"Hey there, Scrappy. How ya feelin'?"
Blake makes a conscious effort towards opening his eyes. It feels like an elephant sat on his chest and, considering he got stomped on by Deathlok, he supposes the comparison isn't all that far off. Still, bleary eyed, doped up to his eyeballs and yet somehow still in pain and discomfort, he has to wonder what he'd done to deserve the fresh hell that is John Garrett's company. He makes a vague, ineffectual grunt around the ventilator occupying his airway, but somehow Garrett seems to get the message as a shit-eating grin lights up his features.
"Knew you'd pull through," the man says, clapping him on the shoulder.
The motion is just jarring enough to wring a dull moan out of him. Garrett, straddling his chair backwards, winces.
"Whoops. Maybe lay off the buddy-buddy stuff for a while, huh?" he comments, grinning again.
Blake does his best to glare, but he's fairly certain the amount of painkillers he's on don't lend much to the look. Garrett continues to watch him, smiling that insufferable smile of his, but it's gone soft at the edges. The longer they sit in silence, the more the seasoned agent seems to lack his usual roughness. It's not as though Blake has the ability to respond or talk back in any way, so he can hardly be good company.
Garrett doesn't seem to mind. When it doesn't seem like his fellow agent will be speaking again anytime soon, Blake allows his eyes to slip shut once more. He lies there, letting the ventilator breathe for him, feeling each breath it forces into his battered body. He'd like very much to go back to sleep, but it's like having an itch he just can't scratch; his injuries make him just uncomfortable enough that sleeping isn't an option.
"Hey."
Blake pries his eyes open and finds Garrett again. The smile is gone, replaced by a slight frown.
"Looks like you're hurtin' some."
Blake is in no mood to be teased about his pain tolerance. Okay, so, he's not the in-the-field action hero like Garrett and he does most of his work behind a desk, but he'd done his job today, hadn't he? Just because people like Garrett think less of him, think of him as a desk jockey, doesn't mean he doesn't do a solid day's work. He's done that today, he feels, so what more could Garrett want of him?
"Hold up. I'm gonna flag a nurse down, see if we can't get them to up your meds a twitch."
Garrett pats him on the shoulder—this time with a great deal more care—before rising and disappearing from the room. Well, that certainly wasn't what Blake had been expecting. The rough and tumble agent tends to be just that; gentle isn't exactly in his vocabulary. It isn't that Garrett's uncaring, it's just that, well… he's a Clint Eastwood. A John Wayne. He's a goddamn cowboy, is what he is.
Still, he hardly seems it when he returns, trailing respectfully behind a nurse.
"Having a bit of trouble sleeping, Agent Blake?" the young man asks him.
Blake hesitates but nods minutely. The nurse goes about fiddling with the IV lines before he steps back, smiling at Blake and holding a clipboard before him.
"Alright, that should kick in shortly," the nurse says. "I'm on shift all night, so if there's anything else, just hit your call button."
Garrett thanks the retreating nurse just as Blake begins to feel the medication kicking in. The discomfort that had come with breathing eases and he's able to relax, eyes sliding shut once more in relief. He hears the chair beside his bed creak as Garrett settles into it once more.
"Oh boy, you needed that," he observes. "Take it easy for a bit, make sure they give you plenty of the good stuff. You earned it after that stomping you took and that little trick you played."
Blake raises his eyebrows, cracking his eyes open to peek at Garrett curiously. The other agent rocks forward in his seat.
"Firing five shots to disguise the tracking bullet? Always knew you were a clever little bastard, but never figured you for that clever," Garrett answers. "Never figured you for the stand your ground type, either. But color me surprised. And pleased."
Blake wants to blame the drugs. Because no, no way in hell is John Garrett coming on to him. Clearly his drug-addled mind is making connections where there are none to be had.
"So I hear you like Scorpios," Garrett says, his grin widening. "Whaddaya say when they give you the all-clear to check out of this place I take you out for a little… celebratory dinner. Sitwell told me about this great place downtown where they—"
Blake begins to drift off as Garrett slowly rambles on about microbrewed ale and homemade wines and… something about dumplings, he thinks. His last thought before his lets sleep claim him is that it might be crazy that Garrett is trying to ask him out on a date, but it's probably crazier that he's considering accepting.