Must be the morphine talking (or not)

When Pete opens his eyes, slowly because the light is too bright and his eyes feel too heavy, he's not surprised to see Patrick sitting next to his bed.

Of course, Patrick sees him awake the second Pete's eyes are focusing on him and their eyes lock.

"How are you feeling?" he asks and his voice is soft, the same way he spoke when Bronx fell from his bike and broke his arm.

Which is kind of how Pete feels right now; he feels like everything should hurt, but it's just kind of dull. When he's looking down his body there's a tube going into his hand. Painkillers, probably.

"Like I got hit by a car."

He remembers, a little hazy but still. Patrick doesn't laugh, but he smiles. Soft.

"Marry me."

"What?"

Pete's eyes find Patrick's again and he's still smiling, leaning from his chair forward onto the bed Pete's lying in.

"I just- I don't want to spend another day like this, ever. Not knowing what's going on with you, not being told because we're not family. We are family. So marry me."

Patrick looks tired, like Pete slept for a long time and he didn't.

"I would say this is the drugs talking, but last I checked I'm the one with the morphine drip," he says and taps the tube on his hand with his finger.

Patrick laughs this time and his reddened eyes crinkle in the corners.

"It's actually just straight up vodka. The good stuff."

That even gets a laugh out of Pete, but he regrets it when he can feel a sharp pain even through the hazy blankets of drugs.

"Rest, you don't have to say anything right now. We can talk-"

"Yes."

Patrick's hand stop where it's smoothing out the blanket over Pete's body and they're eyes lock again.

"Yeah?"

How could he ever say no to this man?

"Of course. And I'm sorry you were worried."

Patrick takes his hand, squeezing it very lightly and rubbing little circles on the back of Pete's hand.

"That's what I do, worry about you."