John kept his hand moving in small circles on Rodney's back while Rodney chanted "fuck, fuck, fuck" between bouts of throwing up.

When Rodney slumped down against the tile, John gave him one more pat, then stepped away, coming back with a cool washcloth and a bottle of water.

"You've got to stop doing this," John said, holding the cloth against the back of Rodney's neck. "You're either going to have to go to rehab or buy a new liver."

"Up," Rodney said, and let John help him to the sink. While Rodney brushed his teeth, John hopped up to sit on the counter. He met Rodney's usual eye-roll with a smirk. "I know, I know - worst butler ever."

Rodney spit, rinsed and wiped his mouth before turning and stumbling to the bed.

"Seriously, Rodney," John said. "Why don't you just fuck guys? Then you wouldn't have to get shit-faced in order to fuck women."

Rodney laid one hand over his face. "What guys?" he asked. "Eddie Carlson, Philip Wentworth? There aren't a lot of queers at the club."

John reached out and traced his fingers gently through Rodney's hair. "Why don't you try looking a little closer to home?"