Author's Note: This is just some mindless, hastily written out ficlet that was really meant to be a drabble. Of course, since tl;dr is my lifeblood, it got a little away from me. Shout out to rabidnar for inspiring the whole mess.

To comply to 's policy on explicit works, the second chapter of this fic has been watered down from a more explicit version hosted on Archive of Our Own.

"I still don't understand how this is possible," Aubrey said, leaning over the grand piano in the Bellas' Rehearsal Hall. "How does a person arrange songs like you when they aren't able to play any instruments?"

"I sing," Beca huffed in reply. "That was what I did for music class. Not everyone is a one-man orchestra like you."

"It's hardly an orchestra," Aubrey countered. "It's not even that many."

"Seven," Beca interjected. "You can play seven instruments. That's overachieving."

"Six," Aubrey corrected.

"Seven," Beca insisted.

"Seven? Who told you I could play seven?"

"Chloe did!" Beca said. "Flute, trumpet, saxophone, harmonica, violin, cello, piano."

"Oh," Aubrey said. "Piano doesn't count. Everyone plays the piano. That's like a default instrument."

"How is the piano a default instrument?"

"Because it is," Aubrey said, frowning.

"You're going to count harmonica when you don't count piano," Beca deadpanned.

"I'm telling you, no one counts the piano. It's the instrument every one learns. Everyone knows the piano."

Beca threw her arms in the air in exasperation. "I don't!"

"That's why I'm so surprised," Aubrey said. "I would have though you owned one of those beaten up acoustic guitars, at least."

"Well, I dumped most of my allowances on stuff for my mixes." It had certainly felt well spent. All you had to do was look at the output of her laptop: files upon files upon files, all testament to the dedication with which Beca approached her dreams of becoming a music producer. "Look, I know the music theory…"

"You had a keyboard in your room," Aubrey interrupted. "It was next to your mixing board. I remember. You clearly know how to play the piano too."

"It's a keyboard," Beca said. When was Aubrey in her room? After that arrest way back? Well, she guessed than anyone waiting that long in one place would note some details about the scene. "I know what the notes are. It's easier to input them into the computer with a keyboard. I just, I can't play live — My hands don't really…"

"So you play the piano, but not particularly well," Aubrey said.

"I can't play!"

"Beca, I'm the perfectionist here. You're not allowed to say you can't play the piano because you don't think it's good enough when you wouldn't push for the extra 10% timing down in our choreography."

"Are you still upset about that? No one even noticed! Only you noticed! We won, for cripes sake. And I'm pretty sure you were making the 'time lags' up."

"We were off," Aubrey insisted. "I forgave you in that case because we won. If you're going to be anything, at least be consistent."

"Like you're consistently a pain?" Beca asked.

"You're the one who called me here out of the blue," Aubrey said. "I still don't know why I'm here. So you could get your musical shame off your chest?"

"No…" Beca said. "Well, yes. Sort of." She sighed. "Look. I was wondering if you could help me out with my piano. Chloe says you're a regular virtuoso."

"Chloe was being polite," Aubrey said. "And speaking of Chloe, why isn't she your first choice of music instructor?"

"I, uh, tried to learn how to play her guitar, but my fingers weren't really feeling it so…"

"You quit?" Aubrey raised an eyebrow. "That's your problem, then, not the instrument. Just go back to Chloe and keep trying—"

"I tried!" Beca cut in. "I did! I tried for weeks. The guitar is not my thing. Definitely not."

Aubrey's face took on a tinge of something resembling sympathy. "Learning a new instrument is a difficult thing—"

"Clearly not if you've worked your way up to seven," Beca mumbled under her breath.

If Aubrey heard it, she ignored it. "—especially at your age."

"At my age? I'm eighteen!"

"And millions of synapse connections between your braincells have already died and withered away. That's why you're encouraged to start these things young."

"Yeah?" Beca said. "And how young were you?"

"Which time?" Aubrey said in what was clearly an instinctive response to an oft asked question. Hastily, she added, "But that's not the point."

"I don't know," Beca said, "the first time."

"Piano, age three," Aubrey said. "Wait! Hey, this isn't about me—"

"Violin," Beca said.

"Age six," Aubrey said. "Quit it! I—"

"Saxophone."

"Age eight," came Aubrey's automatic response. "Beca, seriously—"

"Cello," Beca said. She didn't pay much attention to Aubrey's next reply, instead, saying, "Oh my god, it's like some Pavlovian response, that's hilarious."

"You're doing a great job of endearing me to you right now," Aubrey said. "Sterling idea from the person who's asking for help."

"Sorry, sorry," Beca said, unable to totally wipe the smile from her face. Aubrey's cheeks were tinged with a delicate shade of pink that softened the attempted glare she was shooting in Beca's direction. "You must have really liked music, huh?"

"Children will like anything they're good at," Aubrey explained, a little tired, "and, at that age, enough practice can make you good at anything."

Beca frowned. "But, you had fun, right?"

"Eventually," Aubrey said. "Sure. Fun."

"I didn't mean to—"

"It's fine," Aubrey said brusquely. "Fine. What was it you wanted?"

"Help with the piano." Beca recognised a request to change the topic when she saw one. God knew she'd given enough of them in her day. "I was hoping you'd give me lessons, pointers and stuff."

Aubrey gave her an appraising look, but eventually settled onto the piano stool. She patted the space next to her gently. "Fine, then. Come on. Let's see what you can do."

From then on, it became a regular appointment between them. The Bellas' Practice Hall was usually vacant now that the season was over. There were a few scarce get-togethers the girls would have to practice songs just for fun, or to bounces ideas for another Riff Off at the end of the semester (this time as part of a party the BU Harmonics were, allegedly, hosting), or sometimes simply to get the freshmen ready for the administration and management knowledge needed to run the Bellas next year when their seniors graduated but, on the whole, it was a lot quieter than when Aubrey demanded daily practices.

Actually, that last part hadn't quite changed. Aubrey took her pledge to teach Beca the piano very seriously. If Beca wanted to progress, she'd need to be constantly trying at it. Since Aubrey couldn't apparently trust Beca to practice of her own accord, she arranged for the two of them to meet and practice. (It was fair point, Beca conceded, when her halls and the nearest pianos were a cold twenty minute walk apart and only ever free in the mornings when Beca would rather be having a lie in; there were a lot of budding pianists around school). In a way, Beca's routine hadn't changed in the slightest. It was just, these days, instead of rehearsing a cappella with Aubrey, she was practicing the piano.

Aubrey approached lessons with a kind of intensity that put Beca on edge. It was something in the way Aubrey would stare intently at her hands, or arrange her fingers on the keys or tilt her head whenever Beca deigned to ask a question. It was something a whole lot different from the way Chloe used to correct her dance choreography. It also had the unfortunate side effect of making her fingers a lot less compliant than they usually were.

Beca swore that, when she was typing, those fingers could deliver pinpoint accuracy and at killer speeds to boot. But here, in a hall ringing with memories of her first year at college with Aubrey breathing down her neck (sometimes literally, as that was the only way to observe both her hand position and the sheet music at the same time), Beca's fingers just did not want to listen to her brain. They fumbled over the keys and crashed against each other. It did not make for the best piano playing.

"It's a D, Beca," Aubrey corrected for the umpteenth time that afternoon. "At the end of the phrase, your right pinky should be hitting the D, not the C." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "It's just an octave. I know you say your hands are small, but I've seen ten-year-olds hold that chord better than you."

"It's a lot of octaves," Beca protested. "The tempo's fast too, especially for sixteenth notes."

"You picked the song," Aubrey said. "Not my problem."

Beca grumbled again. Aubrey alternated between berating every tiny thing she did and totally ignoring Beca's attempts improve. Or maybe she just ignored Beca's excuses. It was hard to tell how involved she really was in the whole thing. Part of Beca thought she was just doing it all as a favour to Chloe. Aubrey struck her as the kind of person who'd fulfill promises to the utmost of her ability, irrespective of how much she enjoyed the ride there.

Okay, so maybe complaining was a little out of line. Aubrey'd taken out a lot of time to teach Beca, even with all the stress associated with graduation. At any rate, Beca was improving so, whatever Aubrey's teaching MO was, it was working and Beca's proficiency with the piano far outstripped her ability with the guitar. (Her hand just refused to make the weird claw shapes needed to play the different chords on that thing…)

She messed up the right hand part again so Aubrey made her play just that part alone, very slowly, until it was all solid. THen, she played it once more at regular tempo, still fine. But when it came to combining the two…

At the harsh clash of notes, Beca winced. Aubrey crinkled her nose in distaste.

"Let's move on to the next part," Aubrey sighed. "Over practice is actually a thing, sadly. Maybe you'll nail it tomorrow."

Beca's understanding of the following section was much better. But, the next day, she still couldn't will her finger to hit that D. Or the next day. Or they next day. Or the day after that.

"This is getting ridiculous," Aubrey said. It must have been weeks into the lessons, but all the times felt blurry to Beca now. It just felt like something they always did.

Piano lessons with Aubrey were not as bad as Beca thought they'd be. In their own strange way, they'd become kind of enjoyable. Aubrey was always fixated on the work, but more and more often, as Beca's progress grew, she'd offer encouraging words alongside an amusing anecdote about her childhood, her day, anything really. Beca would joke back and, in those moments, things felt easy.

This, though. This was not easy. This was a four bar phrase of a stupid melody line that Beca could not play in the slightest.

"It's a D," Aubrey said. "For the last time, play the D."

"I know it's a D," Beca groused. "I can read sheet music, I can tell it's a D."

"If you know it's a D, then play it."

"I'm trying."

"Clearly not that hard if your hand just ends up at C all the time!"

Beca tried to reconcile the Aubrey who was belittling any progress Beca made, dismissing it as infantile and inept, with the Aubrey who had, in their first week, helped Beca understand the weight and response of the piano, much heavier than the plastic of her keyboard, by gentling pressing her fingers down into the keys and letting the sounds echo around the room.

"Jeez, chill! I'll get it," Beca said. Aubrey softened a little at that, and her eyes said something like 'I'm sorry' even if her pride wouldn't let her get the words out. Beca had seen that look plenty of times before, but usually at her own reflection in the mirror. She tried to push the thought out of her mind. "I'll play the stupid D, already, alright?"

"Take it from the top," Aubrey barked.

Beca glared back, but complied.

"Sorry I'm late," Beca said, panting as she jogged in to the rehearsal hall. "Jesse just cornered me on my way here, and we got talking and I lost track of time."

"…It's fine," Aubrey said. "It's only five minutes. It doesn't matter."

"Aubrey Posen ignoring my tardiness? Will wonders never cease!"

"Just play," Aubrey said.

If that had been the only time Beca was late, maybe things would have gone very differently.

"You're late again," Aubrey regarded coolly. She didn't glance at the clock mounted high on the wall, but Beca knew she was meant to look there.

"Uh, yeah, sorry," she said.

"Sorry? I've been waiting around here for an hour."

"Yes, I know and I'm sorry. I just had a late night and crashed at Jesse's place since Benji was out with this girl he met, can you believe Benji found a girl—?"

"You keep talking but I don't hear any explanations about why you're late."

"Oh, yeah, sorry. I was at Jesse's room, and then I overslept because he's a jerk who doesn't remember what you tel him to do if you don't remind him. Then I had to run to my place to get the sheet music so I ended up taking a pretty bad detour so—"

"I don't care," Aubrey said. "Just don't let it happen again."

'Crashing with Jesse or being late?' Beca wondered, but didn't voice.

"Again?" Aubrey said? Really? Again? You still don't seem to understand it's not a C sharp."

"It's a D! It's a D! I know it's a D! You don't have to keep pointing it out!"

"If you were really capable of recognising your own mistakes, you'd have fixed them by now," Aubrey said tersely. "Are you even taking this seriously or do you just like wasting my time?"

"Wasting your time? You're the one who keeps calling for 'breaks' just to take shots at how I play!"

"Well they're making you play better aren't they? Or does the great Beca Mitchell not need any help with her music?"

"Why are you trying to pick a fight?" Never mind the fact that baiting Beca with a challenge really did make her step up her game. This was different from the way Aubrey usually riled her up. This was personal. "I asked you for help? Do you just want to make me say it? Want me to admit you're better or something?"

"Maybe I'd just like to know the reason why you can play the rest of this song perfectly, but mess up on one note in a bar you can handle quite well just by itself. Maybe I'd like to know if you're mocking me."

"That doesn't even make sense! How can me playing wrong be mocking you?"

"What? I'm not good enough a teacher for you? Just a few minutes ago you seemed fine!"

"And just a few moments ago you weren't acting totally crazy!"

"What is your problem?"

"What's your problem?" Beca hissed. "First you're happy to help, then you can't stop getting mad at me and now this? What the hell do you want from me, huh!?"

"The D, Beca! I want the D!"

The moment after she blurted it out, Aubrey flushed an unseemly shade of red and covered her mouth with her hands, eyes shut in sheer embarrassment.

Beca licked her lips. It was the only sound to shatter the stillness of the room. "So, you want my D, huh?" She tried to calm the heat that was spreading to her own face. "You know, back in that first practice, I was only joking about that toner being my—"

Beca kept searching Aubrey's face for any sign of a comeback or a quip to shoot down the banter. Instead, there was only growing discomfort mixed with something that looked suspiciously like— Wait. Did Aubrey just glance at her crotch? No. No way. She couldn't be serious?

"I have to go!" Aubrey suddenly declared. "We'll— Come— We'll, uhm, come back— fin— finisher this later."

"Wait! Aubrey," Beca called. "Do you actually—"

"Practice dismissed!" Aubrey said, and bolted out the room.

'Huh,' Beca thought. 'Interesting.'