Let's Make This Moment a Crime
Summary: It's the first day of summer and there's nothing on tv. They're fifteen, bored, and have a laundry list of rules that are just begging to be broken.
Pairing: Brittany/Santana
Author's Note: Set before season one (summer 2009). The reference to Boy Meets World is from an episode called Cory's Alternative Friends. This is sort of a prequel to something Killercereal and I are kind of working on. I combined my love for Bratty!Brittana and her no-angst diet and this is what happened. Thanks to Not-Lauren (more commonly known as Skillzyo) and Jax for giving it a look-see. The title comes from The Format song of the same name. Now it's back to Dunder Mifflin, Lima Branch for me.
"Rise and shine."
Santana groans as her mother yanks the sheets off of the bed. She was just minding her own damn business in her own damn dreamland until her mother came in and forced her to wake up, all while wearing the same smug smile Santana's so well-known for throughout the halls of McKinley.
Santana fucking hates mornings.
"Mom," she whines.
"Just be glad I didn't open the curtains," her mother muses, eyeing Santana's disaster of a room. "You should really do something about this mess, Santana."
Whatever. Santana keeps it this way for a reason. Her parents are never going to find the shoebox full of security tags from the clothes she's shoplifted or the pornos Puck left here accidentally-on-purpose. In her defense, at least it smells clean. Something has to mask the stench of cigarette smoke – it's why she has three Glade PlugIns, not to mention she practically keeps Lima Mall's Bath & Body Works in business with all the scented candles she buys.
But her mother fucking hates looking at this eyesore every day and she's not shy about letting Santana know.
She's not shy about anything, really.
Must run in the family.
"But it's the first day of summer," Santana mumbles, her voice hoarse. "I'm just gonna fall back asleep when you leave for work."
"You should be playing hopscotch and setting up a lemonade stand," her mother says. "Or doing something that doesn't reflect this moody new attitude you've adopted."
"I wouldn't be so moody if you'd let me sleep in."
"Well, excuse me if I don't want the two of you wasting the day away in bed."
Santana whips her head around to see her best friend snoozing beside her. Brittany's so peaceful when she sleeps; she hardly moves and her breathing is shallow and light, as opposed to Santana, who's all flailing limbs and snores like an elephant in heat. She's so quiet that Santana had almost forgotten she was there.
"And I don't remember you asking for permission to have a sleepover," Santana's mother continues.
Of course not, Santana thinks. You were already in bed and Daddy was at work.
Plus she wasn't exactly expecting her mother to barge into her room this morning. And honestly, mornings are one of the few times Santana doesn't mind being neglected by her workaholic parents. Especially when Brittany sneaks over the night before. "I don't see why it's such a big deal. Britt spends almost as much time here as I do," Santana says with a shiver. "I'm f-f-f-fucking f-freezing."
"That's because you turned the AC up full blast – even though it costs an arm and a leg!" Her mother says, not even bothering to chastise her for using such vulgar language.
"We live in a McMansion," Santana argues, "with a pool."
"And you have so many limbs to choose from at the hospital," Brittany adds in a sleepy daze.
Santana's mother smiles and says, "That's a fantastic idea, Santana. You two can do your summer reading by the pool. The library's within walking distance."
Santana yawns. "We don't have any summer reading."
Her mother raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. As a general rule, her mother never believes anything that comes out of her mouth – or Brittany's. It's so unfair.
"Principal Figgins sent a letter home," Santana continues. "Some woman threatened to file a lawsuit because her kid can't read above like, a third grade level."
"Yeah, so now it's optional," Brittany adds. She pauses. "Although if I were completely awake, I wouldn't have told you that part."
"It's on my desk," Santana offers.
Her mom scans the letter, checking for forgeries. It's totally legit, but Santana's always been a schemer so she can't really blame the woman for not trusting her. Santana can practically see her make a mental note to call up to the school later. "Ay," her mother says, "McKinley keeps getting worse and worse. We oughta send you to private school."
Both girls sit straight up in protest until Santana's mom lets out a cackle. "Gotcha," she says.
Santana falls back against the mattress and groans. "You're so on my list."
Her mother chooses to ignore her. "When I come back in thirty minutes you two better be up," she threatens, but they're fifteen and trouble just has this way of finding them no matter where they are.
They're so not up.
The covers are still on the floor and Brittany's hands are on her pillow, keeping it snug over her ears to drown out Santana's obnoxious snoring. It's adorable and funny and Santana's mom thinks she can see a little bit of drool pooling under her daughter's mouth.
She's not one to blackmail her own child, but if she were, a few minutes of filming could go a long way. It's a shame she has a conscience. It really is.
Santana stirs in her sleep, giving momentary pause to her snoring. Blindly, she wraps her left arm around Brittany's middle and pulls their bodies closer together, letting out a pitiful whine in the process.
"Santana, I know how much you love to test my patience, but time's up," her mother says sternly. "Don't make me get the spray bottle," she adds when Santana doesn't respond.
This time Santana opens her eyes immediately. "I'm awake," she grumbles, detaching herself from Brittany.
"I trust you two remember the rules, but I wrote them down just in case. The list is in the kitchen along with money for pizza," Santana's mother says, leaving the two bedraggled teens to wallow in their early morning misery.
Santana and Brittany nod, but they're fifteen and following instructions has never been their forte.
"Ugh, you know it's too early when MTV's still showing music videos," Santana complains once they've relocated to the living room.
Brittany casts a glance at Santana. "You have, like, a thousand channels. See what else is on," she says.
"Nothing worth watching is on at… eight thirty in the morning."
Brittany hums happily. "Saved by the Bell. Channel 39."
"What?" Santana says. She looks at the on-screen menu. "Oh."
"I love this show," Brittany says. "Sometimes I wish we went to Bayside instead. Zack and Slater are way hotter than any of the boys at our school."
"Mark-Paul Gosselaar's dye job is atrocious though. I mean, are we supposed to believe that's natural? Where's the episode where Kelly catches him bleaching it? Do me a favor and slap some sense into me if I ever date a guy with hair like that," Santana says.
After Saved by the Bell comes Boy Meets World. It's an episode they've seen dozens of times and Santana scoots a little closer to Brittany as Cory reads off a poem she knows by heart. "Humpback whale. So pale. Exhaust. Is all lost? Donut in the sky," she recites, sending Brittany into a fit of laughter.
"This one's my favorite," Brittany says, once her giggling subsides. "'Cause Cory and Topanga kiss for the first time." Then she reaches over, cups Santana's face, and gives her a kiss of her own, which Santana eagerly reciprocates.
"If it's important to you, then it's beautiful," Topanga says in the background, but they're no longer paying attention to the screen.
They're fifteen and when they're alone, boundaries don't exist.
It's around eleven when they stop making out long enough to realize their stomachs are growling louder than their hearts are pounding.
"Do you wanna order that pizza now?" Brittany suggests.
Santana grins. "I have a better idea."
She grabs the money off the counter, ignoring the page of rules as it flutters to the ground.
Five minutes later, Santana's sitting behind the wheel of her father's BMW, a pair of aviators protecting her from having to look directly at the dreary Ohio countryside. She may not be old enough to have a license, but she's been taking joyrides with Brittany since they were thirteen. She's practically a professional driver, except when it comes to U-turns, parallel parking, and using her blinker.
"So we're going to pay for pizza instead of convincing the delivery boy to give it to us for free," Brittany says slowly as they pull into the Domino's parking lot, like she can't quite believe they drove all this way for no good reason.
"Whatever. It's my mom's money anyway," Santana says, although she'd be unimpressed with the plan thus far too. "And this isn't the only stop we're making, FYI."
She dashes inside, leaving the car running and Brittany humming along to some ridiculous Black Eyed Peas tune that makes as much sense as Rachel Berry's decision to wear argyle, plaid, and polka dots all in the same outfit.
"Scored some free breadsticks," she tells Brittany when she slides back into the driver's seat. "By the time we swing back by here, our piping hot pizza will be waiting for us."
She hops the curb on the way out of the parking lot and cuts across the street to the convenience store, blares her horn so the other drivers know to stay out of her way, and flips them off for good measure. Brittany sticks her tongue out at a middle aged guy in a Mini Cooper that honks back.
"Damn," Santana swears as she parks smack dab in the middle of two spots, "I forgot my mom confiscated our fakes. Now we're going to have to convince some burnout to buy us beer."
"Hobo, two o'clock," Brittany says, pointing out her window.
"Patches it is."
They step out of the car and saunter over to him. He's holding a cardboard sign and there's a hat laying on the ground for passersby to leave spare change.
"Aren't you usually in front of the library?" Santana asks him.
He chooses not to respond.
"You should just live in Walmart," Brittany says. "Like in that movie about the girl who lived in Walmart."
Santana snaps so his attention is back on her. "Look, here's a twenty," she says as she dangles the bill in front of his face. "Score us some Miller Lite and we'll let you keep the change."
He still doesn't say anything, to Santana's dismay.
"Y'know," she continues, "I have some serious sway at McKinley. I'll keep the football players from shooting firecrackers at your… box if you march your old ass in there and grab us some brews."
"I don't answer to pampered brats," he says gruffly.
"Excuse me?" Santana inquires. She's not used to hearing no. Even her parents eventually cave.
"You think you're the first kids that been by here wantin' somethin' from me? I didn't choose to be homeless. I didn't ask to get laid off neither." His voice is getting louder now, drawing attention to himself. "Just leave me be!"
And with that, he begins to bark. They scamper off, but not before Santana purposefully drops the twenty dollar bill into his cap.
They're fifteen going on sixteen and possibly the most obnoxious kids alive, but they're also beginning to realize that the world doesn't revolve around two people.
Some blonde woman in her late thirties or early forties ends up buying them beer, although it's a little creepy when she asks where the party is. They ditch her easily enough with a fake address and false promises to meet up later.
"Where to now?" Santana asks once the woman is out of sight.
"My mom's out doing a thing with my sister," Brittany says, and it's a good enough for Santana, whose father has probably woken up by now and has realized both his car and his daughter are missing.
After a Domino's pit stop to pick up their pizza and free breadsticks, Santana pulls up to the Pierces' modest two-story house.
"Home sweet home," Santana says, shutting off the engine. "God, I'm so fucking awesome at driving. They should like, give me my license by default. Even though my birthday's not until…"
"I think you ran over something in the driveway," Brittany interrupts.
"Impossible," Santana scoffs. She gets out and kneels down on the ground. "Oh… uh, on a completely unrelated note, remind me to buy your sister a new bike."
"Good thing you didn't back in or we might not have a garage anymore," Brittany teases as she unlocks the front door. Then, with one hand holding the beer and the other hand holding onto her best friend, she leads Santana into the kitchen.
Brittany rummages through the cabinets for paper plates while Santana devours her first slice of pizza. "Leave some for me," Brittany whines.
"Not my fault you're wasting time looking for plates when you could be eating off me instead," Santana says and Brittany's jaw drops.
Unbeknownst to them, another car pulls up outside Brittany's house just as things are getting raunchy.
A few seconds later, Santana sits up on the dining room table. "Did you hear something?" she says as the front door creaks open.
"Crap… put your shirt back on," Brittany says, scrambling towards Santana's hastily discarded clothing and tossing it to her. "Either my mom's home or that crazy lady from the gas station followed us here."
"I thought you said your mom wouldn't be back until 4:30!" Santana whispers.
Brittany pauses. "Okay, you made that time up."
"Brittany!" Santana hisses, gesturing toward the alcohol on the counter. "Stash the beer!"
Frantically, Brittany looks around. The fridge? Too risky. The pantry? Too far away. The oven? Bingo. She shoves the twelve-pack inside and shuts the door in the nick of time.
"Britt?" her mom calls, before entering the kitchen where the two girls are trying to catch their breaths. "Oh, hey Santana. Thought I recognized your dad's car out there. How was your sleepover?"
"It was fun," Santana says, nervously glancing around, trying not to stare too hard at the oven. If her eyes linger on it – even for a second – she knows that somehow, some way Brittany's mom will catch on.
"Tubular," Brittany's mom replies. She's always saying weird shit that neither Brittany nor Santana understand and claims it's from the eighties. Brittany claims it's from another planet. "When did you get your license again, hon?"
"Two thousand and never," Brittany's little sister says, barging into the kitchen. "She's not sixteen yet."
"When I was growing up, if you could over the steering wheel you were old enough to drive," Brittany's mom tells them. "At least, that's how it was at my house."
Santana smirks. "And if you could see over the bar, you were old enough to drink, right?"
Brittany's mom chuckles and grabs a slice of pizza. "Do me a favor and watch the little one while I start some laundry," she says.
Brittany's sister holds her hand out expectantly.
"What?" Brittany asks, annoyed.
The kid sticks her tongue out. "I want pizza too."
"That'll be five bucks," Santana says, holding out her hand as well.
Brittany's sister crosses her arms. "You're a bitch and a half."
"Where did you learn such foul language? God, you're only two years old!" Santana says, taken aback.
"I'm six and three quarters!" she argues.
"Oh, my mistake," Santana says slyly, "you were two when they adopted you."
"Nuh uh! Everybody says I look just like Brittany."
Brittany shrugs. "Yeah, that's because originally I wanted a dog, but Lord Tubbington convinced me to ask for a Mini-Me instead. We could've had a Pekingese."
"And one day, your real parents are going to kidnap you in the middle of the night," Santana adds. "They totally know where you live. Don't believe me? Take a look at your bike next time you go outside."
"I change my mind," Brittany's sister says, suddenly fearful for all of her toys, "I want an Uncrustable."
Brittany's sister misses the sly look between the two older girls.
They're fifteen and after only one year with Sue Sylvester's championship cheerleading squad, they've mastered the art of getting away with anything and everything.
Unlike Santana's family, the Pierces prefer meaningful conversations instead of relying on sticky notes on the fridge and lists of rules taped to the counter, so it comes as no surprise that after lunch they all stay seated at the kitchen table. Brittany chats with her mom idly while Santana participates in the most intense staring contest ever with Brittany's kid sister.
When's the last time you used your oven? Santana texts, once she totally beats the snot out of that brat. And maybe Lord Tubbington helped by waddling into the kitchen at precisely the right moment, ensuring her victory. Santana's always liked him, even if she'll never admit it. He's already lived way longer than she ever expected him to, so that has to count for something.
Probably '98 when I baked you a play doh pie, Brittany responds.
I mean I think we need to get back to my house soon. Our beer will be fine, right?
Should be. we're stovetop people. srsly. hamburger helper is mom's specialty. you know that… dork :)
The words you know that send a tingle down Santana's spine for reasons she doesn't quite understand, but she shakes the feeling off. "We gotta jet," Santana says abruptly.
"It's been real," Brittany adds, giving her mom a peck on the cheek and ruffling her sister's hair.
Brittany's mom waves goodbye. "If you think they're cool now, you should've heard me when I was growing up," she tells her younger daughter, who rolls her eyes in a Santana-like fashion. She sighs. "Yeah, I know. Whatever."
Outside, Santana pulls the mangled bicycle out from under her car and flings it into the yard.
"You're like my very own She-Hulk," an awestruck Brittany says.
"There's more where that came from," Santana says, gingerly putting her arm around Brittany's shoulder while she backs out of the driveway. "But first, we need to get this baby back in one piece."
They make it to Santana's house without getting pulled over, which is a miracle in itself considering she runs every stop sign along the way. But before they make it inside, Santana begins to tear up. "We got woken up at the ass-crack of dawn, I have to buy your sister a new bike, we had to share my breadsticks with your mom, our beer is trapped in an oven for the unforeseeable future, and my dad's probably gonna kill me for taking his car," Santana says. "The first day of summer sucks."
"Screw it," Brittany says, wiping a tear from Santana's cheek, "if we're going to be grounded, then we're going to enjoy our last day of freedom together."
Santana sniffles and wipes her nose with the back of her hand. "So what do you propose?"
Brittany thinks for a moment. "Give me five minutes." With that, she darts inside Santana's house. She returns shortly, a shoebox in one hand and a piece of paper in the other.
"What's all that?" Santana asks her.
"This," Brittany says, "is everything we need to break all the rules."
They share a smile as Santana starts the car again, because they're fifteen and they just have this way of finding trouble no matter where they are.