"Ow," Rodney said. "Don't be so rough. I'm already going to have more bruises thanks to you."

"Oh, don't even," John said. "This is in no way my fault."

Rodney didn't know whether to hold the ice pack to his elbow or sit on it to relieve his bruised ass. He looked at John.

John held up his hands in a warding-off gesture. "I am not taking the blame for this no matter how many times you give me the blue eyes of great suffering. Get your own ibuprofen."

A full minute more of the look, and John headed for the medicine cupboard, shook pills out of a bottle, and got Rodney a glass of water.

"You want a hand up?"

Rodney took the pills and handed the glass back. He took John's hand and stood. He bumped John's arm, making him spill water down his shirt.

"That's it," John said, putting the glass on the counter and dabbing ineffectually at the water on his shirt with the dishcloth. "I'm telling that you hurt yourself while watching White Nights and trying to keep up with Gregory Hines."

Rodney frowned. "You wouldn't dare tell anybody!"

"Anybody?" John crowed. "I'm telling everybody!"