"Okay, bro." He clearly isn't buying it, waiting until Sam slithers from the bed and dropping his hand in favor of wrapping a strong arm around his waist. It's a fucking good thing he stayed, because Sam looks like shit. "I'm staying 'cuz Q's already pissed and I'm gonna take care of your drunk ass," he points out. "I'll make it up to her another night. Blank check and that shit." Not literally, but... whatever she wants, he'll do it.

He eases Sam into his bed, half-dropping him and inhaling a breath, gritting his teeth as Sam's hand finds its way into his boxers. [He's surprisingly coordinated, at least with those movements, for somebody who's drunk.] "I'm not even close to hard right now," he mutters, frustrated - especially because he's not just close, he's there, increasingly so.