It's later that night and Santana finds herself lounging on Rachel's couch, nursing a strong drink and contemplating what ever compelled her to show up to this snooty-ass Broadway extravaganza of doom. Probably the food. Which wasn't even worth it because Berry made them eat solely insubstantial finger foods to protect her china plates.

And just to top off the general shittiness of being in the vicinity of so many Rachel-types, Quinn keeps glowering at her from across the room, then looking away when Santana catches her.

"Real mature, Fabray," she calls from the couch the next time this happens, and once she has more Jameson in her system.

Quinn rolls her eyes and turns back to her conversation with some random understudy. Santana scoffs. If Quinn's going to be avoiding this hot mamacita, she should at least do it for a principal cast member. And anyway, Santana has no idea why Quinn is here. It's a school night—isn't the nerd usually tucked in before nightfall?

Just then, crazy plate lady stomps over and stands way too close to Santana's bubble of personal space, or as she likes to refer to it, get near me and I will slash you.

"Santana, people are staring," Rachel says to her in a stage whisper that Santana supposes is meant to be discreet.

"Not a revolutionary concept," she mumbles into her drink. "Have you seen this face?" she asks, gesturing in the general direction of her blessed face.

The psychotic wench grabs Santana's cup from her hands right as she's about to take another drink and sniffs at it, the weirdo.

"Where did you get this?" Rachel asks murderously.

Santana gives her a dirty look and snatches her cup back. "This dealer down in Prospect Park," she says, and Rachel looks like she might actually believe her for a second.

"Oh, calm your nonexistent ass down, shortstack," Santana says. "It's whiskey, not oxycotton. Now if you'll excuse me, I gots to get my drink on."

Unfortunately for her and the rest of humanity, Berry is a prying tramp and doesn't understand the concept of leaving people alone.

"This situation is very upsetting to me, Santana," Rachel whispers, sitting down next to her. "While I understand that there are certain tensions between you and Quinn that have caused you to have a long but recurring history of conflict, not unlike that of Eric Clapton and George Harrison or... or the Jets and the Sharks," she says, absurdly. "It behooves me to make sure that my friends are civil to one another. It's damaging to my well-being as a person and a performer to be caught in the middle of a dispute between my two best friends-"

"Okay, hold up, Dr. Phil," Santana cuts in, shaking her head irritatedly. Listening to Rachel screech is making her stomach feel like it did that one time at McKinley when Rachel made them drink purple drank and she vommed all over the stage. "In what universe are you and I best friends? Actually, don't answer that. If you don't shut your trap right now, I'm going to barf all over your precious designer couch."

Rachel looks horrified in that contrived, overreactive way of hers. "Fine," she says. "Continue to wallow here in your misery, Santana, but I'm taking this," she grabs the drink, ignoring Santana's "hey!" of protest. "Hard liquors are terribly unclassy, and I don't want it to impair your judgment should the need to use it arise."

"Berry, I'm judging you perfectly capably right now," Santana says, making a show of looking her up and down. It doesn't last very long because the freak of nature is about five inches tall. Rather than respond, though, Rachel huffs and stomps her little feet away, Santana's drink in hand and her ridiculous polka dot dress billowing behind her.

Ugh. Santana folds her arms across her chest and glowers at nobody in particular, or maybe everyone. This party fucking blows. Even Blaine and Kurt, the only other people here she'd bother to give two seconds of her time, are sequestered in a corner whispering into each other's ears and practically bumping uglies. The two of them have been sickening to look at ever since Blaine finally lost the rest of his spine and proposed to Kurt.

If only Britt were back in town. They would have ditched this obnoxious snoozefest and partied down in their own badass (and superior) style a long time ago. But Santana's rockin' soulmate is off touring the world and all she left her with was that atrocious obese cat. Santana and Lord Tubbington have a long history of conflict too, primarily fueled by jealousy. Their relationship is strained at best.

She feels a buzzing somewhere on her person and has to twist around on the couch to get her phone out of her back pocket. It's a struggle. Jeans this tight, though they gloriously frame her ass, were not meant to be mixed with alcohol. Santana gets her phone right side up, reads the "Ryan M." that's lighting up the screen, and groans.

This day just cannot get any better-she refuses.

"Ryan M." is her irritating, overbearing landlord and she's a week behind on her rent again. Which is really only like three days after the grace period, so Santana doesn't get why he has to be annoying about it. She's tempted to ignore the call, but the dude is relentless. Once, he called her five times in a row. Just hung up and redialed five times.

She presses the 'call' button and stands up, heading to the kitchen to find something that will soothe her migraine. "Isn't it a little late to be pestering unassuming tenants?" she says into the receiver as way of greeting.

"Yes, if they actually answered their phones at reasonable hours," Ryan responds. He sounds even crankier than usual, which must be a feat of the human voice.

"I'm a busy girl," Santana says, swinging open the fridge door. "Listen, Ryan, my rent check is in the mail so you can cool your uptight self down and go about your merry way. No need to hound me."

"Besides the fact that I know you're blatantly lying, Santana, I'm not calling about your perpetually late rent payments."

Santana frowns. "Then what?" she asks and reaches for the aspirin bottle that's wedged behind a tub of vegan butter.

"I received an interesting phone call today," Ryan says, "from a woman who claimed to be very concerned about the well-being of some cat who is supposedly living in your apartment. She said that she was worried the animal would die of heat stroke due to the lack of air conditioning. I thought the whole thing was very alarming, not because I care about the stupid cat's welfare, but because no where on your lease agreement does it say you're permitted to have a pet on the premises."

Santana's hand freezes as she's reaching for a glass from the cabinet. For the second time that day, her unflappable demeanor is challenged. She's too hardened to tolerate this racing heartbeat bullshit.

"No idea what you're talking about," she says immediately.

"Give it up, Lopez. Your enormous cat. The one that's sitting in your apartment right now."

"You can't prove that," Santana says.

"Well, here's a revelation for you," Ryan says. "I can and just did."

Excuse him. "You went into the apartment?" Santana asks, about to throw down.

Ryan laughs, his voice particularly obnoxious over the phone. "Can I remind you that I'm the owner of the property and can therefore enter it whenever I want? Not that I needed to. I saw that honking thing from the window," he corrects.

Goddammit, Tubbs. Santana pinches the bridge of her nose and curses the cat's underactive thyroid.

"So I discussed this with my partner and we've decided," Ryan continues. "This is the last straw. You've been continually late on rent for the last six months, you're outrageously rude every time I try to contact you, and now I find out that you're keeping a pet illegally."

Wait. Hold up. "It was temporary," Santana says. "My best friend's out of town and she needed someone to look after the damn animal. I don't even like the thing. I'll get rid of him-"

"Santana, let me spell this out for you," Ryan interrupts. "You're being evicted. You have 48 hours to get yourself, your things, and that cat, whoever it belongs to, out of the apartment."

"Excuse me? There is no way," she starts, but then Ryan goes and breaks one of the seven cardinal rules of keeping company with Santana Lopez. The first is to maintain a good credit score. The fifth? Never hang up on her.

She stares in mortification at her home screen until it turns black and then she slams it onto the counter with a growl of anger. Evicted? How dare he? Santana is going to lawyer up on his ass and-

"Bad news?" says a silky voice from behind her.

Santana turns around to find Quinn leaning against a wall of cabinets, arms crossed and looking for all the world like she just won the stock market.

"Say what?"

"I don't know," Quinn responds. "Sounds to me like Lord Tubbington is unwelcome."

What is this bitch on? Hang on. Santana frowns at Quinn's response and the innocuous expression on her face and it suddenly makes a whole lot of sense.

"You called that bastard?"

Quinn shrugs and stares levelly at Santana. "Weren't you the one who first taught me about revenge? Remember? We were eleven and you said, Quinny, when someone messes with you, you turn back around and punch them right in the crotch." She balls up her fist as if to demonstrate. "Just taking a page out of your book, Santana."

For one terrible second, Santana feels herself teetering on the edge of a breakdown, weepy tears and all, but then, praise the lords, her adrenaline kicks into high gear and her true, head bitch self takes over again. She charges at Quinn.

"Bitch, I am going to break your arms, both of them, so you can't even dream of picking up another phone again," she says, taking hold of Quinn's shoulders and pushing hard.

Quinn yelps and her back hits the cabinet with a loud thud, sending the things inside rattling. The psychotic wench grabs Santana's hair and drags her back with her until their heads nearly collide.

"Not before I send you back to Ohio," she hisses, her death grip moving down to Santana's forearms.

Santana tries to slap her hands away.

"The day you succeed in doing that is the day you stand over my cold, dead, beaten body," she breathes and frees her arm for just long enough that she can throw a punch at Quinn. It lands squarely on her cheekbone, for which Santana internally gloats for all of two seconds before she's being shoved back roughly.

It happens suddenly and Santana's tipsy enough that she loses her footing and goes sprawling onto the floor. Pain blooms up her side and elbow where she lands, slightly curled. Motherfuck.

"Gladly!" Quinn shouts down at her, palm clutching her reddening cheek. "You think you're the only one who can throw down?"

Santana tests out her arm-stiff but still battle-ready. "That? Blondie, I was just getting primed," she says and hauls herself up, all a-go for round two.

"Oh my god," she hears someone cry from the entrance of the kitchen. Rachel. "What is happening?"

"Hey!" someone else calls out. It's Kurt, and before Santana can punch Quinn again, he's wrapping his arms around her waist and tugging her away.

Santana struggles against him, and now apparently fucking Blaine too. "Let me at her!" she shouts.

Blaine digs his fingers deep enough into her arm that she yelps. "Cool it, Santana," he says.

"How about you quit marring my skin, blazers?" she snaps at him and continues to struggle. "Por dios, I will hurt you both. I can take on two skinny hipsters on a sick day."

Kurt yanks her again, forcefully. "I may be slight in stature but I am all muscle, honey, and the word is fashionista."

While Santana continues to get orange alert level treatment from the fab two over here, Rachel hurries over to Quinn and examines her cheek.

"Are you okay?" she asks, reaching her hand up. "It's swelling."

"I'm fine. It barely hurts," Quinn says, swatting Rachel's hand away and glowering at Santana.

"Imma gladly give you one on the other side then," she calls. "Balance it out."

Rachel turns around, stomps over, and parks her ass right in front of Santana. "Santana Lopez, I demand you stop this madness right now. You're making a scene. People are staring. You're leaving people with battle wounds!"

"Berry, get out of my face before I upgrade your nose from value size to gargantuan," Santana threatens.

"Aside from the fact that I don't appreciate you taking out your anger on me," Rachel continues, refusing to step down. "I think it would be best if you apologized to Quinn."

This display of overwhelming solidarity against Santana is sickening. "I have absolutely nothing to apologize for," she growls. "There's only one person in this room who, besides being crowned queen asshole of the world, should be made to apologize, and she's standing over there with a big fat shiner on her face."

Quinn scoffs. "For doing to you exactly what you did to me?"

"Oh, please. I fucked up a stupid, meaningless introduction between you and some jackass you're better off never associating with anyway. You got me kicked out of my fucking apartment," Santana yells.

Quinn blinks.

"She did what?" Kurt asks incredulously, his grip on Santana loosening significantly. See. If only they had one iota of trust in her.

"Quinn," Rachel gasps disapprovingly and swings back around.

"Yup, ladies and gays," Santana announces, pulling herself free from Blaine and Kurt and making a show of dusting off her blouse. "Let me introduce you to our master of evil," she gestures at said she-devil.

Quinn looks at her, brow furrowed. "Wait," she interjects, shouldering past Rachel to face Santana. "Kicked out?" she asks faintly, voice low enough that their audience probably won't hear.

"Yes, Fabray. On my ass. In the street. Without a home," Santana glares. "I bet it's making you hot in your maternity panties just to hear me say this."

Quinn flushes and shakes her head quickly. "Hang on a second. All I did was call your landlord and tell him about the cat. I... there was no discussion about getting you kicked out."

"Well, your little stunt did the trick."

"Jesus, Santana," Quinn says, all hushed and contrite-like. For a second, Santana actually believes her. Just for a hot second.

"Oh, stop," she says. "Don't even try to pretend like you didn't want exactly this to happen, Miss I'll send you back to Ohio like my life depends on it."

Quinn's jaw clenches. "I didn't mean it like that," she says tersely.

Rachel chooses that moment to throw in more of her unwanted and entirely unhelpful interference. She steps between them.

"Santana and Quinn," she says. "I'm still not sure I fully understand the nature of this violent argument-I did after all miss the first five minutes of action, couldn't be avoided-but it seems like you both realize this was all just a big misunderstanding."

"Rachel," Quinn says warningly, staring with her trademark Fabray daggers.

Rachel ignores her. "And while I understand that right now it might feel enthralling to engage in this she-said, she-said dialogue, I urge you to look past your injured prides and look on the bright side of this. It seems like you're even now. You two can just forget everything that happened here tonight," she waves her hands, "and go back to your odd, strained but generally amicable relationship. And Santana, you and I finally have our chance to be roommates!"

Santana's too enraged at everything else the crazy lady is saying to fully digest that last part.

"Say what, Furby?"

Rachel beams. "You can stay with me, of course, in my guest bedroom."

If Santana wasn't in full on Lima Heights mode right now, she would laugh. "No offense, I appreciate the offer and I'd move in with you, really, but I would rather impale myself on a rusty, old herp-infested stake. Actually, yes to the offense. I mean that wholeheartedly."

Rachel's eyes go all big and wounded and she turns to Blaine, who pulls her into a hug. He shoots Santana a disapproving look.

"Besides," Santana continues, ignoring their disgusting display of faghaggery. "She got me into this mess," she points accusingly at Quinn, "and she's going to get me out of it."

"And how do you suggest I do that?" Quinn asks.

Santana smirks and takes a moment to fold her arms across her chest. "I want in on your swank pad, Wall Street."

Kurt, the bastard, actually starts laughing.

Quinn's eyebrows shoot up. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

Quinn laughs incredulously. "Wait. You want to live... in my apartment... with me?"

Santana shrugs, studying her nails. "Your place is baller, it's right near work, and you definitely have enough room for two."

"Three, if you count Lord Tubbington," Kurt pipes up. "This is actually a brilliant idea. Just think, the great misadventures of two ex-Cheerios, all grown up. It could be a novel. At worst, a reality show. I applaud you, Santana Lopez."

"Aw, thank you," Santana cocks her head at him. She loves being in charge of these followers. "So, what do you say, Q? Only way to make this right."

Quinn groans, glowering at them all before she turns on her heels and marches off.

"Fine!" she yells behind her, and Santana thinks maybe she can get with this grass is greener business after all.