Quiet sweeps over the room as their leaders cut a swath through the crowd, the host trailing behind and appearing out of sorts against their authority.
Jesse is too far away to hear most of their conversation, but he still catches the soft, lethal, "Where are the Bellas?" from the female lead.
"They'll be here any minute," their host assures, tapping on his mic – where the hell did that come from – and inviting everyone to join him in the showdown arena.
They abandon their games and pile into the room, brushing corners and rubbing elbows until it's impossible to avoid interaction altogether, the mood of the room softening as the music eases some of the tension.
They're here to sing, not fight to the death, and no matter how many times he repeats it to himself Jesse is halfway convinced that one of the DSM members will stab him in the back as soon as he turns it.
"Treblemaker," the female lead greets, and he turns with a cordial smile in her direction, glad that he's had a few drinks to calm any nerves he might be feeling. "What an . . . unexpected surprise."
Her righthand man dwarfs Jesse in both stature and intensity, smiling coolly down at him as Jesse straightens his shoulders, using every bit of his height to his advantage.
"Try to lose with dignity," righthand man quips.
"Wouldn't want any feelings to be hurt," lead adds with a ruthless smile. "Barden has a reputation. We're here to destroy it."
Before he can respond, they walk off, the hair on the backs of his arms standing on edge.
Friendly group, he thinks, retreating over to the Trebles' corner.
A full hour passes before the Bellas arrive.
The heat and noise in the room block his senses so he doesn't pick up on their arrival immediately, startling when he catches sight of Beca, looking supremely harried.
"Hey, what's going on?" she asks, and he opens his mouth to respond before the gong bangs and he has to turn away with an apologetic, "I've gotta go."
"No, wait –"
The Trebles are already assembling and he doesn't have time to explain, he doesn't know what's going on, but he's ready to give it their best shot.
"Ready for this?" he asks Benji, clapping him on the shoulder. He's white-faced again and Jesse rubs his back with a sigh, trying to instill a sense of come on, dude, you got this.
On stage, DSM is impressive.
In person, they're all but unstoppable.
He keeps his game face on even when the Packers perform Bootylicious, struggling more so with the Bellas when they sing Low.
Still, they pick up the ball and run with it, gaining momentum as Benji raps and they find their groove when –
"You know what is? Courtship and chivalry and I'll take you out to dinner at a nice cool restaurant and I'll tip the waiter."
"What?"
The unseen audience member voices Jesse's astonishment perfectly, and even when their host approaches with a deeply disappointed look on his face, Jesse holds it together.
The lights shut off their corner and he feels defeat settle in his gut. "Sorry?" Beca mouths.
He shrugs and smiles bitterly, a wordless it's okay.
First round.
Not exactly the rock stars they used to be.
Still, he's almost glad that they're eliminated first. He can watch the rest of the game unimpeded, impressed by the Tonehangers as much as he's intimidated by DSM.
The Bellas steal the show for him, and there isn't a doubt in his mind that they'll win it when Beca steps forward and belts, "I dug my key into the side of his pretty little souped up four wheel drive, carved my name into his leather seats." She grabs one of the Tonehangers' chest and he thinks hot damn as she shoves him back, a wolfish pleasure written across her face. "I took a Louisville slugger to both headlights, slashed a hole in all four tires," there's my southern belle, he thinks with an amused smirk at the extra twang, zeroing in on the finale as she finishes, "maybe next time he'll think before he cheats," with a meaningful cutthroat gesture.
Remind me to never get on your bad side, he thinks, amused.
Had the a cappella standoff been an actual fight to the death, there's no doubt in his mind that the Green Bay Packers would have won. As it is, they're out of their element, and though disappointed, Jesse isn't surprised when they fail to come up with a number for country love and face subsequent elimination.
Two down, two to go. He's placed his bets.
And then the Tonehangers go down with What's Love and Jesse feels his heart racing as he watches the Bellas and DSM face off. Their height differences are painfully clear, DSM towering over them and producing a wall of sound that swallows even the cockiest ego whole.
It's over, he thinks, but he still chants come on, come on, come on with each subsequent number until the speed overtakes them and DSM is still going strong but the Bellas are coming up short and then –
"I've got all I need when I got you and I, I look around me and see sweet life, I'm stuck in the dark but you're my flashlight, getting me, getting me through the night."
Oh my god.
The roar of condemnation is absolute. At his side, Benji makes a tiny noise of dismay and the Bellas shrink back visibly when their host bears down on them, struggling to come up with anything to say until at last –
"What is your name?"
"Emily."
The host lets a meaningful pause fill the space. "Emily. I hate you."
He turns and the Bellas are still shell-shocked when he announces, with great regret, that DSM has won.
They're cheering and Jesse only has eyes for the Bellas when DSM launches into Jump. Before he can push his way through the crowd, Beca, Chloe, and Emily disappear. He wonders if they're going to kick Emily out of the Bellas before he weaves his way through the mix of people and finds them.
Beca still looks troubled, but the dismay vanishes when he says, "Let's go meet the Green Bay Packers."
She's like a kid in a candy shop; he can barely keep up with her. It's still fun introducing her to them and to have them say, "Oh, yeah, your boyfriend's a real nice guy," before she proves how insanely talented and awesome she is without even trying.
She's got their numbers and a pair of season tickets locked down before night is over.
Jesse couldn't actually be more impressed if he tried.
As he walks her home that night – or she walks him home, he's not actually sure – he notices the dead air between them, their footsteps loud in the quiet.
"Everything okay?" he asks, shoulder-checking her lightly.
She shrugs, house keys dangling from one hand as she tucks it in the lock and shoves open the door.
Despite the lateness of the hour, they're still the first ones home. Jesse doesn't even have time to comment on it before she's pushing him against the door and kissing him, hard.
He doesn't protest or give voice to any of his questions. He doesn't know how her standoffishness translated into a frenzy of need, but he wants to be caught up in her storms, is pulled inexorably towards her even when he doesn't understand her, and he follows her lead until everything outside their immediate proximity is far from their minds.
When they're both quiet and panting afterward, he brushes her hair back from her forehead and tells her, again and again, "You are amazing."
And he thinks, as he sweeps a hand down her bare back and she lounges against his side, she might even believe it.