Work Text:
Chloe sat there, eyes dazed and glassy with joy. Beca's phone sat in her palm, the tinny speakers giving it all they had.
"Oh my god," Chloe murmured, scrolling through her snooping bounty; a voice notes folder with every beat drop, drum pattern and melody Beca'd hummed into her shitty phone mic for the last five years.
"I'm deleting those the second you go to class," Beca said, desperate fear in every inch of her body.
"Baby," Chloe said, as sixteen year old Beca beatboxed and drumrolled and utz-utz-utz-ed away, "Do you think my degree means anything to me?"