It's been six hours. Six long, excruciating hours since she'd picked Noah up from the police station and he's still passed out, snoring loudly into the mountain of pillows that adorn her bed. She chews her lip and pokes his bicep but he still doesn't move. She's starting to get worried.
When another half an hour passes without so much as a peep from Noah she picks up the phone and lets her fingers linger over the number keys. She's not sure who to call, most of her friends (or perhaps the proper phrase would be acquaintances) don't drown their sorrows in alcohol. She could call Finn but the baby drama is still fresh on the surface and she thinks they're still not speaking. There's really only one option but it's not an appealing one.
It rings three times before Santana's voice grunts an unattractive, yeah, over the line. Rachel hesitates, unsure what to ask or say for that matter.
"Look creeper I don't have all day, either say something of go fuck yourself."
"Um…Santana?"
"Man hands? How the hell did you get my number?"
"Oh, well as captain of the glee club I've made it my duty to acquire working phone numbers for all of my fellow members."
"Good for you. What do you want?" Santana asks rudely.
"It seems that Noah has had a little too much to drink and he's been passed out for over six hours. I'm not really sure what the protocol here is seeing as I've never found myself in this kind of situation before but…when exactly does hung-over become hospital time?"
Santana laughs, loud and condescendingly. "When he stops breathing you've got a problem until then let him sleep it off. Fair warning though, he gets a little handsy when he wakes up from a bender. You might want to keep pepper spray nearby."