Whistle For The Choir (8a/?)
There was a time (a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away) that bros night consisted of soda, pizza, and sci-fi movies.
Of course, then they grew up and Puck turned into the mohawked McKinley bearer of bad news to the majority of the student body, and Rachel turned steadily more nefarious in her scheming, and suddenly they came to the conclusion that there was more fun to be had on Friday nights than simply sculling pepsi and quoting Galaxy Quest as it played on the television. ‘More fun’, of course, being somewhat of a euphemism for vandalism, gatecrashing, and various other juvenile and highly enjoyable activities. Together - Puck as the muscle of the operation and Rachel, more often than not, as the brains - they broadened their horizons so far as Friday evenings were concerned, and so the night turned into less of a “what movie have we not watched yet?” thing and more of a “which Vocal Adrenaline member have we not yet thrown raw squid on?” kind of affair.
At least it wasn’t eggs. They were mature.
Santana didn’t seem to agree - sulking in the car with her arms crossed while the two Jews worked rapidly on undoing the bolts of the route marker sign. The efficiency at which they worked indicated a rather obvious familiarity with the act, even though they joked around with one another at the same time.
“I think we’ve disappointed Her Badassness,” Puck notes with the slightest smirk, ignoring the shift in weight on his shoulders, beneath Rachel’s boots. He’s kneeling on the ground, lets her use him as a boost up to the sign because it’s easier. She yanks at a bolt with her wrench before replying.
“Don’t know what she was expecting, really. Stealing street signs is badass. It’s the very classification - traditionally juvenile, I rather think, particularly since it’s still early for the evening and we haven’t yet started drinking,” the short girl rambles. She might be crudely different now to how she’d always been perceived by others, but she’s always had that habit. A big vocabulary and an urge to use it. There was always enough silence for her to fill. “Hardly the main event, by the way. I think she’s more irritated by the thought of having sat in the car for forty minutes just so we could drive out here for this one particular sign than disappointed by our actual itinerary. She has cookies, and we have the rest of the night. I think she’ll get over it.”
And even as she says it the sign comes loose into her hands and she grunts a little before jumping back off his shoulders and to the ground. He rolls his arms, loosens the tense set in his shoulders when he gets to his feet and dusts off the knees of his jeans. They move to the car, pop the boot and stuff the sign beneath a blanket in there before closing it and heading to the front of the car - Puck to drive, Rachel riding shotgun.
“What are we doing now?” Santana asks drolly from the back seat and Rachel looks over to Puck as they exchange almost identical grins.
“Going back to Casa de Berry,” Puck tells her simply, holding back a chuckle when he feels her kick the back of his chair.
“More like casa de locos,” she mutters dryly. “You’re telling me we drove forty minutes out of town for a street sign, just so we could turn the car around and go back? Fuck you two!” Still, despite it, she leans forward in her seat, forgoing a seatbelt for the purpose of leaning between Puck and Rachel’s chairs to semi-join them at the front. “Isn’t your house empty anyway?”
“It is indeed,” is the reply she gets.
“But that’s kind of good, since that’s where all our shit it anyway, and, like, if my mom caught me with power tools and a carton of beer she would kill me or something,” Puck tells her, eyeing the empty road and flooring it. “Won’t take that long to get there, anyway - it’s getting late and dark out and I can speed without a problem.”
“Also, while we really wanted that sign, it actually just means that all our friends saw us leave town with the intention of going to - so far as they’re aware anyway - Columbus,” Rachel explains lightly, hands clasped on her lap, fingers twiddling idly. “Which, really, that’s rather good. Because if something goes wrong tonight we have an alibi.”
“...Alibi...” Santana mutters, utterly mystified and staring at the two Jews in the front seat with wide eyes. “What is the likelihood of us needing an alibi? What exactly are we going to do that would require an alibi?”
“Oh, you know...” Rachel trails off lightly.
“...the standard -”
“-breaking -”
“-and entering,” Puck tells her.
“Trespassing, essentially.”
“With super glue, and spray paint-”
“-possibly conducting schemes with the intention of harming others-”
“-and overall-”
“-destruction of public property.”
A pause.
“...Okay, you guys need to cut out your creepy ESP twin thing where you finish each other’s sentences because it’s compelling me to call for an exorcist or something, get me?” Santana grumbles, shuddering a little at the twin grins and the simultaneous “Got’cha!” she earns in reply. Hisses out a quiet “creepy Jews...” as she sinks back in her seat and cracks open her box of cookies. Rachel messes around with whoever’s ipod is hooked up to Noah’s stereo, and then they’re cruising down the highway listening to whatever punk-rock-alternate-ska-jazz shit she’s lined up, singing along at the tops of their lungs and leading on into the evening.
The ride back into town doesn’t seem to take too long, and Puck manages to get to Rachel’s house without passing a single speed camera, and avoiding the majority of other traffic. Parks his car in an empty spot in the garage beside whatever vehicle it is shacked up in there and covered in a white sheet. They bypass it, once they’re out of the car, and make their way through the connecting door to the dark house, Rachel flicking light switches as they go. Then the brunette disappears into the kitchen, while Puck leads Santana upstairs to the girl’s bedroom. The Latina watches as he drags two black backpacks out from beneath the bed, apparently already packed.
“These,” he explains as he drops them on the bed, “are our career kits.” He grins proudly when he looks at her, and she quirks an eyebrow, not understanding. “Basically, a professional badass has, like, a particular set of tools. Career Kits. For the job and lifestyle of badassery. And if you’re going to join us more than occasionally, you’ll probably need to assemble your own. Everything you could ever need for basic prank-pulling, and general delinquency, is in these bags - except, like, stuff that expires or specific order materials. And big things, obviously.”
She purses her lips, stares at him impassively for a moment before speaking.
“Half of me is, like, super impressed by the lengths you guys go to. Really,” she tells him slowly. “The other half thinks you need lives.”
He shrugs.
Puck throws her a bunch of clothes from Rachel’s closet - dark jeans and a black hoodie, typical hoodlum attire. She changes in Rachel’s bathroom, and when she exits he’s wearing a similar getup. By the time they get downstairs there’s the heady scent of pizza wafting out of the kitchen, and mouths water at the thought of food. They follow the scent to find Rachel clattering around in the kitchen - pulls three beers from the fridge and uncaps them on the counter’s edge with a scrape and a quick flick of her wrist - Santana blinks, because she didn’t know that was possible - and slides two of them across the breakfast counter, right into Puck’s waiting hands. He passes one to her, holds his out to chink as a toast while Rachel moves to take the pizza from the oven.
“Bottoms up, and welcome to the brohood.”
/-\
“I don’t understand. Don’t we hate school?”
“Yes,” comes the simultaneous reply from either side of the Latina. Santana frowns, crosses her arms while the Wonder Twins both swing their backpacks off of their shoulders, perfectly in time. If they were even half as in sync during Glee club, they would probably beat Vocal Adrenaline down without a second-thought. She doesn’t even bother to look at either of them - knows she’ll see identical dark clothing on bodies of vastly different builds, black beanies on both heads. Rachel pulls out a lock-picking kit - what the fuck? - and Puck pulls out a can of spray paint.
“Then why are we at school?”
“Place you hate the most is the one you fuck with the most,” Puck tells her, giving his can a shake and letting it rattle while Rachel moves to crouch before the door, fiddling expertly with the lock.
They’d eaten pizza in front of the television, kicking back two beers and watching trashy shows on MTV until darkness had truly fallen and Rachel had washed up before going to get changed - emerged in a matching delinquent’s uniform and kicked on black trainers at the door. They’d all set their watches - ‘tactical efficiency’, Rachel had told her, as if they were a special ops. unit rather than a couple of bored teenagers staining the town on a Friday night. Then they’d gone into the garage and uncovered Rachel’s car - didn’t look too special on the outside, but the inside was comfy and the engine was pretty fucking good, they told her. Altogether, nondescript, fast, mostly unseen by their schoolmates, and just perfect for their ‘let’s fuck things up’ outings. Puck jumped in the back seat with the ‘career kits’ and a cooler - full of beer, obviously - and Santana rode shotgun while Rachel drove them out into the night, taking the back roads, and winding up on the highly familiar steps of the McKinley high side-entrance - least visible of the school’s doors by the public.
And that brought them to this moment - Rachel fiddling with tools until the lock gave a click and the door gave way to a dark hallway and crude linoleum floors.
“What if there’s an alarm?” Santana hazards only a moment before the two Jews slide through the doors and into the darkness. “What if they catch us on tape?”
Still, she follows.
“Oh, like fuck this school will ever spend a dime on security,” Puck scoffs, and Rachel flicks on a flashlight ahead of him, presumably salvaged from her bag. Handy, Santana realises. There is indeed a reason for their backpacks.
“They’ll get quarantined for the atrocities that they ever so foolishly hazard to call food and serve us in the cafeteria before they even so much as buy themselves a padlock for the front door,” Rachel clarifies, torchlight scanning across the hallway as they moved. “Why? Do you think we’ll be caught here Sanny-san-san?”
“No,” Santana grumbles. “Just - cautious.” Grabs the flashlight Puck offers her and flicks it on with pursed lips, wondering what, exactly, they’re doing right now. “I’m badass, but Juvie’s not my scene. I like me some personal space, and semi-intelligent conversation. And waffles. So, yeah - what are we doing?”
Her answer, of course, is a can of black spray paint shoved in her face. She takes it (though dubious to the intent), and tries to think of something worth spraying. Art’s never really been her thing, but she watches as Rachel strides ahead of them, searching out lockers she apparently know and spraying out crude words across them in aerosol and realises something.
Arson has.
And then, even as she’s forming ideas, she watches Rachel pull a stencil out of her bag (talk about prepared, she’s like a professional illegal street artist), spraying a word on someone’s locker that Santana can’t quite make out in the darkness. The singer drops her bag to the floor, pulls out her lock-picking kit, and the next thing Santana knows that same locker is open for all the world to see, and the short girl has her torch between her teeth while she transfers a bunch of indiscriminate things from her bag into the shadowy locker. The Latina wants to know what’s going on - like, really wants to know - but she resigns herself when Puck grabs her arm and leads her away, towards the door to the building’s roof, obviously requiring assistance. Hands her his backpack - which is fucking heavy, and she realises why when she sees the actual can of paint (however many litres, what are they even doing tonight?) stuck all up in there and just waiting to stain some ground. He cracks open the door and leads her up the stair and she ignores the shuffles and clangs of metal back wherever Rachel is to move up with him, because there’s a vague excitement and a slight dread for the lack of sleep she’s sure to have this evening.
This is going to be a long night.
/-\
The room is darkened, but not black. Probably because it’s some time after noon and even the closed blinds can’t keep out the sunlight - bitching, but ain’t that always the way?
Someone groans amidst the mass of tangled limbs and black clothing on the bed - an elbow jerks into someone’s gut in response, though not specifically the right one, and the next thing known is a body falling from the blankets to crash on the floor, echoing loud around the room in the process.
The groan, this time, is accompanied.
“Fuck. What time is it?”
“Two in the PM, Latina girlbro.”
“Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay-sheelll, where’d’joo go? You were my teddy!”
“Brittany?” Rachel asks, head popping up over the edge of the mattress, looking up from her newly found spot on the floor with a heavy squint, hair mussed, and tired. “Why are you in my house?”
All she gets is a vacant expression and a shrug for her trouble, and so she does the logical thing - quirks her lips and hops back into bed. She’s welcomed with open arms, the tall blonde clinging to her tightly as ever, even as her two partners in crime shuffle around and hit each other on the other side of the bed.
“Fuck off, this is my bedspace!”
“I can assure you, Lopez, I was here first! Ten fucking years ago, in fact!”
“Ladies first!”
“I hope you’re not talking about yourself.”
A dull thump, and then a lighter one when the mattress lightens again.
“...Motherfucker. You almost hit me in the balls.”
“Damn. Missed.”
“Both of you get out of my bed before I skin you alive and go make me breakfast,” Rachel grumbles, reaching over to push the temporarily smug Latina out of the bed as well - she goes with a shriek, thudding to the floor. “Or lunch. Or whatever. Doesn’t even have to be good, because I can subsist on a glass of water and ibuprofen if I have to.”
“I am not your slave,” Santana growls back.
“Only women in the kitchen!” Puck insists - earns a snarl and an elbow to the face for his trouble.
“Wha-cheh! Wha-cheh!”
“What the fuck Britt?”
“That’s my whip crackin’,” Rachel replies. “Innit Britt?”
“Yup yup. Breakfast. Guys, I want scrambled eggs. And bacon.”
“I’ll make you breakfast, Britt!”
“Of course you will Santana. How could I have never guessed.”
“Pussy-whipped!”
“Food. Food! My stomach is making the rumblies that only eggs can satisfy.”
“I’m not sure we even have eggs in the house anymore, Britt. They’re kind of taboo since the lacklustre Jesse St. James era of my sad high school story. Waffles?”
“Waffles can satisfy my rumblies too.”
The groan of assent leads eventually to four stiff forms making their ways downstairs to the Berry kitchen. Rachel goes immediately to one set of cupboards, dragging out a number of bowls, measuring cups - the usual things for cooking that Santana doesn’t do. Puck rustles up the waffle iron with tired eyes and a pleasant smile. Brittany goes straight to the fridge, pulling out a bunch of ingredients and placing them out on the counter before searching out some OJ, a couple of glasses and a pack of aspirin from above the fridge. Sets out a glass for herself, and the accompaniment of drugs for the rest of them, and Santana takes a seat at the counter, kicks back her pills and half of her drink, and watches.
There’s a practiced ease to the way they do this whole domestic friendly thing in front of her, but that doesn’t surprise her. The part that does isn’t even Brittany’s easy comfort in the kitchen - firstly, that girl is comfortable with almost any situation, and secondly, Santana is ninety nine percent certain that Brittany’s been here a huge number of times in the past. No, the surprising part is when Brittany and Rachel finish setting shit up and step out of the kitchen, leaving the actual cooking to Puck.
She quirks an eyebrow at Rachel when the girl takes up the stool beside her, and the shorter brunette shrugs.
“I make really good cookies and, like, general microwave or oven meals? Other than that, keep me away from the kitchen,” is the explanation she gets in return. Brittany slides into the seat on Santana’s other side and taps her shoulder.
“Puck makes good waffles because he likes good waffles,” she says, and nods in conclusion like it’s the answer to all of life’s problems, and Santana just shrugs the doubt away and decides to go with the flow. Things tend to work out better that way.
There is a grunt of assent from the man in the kitchen as he continues to clatter around and work on their breakfast, and the three girls sip at their drinks - Rachel and Santana with the addition of hangover-combatant pills, of course.
“Fucking a’, guys,” Santana grumbles eventually, breaking through the silence. “How much did we drink last night? And what else did we do last night? I don’t really remember much beyond the school swimming pool and-”
“Hush hush,” Rachel cuts in, even as Puck slides a filled plate across the breakfast counter to her. “You’ll ruin the surprise for Brittany on Monday.”
“I love surprises,” the blonde says absently.
Santana purses her lips and stares cautiously at the small brunette to her right, trying to figure out whether or not she should push the subject. Mainly because a very large part of her evening seems to be missing from her memory, but what she has - though it was undoubtedly badass and super fun - is not at all pretty. Brittany might like the array of surprises waiting latent within the halls of McKinley High over the weekend, but if what she does remember is any indication Principal Figgins and a small minority of the student body will definitely not. And if there’s anything that will lead back to her and the Jewish wonder twins, they will be absolutely and irrevocably fucked.
Then again, that’s totally all the fun.
/-\
Puck sleeps almost all the way through Sunday. Truthfully, bro’s night was a lot harsher on him than normal - with Santana around, he and Rachel had wanted to impress. But that meant more work than normal, in a way, and hardly getting home by daybreak, and a super bad hangover that lasted for ages, and Puck just wanted to sleep.
Which he did, obviously.
Of course, when he decided to do that, he did so with the vague thought in his mind that Rachel would do the same. And for Saturday night and a good half of Sunday, he’s pretty sure she did.
But then he wakes up on Monday morning at 2:14 with a buzzing in his ears, and he sneaks downstairs to be met with the flickering of the television - sound so low it’s almost muted. Rachel’s hunched on the couch, passed out, and he can make out a couple of empty bottles on the coffee table, and he sighs. Because she’s not sleeping - every time she closes her eyes she suffocates - and it kills him. He traipses over to grab the empty beer bottles and shakes his head - she drinks at parties and for bros night but she’s never done it to drown herself out - before grabbing the lot and hauling them off to the kitchen. Washes them out in the sink and leaves the bottles beside the garbage bin for recycling.
Then he goes back for his bro, grimaces down at her in the light from the television (switches it off via remote as an afterthought), and picks her up in his arms easily. Girl’s a bit on the light side, he notes, and reminds himself to start watching her eat. She grumbles in his arms while he starts towards the staircase.
“Noah?”
“You were supposed to wake me if you couldn’t sleep, Rach,” he tells her gently. She just mumbles and burrows into his body. “C’mon. You can sleep with me.”
“Anytime, stud.” He manages a chuckle. “...Thanks.”
It’s quiet, and he almost doesn’t hear it, even as he carries her into his room and lays her down on the bed, moving to take the spot beside her sleepily. Then he pulls her into him, holds her, and lets her meld to his side in the dark. Better beside him than the couch or the kitchen floor, like Wednesday. Which was just a shocker of an evening, really.
“No thanks necessary, babe. You know you’re my girl. I’ll do anything for you.”
She just sniffs and nuzzles his shoulder. He makes sure she’s asleep before he allows himself the luxury of even closing his eyes.
/-\
(Part Two)
Of course, then they grew up and Puck turned into the mohawked McKinley bearer of bad news to the majority of the student body, and Rachel turned steadily more nefarious in her scheming, and suddenly they came to the conclusion that there was more fun to be had on Friday nights than simply sculling pepsi and quoting Galaxy Quest as it played on the television. ‘More fun’, of course, being somewhat of a euphemism for vandalism, gatecrashing, and various other juvenile and highly enjoyable activities. Together - Puck as the muscle of the operation and Rachel, more often than not, as the brains - they broadened their horizons so far as Friday evenings were concerned, and so the night turned into less of a “what movie have we not watched yet?” thing and more of a “which Vocal Adrenaline member have we not yet thrown raw squid on?” kind of affair.
At least it wasn’t eggs. They were mature.
Santana didn’t seem to agree - sulking in the car with her arms crossed while the two Jews worked rapidly on undoing the bolts of the route marker sign. The efficiency at which they worked indicated a rather obvious familiarity with the act, even though they joked around with one another at the same time.
“I think we’ve disappointed Her Badassness,” Puck notes with the slightest smirk, ignoring the shift in weight on his shoulders, beneath Rachel’s boots. He’s kneeling on the ground, lets her use him as a boost up to the sign because it’s easier. She yanks at a bolt with her wrench before replying.
“Don’t know what she was expecting, really. Stealing street signs is badass. It’s the very classification - traditionally juvenile, I rather think, particularly since it’s still early for the evening and we haven’t yet started drinking,” the short girl rambles. She might be crudely different now to how she’d always been perceived by others, but she’s always had that habit. A big vocabulary and an urge to use it. There was always enough silence for her to fill. “Hardly the main event, by the way. I think she’s more irritated by the thought of having sat in the car for forty minutes just so we could drive out here for this one particular sign than disappointed by our actual itinerary. She has cookies, and we have the rest of the night. I think she’ll get over it.”
And even as she says it the sign comes loose into her hands and she grunts a little before jumping back off his shoulders and to the ground. He rolls his arms, loosens the tense set in his shoulders when he gets to his feet and dusts off the knees of his jeans. They move to the car, pop the boot and stuff the sign beneath a blanket in there before closing it and heading to the front of the car - Puck to drive, Rachel riding shotgun.
“What are we doing now?” Santana asks drolly from the back seat and Rachel looks over to Puck as they exchange almost identical grins.
“Going back to Casa de Berry,” Puck tells her simply, holding back a chuckle when he feels her kick the back of his chair.
“More like casa de locos,” she mutters dryly. “You’re telling me we drove forty minutes out of town for a street sign, just so we could turn the car around and go back? Fuck you two!” Still, despite it, she leans forward in her seat, forgoing a seatbelt for the purpose of leaning between Puck and Rachel’s chairs to semi-join them at the front. “Isn’t your house empty anyway?”
“It is indeed,” is the reply she gets.
“But that’s kind of good, since that’s where all our shit it anyway, and, like, if my mom caught me with power tools and a carton of beer she would kill me or something,” Puck tells her, eyeing the empty road and flooring it. “Won’t take that long to get there, anyway - it’s getting late and dark out and I can speed without a problem.”
“Also, while we really wanted that sign, it actually just means that all our friends saw us leave town with the intention of going to - so far as they’re aware anyway - Columbus,” Rachel explains lightly, hands clasped on her lap, fingers twiddling idly. “Which, really, that’s rather good. Because if something goes wrong tonight we have an alibi.”
“...Alibi...” Santana mutters, utterly mystified and staring at the two Jews in the front seat with wide eyes. “What is the likelihood of us needing an alibi? What exactly are we going to do that would require an alibi?”
“Oh, you know...” Rachel trails off lightly.
“...the standard -”
“-breaking -”
“-and entering,” Puck tells her.
“Trespassing, essentially.”
“With super glue, and spray paint-”
“-possibly conducting schemes with the intention of harming others-”
“-and overall-”
“-destruction of public property.”
A pause.
“...Okay, you guys need to cut out your creepy ESP twin thing where you finish each other’s sentences because it’s compelling me to call for an exorcist or something, get me?” Santana grumbles, shuddering a little at the twin grins and the simultaneous “Got’cha!” she earns in reply. Hisses out a quiet “creepy Jews...” as she sinks back in her seat and cracks open her box of cookies. Rachel messes around with whoever’s ipod is hooked up to Noah’s stereo, and then they’re cruising down the highway listening to whatever punk-rock-alternate-ska-jazz shit she’s lined up, singing along at the tops of their lungs and leading on into the evening.
The ride back into town doesn’t seem to take too long, and Puck manages to get to Rachel’s house without passing a single speed camera, and avoiding the majority of other traffic. Parks his car in an empty spot in the garage beside whatever vehicle it is shacked up in there and covered in a white sheet. They bypass it, once they’re out of the car, and make their way through the connecting door to the dark house, Rachel flicking light switches as they go. Then the brunette disappears into the kitchen, while Puck leads Santana upstairs to the girl’s bedroom. The Latina watches as he drags two black backpacks out from beneath the bed, apparently already packed.
“These,” he explains as he drops them on the bed, “are our career kits.” He grins proudly when he looks at her, and she quirks an eyebrow, not understanding. “Basically, a professional badass has, like, a particular set of tools. Career Kits. For the job and lifestyle of badassery. And if you’re going to join us more than occasionally, you’ll probably need to assemble your own. Everything you could ever need for basic prank-pulling, and general delinquency, is in these bags - except, like, stuff that expires or specific order materials. And big things, obviously.”
She purses her lips, stares at him impassively for a moment before speaking.
“Half of me is, like, super impressed by the lengths you guys go to. Really,” she tells him slowly. “The other half thinks you need lives.”
He shrugs.
Puck throws her a bunch of clothes from Rachel’s closet - dark jeans and a black hoodie, typical hoodlum attire. She changes in Rachel’s bathroom, and when she exits he’s wearing a similar getup. By the time they get downstairs there’s the heady scent of pizza wafting out of the kitchen, and mouths water at the thought of food. They follow the scent to find Rachel clattering around in the kitchen - pulls three beers from the fridge and uncaps them on the counter’s edge with a scrape and a quick flick of her wrist - Santana blinks, because she didn’t know that was possible - and slides two of them across the breakfast counter, right into Puck’s waiting hands. He passes one to her, holds his out to chink as a toast while Rachel moves to take the pizza from the oven.
“Bottoms up, and welcome to the brohood.”
/-\
“I don’t understand. Don’t we hate school?”
“Yes,” comes the simultaneous reply from either side of the Latina. Santana frowns, crosses her arms while the Wonder Twins both swing their backpacks off of their shoulders, perfectly in time. If they were even half as in sync during Glee club, they would probably beat Vocal Adrenaline down without a second-thought. She doesn’t even bother to look at either of them - knows she’ll see identical dark clothing on bodies of vastly different builds, black beanies on both heads. Rachel pulls out a lock-picking kit - what the fuck? - and Puck pulls out a can of spray paint.
“Then why are we at school?”
“Place you hate the most is the one you fuck with the most,” Puck tells her, giving his can a shake and letting it rattle while Rachel moves to crouch before the door, fiddling expertly with the lock.
They’d eaten pizza in front of the television, kicking back two beers and watching trashy shows on MTV until darkness had truly fallen and Rachel had washed up before going to get changed - emerged in a matching delinquent’s uniform and kicked on black trainers at the door. They’d all set their watches - ‘tactical efficiency’, Rachel had told her, as if they were a special ops. unit rather than a couple of bored teenagers staining the town on a Friday night. Then they’d gone into the garage and uncovered Rachel’s car - didn’t look too special on the outside, but the inside was comfy and the engine was pretty fucking good, they told her. Altogether, nondescript, fast, mostly unseen by their schoolmates, and just perfect for their ‘let’s fuck things up’ outings. Puck jumped in the back seat with the ‘career kits’ and a cooler - full of beer, obviously - and Santana rode shotgun while Rachel drove them out into the night, taking the back roads, and winding up on the highly familiar steps of the McKinley high side-entrance - least visible of the school’s doors by the public.
And that brought them to this moment - Rachel fiddling with tools until the lock gave a click and the door gave way to a dark hallway and crude linoleum floors.
“What if there’s an alarm?” Santana hazards only a moment before the two Jews slide through the doors and into the darkness. “What if they catch us on tape?”
Still, she follows.
“Oh, like fuck this school will ever spend a dime on security,” Puck scoffs, and Rachel flicks on a flashlight ahead of him, presumably salvaged from her bag. Handy, Santana realises. There is indeed a reason for their backpacks.
“They’ll get quarantined for the atrocities that they ever so foolishly hazard to call food and serve us in the cafeteria before they even so much as buy themselves a padlock for the front door,” Rachel clarifies, torchlight scanning across the hallway as they moved. “Why? Do you think we’ll be caught here Sanny-san-san?”
“No,” Santana grumbles. “Just - cautious.” Grabs the flashlight Puck offers her and flicks it on with pursed lips, wondering what, exactly, they’re doing right now. “I’m badass, but Juvie’s not my scene. I like me some personal space, and semi-intelligent conversation. And waffles. So, yeah - what are we doing?”
Her answer, of course, is a can of black spray paint shoved in her face. She takes it (though dubious to the intent), and tries to think of something worth spraying. Art’s never really been her thing, but she watches as Rachel strides ahead of them, searching out lockers she apparently know and spraying out crude words across them in aerosol and realises something.
Arson has.
And then, even as she’s forming ideas, she watches Rachel pull a stencil out of her bag (talk about prepared, she’s like a professional illegal street artist), spraying a word on someone’s locker that Santana can’t quite make out in the darkness. The singer drops her bag to the floor, pulls out her lock-picking kit, and the next thing Santana knows that same locker is open for all the world to see, and the short girl has her torch between her teeth while she transfers a bunch of indiscriminate things from her bag into the shadowy locker. The Latina wants to know what’s going on - like, really wants to know - but she resigns herself when Puck grabs her arm and leads her away, towards the door to the building’s roof, obviously requiring assistance. Hands her his backpack - which is fucking heavy, and she realises why when she sees the actual can of paint (however many litres, what are they even doing tonight?) stuck all up in there and just waiting to stain some ground. He cracks open the door and leads her up the stair and she ignores the shuffles and clangs of metal back wherever Rachel is to move up with him, because there’s a vague excitement and a slight dread for the lack of sleep she’s sure to have this evening.
This is going to be a long night.
/-\
The room is darkened, but not black. Probably because it’s some time after noon and even the closed blinds can’t keep out the sunlight - bitching, but ain’t that always the way?
Someone groans amidst the mass of tangled limbs and black clothing on the bed - an elbow jerks into someone’s gut in response, though not specifically the right one, and the next thing known is a body falling from the blankets to crash on the floor, echoing loud around the room in the process.
The groan, this time, is accompanied.
“Fuck. What time is it?”
“Two in the PM, Latina girlbro.”
“Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay-sheelll, where’d’joo go? You were my teddy!”
“Brittany?” Rachel asks, head popping up over the edge of the mattress, looking up from her newly found spot on the floor with a heavy squint, hair mussed, and tired. “Why are you in my house?”
All she gets is a vacant expression and a shrug for her trouble, and so she does the logical thing - quirks her lips and hops back into bed. She’s welcomed with open arms, the tall blonde clinging to her tightly as ever, even as her two partners in crime shuffle around and hit each other on the other side of the bed.
“Fuck off, this is my bedspace!”
“I can assure you, Lopez, I was here first! Ten fucking years ago, in fact!”
“Ladies first!”
“I hope you’re not talking about yourself.”
A dull thump, and then a lighter one when the mattress lightens again.
“...Motherfucker. You almost hit me in the balls.”
“Damn. Missed.”
“Both of you get out of my bed before I skin you alive and go make me breakfast,” Rachel grumbles, reaching over to push the temporarily smug Latina out of the bed as well - she goes with a shriek, thudding to the floor. “Or lunch. Or whatever. Doesn’t even have to be good, because I can subsist on a glass of water and ibuprofen if I have to.”
“I am not your slave,” Santana growls back.
“Only women in the kitchen!” Puck insists - earns a snarl and an elbow to the face for his trouble.
“Wha-cheh! Wha-cheh!”
“What the fuck Britt?”
“That’s my whip crackin’,” Rachel replies. “Innit Britt?”
“Yup yup. Breakfast. Guys, I want scrambled eggs. And bacon.”
“I’ll make you breakfast, Britt!”
“Of course you will Santana. How could I have never guessed.”
“Pussy-whipped!”
“Food. Food! My stomach is making the rumblies that only eggs can satisfy.”
“I’m not sure we even have eggs in the house anymore, Britt. They’re kind of taboo since the lacklustre Jesse St. James era of my sad high school story. Waffles?”
“Waffles can satisfy my rumblies too.”
The groan of assent leads eventually to four stiff forms making their ways downstairs to the Berry kitchen. Rachel goes immediately to one set of cupboards, dragging out a number of bowls, measuring cups - the usual things for cooking that Santana doesn’t do. Puck rustles up the waffle iron with tired eyes and a pleasant smile. Brittany goes straight to the fridge, pulling out a bunch of ingredients and placing them out on the counter before searching out some OJ, a couple of glasses and a pack of aspirin from above the fridge. Sets out a glass for herself, and the accompaniment of drugs for the rest of them, and Santana takes a seat at the counter, kicks back her pills and half of her drink, and watches.
There’s a practiced ease to the way they do this whole domestic friendly thing in front of her, but that doesn’t surprise her. The part that does isn’t even Brittany’s easy comfort in the kitchen - firstly, that girl is comfortable with almost any situation, and secondly, Santana is ninety nine percent certain that Brittany’s been here a huge number of times in the past. No, the surprising part is when Brittany and Rachel finish setting shit up and step out of the kitchen, leaving the actual cooking to Puck.
She quirks an eyebrow at Rachel when the girl takes up the stool beside her, and the shorter brunette shrugs.
“I make really good cookies and, like, general microwave or oven meals? Other than that, keep me away from the kitchen,” is the explanation she gets in return. Brittany slides into the seat on Santana’s other side and taps her shoulder.
“Puck makes good waffles because he likes good waffles,” she says, and nods in conclusion like it’s the answer to all of life’s problems, and Santana just shrugs the doubt away and decides to go with the flow. Things tend to work out better that way.
There is a grunt of assent from the man in the kitchen as he continues to clatter around and work on their breakfast, and the three girls sip at their drinks - Rachel and Santana with the addition of hangover-combatant pills, of course.
“Fucking a’, guys,” Santana grumbles eventually, breaking through the silence. “How much did we drink last night? And what else did we do last night? I don’t really remember much beyond the school swimming pool and-”
“Hush hush,” Rachel cuts in, even as Puck slides a filled plate across the breakfast counter to her. “You’ll ruin the surprise for Brittany on Monday.”
“I love surprises,” the blonde says absently.
Santana purses her lips and stares cautiously at the small brunette to her right, trying to figure out whether or not she should push the subject. Mainly because a very large part of her evening seems to be missing from her memory, but what she has - though it was undoubtedly badass and super fun - is not at all pretty. Brittany might like the array of surprises waiting latent within the halls of McKinley High over the weekend, but if what she does remember is any indication Principal Figgins and a small minority of the student body will definitely not. And if there’s anything that will lead back to her and the Jewish wonder twins, they will be absolutely and irrevocably fucked.
Then again, that’s totally all the fun.
/-\
Puck sleeps almost all the way through Sunday. Truthfully, bro’s night was a lot harsher on him than normal - with Santana around, he and Rachel had wanted to impress. But that meant more work than normal, in a way, and hardly getting home by daybreak, and a super bad hangover that lasted for ages, and Puck just wanted to sleep.
Which he did, obviously.
Of course, when he decided to do that, he did so with the vague thought in his mind that Rachel would do the same. And for Saturday night and a good half of Sunday, he’s pretty sure she did.
But then he wakes up on Monday morning at 2:14 with a buzzing in his ears, and he sneaks downstairs to be met with the flickering of the television - sound so low it’s almost muted. Rachel’s hunched on the couch, passed out, and he can make out a couple of empty bottles on the coffee table, and he sighs. Because she’s not sleeping - every time she closes her eyes she suffocates - and it kills him. He traipses over to grab the empty beer bottles and shakes his head - she drinks at parties and for bros night but she’s never done it to drown herself out - before grabbing the lot and hauling them off to the kitchen. Washes them out in the sink and leaves the bottles beside the garbage bin for recycling.
Then he goes back for his bro, grimaces down at her in the light from the television (switches it off via remote as an afterthought), and picks her up in his arms easily. Girl’s a bit on the light side, he notes, and reminds himself to start watching her eat. She grumbles in his arms while he starts towards the staircase.
“Noah?”
“You were supposed to wake me if you couldn’t sleep, Rach,” he tells her gently. She just mumbles and burrows into his body. “C’mon. You can sleep with me.”
“Anytime, stud.” He manages a chuckle. “...Thanks.”
It’s quiet, and he almost doesn’t hear it, even as he carries her into his room and lays her down on the bed, moving to take the spot beside her sleepily. Then he pulls her into him, holds her, and lets her meld to his side in the dark. Better beside him than the couch or the kitchen floor, like Wednesday. Which was just a shocker of an evening, really.
“No thanks necessary, babe. You know you’re my girl. I’ll do anything for you.”
She just sniffs and nuzzles his shoulder. He makes sure she’s asleep before he allows himself the luxury of even closing his eyes.
/-\
(Part Two)