Brian's tough; Dom's known that since the first time he locked eyes with him. He took one look at him, and he saw right through the sandy hair, though the wiry build and the too-big clothes, through the pretty face, because those eyes…those were a fighter's eyes. They were the eyes of someone that's seen a lot of shit and lived to shrug about it.
That's what Brian does. He shrugs, he smirks, and shit just rolls off him like beads of oil. He makes it seem that way, at least.
It took Dom a little longer to see through that. It took him longer to realize that shit didn't always roll off him; he just played like it did. He never griped, never complained, and Dom could respect that about him.
It wasn't until he'd caught him in the back room of the garage trying to tape up two broken fingers after Jesse slammed the hood down on them four hours earlier that he kind of worried about it, too.
Two more broken fingers, a muffler burn, a concussion – he still feels bad about that one; he was there when it happened, and it'd still taken catching him with a fistful of aspirin to figure out that Vince had hit him harder than he thought – and even the pre-fall cracked collarbone really hit that home.
He's definitely got it, now.
Dom's had a broken collarbone before, back in his circuit days, so he knows damn well what they feel like. Every jerk, every jostle feels like the bone's breaking all over again, and that's after everything's set. He doesn't actually remember much before that; he woke up in the hospital.
It's knowing that that's the only thing keeping Dom from flooring it all the way to the hospital. He wants to. Christ, it's taking every ounce of self-control he has to granny around the turns, but he does, because every one he takes too fast and every bump he hits too hard, Brian pays for it.
Sometimes, though, there's not a whole hell of a lot he can do about it. Sometimes, he hits a dip in the road – he'd like to know who thought it'd be a good idea to build a city on a swamp, because he can think of a few things he'd like to say to them – and he winces every time, tightens his grip on the steering wheel until he's pretty sure there're dents, because he knows Brian feels it, even if he doesn't say so.
Brian's barely made a sound the whole ride. He's grunted a couple times, and his breath hitches, but Dom knows he's biting it back.
He wishes he wouldn't. It'd kill him, hearing it. Hearing him scream through his teeth again like he did when he fell, or howl like Dom knows he wants to, because Dom remembers wanting to do the same thing…it'd tear him apart.
But the quiet's even worse. Knowing that Brian's holding back, that he's trying so damn hard not to make a sound, it's so much worse, because it's like he's hiding. And he wants to tell him to stop, to just lose that fucking cool of his just this once, because he's got nothing to prove to him.
That's the thing, though. If it was anybody else, he might say it, but because it's Brian, he doesn't. He knows better. Knows Brian better. It's not about proving himself to anyone; it's about proving himself to himself. Telling him to give that up wouldn't be right.
Besides, right now, Dom can find a way to be okay with whatever makes Brian feel better. They can work on his issues later.
So, he bites his damn tongue, and instead of saying anything, he just tightens his grip on the steering wheel and focuses on dodging as many obstacles as possible.
When they get to the hospital, though, all bets are off. He grabs the closest spot he can find – the damn things are tiny, but Lord help the son of a bitch that dings his door; he's got love for this Supra that's right up there with his dad's Charger – and gets out to help Brian.
To his surprise, Brians' already got the door open when he gets around to his side, and he's got himself turned in his seat with his legs out. That looks like it's about as far as he's gonna get on his own, though, which is fine with Dom. He's honestly impressed he made it that far.
He gets another surprise, though, when he reaches for the bag.
Brian must notice, because he lets out a sound Dom thinks is supposed to be a chuckle and lets his head tip sideways against the headrest. "Yeah," he says, and damned if that crazy little bastard isn't smiling, even if it looks thin as hell, "I can even put my own pants on sometimes."
Dom's actually thinking this might not be one of those times. Sliding on flip flops like he has is one thing, but he thinks a fly and a button might give Brian a little trouble right at the moment.
He keeps that to himself, though, and even manages a small smile of his own. "Smart and pretty, huh?"
Brian's shoulders shake around another almost-laugh. "You think 'm pretty?" Strained as it is, it's kind of amazing to Dom that he has it in him to crack jokes like that at a time like this; he's sheet white and hurting so bad he's actually shaking.
It's why he's so careful when he reaches back behind his head and leans forward to kiss his hair. "I think you're beautiful," he tells him softly. But seeing you like this is killing me.
He leaves that last part off for both their sakes: Brian's, because the damn fool would probably try that much harder to pretend he's fine; and Dom's, because saying that out loud is like admitting there's nothing he can do, and he can't.
Even if it's true.
"I knew you were a sap," Brian says suddenly, jerking Dom out of his head and back into the present. He's grinning at him, and Dom can't help noticing it looks a little less forced now.
He'll be sad to see it go.
"Smartass," he says, but there's no bite to it, because for him, the mood's ruined. He straightens, his hand lingering in Brian's hair just a second longer before slipping down to his good shoulder. "Come on. Let's get this over with."
Brian's smile falls almost immediately, and Dom hates himself a little bit for it. Rationally, he knows he's just looking out for him, but he can't help thinking, if he'd noticed something was up sooner, this wouldn't have happened.
That doesn't matter now, though. There'll be plenty of time later to beat himself up, but now's not it.
Brian, for his part, seems to be having a little argument with himself, too. His brows furrow, and he looks past Dom to the doors of the ER.
This time, Dom can actually feel the forced little chuckle and the shadow of a smile Brian dredges up doesn't even begin to reach his eyes.
"What're the chances I could get a lift?" he says after a minute. Dom's pretty sure he's joking, but this attempt is even shakier than the last ones.
"I'd say the chances of me offering are good," Dmo replies. "The chances of your stubborn ass accepting, not so much." He's joking too, except he isn't. He'd carry Brian in there in a heartbeat. Probably wouldn't be too hard, either; the buster probably weighs less than a bare engine block. And he's definitely gonna have to do something about that, but that's something for later, too.
Right now, he's got to figure out how he's getting his wiry ass into that hospital, because somehow, he doubts Brian's actually going to take him up on his offer. He guesses he could do it anyway. Not a whole hell of a lot the buster could do to stop him like he is.
But no, Dom knows when to cross lines and when to leave them. Brian's a big boy – even if he is ten kinds of crazy – and as hard as it is, Dom's gonna try to give him some space.
The kicked puppy look Brian's wearing all of the sudden isn't making that real easy for him, though. "This is gonna blow." It's not a question, not a complaint; it's a statement. A very resigned, very miserable statement.
"Yeah, it is." He wishes he could tell him something else, but there's no point in lying. Best case scenario, they pop everything back in, get him a sling, and send him home with some happy pills. Worst case, he ends up staying a little longer, and things get a little more complicated than a pop, a sling, and a pill.
Brian's frown deepens. "Yeah," he echoes. He's nodding his head a little, and Dom can't decide if he'd give a million bucks to hear what's going on in his head, or if he'd give it not to.
Whatever's going on in there, though, it seems to come out okay. He doesn't look happy about it, but he starts to stand up out of the car.
Dom helps him, and he makes sure to keep a hand behind his head so he doesn't crack his skull open on the way out or something, because wouldn't that be the buster's luck? It's not much in the way of help. It's sure as hell not as much as Dom wants to give, but he's really going to try this boundaries thing. It's in his nature to be protective – Mia likes to tack on an over in there, and he'll begrudgingly admit she might be right – of the things he cares about, but Brian's already made it clear he can stand on his own two legs.
Which, in hindsight, isn't the best choice of words, because Brian only gets kind of upright before his knees apparently decide to throw in the towel. He stumbles forward and lets out a muted yelp that Dom will never, ever remind him he made, and Dom can practically feel the stab of temporary panic when he can't get his feet back under him.
It's unfounded. Dom catches Brian before he even really starts to fall, a firm hand on his hip and another on his good shoulder to steady him. "I got you, Bri," he tells him.
That was never a question; he'd never have let Brian fall. But the startled look in Brian's wide eyes and the steel-clamp grip he's got on Dom's forearm make him think that it needs saying. And when they start towards the ER doors, and Brian's grip gets just a little tighter, he thinks it needs repeating.
"Hey," he says, if only to snap Brian out of whatever daze he's in, staring up at the ER like it's the gates of hell itself. Or the DMV. "I got you, okay?"
He sees Brian grit his teeth, the muscle of his jaw standing out visibly on his pale cheek. He's trying. Christ, he's trying hard to keep his cool, but the stress of that cartel shit, his shoulder, the hospital, or some combination of the three has got him spooked.
Eventually, though, he manages a stiff kind of nod. "Yeah…yeah, okay. I'm good."
Dom's not sure he buys that, but it'll have to do. And he definitely admires the effort.
It's kind of slow going, but they make it inside. Dom gets Brian into one of the waiting room seats – he knows that if Brian was feeling even a little bit better, it'd be damn near impossible to get him to sit still, and it makes him wonder about the follow-ups that he's gonna be dragging Brian to over the next few weeks – and he's about to go do whatever he needs to do to sign him in when Brian stops him.
"Dom," he says, and Dom figures the check-in can wait, because he knows that tone of voice. It's the tone of someone that's worked up a lot of guts to say what they're about to say. Even if Brian is trying to be casual about it. "You don't have to stay, you know. I can catch a ride back. I mean, this shit—" he pauses when an older woman sitting a few seats down gives him the evil eye, and Dom doesn't care how old she is; he gives her one right back. Brian picks back up after a second, a little quieter. "This stuff always takes forever. And I'm not even sure they'll let you back there, since you're not fami—blood related."
Dom takes a second to be proud of Brian for catching his slip. Means they're making progress. As for the rest…well, it's hard to be mad when he's actually genuinely trying to save Dom some trouble. The fact that he thinks Dom wants him to is a little frustrating, but like he said: they can work on Brian's issues later.
"They'll let one guest back with you," he tells him. "Family or not." And he's using the word family in a strictly legal sense, because Brian is family as far as he's concerned. The law just doesn't see it that way. "Trust me; I've done this a few times." More times than he likes to think about, honestly. Sometimes, he thinks he's got a clumsy ass family.
Either Dom's imaging it, or Brian actually relaxes a little. "Cool," he says. "I just wasn't sure, you know? Don't usually have someone with me when I do this."
Which raises a few troubling questions, namely how many times Brian does this, and why the hell anyone would let someone go to the ER alone. No wonder the guy hates them; it's bad enough sitting in these places with company. The thought of Brian sitting in one of these places by himself, sick or hurt or whatever he'd be doing there…that shit's just not right.
"You know it wouldn't have mattered, right?"
Brian looks at him strangely. "What wouldn't have mattered?"
"Whether they let non-family in or not," Dom clarifies.
"Let me guess," Brian says, and there's a hint of a smile on his face again, "you'd have just busted in or something."
But Dom shakes his head. "Nah." He leans in a little closer, resting a hand on the curve between Brian's neck and his shoulder. "I'd have just told them we were married." And then he catches Brian's lips in a kiss.
That'll give that old shrew something to stare at.