The weird thing is, as bad as it hurts, Dom feeling along the bruises on his ribs, Brian's actually having a hard time staying awake. His eyes feel heavy, and he keeps listing a bit to the side, until another stab of pain from Dom's probing fingers makes him jolt upright again.

The last time it happens, he sucks in a sharp breath and blinks, trying to draw his eyes back into focus. Too much alcohol, not enough sleep. And contrary to what people seem to expect of him, he's not what you'd call a belligerent drunk. He's more Sleepy than any of the other Seven Dwarves.

Dom's looking at him, he realizes. Not at his ribs like he's been doing, or his elbow which he's already got wrapped up in an ACE wrap and tucked up under an ice pack. He's looking at him, and he's got this barely-there smile on his face that Brian can't quite figure out.

"You still with me, Buster?" he asks. He sounds like he's getting a kick out of something.

So much for not enjoying this.

Brian nods, and ah, shit, that hurts. His neck's sore, too. Whiplash from the crash, he bets; it's not bad or anything, but he thinks there might be some pulled muscles in there. His night just keeps getting better and better.

Dom just studies him a little longer. His brows furrow, like he sees something he doesn't like – Brian shouldn't be as used to that look as he is, but he thinks at least this time it's not something he did wrong – and Brian's a little uneasy about it. It's too still, and Dom's too damn intense. He shifts.

He wishes he could blame it on the sleep deprivation, the way he flinches when Dom reaches toward his face. But it's just reflex. Too many years, too many punches, and old habits die hard.

Dom stops, hand still in the air a few inches from Brian's face. He turns it so his palm's out, and Brian recognizes the meaning in it. Unthreatening. Placating. Shit, he's not some cornered dog.

So why's it make him feel better?

"Easy," Dom's saying, and Brian feels a little heat rise to his cheeks. He's not like this. He's not jumpy or antsy; he's cool. Cold, even. It's how he's lasted this long.

But Dom's just got this way about him, this knack for putting Brian off his game. It's terrifying, for somebody like Brian, whose whole life depends on his ability to play the game. Sometimes literally.

"Hey." Dom's voice draws him out of his headspace. He's still got his hand out, but he's not touching him. Just holding it there. Brian wants to tell him to cut it out. To stop handling him with kid gloves, stop treating him like he's changed in some big way since the last time they crossed paths. He wants to tell him to stop looking at him like he's some kind of messed up, but he doesn't. He doesn't say a damn thing. Dom does. "You okay?"

"Yeah." It's not a lie as much as a kneejerk reaction, as much a reflex as the flinching before. He can't help it. It's just the way he operates, and he couldn't change it if he wanted to. And truth is, he doesn't really want to. And maybe Dom gets it – it wouldn't surprise him; Dom gets a lot of things he has no business getting – because Brian can tell he isn't buying it, but he doesn't push.

Instead, he moves in a little. The stool he's sitting on groans under his weight; it's used to Brian's buck-eighty, not Dom's two hundred and change. And he leans into Brian's space like he owns it, and Brian can't help thinking that maybe he does, that maybe Mia was right. Maybe Dom owned him from the moment he showed up with that ten-second clunker and a cocky ass grin.

"Alright," Dom says, and his voice has that low rumble like it gets when he's serious, but he's not pissed, "ease up on the clutch, then, Buster. I know I laid into you pretty hard before, but we're done with that, now. There's no more hits comin' from me, you got my word. I'm not gonna hurt you; I just want to get a look at that eye. Looks like you might've gotten yourself a concussion." And that's the voice of experience talking, Brian knows. Dom's been through hell. He's been in fights, car accidents; shit, even their pick-up games on the weekends left people with broken noses or busted lips.

He's probably right, honestly. After the knocks Brian's taken that day, it's not exactly a leap to think he's a little concussed. But the nausea from before has settled a lot; probably just nerves, he thinks. And he's not wickedly dizzy or anything, now that he's sitting. So it's not bad.

Besides, "Had a few beers before you showed up." Quite a few. Like, a lot.

Dom pauses with his hand on Brian's jaw, and Brian very deliberately doesn't think about how the careful, almost tender touch feels after all this time. And if he leans into it a little, well then maybe he's a little dizzier than he thought. "What's that got to do with your eye?"

Brian gives a one-sided shrug. "Nothing," he says. "Just—s'why I'm tired. Little bit drunk." He's not usually such a light weight, but on a pretty empty stomach…it makes sense. "Figured that was why you were worried about a concussion."

"I'm worried about a concussion, 'cause your eye's swelling shut, Buster. You dozing off on me's just a side note. And I figure that ain't all booze, the way you've been running. You're beat to hell; you need to sleep." And Brian wants to cry, because that's the best idea he's heard all day. But Dom's gotta go and ruin it, saying, "Just not until I finish checking out the damage."

And Brian still wants to cry, but for a totally different reason. He's so damn tired. In one day, he's been shot at, wrecked a car, taken down a cartel leader, and gone toe to toe with the face of his single biggest mistake in his life.

He deserves some goddamn shuteye.

It's shocking to him, how hard he's suddenly having to fight to keep his eyes, not open, but dry. Because he really is in a world of hurt, and Dominic-fucking-Toretto's no more than a few inches away. He's touching him. He's here. And Brian's got limits, same as everybody else. He's hit his. Shit, he's lapped them.

He's biting the inside of his cheek as Dom tips his head up, turning it so his right side's towards the light. He squints. Doesn't have to do much, because the swelling's already creeping down from his brow where he took the brunt of the hit, but enough that it makes his head throb and his gut give a twist. Fuck.

"Breathe, Bri." There it is again. Bri. Not O'Connor, not even Buster.

He feels his gut give another twist, but of a different kind. He's way too tired to give that the thought it probably deserves. Instead, he focuses on the surfboard leaning against the wall, tries to remember the last time he waxed it. Tries to remember the last time he got out on the waves. Tries to focus on that feeling, on that freedom, that release, because Dom's tilting his head a little more, and he feels something creeping up the back of his throat that tastes a lot like Corona. So maybe the nausea's not as gone as he thought. Or it could be he's had too much to drink on an empty stomach.

"Still think you need a hospital," Dom says under his breath.

Brian frowns. "All I need's sleep." He's not actually sure who he's trying to convince with that, Dom or himself. He knows he wants to believe it. Wants to believe that a little bit of shuteye's gonna make all this play. Because right now, he feels like shit warmed over.

It's like Dom reads his mind, though. "Gonna take more than sleep to get you back in racing shape."

And Brian knows that's true; he just doesn't want to believe it. He wants to be okay. He wants to be as fine as he pretends to be, because right now, it feels like he's drowning. He's in over his head. Has been for a long time, so long he's not even sure he remembers what it's like not to be.

"Must've hit you pretty hard, huh, Buster?" Dom says, and Brian can't figure it out for a minute. Then he feels something wet on his cheek, and he's not optimistic enough to think it might be blood or something from all the shit his head and face have been through.

"Shut up," he grunts, swiping a hand roughly over his face. Except he tweaks his nose, and of course that hurts, and more tears spring up in his eyes, and it's just a lost fucking cause. "Shit," he swears through clenched teeth, 'cause there's exactly jack shit he can do about this. He's crying like a pussy over some bruised ribs and a busted eye. Except that's not it. It's part of it, but it's only one layer on the shit cake that's shaping up to be Brian's life right now.

He's a free man, now, but he doesn't have the first fucking clue what to do with it. He's got a pipedream staring him in the face, and part of him wants nothing more than to reach for it with everything he's got, but the other part's too shit scared to do anything about it. And he's always prided himself on being able to take anything, to roll with the punches and keep on driving, 'cause that's what he does. But he just can't do it. Not right now. It's just too damn much.

"Shit, shit, shit." He repeats it, over and over again, a litany, screwing the heel of his hand into his good eye like he can stop the tears from coming that way. He can't. And he knows Dom is there, but that just makes this ten times worse. "Shit!" He lashes out, because anger is better than this – whatever the fuck this is – and hits the mattress with everything he's got, enough to rock the springs underneath and jolt his hips on the bed, and who the fuck cares if it hurts? He's about to do it again, but he never makes it.

Dom's got him by the wrist, and he's looking at him like he's some kind of fucking tragedy. And that just makes it so much worse.

He wrenches his hand back, or he tries, but Dom holds fast. "Let go of my hand Dom," he says, and damned if his voice doesn't crack. He doesn't really have any strong feelings one way or the other, but if there is a god up there, he's fucking dying laughing right now. "Dom, let go of my hand."

"I heard you the first time," Dom says. His voice is dead steady. Almost soothing. Brian gives his wrist another tug, but Dom's grip just tightens. He's not goin' anywhere. Dom arches an eyebrow, just shy of smug. He knows he's got Brian stuck. "We gonna do this again?"

Brian's teeth clench, eyes drifting of their own accord to the wall he was pinned up against a few minutes ago. Like it was nothing. He tells himself it'd be a fair fight, or at least something closer to one, if he was all good. As it is, he's miles from it, and he and Dom both know he'd have him pinned in seconds flat.

Still, he gives another jerk. Just to make himself feel better. Doesn't stop the tears rolling slowly down his cheeks or the flush rising to meet them because this is just not fucking like him. But he really wouldn't be him if he gave in easy.

"You done?" But Dom must already know the answer, 'cause his grip's letting up. Good thing. The man's like a steel clamp.

Brian flexes his fingers to get some circulation back in them, watching them because it's better than looking Dom in the eye when he's like this. He doesn't answer him, because it'd just be a waste of breath. He was done the moment Dom showed up here.

"Hey." Dom's voice is quiet, but there's that same intensity to it it's always got. Brian's jaw clenches, and he sniffs. He'd wipe his eyes – or his nose; he's not even sure anymore, he's such a fucking mess – but Dom's still got his hand, even if it's loose. "Brian, hey. Look at me." When Brian doesn't, he lowers his voice and says it again. "Look at me." And it ain't angry, not like Brian wishes it was. It's soft and warm and a little bit scratchy, like one of those damn throw blankets always lying around the Toretto house, and he smells like metal and motor oil and sweat and just a little bit of something spicy that Brian's never been able to place outside of just, well, Dom.

And damn him, he looks up. He knows he's a fucking sight, all wet eyes and red nose, crying like a bitch no matter how hard he tries to make it stop. But Dom doesn't call him on it. Doesn't even look put-off. Just runs his thumb over the inside of Brian's wrist, and fuck, that shouldn't feel as good as it does, but he's touch-starved and desperate.

It's his eyes that get Brian, though. Those eyes as dark as his goddamn Charger. Vaguely, Brian wonders what happened to that car. Probably fixed it up good as new, knowing Dom. But it's all just a distraction, busy work to keep his mind from wondering too much about that look he's giving him. It's deep. Fucking ocean deep, and Brian can't quite place what's in it, but it makes his chest feel tight and his palms sweat.

He looks away. Not 'cause he doesn't want to see it, but 'cause his head is putting things to that look that he knows damn well it shouldn't be. Dom's not like that. It ain't about straight or gay; guys like them don't give a shit about labels unless they're on car parts, and even then, it's more about what's under them. It's just … Dom's got Letty. They're solid. Shit, they're … elemental.

He ain't going down that road. He's been driving long enough to know a dead end when he sees one.

But Dom, shit, he just won't leave well enough alone.

"Brian." He doesn't tell him to look at him, but he's got this way of saying things without actually saying them.

Brian swallows – there's a lump in his throat the size of an engine block – but he ain't looking for another fight, so he cuts his eyes back.

The looks still there, alongside furrowed brows that read a little too much like sympathy for Brian's tastes. "You hurting that bad?" he asks, and it ain't even a little mocking. Then again, Brian's got an idea of what he looks like right now; maybe he's right to wonder. It does hurt like a motherfucker.

But Brian shakes his head, sniffing again and blinking a few times to try to dislodge some of what's welling in his eyes. "That ain't it."

"Well what is it?"

Brian just shakes his head again, though. Not much. His brain feels bruised. Just enough to say he doesn't want to talk about it. "Could you just—just finish doing what you need to do?"

"What do you think I'm doing?"

"This ain't your business."

"You're my business." And there's that damn look, the one Brian can't get his head around, but it's got his stomach tying itself into knots. He's too caught up in it to flinch when Dom curls a hand around the back of his neck, warm and firm, and damn it, his eyes are running over again. He doesn't know what to do when Dom pulls him in by that hand on his neck, but that's fine, 'cause Dom's got the wheel, and Brian's just so fucking tired, he thinks he'll just let him steer for a while. He pulls Brian's head down against his shoulder, and Brian sinks into him.

The tears are still coming, and he knows Dom can feel the way his shoulders shake, no matter how hard he tries to keep it all back. Because it hits him full force, right then. Everything that's happened. Everything that's happening, now. He should be dead ten times by now, but instead, he's the last place he should be. The last place he should want to be.

"Easy, Bri," Dom's saying. It's just noise; that's all it's supposed to be. Something, anything, so Brian can't hear the sound of his own thinking.

It doesn't quite work. "It's fucked up," he says into Dom's shoulder, teeth clenched like he's seething. "Everything's fucked up, Dom." He's fucked up.

He can feel Dom shaking his head, just a little. "Not everything, Buster." And he sounds so calm, so sure, so…something else that Brian almost believes him. "You're gonna be alright. I got you, Bri." Shit, but those three words. They're almost a promise, and coming from Dom… "I got you."

And it should be awkward, sitting there, crying into the shoulder of, hell, anybody, but especially the guy who should still be beating the shit out of him on the floor of Tej's garage. It should be, but it's not. It's really, really not.

'Cause the thing is…it's the steadiest Brian's felt in a long, long time.