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FIC: Blind Observations. TFaTF Dom/Brian
Blind Observations
by Maygra
9,972 words
Written for slodwick's "Worst Case Scenario" challenge.
Fandom/universe: The Fast and the Furious, set in the Unfinished Business universe.
Pairing: Dom/Brian
Rating: NC18 for sexual situations and sensitive subject matter.
Disclaimer: The characters are not mine, no infringement is intended and no profit made. Please do not archive without permission. Many thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
raynedanser and thisisbone for the beta and to slodwick for coming up with the whole idea.
Author's notes: I seriously know very little about cars but I have ridden, ne, driven this particular car (not the one in the picture but like it.) There's a great article about at http://www.thecarconnection.com/Enthusiasts/Classics_Corner/1970_Plymouth_Hemi_Barracuda.S215.A875.html (apologies for the lack of hyperlink but I don't necessarily want anyone tracking back to this story from that site -- but it's worth a read.) The Barracuda was one of the last of the great muscle cars; few were made and fewer still were actually street legal once fuel standards were enacted. Only 289 cars with a 4 spd hemi engine were produced. The story really isn't about the car except for the fact that cars like this make Dom very happy. And if Dom's happy, Brian's happy.
Final version will be found here
Blind Observations
by Maygra
It feels too much like surveillance. He's sitting in the car at the corner, the back end of the Mustang tucked neatly behind a scraggly bit of wood and leaves wrapped around a chain link fence. It used to be a hedge, he's sure, but now it's just some weird mutant plant life taking over the whole corner of the street.
His shift has been over for a couple of hours now, and for once, nothing much happened all damn day, so, surprise! No paperwork to hang him up, no one coming in at the last minute to report something serious like a theft or not-so-serious like a missing parakeet and his hand-over to the evening shift took a whopping ten minutes.
Really, to be fair he should go home, maybe even -- for once -- have dinner ready by the time Dom gets home, even though it's not his night and Dom has said over and over that he doesn't mind waiting. That waiting is better than eating alone.
But Brian keeps telling him to go ahead when he's running late, which is a lot. And Dom keeps telling him to not sweat it, that it's not like he'll keel over if he waits a couple of hours. It's gotten to be a ritual, a metaphor, like a lot of things between them that never get said.
Lately, Brian's found that things have settled some in the neighborhood, which on the one hand is great because it means the whole community liaison program is working. On the other hand it's leaving him with a couple of hours at the end of the day that could be used for things like making dinner or working on the house or even just popping into the garage to work on whatever Dom and Vince and Leon and Letty have going.
But instead, he's watching Dom. Well, watching the garage. He can't actually see Dom unless he comes into the yard, or they're working in the sunshine on a car that doesn't require the lifts. That's what Brian wants to see: the burn of sunlight across shiny metal, across Dom's skull or even his shoulders, because outside Dom rarely wears the coverall, pushes them down because it's too hot or because the sleeves get caught on things.
Brian doesn't come every day -- can't because he still runs late most days. But this is like the third or fourth time in the last ten days that he's parked his car here, settled back with a cold soda and just watched.
Just like surveillance.
He thinks he almost knows why and figuring it out has been at least half of the urge to return. He likes looking at Dom, watching him. He does it all the time. Every morning, every night. Every meal they share, every time they work to cross another thing off the list of repairs at home, every time they have sex. He thinks he knows all the shades of emotion that can play across Dom's face, has noticed that when Dom feels strongly about something, good or bad, it's not in his face, it's in his body.
There's a car in the yard now -- has been the last couple of times he's come by. It's a classic 1970 Plymouth Barracuda. Practically the holy grail of classic stock cars, the 426-hemi engine like an automotive Excalibur. Brian's worked on the car himself, on the weekends. Gone with Dom out to C. Harley's to hunt up parts.
It's not usually Dom's style except it is. Like the Charger, like Brian's Mustang; not what Dom likes to race but what he loves, the old solid muscle cars, Detroit steel and flash. It sucks an insane amount of gas and just finding parts could be a full time job. If the Charger had been Dom's father's life's work, the 'Cuda could very well be Dom's.
The fast little imports are Dom's style too, and he's never lost his rep as the king of the late night races, but now he's got a crown for being the man who can make anyone's little toy leave others standing still. But he won't race them, won't -- not on the sly, not anymore or only rarely. They've been oh, so lucky, and Dom would say he's been the luckiest because he's a freer man now than he ever was before.
Brian entirely disagrees with his claim. He knows who the lucky one in this relationship is and that crown is all his. He's not giving it up, not even for Dom.
He leans forward a little because Dom's there now, flat box of tools in hand, spreading a stained oil cloth over the engine frame, Leon watching him and scratching at his chin like the Plymouth is some weird thing he's never seen before. Brian's got no hi-tech surveillance equipment, he doesn't know what they are saying except Dom is smiling, so most likely he's giving Leon shit, and Leon, being Leon is taking it like he does most things.
Brian doesn't care what they are saying. He's not spying on Dom. He isn't. It's not like he thinks Dom is doing something he shouldn't be or he suspects him of something, because he doesn't. What he's looking for is how Dom is when he's not with Brian.
Binoculars let him see Dom's face more clearly, to see the sweat at his temples and along his neck, where it's dampened the neck of his T-shirt. He's got grease and oil and dirt on his arms, on his hands, and the wrench he's holding seems like it's just another finger, an extension of himself.
The car looks like shit at the moment, primed but not painted. They've knocked out the dents, filled in the tears, rewelded the struts, machined bolts and screws and half a dozen other parts that couldn't be located. The vinyl inside has been patched and polished until it shines, but the outside is a patchwork of grey primer and the original green finish that Letty's still trying to match.
They've all spent a lot of time on the car, grown fond of it. They've been calling it Jesse, which would be creepy to anyone who didn't know them, didn't know Dom.
But it's not Dom's to keep. It's a restoration job, a rebuild for some guy up in the hills with more money than he needs but who's got an eye for good things. If it were Dom alone, now, it would take him years to restore it, to pay for the searches and swapping for parts. Money that Dom doesn't have anymore because he's not hijacking trucks and he's not racing for bets placed by guys trying to prove something by taking him on. His name is clear, his future looks bright, but watching Dom and the Plymouth, Brian can't help but wonder if it's worth what Dom's lost.
Dom says it is. With words, with actions. They've moved past the point in their house where repairs are necessary just to live there, and into the realm where at least half of what they're doing is minor shit and the other half is improvements. They've started working on the rundown garage, which they don't really need but want, worked out a deal with a guy to replace the tiles on the pool in exchange for a couple of years worth of car repairs and maintenance.
Except Dom never shines so bright as when he's working on something he loves. Working on the house makes him shine a little too, because his name's on the mortgage, on the garage. But here, working on this car, even if it's not his, Dom looks more alive and happier than Brian has ever seen him.
If Brian could, he'd buy the car, offer the guy what it's worth or will be. Not because he think Dom wants or really needs another car but because it makes him so very happy. He would do that, if he could, if he had fifty or sixty grand lying around somewhere he didn't need.
Dom pets the engine like it's a living thing, and Brian suspects he talks to it sometimes and in some weird back-alley part of his brain, Brian thinks the car probably likes it, would preen under Dom's regard if it could.
Right now he'd like to be the Plymouth. He can see Dom wiping away errant spots of grease and dust, making sure the oil cloth covers even the patchy primer in case some smear of dirt ruins the finish when they finally paint her. He finally sets his toolbox down, clears the engine frame of the cloth and checks to make sure he hasn't left a screw or something anywhere before lowering the hood. No slamming; he eases it down most of the way and then give the heavy hood a firm thrust to make sure it settles tight.
Just watching him do it does makes Brian squirm, his jeans feeling a little tight watching Dom muscle the muscle car.
Brian drops his head against the seat rest and rubs his crotch. How totally pathetic is it that he's jealous of a car? Because he is. Jealous and envious that a hunk of sheet metal, steel, fiberglass and vinyl can make Dom so very, very happy. That every touch and tweak and carefully restored part laid into the engine and interior speak of a courtship and romance that Brian's not sure can be equaled anywhere by anything or anyone, including himself. Maybe because the car doesn't really demand anything back. Because it isn't so complicated.
Dom disappears into the garage again and the Barracuda remains, silent and nearly perfect, front grille shining in a smile that seems to mock Brian where he sits. Ugly half-done finish screaming that ugly doesn't matter when Dominic Toretto is fully engaged, heart and body and soul into something, someone.
His soda is nearly gone and Brian groans. Dom will be wrapping it up for the day shortly and if Brian leaves now he can make it home at least a few minutes before him. He finishes the warm soda and sets his binoculars aside, reaching for the keys to crank the engine.
Dom comes back out. He's stripped off the coveralls and put on jeans and a pristine white tank showing off all that fine dark skin and hard muscle. He's got his good shades on and his arms and hands are clean. Light sparks off the keys in his hands and he yells something back in toward the garage. Vince comes out to give him a salute and a smirk. Then Dom's opening the 'Cuda's door and sliding in, the large interior seemingly made for a man as big as Dom.
The Plymouth may look like hell but she sounds like a dream. No silent modern-day fuel-injected engine, but a rumble and roar like a hungry lion just ready to be let loose on L.A.'s unsuspecting streets. She's not pretty but all her parts are in place, and she sounds ready to test out the automotive reconstructive surgery on the masses, show off her pretty teeth and healthy appetite and turn a few heads.
Dom eases her down the slope of the drive, careful not to scrape the underside of the bumper because she's a little front heavy, dips low on the driveway like she's curtseying to the cars passing in front of her. Dom's probably only taking her for a little walk, just to make sure the tuning he's done on her engine holds, something you almost have to do by ear because there's not a diagnostic computer on the market that can read a car this old with 100% accuracy. No combination of test that will reveal the truth about a car that was bright and shiny and new before computer chips were more than somebody's idea on a doodle pad.
Dom pulls out onto the street and for a minute Brian panics because Dom's turning toward him rather than the other way, crossing traffic, and Dom's going to see him, notice him, wonder why the hell Brian's parked a half block away watching the garage.
And there's no way for Brian to explain it. He'd back up further if he could but there's a dumpster behind him and if he pulls out -- well Dom knows the Mustang as well as he knows the 'Cuda. This could be a bad thing -- or at the very least embarrassing or humiliating. And maybe it's just as well, because there's no good explanation, no reasonable excuse as to why Officer Brian O'Conner would be stalking his lover.
Dom accelerates toward where Brian is hiding, and Brian is desperately wishing for a car-jacking right about when Dom passes in front of him.
And doesn't look. Belatedly Brian realizes at the very least he could have ducked down on the seat, maybe pretended he'd been asleep after a long shift. It might work. Long shift, coming to see Dom at the garage, very, very tired, I just fell asleep. It actually wouldn't be the first time that Brian had fallen asleep in his car. Twice he'd done it in his own driveway, not twenty feet from his own front door. Parked the car, been too tired to move, leaned back, only to wake up with Dom carefully opening his door and pulling him out, putting him to bed like he's five.
But Dom, doesn't look, doesn’t notice. He's staring straight ahead, windows down, one arm on the steering wheel, another arm resting on the window frame.
Dodging that particular bullet makes Brian curse like he's praying or pray like he's cursing. Now he should go. Dom isn't headed toward the house but getting ready to turn, like he's heading for the coast roads and once he turns, Brian can head back the other way, make it home before Dom knows and give himself a good talking to about what he's doing and why he should stop.
Dom does turn, but not onto the street, only into the little corner package store and market, pulling up and getting out, going in. Brian blinks because if Dom needed something from the store, why didn't he walk? They always do, for sodas, for after work beers, sometimes for stuff to make lunch. The whole corner is like a little retail haven with the market and a gas station, a family run taqueria and a sandwich shop.
He should still go. Clear the area while Dom's inside, but now his curiosity's up and he waits a good ten minutes or more until Dom comes out carrying a brown paper grocery bag that's got some weight to it. Okay, so maybe he picked up a couple of cases of beer and thought it too much to carry walking back -- not that even two cases would make much of an impression on Dom for a half block. Not for a guy who regular wrestles whole engines and exhaust systems, or who can unload an entire truck of tires (with help) in about fifteen minutes. Neither strength nor stamina are actually things Dom lacks.
Dom loads his groceries into the passenger seat, starts the car and damn, he's still heading west, not back to the shop and Brian finally gets his shit together enough to start the car and follow him without actually stopping to think about what he's doing.
He has to hang back some because, still, yes, Dom could recognize Brian's car in the dark and it's not even that yet. Not even close. Traffic starts to get a little thicker and Brian has to actually work to keep up, to not lose Dom and still not be seen -- skills he's got but hasn't used in awhile and harder because he's having to fight off the little voice in the back of his head that's screaming at him "What the fuck are you doing? You're tailing your boyfriend!"
But he's not. He's not. He's curious and intrigued and he's a cop, damn it. Suspicious, out of the ordinary stuff is what he's trained to look for. He doesn't suspect Dom of anything, he's just curious, maybe a little worried.
Yeah, worried that Dom will spot him, catch him and kick his ass for screwing around with the trust they've been so carefully building in the past year. The trust Brian's come to depend on as much as he needs to breathe.
He almost stops right there and turns around because that's what this is -- a breach of trust. Whatever Dom's doing, it's his business and none of Brian's because Brian doesn't need to know everything Dom does, every person he talks to. And it's not like Brian tells Dom everything that happens on the job. Some of it he can't, for whatever reason; some of it Dom wouldn't be interested in anyway. The line that sometimes separates Dom and Brian is a very thin blue one and Brian is doing everything he can not to let that thin line become a chasm again.
And all the while he's keeping his eyes on the Barracuda, although he could probably follow it half blind, it stands out so much. Dom makes a turn and Brian almost loses him because the light changes and he's too far back. Part of him thinks, good, he should lose him, and the other is edging the nose of the Mustang into the intersection so he can lean forward, and there's Dom, stopped at another light. Then his own light changes and Dom's gone again.
By then they are off the main roads again, and the traffic has thinned because there's not much out here but industrial offices, warehouses, and a hell of a lot of parking lots. Dom cuts across one that leads into a fenced in area. Or it would be if the fence didn't look like someone had already accidentally driven an 18-wheeler through part of it.
Brian hangs back. There's no cover here, not really, and while there's a few abandoned cars in the parking lot, mostly it's one big, wide-open space. He vaguely recognizes it; it's a mall or would have been if there hadn't been an earthquake that hit right in the middle of construction. Then the rains came and flooded out the rest. While some of the structure is sound it looks like the developers couldn't decide between repairing the foundation and whole east wing or tearing it down and starting over again. It hasn't been here long enough for the metal struts and framing to entirely turn to rust. The parking lot looks sound, and Dom has gunned the engine on the Plymouth, opening her up for a brief blast of speed between the turns, and Brian holds his breath when the 'Cuda fishtails just a little as Dom rounds the more damaged end of the building and disappears.
There's nothing here. It's abandoned and empty and isolated as much as anything can be in L.A. and Brian fights back the sudden suspicion, the speculation about why Dom would come way out here, alone, driving a car that doesn't belong to him and that for all her potential value, currently doesn't look like something anyone would bother with.
The shattered chain-link fence rattles and rings when he drives across it and any other time he might be tempted, as Dom was, to open up the throttle and push the Mustang's reconstructed engine to the red, just to see if he can.
He reaches the end of the building and now he's got a choice. He can park here and make his way through the jumble of cracked and crumbling loading docks and abandoned equipment on foot, or he can drive up the rutted asphalt to where he can see the Barracuda parked, just under the section of the mall's back end.
This isn't surveillance, he reminds himself. He's not a cop tailing a suspect. He's a guy following his boyfriend who's behaving a little oddly.
And right about then he realizes that the light Dom stopped at when he made his turn was green.
He is so busted. He doesn't even argue with himself about whether or not Dom knew he was being followed.
He pulls up and parks right beside the Barracuda and gets out, walking in front of both cars and the 'Cuda, damn her, is smirking at him. The passenger seat is empty and Brian looks up at the loading dock with its corrugated tin roof that's half falling down and doesn't see Dom. He levers himself onto the concrete deck by way of the rotting rubber and steel truck bumpers and faces the gaping maw of an unfinished stock room that's partly in shadow but mostly flooded with light because the roof is half gone or never finished.
He's going to need to confess. He knows it, though he's not sure he can explain it in a way that will make sense, in a way that will keep Dom from either punching his face in or maybe worse, doing nothing. Just letting this monumental incident of shattered trust lay between them like the broken concrete littering the parking lot behind them.
He could wait here. Wait for Dom to make the first move, say the first word, but that's cheating and it's cowardly and having admitted to himself that he's been a colossal asshole, Brian isn't willing to admit to being a chicken-shit as well.
"Dom?" he calls out and his voice echoes back to him, but it's a stunted dull echo, like it got cut off halfway back to him.
There's no answer and Brian steps further in, letting his eyes adjust to the strong delineations between streaming sunlight and total shadow. The interior is naked and bare for the most part, exposed I-beams and sheet rock that's crumbling from being exposed to the elements from the torn roof and open dock door. There's a couple of pallets of supplies that look like they've been pilfered of anything useful, and he can see the jagged end of a catwalk hanging down from the largest gap in the roof. The open-frame metals stairs leading up to it are still attached to the rear wall, but Brian isn't sure he'd trust it to support his weight.
"Dom?" he calls out again, moving into the shadows a bit, so the fading sunlight won't keep his eyes from adjusting. He can hear water somewhere, a steady drip, but there's no way to know if it's run off, or plumbing, or sewage.
"I know you saw me," he says, and makes his way to the stairs, gripping the rusted railing and giving it a jiggle. It seems solid enough, but when he puts a foot on the stair, there's a definite creak and he's not willing to risk more than two steps and those only so he can turn around and sit down.
For all he knows, Dom may have gone further in, gone through to the other side, or maybe there's a connecting door toward the front. He could look, explore, but he doesn't. Dom has to come back this way to get to the car, and somehow, pursuing this -- Dom -- further seems almost worse than doing it at all.
"Look, I'm sorry," he says to nothing, not even raising his voice. He isn't sure Dom is listening -- there's nothing to indicate he is. No sound except the ones Brian is making and the steady drip of water. Not even an occasional rattle from the stressed metal unless Brian moves. "I wasn't following you. I was just… Following. You." Great explanation. That made so much sense. "I was just curious. Not uh…jealous or suspicious or anything. Uhm, the Plymouth sounds great."
Nothing. Nada. Zip. So much silence Brian covers his ears just to hear the blood rush in his head. There was plenty of it up there, his face felt extremely hot. "You're probably wondering why I was waiting there. I mean what I was doing. Why I didn't come up," Brian tries. He could offer up the too-sleepy-to-move rationale. Or that he'd been talking to someone at the precinct, wrapping up before he went on to the garage. Police business.
"You been sitting out there for the better part of a week."
He almost misses it with his hands over his ears, and pulls them away swiftly, trying to pinpoint where Dom's voice is coming from. He can't be sure and oh, shit, Dom knows he's been out there all this time. "Uh, yeah. But just to…to…watch," Brian mumbles.
Dom doesn't answer and Brian looks around, still sees nothing. He leans forward, ready to move. Dom has to be here somewhere.
There's a soft rattle, glass on concrete, a little uneven and he looks down in time to see light hit something moving and instead of getting up he leans forward, catching the bottle rolling under the steps. A Corona, kind of frothy from being rolled across the floor, sweat condensing on the glass. Sent to him from behind and he starts to turn.
"Don't move. Don't turn around…" Dom says, much closer but it's not his voice that stops Brian, it's the hard, sharp, press of something at his lower back, just left of his spine.
"Dom--" Brian says, absolutely sure that whatever it is Dom has pressed to his lower back isn't meant to hurt him, only to warn him. Because Dom wouldn't…he wouldn't. Brian fucked up, yes but this is…it's not possible. "I'm sorry," he says again.
The pressure eases and Dom's hand slides around his side, open-palmed, holding his pocket knife with the fifty bazillion tools. The one that's opened is the bottle opener. Brian takes it and then tries to close his hand over Dom's, but Dom pulls it back.
"So, you were just watching. Watching what, Brian?" Dom asks and Brian hears him drink and swallow. He starts to turn again and this time, Dom reaches through the steps and grabs his neck. "Don't turn around. Just talk."
Brian swallows and nods slightly, opens his beer and carefully folds the bottle opener back into the knife and lays it on the steps. Dom's disembodied hand reaches through and picks it up.
The beer is cold and taking a swallow buys him a few seconds. It's not enough. Dom squeezes his neck a little, thumb rubbing up under his ear. "Talk."
Dom's voice is quiet, measured. He doesn't sound angry but then, when Dom is yelling and shouting and in your face, it usually means he's frustrated more than angry. When he's pissed off, really pissed off, he gets quiet, pulls it all back into himself. It's taken Brian a long time to recognize that, to not pull in to himself when Dom gets all loud and annoyed. It's taken a year of watching Dom and Mia go at each other or Dom and Vince to realize that volume doesn't equate to intensity of feeling at all.
Brian's own anger, when he really lets it out, is loud. It's in your face. It can take him days to get past it. Dom yells or bangs things around and fifteen minutes later it's over and mostly forgotten. Sound and fury, but no substance.
But this anger here, this is weighty and solid and Brian can only remember a couple of times before when Dom was this angry. The first was when he found out Brian was a cop. The second was when Brian agreed to do something stupid that almost got them both killed.
"I was watching you," he says finally. "Not for any reason," he says and despite the beer, his throat is tight. Despite the darkness, he feels like his face is a beacon of red, glowing and revealing. "Just…you're different out there. In the yard, working on the car. You…you're relaxed and…happy. Working on the Plymouth is like -- last time I saw you look like that we were working on the Supra," he says quietly, because, yeah, that's when he'd seen Dom at his best, when the whole team had been in synch, when the laughter had flowed as easily as motor oil. Brian feels like a total idiot, because for all the joy rebuilding the car had given him, it hadn't really ended all that well for everyone. "I like seeing you that happy."
Dom's hand slips from his neck and Brian flinches like he didn't when Dom first touched him. Touching is a language all its own for Dom.
"I'm not spying on you…" Brian says and it's still lame. Of course he was. "I mean, I wasn't watching because I didn't trust you or to check up on you I was just…watching you. I like watching you."
Dom doesn't say anything. After a few moments, Brian holds his breath and listens but he can't hear anything. Not Dom breathing, not him shifting his weight. Nothing. Just the drip of water.
Carefully he turns around, peering through the slats in the metal. There's no one there. He gets up, ducks under the stairs and walks back toward the corner of the building. The sound of dripping water gets louder and he can feel it, now, smell it. It's a little stale and the concrete under his feet is stained by dampness. Way back in the corner is an open space, the metal door pushed back and off its hinges. The room it opens into is square and dark, but there's light seeping in through another door, this one covered in long thick strips of black rubber weather stripping.
He hears the Barracuda's engine rumble to life as he pushes through, makes it to the dock just in time to see Dom pulling away, really pushing the engine from a cold start over the rough ground so that dust and dirt scatter in his wake.
Just inside the door is the paper bag. There's beer and a six-pack of Red Bull, some gum and a bottle of wine. Brian doesn't know if Dom left it here deliberately or just forgot it. He finishes his beer, sets the empty against the wall and picks up the bag.
He takes his time driving home, doesn't go back the way he came in, circles the city and stalls for as long as he can. He thinks about stopping by the precinct, checking in, but it's just another excuse. He drives past the garage and it's locked up, only the security floods on, the chain link fence closed and chained.
The sun set a while ago and on other nights, this would be just about the time Brian would find himself finally free of his job, able to check out and head home. Those nights he hurries, doesn't stop unless Dom calls him and asks him to pick up something on his way. Those nights, the line between his job and the rest of his life is more solid, more defined. It's not a chasm, it's a wall, solid and comforting; Dom is the place he comes to where he can shed the sometimes truly ugly things his job brings to his awareness. There are days when L.A, even Brian's little corner of it, seems to be more chaotic than any living thing should be capable of bearing. Where the crimes people commit against each other, from the petty, greedy thefts to the vicious inhuman beatings and all the arguing and fighting and surviving that happens in between makes Brian wonder if anything he does or could do will ever make a damn bit of difference, if he isn't more idealistic than is healthy. There's good reason for people in this part of town to think that the cops are no better than the criminals.
And sometimes there is no difference because they are all human, each one just as weak or strong as the next one. Brian likes to think he's one of the strong ones, that what he does, what he believes, will actually translate into something other than just catching and punishing bad guys. Other days he knows, really knows that no matter what he does, how hard he works, it will never be enough. He's outnumbered and outgunned and all too frequently his allies are few.
But then there's Dom, who occupies both sides of the equation. Who is the same person now, who runs his business and teaches kids about cars on the weekends and shares Brian's house and his bed as he was a couple of years when he was running illegal races and hijacking trucks. Who gave up one life to pick up another without ever changing who he was. Dom's the proof of what Brian believes, that people by and large aren't absolutely good or bad. That there are good people who make bad choices and sometimes there are bad people who make good ones. It's not the people, it's the choices they make.
And Dom's made his, but Brian's not sure he's entirely satisfied by it, that he's happy about them. And he's not sure Dom would tell him.
The last thing Brian wants is for Dom to wake up one day and feel as trapped in his new life as he had been in his old. So he's been watching Dom, trying to figure it out. Scared to ask him in case he doesn't like the answer, in case it's true and Brian doesn't have enough time to get used to the idea of a life without Dom in it.
The porch light is on at the house, more light coming through the front windows. Dom's car is in the drive -- his own car, not the Plymouth and Brian's both as glad of that as he is suddenly made aware of just how much time he's spent driving around rather than coming home and facing Dom over his incredibly stupid and lame behavior.
Dom comes out of the house as he pulls up and Brian freezes, engine running, lights on, because Dom's carrying a box, a good sized one. He stops and stares at Brian's car before moving again, opening the trunk and dropping the box in side, shoving it up against the rear seat wall. He leaves the trunk open when he goes back into the house.
Brian parks beside Dom's car and his heart is beating so fast, he almost feels like he might pass out. Apparently his apologies aren't going to cut it. And he knew that. He did. Trust is like breathing to Dom. He's forgiven Brian once for a breach of it but that might be the only bit of sliding he'd let Brian get away with: extenuating circumstances, highly stressed situation, lots of adjusting for both them.
He cuts the engine and gets out, tugging the paper bag with him. He makes it almost to the back door when Dom comes out again, carrying another box. This one's not as big but Brian can catch a glimpse of the contents; picture frames and some kitchen stuff, a loose jumble of stuff packed haphazardly into one of the cardboard boxes they'd saved when they'd moved into this house.
Dom pauses and looks at him, glances at the paper bag then up at Brian's face. "Forgot that. Dinner's almost ready." Then he keeps moving, taking the box to his car.
Brian doesn't even know what to say so he says nothing, just heads inside, leaves the bag on the kitchen counter. He can smell dinner, something spicy, the sharp scent of sausage and peppers and rice and beans. It's the Dominic Toretto version of Jambalaya, using Italian sausage and peppers, a ton of garlic. They've had a container of it sitting in the freezer for a week.
The smell of it makes Brian slightly nauseated and he turns away. The house doesn't look like Dom's been tearing it apart. There's a couple of more boxes in the hallway but the living room looks like Brian thinks it should; no gaps in the rows of books and cd's. The blanket Dom's mother made years ago, that they brought over from the house in Echo Park, is still spread across the sofa. Dom would take that if he were leaving, wouldn't he?
"You want to grab a box?" Dom asks him and Brian jumps, startled, whirls around to stare at him. Dom's got one carton in his arms but he points a finger at the remaining one. Brian stares at it and then moves, feeling like the air is thick. But he picks up the box and follows Dom out to his car, waits to hand it off to him until Dom can make room for it. When his arms are empty, he sticks his hands in his pockets. "There's a couple of boxes up in the bedroom. You need to look through them, make sure nothing's going you want to keep," Dom says.
"You don't have to go. You shouldn't--" Brian finally says because he has to say something. "I mean I can go, and Mia could --" Mia could come live here with Dom, like they used to be, because like the Plymouth, Brian is sure that having Mia back under the same roof would make Dom very happy.
"I'm not going until morning," Dom says, tilting his head to look at Brian. "You have to work tomorrow."
"I can find someplace else in the area…for the time being. I'll probably get a transfer or something but you don't need to move out."
Dom stares at him and then leans back against the trunk of his car. "Move out? Brian what the hell are you talking about?"
Brian blinks at him, wondering what he's just said, because at the moment Dom is frowning and he's raised his voice a little.
"The boxes. Your stuff. I'm the one who fucked up. You don't have to leave. I should."
Dom stares at him for a long moment then crosses his arms over his chest and ducks his head. "You really are a fucking idiot," he says evenly. "This stuff…this is for the community center garage sale on Saturday. The one you brought the flyers home about."
That takes a second to sink in. When Dom's right, he's right. Brian's an idiot. A total moron. Clueless to the extreme. And as confused as he is by what's going on, he also relieved enough by the fact that Dom isn't planning to move out that his knees almost give way.
Now Dom's waiting for Brian to explain. Again. "I followed you."
"Yes, you did. Badly, I might add."
"I've been watching you."
"So you said," Dom says and he's very calm. Very. The muscles in his arms flex but he doesn't move, doesn't change his tone of voice. "And you thought I'd leave because of that?"
Once more, Brian's got nothing to say, nothing that won't sound stupid or worse, make no sense. "I'm sorry." It's all he can get out.
It's not enough. It's not anything. It's hollow and weak and Brian knows it. Dom blows out a breath and drops his arms, pushes off the car and heads back inside. His shoulder brushes Brian's when he passes. Not accidentally. Hard enough to make Brian stagger a little. He supposes it's better than a fist in the face and he follows Dom inside.
Dom is shutting down the oven, pulling the casserole dish out to set it on top of the stove. Brian still isn't hungry so he unpacks the paper bag, puts the beer and the Red Bull in the refrigerator and stares at the wine bottle. He doesn't know if it needs to be chilled or not. He puts the pack of gum on the counter next to Dom's keys.
"Are you hungry?" Dom asks, staring at him again.
"No. Not really."
Something in Dom's face changes but Brian isn't sure how to read it. A moment ago his face was impassive, showing nothing, pretty damn telling in it's blankness. Now there's a different expression in his eyes, and his mouth has thinned. He straightens up and walks past Brian. "Come with me," he says and doesn't wait to see if Brian follows him, just heads upstairs.
And Brian follows.
The boxes they'd set aside are near the stairs. Brian hasn't even opened them since they moved in which pretty much indicates whatever's in them he doesn't need. Otherwise the room is neat, uncluttered. Dom's neater and cleaner than Brian but even so, neither of them tend to leave clothes on the floor or crap on the dresser.
Dom's sitting on the window seat, unlacing his work boots. He's already pulled his tank top off and for just a moment Brian lets himself indulge in the thing that got him into this mess in the first place: watching Dom. He's watched Dom undress a thousand times, knows that he buys the kind of work boots with the raised eyelets rather than the hollow ones because he unlaces them all the way to the ankle so he can pull them off easier. He knows the socks underneath will be wool, no matter the weather, because rain or shine, hot or cold, they keep Dom's feet dryer. He knows that the big toe and second toe on Dom's left foot is kind of crooked because he broke them when he was twelve and didn't know it until they were all healed up again. Without looking at Brian, Dom sets his boots by the dresser and tosses his undershirt and socks into the hamper. He takes his belt off and coils it up, lays it on the dresser as well, just above his boots. Then and only then does he look at Brian. Comes up to him and stands right in front of him.
Brian's heart is beating faster again, his breathing too shallow, because he doesn't know what this is, what Dom is going to say, only that whatever it is, he needs to take it, he deserves it. If he's very, very lucky, he will not find himself sleeping downstairs tonight.
Dom's eyes are dark, his jaw set. He needs a shave and he smells vaguely of beer and garlic and solvent and motor oil. He hasn't had time to shower yet. Brian straightens up a little, feeling not unlike he does when his Captain makes a spot inspection. Dom has to look up slightly, but not by much. Brian doesn't move when Dom's hands come up.
As usual, Dom doesn't use words, but he startles Brian anyway by placing his hands on either side of Brian's neck and using his thumbs to tilt Brian's head down so he doesn't have to stretch at all to cover Brian's lips with is own. There's tension in him, all through him but the kiss isn't anything but gentle, not even demanding and Brian opens his mouth anyway, helpless to do anything else. Dom's hands on his neck and face are firm but not brutal, holding Brian where Dom wants him without applying too much pressure. When Dom pushes him, just a little, Brian goes, backing up until he can't anymore; his ass hitting the front of the dresser. Dom's hands slip from his throat to his shoulders, pressing down, and Brian sits.
Now it's his turn to look up and Dom's expression hasn't changed much. Dom takes a half step back, just enough to put a little distance between them and unfastens his pants. He doesn't make a show of it, only unbuttons and unzips like he does all the time, catching the waist band of his pants and his underwear with his hands to strip them off together until he's naked. He picks up both and walks to the hamper to put them in. He gives Brian great view of ass and the wide set of his shoulders, the muscles of his thighs and ass tensing when he bends down. He turns around and comes back and there isn't the slightest hint of a flush to Dom's dark skin, no embarrassment or blushing. The only flush of blood is in his dick, which is firming but still hanging low and soft against his balls. Dom's in no hurry to come back and Brian's mouth is dry, just watching him. Wanting him. He grips the edge of the dresser ready to push himself off, drop to his knees.
Dom stops a couple of feet away and just stands there, letting Brian look his fill, never moving until Brian's gaze comes back up to his face.
For a second, Brian half suspects Dom's laughing at him, except it's not really amusement he sees in his face. Some humor, maybe. Like Dom knows exactly how difficult it is for Brian to think when Dom's naked just for him. Brian licks his lips nervously and the corner of Dom's mouth lifts up and he inclines his head just a fraction. Not amused. Exasperated is more like but whatever it is, it's not anger.
Dom's not angry. Not anymore, if he ever was.
Very carefully, Brian starts to push off the dresser, standing up, but Dom moves then, in between his legs, pushes him back down. When Brian settles again, Dom reaches for Brian's shirt, pulls it free of his slacks and up over his head.
Brian doesn't protest but when his chest is bare and Dom reaches for his belt he catches his fingers, hooks his own against them and tightens his grip. "Dom--"
Dom's other hand covers his mouth. "Don't talk. Just listen," he says. "You want to numb your ass sitting in that alley watching the garage? Go right ahead. You want to follow me around while I run errands and get my teeth cleaned and pick up parts at Harry's? Feel free. But if you ever again think that I'd get mad at you and take off without letting you know or talking to you about it, I will kick your ass from here to Ensenada. You understand me, Brian? I don't work that way and you, of all people, should know it."
Brian reaches up and pulls Dom's hand away. "I'm sorry. I do know it. I knew it was stupid while I was doing it…sitting there, watching you. Following you…I didn't want you to think I was staking you out or thought you were doing anything wrong or illegal or--"
Dom's hand covers his mouth again. "You're not listening. I don't care if you watch. I don't care if you follow. Anywhere I am, you are welcome to be, whether I know you are there or not. And if I ever do anything that stupid ever again, I expect you to kick my ass, only you'll have to get in line behind Mia," he says and Brian stares at him. Dom's mouth is still set but his eyes are warm.
"Now, the other thing…the 'happy' thing," he says in a low rumble and pulls his palm away from Brian's mouth and his other hand from Brian's fingers. Dom backs up, but only far enough so he can curl his fingers into Brian's waistband and tug.
Brian stands up, feeling lightheaded. He has to grip Dom's arm to steady himself, to not fall as Dom tugs him towards the bed, turns him and pushes him down again.
Dom kneels down in front of him to take his shoes off. Brian doesn't help at all, still not sure what's happening here, what signal he's missed. It's just catching up in his brain that Dom isn't mad -- well, not mad about the things Brian thought he'd be mad about. Then his shoes are off and his socks and Dom gets up to set Brian's work shoes next to his boots, tosses his socks and shirt into the hamper.
Comes back and crouches again and Brian finally reaches down to help, to unbuckle his belt and pull it free, pulling off his slacks and underwear while Dom puts his belt on the dresser.
When Dom looks at him he does flush. He can feel it in his chest, along his throat, staining his cheeks red. Not because Dom's looking at him -- Dom does it a lot and it doesn't usually bother Brian at all. In fact, it's kind of a turn on. And there's heat building in his belly too; in his groin, an ache and a steady pulse that's as distracting as it is inevitable having a naked Dom in front of him, being naked with Dom.
That's the problem though. Not the no clothes part. It's familiar. Right now, though, Brian feels more naked than he ever has. He could be fully clothed and still feel like Dom's gaze was laying him bare, stripping away any illusions or falsehoods. Seeing right through any lies -- even white ones.
"Back up. Roll over. Stretch out," Dom says, but there's no demand in his request. It's neither clipped nor hard. He says it quietly, curling one hand around Brian's knee to help him swing his legs up and roll over so he's on his stomach.
Then Dom follows him, straddling his legs and leaning forward, laying his hands on Brian's shoulders. But it's not his hands Brian's attention focuses on, it's Dom's dick, still semi-soft, rubbing along his crack and up the curve of his ass.
"Ow!" he grunts and his attention is definitely on Dom's hands where he's just applied a painful amount of pressure to the tight muscles right at the top of Brian's shoulders. His protest doesn't keep Dom from doing it again and Brian yelps again against the sharp, fast pain because he is so tight that even if Dom were gentler, it would still hurt.
The next squeeze isn't nearly as harsh and Brian groans because he can feel the knots Dom's working just kind of unravel and break loose, the relief so intense it makes his fingertips tingle. Dom keeps working there for another couple of minutes before spreading his hands and working out further along Brian's arms then back again. His hands are firm and strong and it's not so much that there's no gentleness as Dom knows that's not what Brian needs right now. He moves both hands to one side, easing the tension along Brian's ribs, then back before sliding both hands down along either side of his spine with enough pressure that the friction leaves a wake of heat in its path. Dom does it again and again, never saying anything, only working lower with each pass until the heels of his hands press into the crest of Brian's ass.
He stops for a moment and leans over, stretching out along Brian's back and Brian's so relaxed Dom's weight actually feels good. He hears Dom pull the drawer to the bedside table open and turns his head. He's still relaxed but there's definitely a little tension showing up in his groin when Dom pulls out the bottle of lube and opens it.
Dom sits up again and when his hand touches Brian's ass, it's slick. He's just as careful , though, working the oil in between Brian's cheeks, massaging the rim around his hole firmly before pressing two slick fingers inside Brian. There's a little bit of a burn and a stretching feeling but Dom knows all the best tricks and Brian shudders when those slick finger press firmly on his prostate.
Dom shifts over, stretching out beside Brian so he can see his face, fingertips just stroking lightly over Brian's hole. Brian squirms because his dick is hard. So is Dom's and Brian's not quite sure when that happened but Dom is hard now, rigid, his dick dark and thick, the heavy weight of it just begging to be touched.
Brian moves his hand to do just that and Dom catches his wrist, puts his hand back on the bed. "What do I look like when I'm happy, Bri?" he asks like he expects an answer. Like his dick isn't ready to find a welcome home in Brian's ass. Like Dom still isn't slipping a finger inside him now and then, keeping the burn low, the interest high.
"You…smile all the time. You laugh," Brian says, and really, it's not hard to summon that memory of Dom, of seeing him when they're all working together, when a part or adjustment works just right. When Dom's usually kind of formidable expression gives way to something else, to some younger version of himself. When the jokes fly and the history he shares with people comes out like a flood of water from a hydrant on a hot day. "You tells jokes and give everyone a hard time and they just laugh. You look like everything's right with the world, like nothing can ever get you down. You just look happy."
"That's what you see at the garage?"
"When you are working on the Plymouth, yeah. When you guys are so backed up, you've got days of work ahead of you."
Dom's hand slips between his legs and his fingertips strokes just under Brian's balls, under his dick and Brian's fingers tighten on the sheets.
"And the rest of the time? When it's you and me? I don't look happy then?" Dom asks, leaning his head on his hand. He stops tickling and goes back to just rubbing across Brian's ass, his lower back.
"Not like that…"
"I don't laugh with you?"
"Well, yeah, but --"
Dom moves, rising up and straddling Brian's legs again. He picks up the lube and fits his hand between Brian's thighs. Brian groans when his balls are fondled by a warm, slick hand. "I don't tell you bad jokes and make you laugh?"
"Yeah, you do, -- nng!" Brian's hips lift off the bed when Dom slides his fingers back in his ass. Brian's dick gets tight and hard as the pressure builds, Dom working him as easily as he can a car engine, knowing just when to open the throttle and when to shift gears.
Dom leans down. "You really are an idiot," he says and lets Brian go only long enough to pull a pillow from the top of the bed and shove it under Brian's hips. The hand he slips along Brian's cock nearly makes Brian lose it. Dom's hands spread Brian wider, and Brian moans into the pillow and bites his lip when Dom guides his dick into Brian's hole, pressing in firmly, stretching him wider than his fingers had, the sensation of fullness and pressure familiar and indescribable.
Brian tenses up and pushes back. Dom grunts and lurches against his back, hands pressing the comforter down on either side of Brian's waist. Dom's legs press against Brian's, and he lowers himself, pressing Brian deeper into the mattress as he fills him, takes up every spare inch of room in Brian's ass and demanding more.
When he can't get in any deeper his weight drops to Brian's back, pressing him down, shifting only slightly and Brian's dick rubs against the sheets. A shudder rips through him leaving him gasping.
Dom's lips press to the skin between his shoulder blades. "I like working on the car. It's fun," Dom says. "When you're there with us, am I happy then…?"
"Y…yeah," Brian say, having a hard time believing they are still talking about this. That Dom's still talking about this.
Dom thrusts in hard and pulls back and lifts up. "You think I'm happy right now, Bri? Doing this?" he asks and pushes in again, pulls back and finds a rhythm.
Too slow, way to slow. "I think we'd both be happier if we'd stop talking and get on with the fucking," Brian says and lifts his hips to meet Dom's next thrust.
"Nice to know you are not a total idiot," Brian says and Brian can hear the laughter under that. The breathiness in Dom's voice just makes him harder.
Dom does shut up and get on with the fucking , increasing the pace, the rhythm. He catches Brian's shoulder to give himself some leverage and Brian knows to the second when Dom hits his limit. His fingers dig into Brian's skin, his forehead rests against Brian's back and his thrusts become shallower and faster. He swears when he comes, a drawn-out "Hell, yeah." that makes Brian smile and grind his hips into the bed. Dom is still for a long moment before he eases down, pull Brian back and to one side and reaches for his dick. Brian's hand covers his and it doesn't take more than a couple of strokes for him to come as well, his hand tightening over Dom's when it hits and Dom licks him, up under his ear, gives his dick a few more squeezes.
They're both quiet in the aftermath. Dom shifts first, his softening dick pulling free of Brian's ass and he rolls back a little. Brian's so boneless he just follows, ends up with his head on Dom's shoulder, their hands still slick and sticky and resting on Brian's stomach.
"If I tell you I'm perfectly happy with what we've got, are you going to believe me?" Dom asks after a few minutes.
Right now, Dom could tell Brian the Moon is made of green cheese and he'd believe him, but this is more serious than that and well-fucked or not Brian knows it. "Yeah. I believe you, Dom," Brian says and grunts a little when Dom heaves himself up on his side so he can see Brian's face.
Dom looks serious. "You've spent too much time standing outside looking in, Bri. You come up to the garage instead of sitting into the alley and you're part of it. I like working on cars, especially classics. I like being with my friends. It does make me happy. Maybe even a little high. But the only people who are that high all the time are junkies who aren't looking for their next fix. I don't need to look for my next fix. I've got it." Dom's hand spreads out rubs across Brian's belly then up his chest to his throat. He tilts Brian's head toward his and kisses him, soft and deep and thorough, mapping out parts of Brian's mouth with his tongue that even Brian's dentist has never been. He leaves Brian breathing hard again and his heart racing. "You want to keep stalking me, go right ahead. Be more fun for both of us if you'd stop it though."
Brian blinks at him. "Stalking's a felony."
Dom grins at him and chuckles. "So, I've heard. Maybe I should report it to the police. You want to take my statement, Officer O'Conner?"
Dom's laughing and making jokes. There's no car or garage or even his friends, their friends. It's just them and Dom looks pretty happy. He looks pretty much the way Brian always feels when they're together.
And really? Brian's an idiot. No need to sit in a car and observe from across the street. Everything he's looking for is right here. Always has been. He's just been too blind to see it.
"You want to swear out a restraining order, Mr. Toretto?"
Dom's smile turns decidedly more calculating and his eyes narrow. He catches both of Brian's wrists and stretches them over his head. He settles across him, high on Brian's thighs, pinning him down, their dicks just touching. "I think I've got the restraint part covered, Officer O'Conner."
~end~
9/18/2005
by Maygra
9,972 words
Written for slodwick's "Worst Case Scenario" challenge.
Fandom/universe: The Fast and the Furious, set in the Unfinished Business universe.
Pairing: Dom/Brian
Rating: NC18 for sexual situations and sensitive subject matter.
Disclaimer: The characters are not mine, no infringement is intended and no profit made. Please do not archive without permission. Many thanks to
raynedanser and thisisbone for the beta and to slodwick for coming up with the whole idea.Author's notes: I seriously know very little about cars but I have ridden, ne, driven this particular car (not the one in the picture but like it.) There's a great article about at http://www.thecarconnection.com/Enthusiasts/Classics_Corner/1970_Plymouth_Hemi_Barracuda.S215.A875.html (apologies for the lack of hyperlink but I don't necessarily want anyone tracking back to this story from that site -- but it's worth a read.) The Barracuda was one of the last of the great muscle cars; few were made and fewer still were actually street legal once fuel standards were enacted. Only 289 cars with a 4 spd hemi engine were produced. The story really isn't about the car except for the fact that cars like this make Dom very happy. And if Dom's happy, Brian's happy.
Final version will be found here
Blind Observations
by Maygra
It feels too much like surveillance. He's sitting in the car at the corner, the back end of the Mustang tucked neatly behind a scraggly bit of wood and leaves wrapped around a chain link fence. It used to be a hedge, he's sure, but now it's just some weird mutant plant life taking over the whole corner of the street.
His shift has been over for a couple of hours now, and for once, nothing much happened all damn day, so, surprise! No paperwork to hang him up, no one coming in at the last minute to report something serious like a theft or not-so-serious like a missing parakeet and his hand-over to the evening shift took a whopping ten minutes.
Really, to be fair he should go home, maybe even -- for once -- have dinner ready by the time Dom gets home, even though it's not his night and Dom has said over and over that he doesn't mind waiting. That waiting is better than eating alone.
But Brian keeps telling him to go ahead when he's running late, which is a lot. And Dom keeps telling him to not sweat it, that it's not like he'll keel over if he waits a couple of hours. It's gotten to be a ritual, a metaphor, like a lot of things between them that never get said.
Lately, Brian's found that things have settled some in the neighborhood, which on the one hand is great because it means the whole community liaison program is working. On the other hand it's leaving him with a couple of hours at the end of the day that could be used for things like making dinner or working on the house or even just popping into the garage to work on whatever Dom and Vince and Leon and Letty have going.
But instead, he's watching Dom. Well, watching the garage. He can't actually see Dom unless he comes into the yard, or they're working in the sunshine on a car that doesn't require the lifts. That's what Brian wants to see: the burn of sunlight across shiny metal, across Dom's skull or even his shoulders, because outside Dom rarely wears the coverall, pushes them down because it's too hot or because the sleeves get caught on things.
Brian doesn't come every day -- can't because he still runs late most days. But this is like the third or fourth time in the last ten days that he's parked his car here, settled back with a cold soda and just watched.
Just like surveillance.
He thinks he almost knows why and figuring it out has been at least half of the urge to return. He likes looking at Dom, watching him. He does it all the time. Every morning, every night. Every meal they share, every time they work to cross another thing off the list of repairs at home, every time they have sex. He thinks he knows all the shades of emotion that can play across Dom's face, has noticed that when Dom feels strongly about something, good or bad, it's not in his face, it's in his body.
There's a car in the yard now -- has been the last couple of times he's come by. It's a classic 1970 Plymouth Barracuda. Practically the holy grail of classic stock cars, the 426-hemi engine like an automotive Excalibur. Brian's worked on the car himself, on the weekends. Gone with Dom out to C. Harley's to hunt up parts.
It's not usually Dom's style except it is. Like the Charger, like Brian's Mustang; not what Dom likes to race but what he loves, the old solid muscle cars, Detroit steel and flash. It sucks an insane amount of gas and just finding parts could be a full time job. If the Charger had been Dom's father's life's work, the 'Cuda could very well be Dom's.
The fast little imports are Dom's style too, and he's never lost his rep as the king of the late night races, but now he's got a crown for being the man who can make anyone's little toy leave others standing still. But he won't race them, won't -- not on the sly, not anymore or only rarely. They've been oh, so lucky, and Dom would say he's been the luckiest because he's a freer man now than he ever was before.
Brian entirely disagrees with his claim. He knows who the lucky one in this relationship is and that crown is all his. He's not giving it up, not even for Dom.
He leans forward a little because Dom's there now, flat box of tools in hand, spreading a stained oil cloth over the engine frame, Leon watching him and scratching at his chin like the Plymouth is some weird thing he's never seen before. Brian's got no hi-tech surveillance equipment, he doesn't know what they are saying except Dom is smiling, so most likely he's giving Leon shit, and Leon, being Leon is taking it like he does most things.
Brian doesn't care what they are saying. He's not spying on Dom. He isn't. It's not like he thinks Dom is doing something he shouldn't be or he suspects him of something, because he doesn't. What he's looking for is how Dom is when he's not with Brian.
Binoculars let him see Dom's face more clearly, to see the sweat at his temples and along his neck, where it's dampened the neck of his T-shirt. He's got grease and oil and dirt on his arms, on his hands, and the wrench he's holding seems like it's just another finger, an extension of himself.
The car looks like shit at the moment, primed but not painted. They've knocked out the dents, filled in the tears, rewelded the struts, machined bolts and screws and half a dozen other parts that couldn't be located. The vinyl inside has been patched and polished until it shines, but the outside is a patchwork of grey primer and the original green finish that Letty's still trying to match.
They've all spent a lot of time on the car, grown fond of it. They've been calling it Jesse, which would be creepy to anyone who didn't know them, didn't know Dom.
But it's not Dom's to keep. It's a restoration job, a rebuild for some guy up in the hills with more money than he needs but who's got an eye for good things. If it were Dom alone, now, it would take him years to restore it, to pay for the searches and swapping for parts. Money that Dom doesn't have anymore because he's not hijacking trucks and he's not racing for bets placed by guys trying to prove something by taking him on. His name is clear, his future looks bright, but watching Dom and the Plymouth, Brian can't help but wonder if it's worth what Dom's lost.
Dom says it is. With words, with actions. They've moved past the point in their house where repairs are necessary just to live there, and into the realm where at least half of what they're doing is minor shit and the other half is improvements. They've started working on the rundown garage, which they don't really need but want, worked out a deal with a guy to replace the tiles on the pool in exchange for a couple of years worth of car repairs and maintenance.
Except Dom never shines so bright as when he's working on something he loves. Working on the house makes him shine a little too, because his name's on the mortgage, on the garage. But here, working on this car, even if it's not his, Dom looks more alive and happier than Brian has ever seen him.
If Brian could, he'd buy the car, offer the guy what it's worth or will be. Not because he think Dom wants or really needs another car but because it makes him so very happy. He would do that, if he could, if he had fifty or sixty grand lying around somewhere he didn't need.
Dom pets the engine like it's a living thing, and Brian suspects he talks to it sometimes and in some weird back-alley part of his brain, Brian thinks the car probably likes it, would preen under Dom's regard if it could.
Right now he'd like to be the Plymouth. He can see Dom wiping away errant spots of grease and dust, making sure the oil cloth covers even the patchy primer in case some smear of dirt ruins the finish when they finally paint her. He finally sets his toolbox down, clears the engine frame of the cloth and checks to make sure he hasn't left a screw or something anywhere before lowering the hood. No slamming; he eases it down most of the way and then give the heavy hood a firm thrust to make sure it settles tight.
Just watching him do it does makes Brian squirm, his jeans feeling a little tight watching Dom muscle the muscle car.
Brian drops his head against the seat rest and rubs his crotch. How totally pathetic is it that he's jealous of a car? Because he is. Jealous and envious that a hunk of sheet metal, steel, fiberglass and vinyl can make Dom so very, very happy. That every touch and tweak and carefully restored part laid into the engine and interior speak of a courtship and romance that Brian's not sure can be equaled anywhere by anything or anyone, including himself. Maybe because the car doesn't really demand anything back. Because it isn't so complicated.
Dom disappears into the garage again and the Barracuda remains, silent and nearly perfect, front grille shining in a smile that seems to mock Brian where he sits. Ugly half-done finish screaming that ugly doesn't matter when Dominic Toretto is fully engaged, heart and body and soul into something, someone.
His soda is nearly gone and Brian groans. Dom will be wrapping it up for the day shortly and if Brian leaves now he can make it home at least a few minutes before him. He finishes the warm soda and sets his binoculars aside, reaching for the keys to crank the engine.
Dom comes back out. He's stripped off the coveralls and put on jeans and a pristine white tank showing off all that fine dark skin and hard muscle. He's got his good shades on and his arms and hands are clean. Light sparks off the keys in his hands and he yells something back in toward the garage. Vince comes out to give him a salute and a smirk. Then Dom's opening the 'Cuda's door and sliding in, the large interior seemingly made for a man as big as Dom.
The Plymouth may look like hell but she sounds like a dream. No silent modern-day fuel-injected engine, but a rumble and roar like a hungry lion just ready to be let loose on L.A.'s unsuspecting streets. She's not pretty but all her parts are in place, and she sounds ready to test out the automotive reconstructive surgery on the masses, show off her pretty teeth and healthy appetite and turn a few heads.
Dom eases her down the slope of the drive, careful not to scrape the underside of the bumper because she's a little front heavy, dips low on the driveway like she's curtseying to the cars passing in front of her. Dom's probably only taking her for a little walk, just to make sure the tuning he's done on her engine holds, something you almost have to do by ear because there's not a diagnostic computer on the market that can read a car this old with 100% accuracy. No combination of test that will reveal the truth about a car that was bright and shiny and new before computer chips were more than somebody's idea on a doodle pad.
Dom pulls out onto the street and for a minute Brian panics because Dom's turning toward him rather than the other way, crossing traffic, and Dom's going to see him, notice him, wonder why the hell Brian's parked a half block away watching the garage.
And there's no way for Brian to explain it. He'd back up further if he could but there's a dumpster behind him and if he pulls out -- well Dom knows the Mustang as well as he knows the 'Cuda. This could be a bad thing -- or at the very least embarrassing or humiliating. And maybe it's just as well, because there's no good explanation, no reasonable excuse as to why Officer Brian O'Conner would be stalking his lover.
Dom accelerates toward where Brian is hiding, and Brian is desperately wishing for a car-jacking right about when Dom passes in front of him.
And doesn't look. Belatedly Brian realizes at the very least he could have ducked down on the seat, maybe pretended he'd been asleep after a long shift. It might work. Long shift, coming to see Dom at the garage, very, very tired, I just fell asleep. It actually wouldn't be the first time that Brian had fallen asleep in his car. Twice he'd done it in his own driveway, not twenty feet from his own front door. Parked the car, been too tired to move, leaned back, only to wake up with Dom carefully opening his door and pulling him out, putting him to bed like he's five.
But Dom, doesn't look, doesn’t notice. He's staring straight ahead, windows down, one arm on the steering wheel, another arm resting on the window frame.
Dodging that particular bullet makes Brian curse like he's praying or pray like he's cursing. Now he should go. Dom isn't headed toward the house but getting ready to turn, like he's heading for the coast roads and once he turns, Brian can head back the other way, make it home before Dom knows and give himself a good talking to about what he's doing and why he should stop.
Dom does turn, but not onto the street, only into the little corner package store and market, pulling up and getting out, going in. Brian blinks because if Dom needed something from the store, why didn't he walk? They always do, for sodas, for after work beers, sometimes for stuff to make lunch. The whole corner is like a little retail haven with the market and a gas station, a family run taqueria and a sandwich shop.
He should still go. Clear the area while Dom's inside, but now his curiosity's up and he waits a good ten minutes or more until Dom comes out carrying a brown paper grocery bag that's got some weight to it. Okay, so maybe he picked up a couple of cases of beer and thought it too much to carry walking back -- not that even two cases would make much of an impression on Dom for a half block. Not for a guy who regular wrestles whole engines and exhaust systems, or who can unload an entire truck of tires (with help) in about fifteen minutes. Neither strength nor stamina are actually things Dom lacks.
Dom loads his groceries into the passenger seat, starts the car and damn, he's still heading west, not back to the shop and Brian finally gets his shit together enough to start the car and follow him without actually stopping to think about what he's doing.
He has to hang back some because, still, yes, Dom could recognize Brian's car in the dark and it's not even that yet. Not even close. Traffic starts to get a little thicker and Brian has to actually work to keep up, to not lose Dom and still not be seen -- skills he's got but hasn't used in awhile and harder because he's having to fight off the little voice in the back of his head that's screaming at him "What the fuck are you doing? You're tailing your boyfriend!"
But he's not. He's not. He's curious and intrigued and he's a cop, damn it. Suspicious, out of the ordinary stuff is what he's trained to look for. He doesn't suspect Dom of anything, he's just curious, maybe a little worried.
Yeah, worried that Dom will spot him, catch him and kick his ass for screwing around with the trust they've been so carefully building in the past year. The trust Brian's come to depend on as much as he needs to breathe.
He almost stops right there and turns around because that's what this is -- a breach of trust. Whatever Dom's doing, it's his business and none of Brian's because Brian doesn't need to know everything Dom does, every person he talks to. And it's not like Brian tells Dom everything that happens on the job. Some of it he can't, for whatever reason; some of it Dom wouldn't be interested in anyway. The line that sometimes separates Dom and Brian is a very thin blue one and Brian is doing everything he can not to let that thin line become a chasm again.
And all the while he's keeping his eyes on the Barracuda, although he could probably follow it half blind, it stands out so much. Dom makes a turn and Brian almost loses him because the light changes and he's too far back. Part of him thinks, good, he should lose him, and the other is edging the nose of the Mustang into the intersection so he can lean forward, and there's Dom, stopped at another light. Then his own light changes and Dom's gone again.
By then they are off the main roads again, and the traffic has thinned because there's not much out here but industrial offices, warehouses, and a hell of a lot of parking lots. Dom cuts across one that leads into a fenced in area. Or it would be if the fence didn't look like someone had already accidentally driven an 18-wheeler through part of it.
Brian hangs back. There's no cover here, not really, and while there's a few abandoned cars in the parking lot, mostly it's one big, wide-open space. He vaguely recognizes it; it's a mall or would have been if there hadn't been an earthquake that hit right in the middle of construction. Then the rains came and flooded out the rest. While some of the structure is sound it looks like the developers couldn't decide between repairing the foundation and whole east wing or tearing it down and starting over again. It hasn't been here long enough for the metal struts and framing to entirely turn to rust. The parking lot looks sound, and Dom has gunned the engine on the Plymouth, opening her up for a brief blast of speed between the turns, and Brian holds his breath when the 'Cuda fishtails just a little as Dom rounds the more damaged end of the building and disappears.
There's nothing here. It's abandoned and empty and isolated as much as anything can be in L.A. and Brian fights back the sudden suspicion, the speculation about why Dom would come way out here, alone, driving a car that doesn't belong to him and that for all her potential value, currently doesn't look like something anyone would bother with.
The shattered chain-link fence rattles and rings when he drives across it and any other time he might be tempted, as Dom was, to open up the throttle and push the Mustang's reconstructed engine to the red, just to see if he can.
He reaches the end of the building and now he's got a choice. He can park here and make his way through the jumble of cracked and crumbling loading docks and abandoned equipment on foot, or he can drive up the rutted asphalt to where he can see the Barracuda parked, just under the section of the mall's back end.
This isn't surveillance, he reminds himself. He's not a cop tailing a suspect. He's a guy following his boyfriend who's behaving a little oddly.
And right about then he realizes that the light Dom stopped at when he made his turn was green.
He is so busted. He doesn't even argue with himself about whether or not Dom knew he was being followed.
He pulls up and parks right beside the Barracuda and gets out, walking in front of both cars and the 'Cuda, damn her, is smirking at him. The passenger seat is empty and Brian looks up at the loading dock with its corrugated tin roof that's half falling down and doesn't see Dom. He levers himself onto the concrete deck by way of the rotting rubber and steel truck bumpers and faces the gaping maw of an unfinished stock room that's partly in shadow but mostly flooded with light because the roof is half gone or never finished.
He's going to need to confess. He knows it, though he's not sure he can explain it in a way that will make sense, in a way that will keep Dom from either punching his face in or maybe worse, doing nothing. Just letting this monumental incident of shattered trust lay between them like the broken concrete littering the parking lot behind them.
He could wait here. Wait for Dom to make the first move, say the first word, but that's cheating and it's cowardly and having admitted to himself that he's been a colossal asshole, Brian isn't willing to admit to being a chicken-shit as well.
"Dom?" he calls out and his voice echoes back to him, but it's a stunted dull echo, like it got cut off halfway back to him.
There's no answer and Brian steps further in, letting his eyes adjust to the strong delineations between streaming sunlight and total shadow. The interior is naked and bare for the most part, exposed I-beams and sheet rock that's crumbling from being exposed to the elements from the torn roof and open dock door. There's a couple of pallets of supplies that look like they've been pilfered of anything useful, and he can see the jagged end of a catwalk hanging down from the largest gap in the roof. The open-frame metals stairs leading up to it are still attached to the rear wall, but Brian isn't sure he'd trust it to support his weight.
"Dom?" he calls out again, moving into the shadows a bit, so the fading sunlight won't keep his eyes from adjusting. He can hear water somewhere, a steady drip, but there's no way to know if it's run off, or plumbing, or sewage.
"I know you saw me," he says, and makes his way to the stairs, gripping the rusted railing and giving it a jiggle. It seems solid enough, but when he puts a foot on the stair, there's a definite creak and he's not willing to risk more than two steps and those only so he can turn around and sit down.
For all he knows, Dom may have gone further in, gone through to the other side, or maybe there's a connecting door toward the front. He could look, explore, but he doesn't. Dom has to come back this way to get to the car, and somehow, pursuing this -- Dom -- further seems almost worse than doing it at all.
"Look, I'm sorry," he says to nothing, not even raising his voice. He isn't sure Dom is listening -- there's nothing to indicate he is. No sound except the ones Brian is making and the steady drip of water. Not even an occasional rattle from the stressed metal unless Brian moves. "I wasn't following you. I was just… Following. You." Great explanation. That made so much sense. "I was just curious. Not uh…jealous or suspicious or anything. Uhm, the Plymouth sounds great."
Nothing. Nada. Zip. So much silence Brian covers his ears just to hear the blood rush in his head. There was plenty of it up there, his face felt extremely hot. "You're probably wondering why I was waiting there. I mean what I was doing. Why I didn't come up," Brian tries. He could offer up the too-sleepy-to-move rationale. Or that he'd been talking to someone at the precinct, wrapping up before he went on to the garage. Police business.
"You been sitting out there for the better part of a week."
He almost misses it with his hands over his ears, and pulls them away swiftly, trying to pinpoint where Dom's voice is coming from. He can't be sure and oh, shit, Dom knows he's been out there all this time. "Uh, yeah. But just to…to…watch," Brian mumbles.
Dom doesn't answer and Brian looks around, still sees nothing. He leans forward, ready to move. Dom has to be here somewhere.
There's a soft rattle, glass on concrete, a little uneven and he looks down in time to see light hit something moving and instead of getting up he leans forward, catching the bottle rolling under the steps. A Corona, kind of frothy from being rolled across the floor, sweat condensing on the glass. Sent to him from behind and he starts to turn.
"Don't move. Don't turn around…" Dom says, much closer but it's not his voice that stops Brian, it's the hard, sharp, press of something at his lower back, just left of his spine.
"Dom--" Brian says, absolutely sure that whatever it is Dom has pressed to his lower back isn't meant to hurt him, only to warn him. Because Dom wouldn't…he wouldn't. Brian fucked up, yes but this is…it's not possible. "I'm sorry," he says again.
The pressure eases and Dom's hand slides around his side, open-palmed, holding his pocket knife with the fifty bazillion tools. The one that's opened is the bottle opener. Brian takes it and then tries to close his hand over Dom's, but Dom pulls it back.
"So, you were just watching. Watching what, Brian?" Dom asks and Brian hears him drink and swallow. He starts to turn again and this time, Dom reaches through the steps and grabs his neck. "Don't turn around. Just talk."
Brian swallows and nods slightly, opens his beer and carefully folds the bottle opener back into the knife and lays it on the steps. Dom's disembodied hand reaches through and picks it up.
The beer is cold and taking a swallow buys him a few seconds. It's not enough. Dom squeezes his neck a little, thumb rubbing up under his ear. "Talk."
Dom's voice is quiet, measured. He doesn't sound angry but then, when Dom is yelling and shouting and in your face, it usually means he's frustrated more than angry. When he's pissed off, really pissed off, he gets quiet, pulls it all back into himself. It's taken Brian a long time to recognize that, to not pull in to himself when Dom gets all loud and annoyed. It's taken a year of watching Dom and Mia go at each other or Dom and Vince to realize that volume doesn't equate to intensity of feeling at all.
Brian's own anger, when he really lets it out, is loud. It's in your face. It can take him days to get past it. Dom yells or bangs things around and fifteen minutes later it's over and mostly forgotten. Sound and fury, but no substance.
But this anger here, this is weighty and solid and Brian can only remember a couple of times before when Dom was this angry. The first was when he found out Brian was a cop. The second was when Brian agreed to do something stupid that almost got them both killed.
"I was watching you," he says finally. "Not for any reason," he says and despite the beer, his throat is tight. Despite the darkness, he feels like his face is a beacon of red, glowing and revealing. "Just…you're different out there. In the yard, working on the car. You…you're relaxed and…happy. Working on the Plymouth is like -- last time I saw you look like that we were working on the Supra," he says quietly, because, yeah, that's when he'd seen Dom at his best, when the whole team had been in synch, when the laughter had flowed as easily as motor oil. Brian feels like a total idiot, because for all the joy rebuilding the car had given him, it hadn't really ended all that well for everyone. "I like seeing you that happy."
Dom's hand slips from his neck and Brian flinches like he didn't when Dom first touched him. Touching is a language all its own for Dom.
"I'm not spying on you…" Brian says and it's still lame. Of course he was. "I mean, I wasn't watching because I didn't trust you or to check up on you I was just…watching you. I like watching you."
Dom doesn't say anything. After a few moments, Brian holds his breath and listens but he can't hear anything. Not Dom breathing, not him shifting his weight. Nothing. Just the drip of water.
Carefully he turns around, peering through the slats in the metal. There's no one there. He gets up, ducks under the stairs and walks back toward the corner of the building. The sound of dripping water gets louder and he can feel it, now, smell it. It's a little stale and the concrete under his feet is stained by dampness. Way back in the corner is an open space, the metal door pushed back and off its hinges. The room it opens into is square and dark, but there's light seeping in through another door, this one covered in long thick strips of black rubber weather stripping.
He hears the Barracuda's engine rumble to life as he pushes through, makes it to the dock just in time to see Dom pulling away, really pushing the engine from a cold start over the rough ground so that dust and dirt scatter in his wake.
Just inside the door is the paper bag. There's beer and a six-pack of Red Bull, some gum and a bottle of wine. Brian doesn't know if Dom left it here deliberately or just forgot it. He finishes his beer, sets the empty against the wall and picks up the bag.
He takes his time driving home, doesn't go back the way he came in, circles the city and stalls for as long as he can. He thinks about stopping by the precinct, checking in, but it's just another excuse. He drives past the garage and it's locked up, only the security floods on, the chain link fence closed and chained.
The sun set a while ago and on other nights, this would be just about the time Brian would find himself finally free of his job, able to check out and head home. Those nights he hurries, doesn't stop unless Dom calls him and asks him to pick up something on his way. Those nights, the line between his job and the rest of his life is more solid, more defined. It's not a chasm, it's a wall, solid and comforting; Dom is the place he comes to where he can shed the sometimes truly ugly things his job brings to his awareness. There are days when L.A, even Brian's little corner of it, seems to be more chaotic than any living thing should be capable of bearing. Where the crimes people commit against each other, from the petty, greedy thefts to the vicious inhuman beatings and all the arguing and fighting and surviving that happens in between makes Brian wonder if anything he does or could do will ever make a damn bit of difference, if he isn't more idealistic than is healthy. There's good reason for people in this part of town to think that the cops are no better than the criminals.
And sometimes there is no difference because they are all human, each one just as weak or strong as the next one. Brian likes to think he's one of the strong ones, that what he does, what he believes, will actually translate into something other than just catching and punishing bad guys. Other days he knows, really knows that no matter what he does, how hard he works, it will never be enough. He's outnumbered and outgunned and all too frequently his allies are few.
But then there's Dom, who occupies both sides of the equation. Who is the same person now, who runs his business and teaches kids about cars on the weekends and shares Brian's house and his bed as he was a couple of years when he was running illegal races and hijacking trucks. Who gave up one life to pick up another without ever changing who he was. Dom's the proof of what Brian believes, that people by and large aren't absolutely good or bad. That there are good people who make bad choices and sometimes there are bad people who make good ones. It's not the people, it's the choices they make.
And Dom's made his, but Brian's not sure he's entirely satisfied by it, that he's happy about them. And he's not sure Dom would tell him.
The last thing Brian wants is for Dom to wake up one day and feel as trapped in his new life as he had been in his old. So he's been watching Dom, trying to figure it out. Scared to ask him in case he doesn't like the answer, in case it's true and Brian doesn't have enough time to get used to the idea of a life without Dom in it.
The porch light is on at the house, more light coming through the front windows. Dom's car is in the drive -- his own car, not the Plymouth and Brian's both as glad of that as he is suddenly made aware of just how much time he's spent driving around rather than coming home and facing Dom over his incredibly stupid and lame behavior.
Dom comes out of the house as he pulls up and Brian freezes, engine running, lights on, because Dom's carrying a box, a good sized one. He stops and stares at Brian's car before moving again, opening the trunk and dropping the box in side, shoving it up against the rear seat wall. He leaves the trunk open when he goes back into the house.
Brian parks beside Dom's car and his heart is beating so fast, he almost feels like he might pass out. Apparently his apologies aren't going to cut it. And he knew that. He did. Trust is like breathing to Dom. He's forgiven Brian once for a breach of it but that might be the only bit of sliding he'd let Brian get away with: extenuating circumstances, highly stressed situation, lots of adjusting for both them.
He cuts the engine and gets out, tugging the paper bag with him. He makes it almost to the back door when Dom comes out again, carrying another box. This one's not as big but Brian can catch a glimpse of the contents; picture frames and some kitchen stuff, a loose jumble of stuff packed haphazardly into one of the cardboard boxes they'd saved when they'd moved into this house.
Dom pauses and looks at him, glances at the paper bag then up at Brian's face. "Forgot that. Dinner's almost ready." Then he keeps moving, taking the box to his car.
Brian doesn't even know what to say so he says nothing, just heads inside, leaves the bag on the kitchen counter. He can smell dinner, something spicy, the sharp scent of sausage and peppers and rice and beans. It's the Dominic Toretto version of Jambalaya, using Italian sausage and peppers, a ton of garlic. They've had a container of it sitting in the freezer for a week.
The smell of it makes Brian slightly nauseated and he turns away. The house doesn't look like Dom's been tearing it apart. There's a couple of more boxes in the hallway but the living room looks like Brian thinks it should; no gaps in the rows of books and cd's. The blanket Dom's mother made years ago, that they brought over from the house in Echo Park, is still spread across the sofa. Dom would take that if he were leaving, wouldn't he?
"You want to grab a box?" Dom asks him and Brian jumps, startled, whirls around to stare at him. Dom's got one carton in his arms but he points a finger at the remaining one. Brian stares at it and then moves, feeling like the air is thick. But he picks up the box and follows Dom out to his car, waits to hand it off to him until Dom can make room for it. When his arms are empty, he sticks his hands in his pockets. "There's a couple of boxes up in the bedroom. You need to look through them, make sure nothing's going you want to keep," Dom says.
"You don't have to go. You shouldn't--" Brian finally says because he has to say something. "I mean I can go, and Mia could --" Mia could come live here with Dom, like they used to be, because like the Plymouth, Brian is sure that having Mia back under the same roof would make Dom very happy.
"I'm not going until morning," Dom says, tilting his head to look at Brian. "You have to work tomorrow."
"I can find someplace else in the area…for the time being. I'll probably get a transfer or something but you don't need to move out."
Dom stares at him and then leans back against the trunk of his car. "Move out? Brian what the hell are you talking about?"
Brian blinks at him, wondering what he's just said, because at the moment Dom is frowning and he's raised his voice a little.
"The boxes. Your stuff. I'm the one who fucked up. You don't have to leave. I should."
Dom stares at him for a long moment then crosses his arms over his chest and ducks his head. "You really are a fucking idiot," he says evenly. "This stuff…this is for the community center garage sale on Saturday. The one you brought the flyers home about."
That takes a second to sink in. When Dom's right, he's right. Brian's an idiot. A total moron. Clueless to the extreme. And as confused as he is by what's going on, he also relieved enough by the fact that Dom isn't planning to move out that his knees almost give way.
Now Dom's waiting for Brian to explain. Again. "I followed you."
"Yes, you did. Badly, I might add."
"I've been watching you."
"So you said," Dom says and he's very calm. Very. The muscles in his arms flex but he doesn't move, doesn't change his tone of voice. "And you thought I'd leave because of that?"
Once more, Brian's got nothing to say, nothing that won't sound stupid or worse, make no sense. "I'm sorry." It's all he can get out.
It's not enough. It's not anything. It's hollow and weak and Brian knows it. Dom blows out a breath and drops his arms, pushes off the car and heads back inside. His shoulder brushes Brian's when he passes. Not accidentally. Hard enough to make Brian stagger a little. He supposes it's better than a fist in the face and he follows Dom inside.
Dom is shutting down the oven, pulling the casserole dish out to set it on top of the stove. Brian still isn't hungry so he unpacks the paper bag, puts the beer and the Red Bull in the refrigerator and stares at the wine bottle. He doesn't know if it needs to be chilled or not. He puts the pack of gum on the counter next to Dom's keys.
"Are you hungry?" Dom asks, staring at him again.
"No. Not really."
Something in Dom's face changes but Brian isn't sure how to read it. A moment ago his face was impassive, showing nothing, pretty damn telling in it's blankness. Now there's a different expression in his eyes, and his mouth has thinned. He straightens up and walks past Brian. "Come with me," he says and doesn't wait to see if Brian follows him, just heads upstairs.
And Brian follows.
The boxes they'd set aside are near the stairs. Brian hasn't even opened them since they moved in which pretty much indicates whatever's in them he doesn't need. Otherwise the room is neat, uncluttered. Dom's neater and cleaner than Brian but even so, neither of them tend to leave clothes on the floor or crap on the dresser.
Dom's sitting on the window seat, unlacing his work boots. He's already pulled his tank top off and for just a moment Brian lets himself indulge in the thing that got him into this mess in the first place: watching Dom. He's watched Dom undress a thousand times, knows that he buys the kind of work boots with the raised eyelets rather than the hollow ones because he unlaces them all the way to the ankle so he can pull them off easier. He knows the socks underneath will be wool, no matter the weather, because rain or shine, hot or cold, they keep Dom's feet dryer. He knows that the big toe and second toe on Dom's left foot is kind of crooked because he broke them when he was twelve and didn't know it until they were all healed up again. Without looking at Brian, Dom sets his boots by the dresser and tosses his undershirt and socks into the hamper. He takes his belt off and coils it up, lays it on the dresser as well, just above his boots. Then and only then does he look at Brian. Comes up to him and stands right in front of him.
Brian's heart is beating faster again, his breathing too shallow, because he doesn't know what this is, what Dom is going to say, only that whatever it is, he needs to take it, he deserves it. If he's very, very lucky, he will not find himself sleeping downstairs tonight.
Dom's eyes are dark, his jaw set. He needs a shave and he smells vaguely of beer and garlic and solvent and motor oil. He hasn't had time to shower yet. Brian straightens up a little, feeling not unlike he does when his Captain makes a spot inspection. Dom has to look up slightly, but not by much. Brian doesn't move when Dom's hands come up.
As usual, Dom doesn't use words, but he startles Brian anyway by placing his hands on either side of Brian's neck and using his thumbs to tilt Brian's head down so he doesn't have to stretch at all to cover Brian's lips with is own. There's tension in him, all through him but the kiss isn't anything but gentle, not even demanding and Brian opens his mouth anyway, helpless to do anything else. Dom's hands on his neck and face are firm but not brutal, holding Brian where Dom wants him without applying too much pressure. When Dom pushes him, just a little, Brian goes, backing up until he can't anymore; his ass hitting the front of the dresser. Dom's hands slip from his throat to his shoulders, pressing down, and Brian sits.
Now it's his turn to look up and Dom's expression hasn't changed much. Dom takes a half step back, just enough to put a little distance between them and unfastens his pants. He doesn't make a show of it, only unbuttons and unzips like he does all the time, catching the waist band of his pants and his underwear with his hands to strip them off together until he's naked. He picks up both and walks to the hamper to put them in. He gives Brian great view of ass and the wide set of his shoulders, the muscles of his thighs and ass tensing when he bends down. He turns around and comes back and there isn't the slightest hint of a flush to Dom's dark skin, no embarrassment or blushing. The only flush of blood is in his dick, which is firming but still hanging low and soft against his balls. Dom's in no hurry to come back and Brian's mouth is dry, just watching him. Wanting him. He grips the edge of the dresser ready to push himself off, drop to his knees.
Dom stops a couple of feet away and just stands there, letting Brian look his fill, never moving until Brian's gaze comes back up to his face.
For a second, Brian half suspects Dom's laughing at him, except it's not really amusement he sees in his face. Some humor, maybe. Like Dom knows exactly how difficult it is for Brian to think when Dom's naked just for him. Brian licks his lips nervously and the corner of Dom's mouth lifts up and he inclines his head just a fraction. Not amused. Exasperated is more like but whatever it is, it's not anger.
Dom's not angry. Not anymore, if he ever was.
Very carefully, Brian starts to push off the dresser, standing up, but Dom moves then, in between his legs, pushes him back down. When Brian settles again, Dom reaches for Brian's shirt, pulls it free of his slacks and up over his head.
Brian doesn't protest but when his chest is bare and Dom reaches for his belt he catches his fingers, hooks his own against them and tightens his grip. "Dom--"
Dom's other hand covers his mouth. "Don't talk. Just listen," he says. "You want to numb your ass sitting in that alley watching the garage? Go right ahead. You want to follow me around while I run errands and get my teeth cleaned and pick up parts at Harry's? Feel free. But if you ever again think that I'd get mad at you and take off without letting you know or talking to you about it, I will kick your ass from here to Ensenada. You understand me, Brian? I don't work that way and you, of all people, should know it."
Brian reaches up and pulls Dom's hand away. "I'm sorry. I do know it. I knew it was stupid while I was doing it…sitting there, watching you. Following you…I didn't want you to think I was staking you out or thought you were doing anything wrong or illegal or--"
Dom's hand covers his mouth again. "You're not listening. I don't care if you watch. I don't care if you follow. Anywhere I am, you are welcome to be, whether I know you are there or not. And if I ever do anything that stupid ever again, I expect you to kick my ass, only you'll have to get in line behind Mia," he says and Brian stares at him. Dom's mouth is still set but his eyes are warm.
"Now, the other thing…the 'happy' thing," he says in a low rumble and pulls his palm away from Brian's mouth and his other hand from Brian's fingers. Dom backs up, but only far enough so he can curl his fingers into Brian's waistband and tug.
Brian stands up, feeling lightheaded. He has to grip Dom's arm to steady himself, to not fall as Dom tugs him towards the bed, turns him and pushes him down again.
Dom kneels down in front of him to take his shoes off. Brian doesn't help at all, still not sure what's happening here, what signal he's missed. It's just catching up in his brain that Dom isn't mad -- well, not mad about the things Brian thought he'd be mad about. Then his shoes are off and his socks and Dom gets up to set Brian's work shoes next to his boots, tosses his socks and shirt into the hamper.
Comes back and crouches again and Brian finally reaches down to help, to unbuckle his belt and pull it free, pulling off his slacks and underwear while Dom puts his belt on the dresser.
When Dom looks at him he does flush. He can feel it in his chest, along his throat, staining his cheeks red. Not because Dom's looking at him -- Dom does it a lot and it doesn't usually bother Brian at all. In fact, it's kind of a turn on. And there's heat building in his belly too; in his groin, an ache and a steady pulse that's as distracting as it is inevitable having a naked Dom in front of him, being naked with Dom.
That's the problem though. Not the no clothes part. It's familiar. Right now, though, Brian feels more naked than he ever has. He could be fully clothed and still feel like Dom's gaze was laying him bare, stripping away any illusions or falsehoods. Seeing right through any lies -- even white ones.
"Back up. Roll over. Stretch out," Dom says, but there's no demand in his request. It's neither clipped nor hard. He says it quietly, curling one hand around Brian's knee to help him swing his legs up and roll over so he's on his stomach.
Then Dom follows him, straddling his legs and leaning forward, laying his hands on Brian's shoulders. But it's not his hands Brian's attention focuses on, it's Dom's dick, still semi-soft, rubbing along his crack and up the curve of his ass.
"Ow!" he grunts and his attention is definitely on Dom's hands where he's just applied a painful amount of pressure to the tight muscles right at the top of Brian's shoulders. His protest doesn't keep Dom from doing it again and Brian yelps again against the sharp, fast pain because he is so tight that even if Dom were gentler, it would still hurt.
The next squeeze isn't nearly as harsh and Brian groans because he can feel the knots Dom's working just kind of unravel and break loose, the relief so intense it makes his fingertips tingle. Dom keeps working there for another couple of minutes before spreading his hands and working out further along Brian's arms then back again. His hands are firm and strong and it's not so much that there's no gentleness as Dom knows that's not what Brian needs right now. He moves both hands to one side, easing the tension along Brian's ribs, then back before sliding both hands down along either side of his spine with enough pressure that the friction leaves a wake of heat in its path. Dom does it again and again, never saying anything, only working lower with each pass until the heels of his hands press into the crest of Brian's ass.
He stops for a moment and leans over, stretching out along Brian's back and Brian's so relaxed Dom's weight actually feels good. He hears Dom pull the drawer to the bedside table open and turns his head. He's still relaxed but there's definitely a little tension showing up in his groin when Dom pulls out the bottle of lube and opens it.
Dom sits up again and when his hand touches Brian's ass, it's slick. He's just as careful , though, working the oil in between Brian's cheeks, massaging the rim around his hole firmly before pressing two slick fingers inside Brian. There's a little bit of a burn and a stretching feeling but Dom knows all the best tricks and Brian shudders when those slick finger press firmly on his prostate.
Dom shifts over, stretching out beside Brian so he can see his face, fingertips just stroking lightly over Brian's hole. Brian squirms because his dick is hard. So is Dom's and Brian's not quite sure when that happened but Dom is hard now, rigid, his dick dark and thick, the heavy weight of it just begging to be touched.
Brian moves his hand to do just that and Dom catches his wrist, puts his hand back on the bed. "What do I look like when I'm happy, Bri?" he asks like he expects an answer. Like his dick isn't ready to find a welcome home in Brian's ass. Like Dom still isn't slipping a finger inside him now and then, keeping the burn low, the interest high.
"You…smile all the time. You laugh," Brian says, and really, it's not hard to summon that memory of Dom, of seeing him when they're all working together, when a part or adjustment works just right. When Dom's usually kind of formidable expression gives way to something else, to some younger version of himself. When the jokes fly and the history he shares with people comes out like a flood of water from a hydrant on a hot day. "You tells jokes and give everyone a hard time and they just laugh. You look like everything's right with the world, like nothing can ever get you down. You just look happy."
"That's what you see at the garage?"
"When you are working on the Plymouth, yeah. When you guys are so backed up, you've got days of work ahead of you."
Dom's hand slips between his legs and his fingertips strokes just under Brian's balls, under his dick and Brian's fingers tighten on the sheets.
"And the rest of the time? When it's you and me? I don't look happy then?" Dom asks, leaning his head on his hand. He stops tickling and goes back to just rubbing across Brian's ass, his lower back.
"Not like that…"
"I don't laugh with you?"
"Well, yeah, but --"
Dom moves, rising up and straddling Brian's legs again. He picks up the lube and fits his hand between Brian's thighs. Brian groans when his balls are fondled by a warm, slick hand. "I don't tell you bad jokes and make you laugh?"
"Yeah, you do, -- nng!" Brian's hips lift off the bed when Dom slides his fingers back in his ass. Brian's dick gets tight and hard as the pressure builds, Dom working him as easily as he can a car engine, knowing just when to open the throttle and when to shift gears.
Dom leans down. "You really are an idiot," he says and lets Brian go only long enough to pull a pillow from the top of the bed and shove it under Brian's hips. The hand he slips along Brian's cock nearly makes Brian lose it. Dom's hands spread Brian wider, and Brian moans into the pillow and bites his lip when Dom guides his dick into Brian's hole, pressing in firmly, stretching him wider than his fingers had, the sensation of fullness and pressure familiar and indescribable.
Brian tenses up and pushes back. Dom grunts and lurches against his back, hands pressing the comforter down on either side of Brian's waist. Dom's legs press against Brian's, and he lowers himself, pressing Brian deeper into the mattress as he fills him, takes up every spare inch of room in Brian's ass and demanding more.
When he can't get in any deeper his weight drops to Brian's back, pressing him down, shifting only slightly and Brian's dick rubs against the sheets. A shudder rips through him leaving him gasping.
Dom's lips press to the skin between his shoulder blades. "I like working on the car. It's fun," Dom says. "When you're there with us, am I happy then…?"
"Y…yeah," Brian say, having a hard time believing they are still talking about this. That Dom's still talking about this.
Dom thrusts in hard and pulls back and lifts up. "You think I'm happy right now, Bri? Doing this?" he asks and pushes in again, pulls back and finds a rhythm.
Too slow, way to slow. "I think we'd both be happier if we'd stop talking and get on with the fucking," Brian says and lifts his hips to meet Dom's next thrust.
"Nice to know you are not a total idiot," Brian says and Brian can hear the laughter under that. The breathiness in Dom's voice just makes him harder.
Dom does shut up and get on with the fucking , increasing the pace, the rhythm. He catches Brian's shoulder to give himself some leverage and Brian knows to the second when Dom hits his limit. His fingers dig into Brian's skin, his forehead rests against Brian's back and his thrusts become shallower and faster. He swears when he comes, a drawn-out "Hell, yeah." that makes Brian smile and grind his hips into the bed. Dom is still for a long moment before he eases down, pull Brian back and to one side and reaches for his dick. Brian's hand covers his and it doesn't take more than a couple of strokes for him to come as well, his hand tightening over Dom's when it hits and Dom licks him, up under his ear, gives his dick a few more squeezes.
They're both quiet in the aftermath. Dom shifts first, his softening dick pulling free of Brian's ass and he rolls back a little. Brian's so boneless he just follows, ends up with his head on Dom's shoulder, their hands still slick and sticky and resting on Brian's stomach.
"If I tell you I'm perfectly happy with what we've got, are you going to believe me?" Dom asks after a few minutes.
Right now, Dom could tell Brian the Moon is made of green cheese and he'd believe him, but this is more serious than that and well-fucked or not Brian knows it. "Yeah. I believe you, Dom," Brian says and grunts a little when Dom heaves himself up on his side so he can see Brian's face.
Dom looks serious. "You've spent too much time standing outside looking in, Bri. You come up to the garage instead of sitting into the alley and you're part of it. I like working on cars, especially classics. I like being with my friends. It does make me happy. Maybe even a little high. But the only people who are that high all the time are junkies who aren't looking for their next fix. I don't need to look for my next fix. I've got it." Dom's hand spreads out rubs across Brian's belly then up his chest to his throat. He tilts Brian's head toward his and kisses him, soft and deep and thorough, mapping out parts of Brian's mouth with his tongue that even Brian's dentist has never been. He leaves Brian breathing hard again and his heart racing. "You want to keep stalking me, go right ahead. Be more fun for both of us if you'd stop it though."
Brian blinks at him. "Stalking's a felony."
Dom grins at him and chuckles. "So, I've heard. Maybe I should report it to the police. You want to take my statement, Officer O'Conner?"
Dom's laughing and making jokes. There's no car or garage or even his friends, their friends. It's just them and Dom looks pretty happy. He looks pretty much the way Brian always feels when they're together.
And really? Brian's an idiot. No need to sit in a car and observe from across the street. Everything he's looking for is right here. Always has been. He's just been too blind to see it.
"You want to swear out a restraining order, Mr. Toretto?"
Dom's smile turns decidedly more calculating and his eyes narrow. He catches both of Brian's wrists and stretches them over his head. He settles across him, high on Brian's thighs, pinning him down, their dicks just touching. "I think I've got the restraint part covered, Officer O'Conner."
~end~
9/18/2005