Archive of Our Own ^beta

The fluorescent bathroom lights hummed with the kind of aggressive persistence typically reserved for particularly annoying insects, casting their unforgiving pallor across the pristine white tiles of the Bellas sorority house.

The lighting was doing absolutely no favors to either occupant of the space—turning healthy skin tones into something resembling week-old fish and making even the most flattering angles look like they belonged in a morgue's employee handbook.

Aubrey Posen sat perched on what was formerly a respectable wooden stool from their kitchen, now relegated to makeshift salon duty in what she was beginning to suspect might be the most impulsive decision of her meticulously planned existence. Her reflection stared back at her from the expansive mirror with an expression that could best be described as "deer in headlights meets existential crisis", cerulean eyes wide with the kind of barely-contained panic that typically accompanied life-altering decisions made during what normal people would consider sleeping hours.

Why is it so bright in here? She wondered desperately, squinting against the relentless illumination. Who designed bathroom lighting with the apparent goal of making everyone look like they're auditioning for a zombie apocalypse film?

Behind her, Beca Mitchell stood with her characteristic nonchalant posture, though her usual air of studied indifference had given way to something more attentive, more present. Her petite hands rested on the curved back of Aubrey's chair with surprising gentleness, dark fingernails—painted in chipped obsidian polish—drumming a subtle rhythm against the worn wood. The diminutive brunette's piercing blue eyes scrutinised Aubrey's reflection with the kind of analytical intensity typically reserved for her most complex musical arrangements, as if she were attempting to decipher the intricate harmonies hidden within her co-captain's carefully constructed facade.

How did I end up here? The question reverberated through Aubrey's consciousness like an echo in an empty cathedral, carrying with it the weight of everything that had transpired over the past seventy-two hours.

The memory of her twentieth birthday celebration materialised with crystalline clarity—the way the other Bellas had transformed their communal living room into a wonderland of pastel balloons and meticulously coordinated decorations, their voices clashing together in a discordant rendition of "Happy Birthday" despite the fact that they were supposed to be good singers. Fat Amy had somehow procured an elaborately tiered cake that looked suspiciously professional for someone who claimed her culinary expertise extended only to "opening cans and hoping for the best." Chloe had orchestrated a surprise delivery of Aubrey's favorite gourmet cupcakes from that impossibly expensive bakery downtown, the one with the pretentious French name that made Aubrey feel guilty for loving their confections as much as she did.

But beneath the veneer of celebration, beneath the genuine warmth and affection radiating from her chosen family, there had been an absence so profound it felt like a physical ache in her chest—the conspicuous void left by the two people who should have been there, who had brought her into this world and then seemingly forgotten her existence the moment she'd achieved legal adulthood.

Twenty-four phone calls. The number haunted her with its pathetic desperation, each unanswered ring a tiny death of hope. She'd started calling three days before her birthday, leaving increasingly cheerful voicemails that had gradually devolved into barely-contained pleas for acknowledgment. "Hi Mom, hi Dad, it's me—obviously—just calling to see if you might be able to make it down for my birthday this weekend. I know you're both incredibly busy, but the girls would love to meet you, and I thought maybe we could have dinner at that little Italian place you liked when you helped me move in freshman year..."

The final call had been answered on the twenty-fourth attempt, her father's voice cutting through her hopeful "Hello!" with the sharp efficiency of a guillotine blade.

"Aubrey." Not 'honey,' not 'sweetheart'—just her name, spoken with the same tone one might use to address a particularly persistent telemarketer. "You need to stop calling. You're twenty years old now, not a child. This constant need for attention is frankly embarrassing. Your mother and I have more pressing obligations than driving six hours for what amounts to an arbitrary calendar date."

The words had landed like physical blows, each syllable precisely calculated to inflict maximum damage. Her mother's voice had drifted from somewhere in the background, a distant and hollow "Happy birthday, dear" that carried all the warmth of a weather report.

"We've sent you a card," her father had continued with bureaucratic efficiency. "That should suffice. Please don't call again unless there's an actual emergency."

The line had gone dead, leaving Aubrey clutching her phone with trembling fingers, staring at the screen as if it might offer some explanation for the casual cruelty she'd just experienced.

Three days. Three days of pretending their words hadn't carved something essential from her chest, three days of maintaining her trademark composure while internally hemorrhaging from wounds that felt both fresh and ancient. The other Bellas had rallied around her that day, their intuitive understanding of her pain manifesting in gentle touches, knowing glances, and the kind of seamless emotional support that had become the foundation of their unconventional sisterhood.

But tonight—this morning—something had finally snapped.

She'd been lying in her meticulously organised bedroom, staring at the ceiling with eyes that refused to close, when the thought had crystallised with startling clarity: I want to hurt them the way they hurt me. Not with words—she'd inherited far too much of their emotional constraint for such direct confrontation—but with something visible, something that would force them to confront the reality that their perfect daughter, their carefully molded reflection of their own aspirations, was capable of rebellion.

The idea of dyeing her hair had struck her with the force of divine inspiration, and before rational thought could intervene, she'd found herself padding through the darkened hallway in bare feet and flannel pajamas, her heart hammering against her ribs with the kind of adrenaline typically reserved for performance nights.

She'd stood outside Beca's door for a full minute, her knuckles hovering mere inches from the painted wood, second-guessing herself with each passing second. But the memory of her father's dismissive tone had provided the necessary courage, and her knock had been answered almost immediately—as if Beca had been expecting her, or perhaps as if the smaller girl rarely slept at all.

"I want to dye my hair," Aubrey had announced without preamble, the words tumbling from her lips before she could lose her nerve. "Will you help me?"

Beca had regarded her with those penetrating blue eyes for a long moment, taking in Aubrey's disheveled appearance, her obvious distress, the way her hands trembled despite her attempt at authoritative composure...

...Then, without asking a single question, she'd simply nodded and said, "Okay. Give me a minute."

And now here we are, Aubrey mused, watching as Beca moved around her with surprising grace, gathering an impressive array of hair dye bottles, mixing bowls, and professional-looking brushes from what appeared to be a well-stocked arsenal of hair-dyeing supplies.

"Alright," Beca began, her voice carrying that familiar note of gentle sarcasm that had initially grated on Aubrey's nerves but had somehow evolved into something almost comforting. "I'm gonna ask the obvious questions now, if that's cool with you." She paused, meeting Aubrey's gaze in the mirror with an expression that managed to be both casual and intensely focused. "First off—why me? Out of all the Bellas, what made you think, 'Hmm, two AM hair emergency, better wake up Beca'?"

Aubrey felt heat rise in her cheeks, a delicate flush that painted her pale skin in shades of rose and coral. "Well," she began, then faltered, suddenly aware of how her reasoning might sound. "I mean... you have that whole... alternative thing going on." She gestured vaguely at Beca's appearance—the artfully tousled dark hair, the collection of silver rings adorning her fingers, the way she managed to make even her pajamas look effortlessly cool. "I figured you'd have the most experience with... this sort of thing."

God, that sounded patronising, she thought immediately, wincing at her own words.

"And," she continued quickly, hoping to soften any potential offense, "it's two AM because that's when I got the idea, and I had a feeling you'd still be awake. You're always up late working on your mixes."

Beca's eyebrows rose slightly, and a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "Okay, fair points. And you're right, I was awake. Working on an arrangement." She moved to stand directly behind Aubrey, her hands still resting on the chair back, and their eyes met in the mirror's reflection. "I do have experience with hair dye. Probably more than any sane person should."

Thank God, Aubrey thought, some of her anxiety beginning to ebb.

"I went through this whole phase in high school," Beca continued, her voice taking on a slightly wistful quality. "Must have dyed my hair, like, eight different colours over two years. My father went through so many boxes of bleach that I'm pretty sure our local drugstore started ordering extra stock just for us."

Aubrey found herself genuinely curious despite her nerves. "What was your longest colour?"

"Black with blue streaks," Beca replied without hesitation, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. "Kept that for almost six months, which was basically a lifetime commitment by my standards."

"What made you stick with it for so long?"

Beca's blush deepened considerably, and she suddenly became very interested in organising her hair dye bottles. "This is going to sound incredibly stupid."

"I'm sitting in a bathroom at two AM asking you to dye my hair because I want to upset my parents," Aubrey pointed out. "I'm not really in a position to judge anyone else's stupid decisions."

"Fair point," Beca conceded. "I had this massive, embarrassing, all-consuming crush on Jade West from Victorious."

Aubrey blinked. "The... the mean character from that Nickelodeon show?"

"Don't say it like that! She was cool and confident and had this whole mysterious, intimidating thing going on that I found incredibly attractive." Beca was now aggressively rearranging bottles that didn't need rearranging. "I thought if I could look like her, maybe some of her effortless confidence would magically transfer to me through the power of hair dye and wishful thinking."

Aubrey found herself smiling despite her nerves, charmed by this unexpected glimpse into Beca's adolescent vulnerabilities. "Did it work?"

"Not even a little bit," Beca laughed, the sound warm and self-deprecating. "Turns out hair colour doesn't actually change your fundamental personality. Who could have predicted that groundbreaking revelation?"

"Revolutionary discovery," Aubrey agreed solemnly.

"Right? I should probably publish a paper on my findings." Beca grinned, then continued her hair dye horror story. "But the real disaster happened when I was fifteen and trying to achieve this subtle purple tint I'd seen in some magazine. I was being all careful and methodical, reading the instructions multiple times, measuring everything precisely..."

"That sounds responsible."

"It was responsible. Until I grabbed the wrong bottle." Beca's expression shifted to one of remembered horror. "Instead of the gentle lavender shade I was going for, I ended up with hair the exact color of a traffic cone. Like, genuinely, startlingly orange-red. It was so bright that I'm pretty sure it was visible from space."

Aubrey felt her eyes widen in alarm. "That... that's not exactly inspiring confidence in your abilities."

"Hey!" Beca protested, looking mock-offended. "That was a learning experience! A character-building disaster that taught me valuable lessons about checking product labels twice and not dyeing your hair when you're half-asleep."

"And... how long did you have to live with traffic cone hair?"

"Three months," Beca admitted with a grimace. "Three long months of wearing beanies in all weather conditions and pretending I was going through a 'hat phase' when really I was just hiding my tragic hair situation from the world."

Three months, Aubrey repeated mentally, suddenly imagining herself explaining to professors and fellow students why she was permanently wearing headwear. What if the same thing happens to me? What if I end up looking like a human traffic warning? Oh no....

"I can literally see you spiraling into worst-case-scenario thinking," Beca observed, moving to stand directly behind Aubrey's chair again. "Let me stop that train of thought right there—I haven't had a major hair disaster since I was sixteen. I'm basically a seasoned professional now."

"A seasoned professional who once accidentally turned her hair the colour of construction equipment," Aubrey pointed out.

"A seasoned professional who learned from her mistakes and developed actual expertise through trial and error," Beca corrected firmly. "Plus, we're not doing anything nearly as complicated as what teenage me was attempting. Probably."

Beca's expression shifted then, becoming more serious, more attentive. "Anyway, so... why do you want to upset your parents?" The question was asked gently, without judgment, but with obvious curiosity. "Not that I'm against the concept—upsetting parents is basically a hobby of mine—but you don't usually go for the rebellious gesture."

The reminder of her parents' dismissal sent a sharp pang through Aubrey's chest, and she watched her own expression crumple slightly in the mirror before she could stop it. "Uhm—It's about the birthday thing," she admitted quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Beca's face darkened immediately, her jaw tightening with visible anger. "Ugh, God, Aubrey—your parents were completely out of line with that whole situation. Twenty-four calls. You called them twenty-four times just to invite them to celebrate with you, and they couldn't be bothered to show basic human decency."

The fierce protectiveness in Beca's voice sent an unexpected warmth spreading through Aubrey's chest. Over the past months, she'd grown accustomed to Beca's loyalty to the group, but this felt different—more personal, more intense.

She's genuinely angry on my behalf, Aubrey realised with a mixture of gratitude and something else she couldn't quite identify.

"If it's not already crystal clear," Beca continued, her voice carrying a note of determination, "I'm absolutely helping you with this. Your parents deserve to see that their perfect little daughter is capable of making choices they won't approve of."

Aubrey nodded, feeling oddly emotional all of a sudden. "Thank you," she whispered.

"Don't thank me yet," Beca said with a grin that was equal parts mischievous and reassuring. "Wait until you see if I can actually pull this off without giving you traffic-cone hair."

The joke broke some of the tension, and Aubrey found herself laughing despite the emotional weight of the moment. "Please don't give me traffic-cone hair."

"No promises," Beca teased, then became more businesslike. "Alright, so here's the big question: what exactly are we doing to your hair? What colour, how much coverage, streaks versus full transformation? Because your parents are going to react very differently to subtle highlights versus, say, a full rainbow mohawk."

Aubrey's mind went completely blank.

She'd been so focused on the concept of rebellion that she hadn't actually considered the specifics. "I... I don't know," she admitted. "You're the expert here. What do you think would work?"

Beca moved to stand slightly to Aubrey's side, studying her reflection with the same intensity she brought to analysing complex musical arrangements. Her gaze traveled from Aubrey's face to her hair, taking in the way the natural blonde caught the harsh bathroom lighting, the way it fell in soft waves past her shoulders.

"You have really beautiful hair," Beca said quietly, and something in her tone made Aubrey's heart skip slightly. "Like, genuinely gorgeous natural blonde. That's actually perfect for what we're doing because blonde takes color really well—it's like a blank canvas."

She thinks my hair is beautiful, Aubrey thought, and immediately felt foolish for the way the compliment sent butterflies dancing through her stomach.

"I think," Beca continued, circling around to examine Aubrey's hair from different angles, "we should do streaks rather than a full color change. Your natural color is too pretty to completely cover up, but strategic highlights will definitely make a statement." She paused, meeting Aubrey's eyes in the mirror. "I'm thinking either light blue or pink. Both would look incredible with your skin tone and eye color."

The butterflies in Aubrey's stomach intensified. The way Beca was looking at her—analytical but somehow intimate, professional but caring—was making it difficult to concentrate on the actual decision at hand.

"Pink or blue," Aubrey repeated, testing the words on her tongue. Both seemed impossibly foreign, completely antithetical to everything she'd ever been. "Which do you think would upset my parents more?"

"Oh, definitely pink," Beca said without hesitation. "Blue could maybe be explained away as some kind of artistic expression, but pink screams 'rebellious daughter' in a way that would probably make your dad's eye twitch."

Perfect. "Pink then."

"Pink it is," Beca confirmed, nodding approvingly. "I'm envisioning streaks that run from your roots all the way down to the ends, probably concentrated around your face and through the underneath layers. Visible enough to make a statement, but not so chunky that it looks amateur. The pink will pop against your natural blonde in a way that's going to be totally stunning."

The way Beca spoke reminded Aubrey of a true hair stylist, especially as Beca carefully had begun to reach out and run her hands through Aubrey's hair, tilting her head and eyeing her reflection in the mirror. For a moment, Aubrey forgot to respond.

Aubrey's pulse quickened at the description. "That sounds... intense."

"It'll be intense in the best possible way," Beca assured her. "But I need to ask one more time—are you absolutely sure about this? Because once we start the bleaching process, there's no going back tonight. You'll have pink streaks until they either grow out or we dye over them."

The question hung in the air between them, and Aubrey found herself really considering it for the first time since she'd knocked on Beca's door. Was she sure? Was this really what she wanted, or was it just an impulsive reaction to her parents' latest demonstration of emotional unavailability?

But then she remembered her father's dismissive tone, her mother's distant "happy birthday", the way they'd made her feel like a burden for simply wanting them to acknowledge her existence.

And suddenly, the idea of walking into their next family gathering with pink streaks in her hair felt not just rebellious, but necessary.

Aubrey took a deep breath.

"I'm sure," she said, and this time her voice carried genuine conviction.

"Okay then," Beca grinned, clapping her hands together with evident enthusiasm. "Let's give you some pink streaks and absolutely horrify your uptight parents."

As Beca began laying out supplies with practiced efficiency—sectioning clips, multiple brushes, several bottles of bleach and developer, and a tube of vibrant pink dye that seemed to glow under the fluorescent lights—Aubrey found herself studying the other girl's reflection. There was something almost mesmerising about the way Beca moved, the quiet confidence in her gestures, the way she seemed to transform from sleepy and slightly rumpled to completely focused and professional.

When did I start noticing things like this about her? The question arose unbidden, carrying with it a recognition that felt both new and somehow inevitable. Over the past months, their relationship had evolved from antagonistic to collaborative to something that felt suspiciously like genuine friendship, but sitting here in the intimate space of the bathroom, watching Beca prepare to literally transform her appearance, Aubrey was becoming aware of currents she'd been determinedly ignoring.

The way her heart had skipped when Beca called her hair beautiful. The flutter of anticipation when Beca's fingers had briefly brushed against her shoulders while positioning the sectioning clips. The warmth that spread through her chest when Beca had gotten angry on her behalf about her parents' treatment.

Oh no, she realised with dawning horror, almost comical compared to her outward neutral and calm expression. I think I might have feelings for Beca Mitchell.

Oh no.

"Alright," Beca announced, seemingly oblivious to Aubrey's internal revelation, "first step is sectioning off the pieces we're going to highlight. I'm going to clip up most of your hair and just work with small sections at a time. The process is going to take a while—probably two hours start to finish—so get comfortable."

As Beca began the methodical process of sectioning Aubrey's hair, her fingers moving through the blonde strands with surprising gentleness, Aubrey found herself holding her breath. Each touch sent small electric shocks through her system, and she prayed that her reaction wasn't somehow visible in her reflection.

This is bad, she thought desperately. This is very, very bad. I cannot have romantic feelings for my co-captain. We just got to a place where we can work together without wanting to strangle each other. I cannot complicate this with... whatever this is.

But as Beca continued working, humming softly under her breath while she transformed sections of hair into neat, organised clips, Aubrey found her protests growing weaker. There was something inherently intimate about the process—the quiet concentration, the gentle handling, the way Beca would occasionally meet her eyes in the mirror and offer a reassuring smile.

"You're being very quiet," Beca observed, beginning to mix the bleach with practiced precision. "Having second thoughts?"

"No," Aubrey said quickly, then paused. "Well, maybe some third and fourth thoughts, but no actual second thoughts."

Beca laughed. "That's totally normal. Hair transformation anxiety is real. But I promise I know what I'm doing, and if you absolutely hate it, we can figure out damage control."

It's not the hair I'm worried about, Aubrey thought, but she simply nodded and tried to project an air of calm confidence.

The bleaching process began with Beca carefully painting sections of hair with the chemical mixture, working from the bottom up with the kind of methodical precision that Aubrey associated with her most complex musical arrangements. The sharp, acrid smell of the bleach filled the small bathroom, but somehow the scent became almost comforting when combined with the gentle rhythm of Beca's movements.

"So," Beca said as she worked, her voice taking on the casual tone she used when trying to fill comfortable silence, "tell me about your parents. I mean, I know they're clearly assholes based on recent evidence, but what's their usual deal? Super controlling? Perfectionist types? Old-money snobs?"

Aubrey considered the question, watching in the mirror as more sections of her hair became coated in the stark white mixture. "All of the above, I think," she admitted. "My mother used to be a lawyer before becoming a housewife, and my father is a military man—they're both corporate types, very successful, very image-conscious. Everything in their world has to be perfect, controlled, appropriate. I think they see me as an extension of their professional reputation rather than as an actual person."

"That sounds exhausting," Beca said quietly, and there was genuine sympathy in her voice.

"It is," Aubrey agreed, surprised by how easily the admission came. "I spent my entire childhood trying to be exactly what they wanted—perfect grades, perfect behavior, perfect extracurriculars. Captain of the debate team, National Honor Society, student body vice president.. I thought if I could just be successful enough, accomplished enough, they'd actually... see me."

God, when did I become so pathetic? The thought came with a familiar wave of self-recrimination.

"Hey," Beca said sharply, as if she'd read Aubrey's mind. "Don't do that."

Aubrey blinked. "Do what?"

"That thing you do when you start thinking you're pathetic for wanting your parents to love you. I can literally see it happening in your face." Beca paused in her work to meet Aubrey's eyes directly in the mirror. "Wanting your parents' approval and affection isn't pathetic—it's human. The fact that they can't provide that says everything about them and nothing about you."

The words hit Aubrey with unexpected force, and she felt her throat tightening again. "You... how do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Say exactly the thing I need to hear."

Beca's cheeks flushed slightly, and she returned her attention to the hair sectioning with increased focus. "I don't know. Lucky guess?"

Or maybe you know me better than I thought, Aubrey mused, filing the observation away with all the other small revelations of the evening.

"Okay, confession time," Beca said with a sudden brightening of her voice that signalled she was trying to make things less depressing and quiet, "I may have gotten slightly obsessed with hair chemistry during my experimental phase. Like, I spent way too much time researching proper techniques and watching YouTube tutorials."

"That's... actually reassuring?"

"It should be! I know exactly what I'm doing. Well, mostly. Okay, like seventy-five percent." Beca paused, noticing Aubrey's alarmed expression. "I'm kidding! Mostly kidding. Fine, I'm like eighty-five percent confident, which is pretty good odds for a two AM hair transformation."

"Beca."

"Okay, okay, I'm completely confident. I've done this exact process on at least six different people, and none of them ended up bald or traumatised." She paused thoughtfully. "Well, my cousin Lindsey cried a little, but that was because she loved it so much, not because I'd destroyed her hair."

"Wait," Aubrey said with a curious cock of her head, "you've dyed other people's hair before? Who?"

"Oh, you know, various friends from high school, cousins, that girl from my music theory class who wanted rainbow streaks 'cause she was obsessed with my litte pony..." Beca began sectioning Aubrey's hair with practiced movements. "Actually, Amy asked me to give fully dye her hair hot pink last semester, but she chickened out at the last minute and decided her natural colour was 'too magnificent to mess with'."

Aubrey's eyebrows raised, interested. "Amy almost got hot pink hair?"

"She was very committed to the idea until she saw me mixing the bleach. Then she decided that her 'natural Australian beauty' shouldn't be 'corrupted by artificial enhancements', which I think was her way of saying she got scared."

Aubrey laughed despite her nerves. "That sounds exactly like something Amy would say."

"Right? She managed to make backing out of hair dye sound like a philosophical stance." Beca continued clipping sections of Aubrey's hair up and out of the way, her movements gentle but efficient. "But honestly, I was kind of relieved. Amy's hair is so thick and curly that it would have been a nightmare to work with."

Unlike my hair, which is apparently easy to work with, Aubrey thought, then immediately wondered why she was pleased by this assessment.

The sectioning process took longer than Aubrey had anticipated, with Beca carefully dividing her hair into what seemed like dozens of precisely organised segments. Each clip placement was accompanied by a soft brush of fingers against Aubrey's scalp, sending small electric shocks through her system that she was desperately trying to ignore.

This is a completely platonic hair dyeing experience, she reminded herself firmly. Friends help friends with spontaneous beauty transformations all the time. There's nothing inherently romantic about having someone run their fingers through your hair while you sit in a bathroom at two in the morning.

That thought was not as convincing as I hoped it would be.

"Alright," Beca announced, stepping back to survey her sectioning work with obvious satisfaction, "now comes the fun part. Well, 'fun' if you enjoy the smell of chemicals and the constant worry that you're about to permanently damage someone's hair."

"That's not making me feel better."

"Sorry. I meant to say: now comes the exciting and completely safe part where I demonstrate my professional-level expertise."

"Better."

They fell into a comfortable rhythm after that—Beca working with quiet concentration while Aubrey processed the various emotional upheavals of the past few days.

"You know," Beca began quietly as she begam her chemical mixing with careful focus. "My dad's not exactly father of the year material either—trust me, I know what it's like to bend over backward trying to earn affection from someone who's fundamentally incapable of providing it."

This was new information. In all their months of working together, Beca had rarely mentioned her family beyond occasional sarcastic comments about her father's expectations.

Aubrey hesitated, wanting to approach this topic with care. "Your dad's difficult too?"

"'Difficult' is a generous way to put it," Beca said, her voice taking on a carefully neutral tone that Aubrey recognised as her way of discussing painful topics. "He's got very specific ideas about what my life should look like, and 'pursuing music' isn't exactly on his approved career path list."

"What does he want you to do?"

"Law school, probably. Or business school. Something appropriately prestigious and soul-crushing that would make him look good at his country club functions, probably something that would make the step-monster proud enough to go bragging to her friends about despite the fact I want nothing to do with her." Beca's stirring became slightly more aggressive. "He keeps talking about 'practical choices' and 'financial security', which is his way of saying that everything I actually care about is worthless."

So we both have parents who view us as extensions of their own ambitions rather than as actual people, Aubrey realised. That's... depressing but somehow comforting.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "That sounds really difficult to deal with."

"It is what it is," Beca shrugged, though her carefully casual tone didn't quite hide the underlying hurt. "At least we can bond over our shared experience of parental disappointment."

"Hooray for emotional dysfunction," Aubrey said dryly.

"See, now you're getting it." Beca grinned, and the moment of heavy emotion dissolved into something lighter, more manageable. "We should start a support group. 'Adult Children of Uptight Assholes Anonymous'."

"'ACUAA'," Aubrey mused. "It has a nice ring to it."

"We could have meetings. Serve wine and complain about unrealistic expectations."

"And give each other spontaneous hair transformations as acts of rebellion."

"Exactly!" Beca held up the bowl of mixed bleach with obvious satisfaction. "Speaking of which, this is ready. You prepared to take the plunge into the wonderful world of chemical hair modification?"

Aubrey looked at the mixture, then at her reflection, then at Beca's expectant expression. "Let's do this before I lose my nerve."

"That's the spirit." Beca moved to position herself behind Aubrey's chair, brush in hand. "Fair warning: this is going to smell pretty intense. Like, 'chemical factory explosion' intense. Try not to breathe too deeply."

She was not joking.

The first application of bleach was accompanied by a smell so sharp and acrid that Aubrey's eyes immediately began watering. "Oh God," she gasped, "that's horrible...!"

"Yeah, the fumes are pretty brutal," Beca agreed, seemingly unaffected by the chemical assault. "You get used to it after a while. Or your sense of smell just gives up and dies. Either way, problem solved."

"That's not comforting."

"Sorry, I'm not great at the whole 'reassuring bedside manner' thing. I tend to go with brutal honesty instead." Beca continued painting sections of Aubrey's hair with methodical precision, working from the bottom up. "But look on the bright side—if this smell doesn't wake up the entire house, nothing will. We might actually get away with this covert hair operation."

The bleaching process took nearly an hour, during which they discussed everything from favorite movies to academic pressures to their shared love of obscure musical trivia. It was the longest uninterrupted conversation they'd ever had, and Aubrey was struck by how easy it felt, how natural.

We're friends, she realised with something approaching wonder. Actual friends. When did that happen?

"Okay," Beca announced finally, stepping back to survey her work, "bleaching is done. Now we wait about twenty minutes for it to process, then we rinse and apply the colour." She began cleaning up the bleach supplies with the same methodical efficiency she'd shown throughout the process. "How are you feeling? Any regrets yet?"

Aubrey studied her reflection, taking in the strange sight of her hair sectioned and clipped with stark white streaks visible beneath the foils. It looked alien, transformation in progress, and she felt a thrill of anticipation mixed with terror.

"No regrets," she said, and meant it. "I'm actually... excited?"

"Good," Beca grinned. "Because you're going to look absolutely incredible. The pink is going to be perfect with your skin tone—I'm talking 'stop traffic and make people weep' levels of gorgeous."

There she goes again, Aubrey thought, her heart doing that fluttering thing it had been doing all evening. How does she make compliments sound so casual and devastating at the same time?

The twenty-minute processing time passed in a blur of easy conversation and growing anticipation. When Beca finally began the rinsing process, carefully washing out the bleach and revealing the newly lightened sections, Aubrey held her breath.

"Perfect lift," Beca announced with obvious satisfaction, towel-drying the processed sections with gentle efficiency. "The colour is going to take beautifully."

The pink dye application was a more delicate process, requiring precision and artistry that Aubrey hadn't fully anticipated. Beca worked with the focused intensity of a master craftsperson, carefully saturating each bleached section with the vibrant color, ensuring even coverage and smooth blending where the pink met the natural blonde.

"You know," Beca said as she worked, her voice taking on a thoughtful quality, "I keep thinking about what you said earlier—about wanting to upset your parents."

"Yeah?" Aubrey prompted, curious about the direction of Beca's thoughts.

"I get it, I really do. Sometimes making people who've hurt you feel uncomfortable is the only way to reclaim some power in the relationship." Beca paused, meeting Aubrey's eyes in the mirror. "But I hope you're also doing this a little bit for yourself. Because you deserve to make choices about your own appearance, your own identity, without it having to be about anyone else's reaction."

The observation was so perceptive, so unexpectedly profound, that Aubrey felt something shift in her chest. "I... I hadn't thought about it that way."

"Your parents don't get to dictate who you are or how you present yourself to the world," Beca continued, returning her attention to the careful color application. "And if they're upset by you having pink streaks in your hair, that says way more about their issues than it does about your choices."

When did Beca Mitchell become so wise? Aubrey wondered, watching the smaller girl work with steadily growing admiration.

The final processing time was shorter—only fifteen minutes—but it felt like an eternity. Aubrey found herself studying Beca's reflection as much as her own, taking in the way the harsh bathroom lighting brought out the smudged eyeliner Beca had forgotten to remove before bed, the concentration evident in her expression, the way she bit her lower lip when she was thinking.

I'm in trouble, Aubrey realised with crystalline clarity. I'm completely, utterly in trouble.

"Alright," Beca announced, her voice carrying a note of excitement and nervousness, "moment of truth. Ready to see the final result?"

Aubrey's heart hammered against her ribs as Beca carefully removed the processing clips and began the final rinse. The pink color swirled down the drain in vibrant spirals, and she held her breath until Beca began the gentle towel-drying process.

Then, a gasp.

"Oh my God," Beca breathed, her voice filled with obvious awe. "Aubrey, look."

Aubrey raised her eyes to the mirror and felt her breath catch in her throat. The transformation was stunning—delicate streaks of soft pink wove through her natural blonde like ribbons of cotton candy, catching the light with an almost ethereal glow. The color was perfectly balanced, dramatic enough to be noticed but subtle enough to look intentional rather than chaotic.

"Holy shit," she whispered, then immediately clapped a hand over her mouth. "Sorry, I don't usually—"

"Don't apologise for swearing," Beca laughed. "This definitely calls for profanity. You look absolutely incredible."

And she did. The pink brought out the natural rosiness in her complexion, made her blue-green eyes appear brighter and more vivid, and gave her entire appearance an edge that she'd never possessed before. It was still recognisably her, but a version of herself that looked confident, bold, unapologetically beautiful.

"I can't believe that's me," Aubrey murmured, turning her head slightly to catch the way the color shifted in the light.

"Believe it," Beca said softly, and something in her tone made Aubrey meet her eyes in the mirror. "You're gorgeous, Aubrey. You always have been, but now... now you look like someone who knows it."

The compliment hung between them, charged with an undercurrent that neither of them seemed quite willing to acknowledge directly. Aubrey felt heat rise in her cheeks, and she watched Beca's reflection flush as well, as if the smaller girl had revealed more than she'd intended.

Say something, Aubrey commanded herself. Say literally anything.

"Uhm—thank you," she finally managed, her voice barely above a whisper as the words tumbled out. "For all of this. For staying up with me, for not asking too many questions, for... for making me feel like I could do something this crazy."

"Thank you for trusting me with something this important," Beca replied, and the sincerity in her voice made Aubrey's heart clench. "Your parents are going to absolutely lose their minds when they see this."

My parents. For a moment, Aubrey had completely forgotten about the original motivation for this late-night transformation. The pink streaks had started as an act of rebellion, a way to assert her independence and perhaps inflict some small measure of discomfort on the people who had hurt her so deeply.

But sitting here now, looking at her reflection with Beca standing behind her, both of them flushed and slightly disheveled from their middle-of-the-night adventure, all Aubrey could thunk about was the buzzing in her skin and the joy in her chest from spending this this time with Beca.

A smile bloomed on Aubrey's face, and as Beca began cleaning up the remaining supplies, Aubrey found herself reluctant to leave this small, fluorescent-lit sanctuary where she'd discovered so much about herself and about the girl who had become far more important to her than she'd ever expected.

"So," Beca said, breaking the charged silence with characteristic casualness, "what's the plan for tomorrow? Are you going to casually stroll downstairs and watch everyone's reactions, or are you more of a dramatic reveal kind of person?"

Aubrey laughed, surprised by how much the question delighted her. "I have no idea. I've never been a 'dramatic reveal' person before."

"Well," Beca grinned, "maybe it's time to try something new. You've already proven you're capable of spontaneous hair transformations at two in the morning. A little breakfast theatre seems totally manageable."

Everything feels manageable when you're around, Aubrey thought, but she simply nodded and smiled, storing the observation away with all the other small revelations of what had turned into the most unexpectedly perfect evening of her life.

As they finally prepared to leave the bathroom, Aubrey caught one last glimpse of herself in the mirror—pink streaks gleaming under the harsh lights, eyes bright with newfound confidence, standing next to the girl who had somehow become essential to her happiness without her even realising it.

Whatever happens with my parents, she decided, this was worth it.

This was absolutely worth it.