Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sometimes, Brian's honest-to-God amazed he's still breathing. All the stupid shit he does, it's damn near miraculous he hasn't died horribly.

Take the last forty-eight hours, for instance. Since the day before yesterday, he's screwed over the boss of one of the biggest cartels in the Americas; he's stared down more gun barrels than he really wants to think about, in the interest of sleeping soundly again in the near…ever; and then there's his piece de resistance. He can't forget that.

No, seriously. He can't forget it. Even if he wanted to, which he kind of really does – the four beers he's downed since he and Rome made it back to Tej's place a little over an hour ago aren't really doing the trick, but he's holding out hope for the other six that're still chilling in the mini-fridge – he's pretty sure every nerve ending in his body has teamed up to remind him that, yeah, he really did crash a car onto a moving yacht five hours ago, and no, it wasn't a soft landing.

He wishes he could say he's broken his record for crazy, but that'd be a lie. That award goes to the second he decided – did he decide? It kind of just…happened – to hand Dom his keys and go on the lamb in his place. Or maybe it should go to the moment he agreed to go on that drive to the beach with the guy.

Hell, maybe it should go to the moment he flipped open that damn folder with Dom's name on it and hadn't gone screaming in the opposite direction.

It's too hard to decide between them and, now that he thinks about it, every other stupid life decision he made those couple of months, so he just files the whole thing under 'crazy clusterfuck' and tries not to think about how quick he'd do the whole damn thing over again if he got the chance.

Like he said – it's damn near miraculous he hasn't died horribly.

Yet, anyway. Every time he moves, though, he can feel his ribs, chest, head, and oddly, his left elbow all vying for a chance to finish the job.

It's kind of hard to bitch, though, when Rome's sitting right across from him in a cast and a sling. And he might've taken a sharpie to the former when Rome was passed out in the car on the way here – he's got a few ideas, too, for when he inevitably passes out on the table in the garage – but he'll keep that to himself.

Instead, he decides to give another one of those beers a go, which is kind of a trade-off, because it means getting up and pissing off his everything again. He'll probably grab a couple this time, he thinks. The only thing that stopped him before was not wanting his beer to get warm, but at the rate he's choking them down, he's figures that's probably a non-issue.

"Hey, bruh, grab me one, too," Rome says as Brian makes his way across the garage over to the mini-fridge. It's kind of creepy seeing it this empty, but everyone's still kind of scattered from the scramble, laying low for a little while, so it's just him and Rome sitting around drinking beer at one of the white plastic tables.

"Thought you weren't supposed to mix medications," Brian replies. Rome just popped one of those codeines the doc gave him when they went and got his arm fixed up – nothing bad, just a hairline fracture – and even though Brian's not too worried about the two beers Rome's polished off, he's thinking three or more might be pushing it.

All the same, he grabs a couple extra. If Rome doesn't drink 'em, then God only knows he will.

Rome's grinning when he straightens back up, and Brian knows it's the look he gets when he's about to say something he thinks is smart.

"Shit, man, this stuff is the Pierce family multi-vitamin," he says, shaking the orange pill bottle for emphasis. "'Sides, with that weak ass shit, I might as well be drinking water."

Brian starts to open his mouth, tell Rome that he can buy his own beer next time if he's got a problem with Coronas, but he gets a better idea and, after grabbing something else from the fridge, walks back over to the table and sits a bottle of water down in front of his friend.

"There you go, then. Drink up."

Rome looks down at the water, then back up at him. "That's real cute, Brian."

Brian just smiles and twists the cap off another beer. He's seeing himself getting very drunk in the near future, for reasons he's trying real hard not to think about right now, and he's thinking the more, the merrier.

It takes about three seconds and two sips for it to sink in with Rome that he ain't playing. His face falls.

"That ain't funny, Brian."

Brian shrugs innocently and keeps smiling. "It is to me." Least that's what he's gonna keep telling himself, because he's pretty intent on keeping his mind on anything but that thing he's not gonna think about.

Just because he's a good friend, and Rome did save his ass a few hours ago, Brian slides one of the beers across the table towards him. The rest are staying with him, though, and he's trying to remember if they polished off the rest of that fifth last week, or if there might still be some under the counter. If these beers don't work, he'll hit that later. It's not like he's got anywhere he's got to be, and even though it's not really his style to get shit-faced – his family's got a history of "addictive personalities," and he's seen what happens when O'Conner's mix with alcohol on too regular a basis – he's thinking he can make an exception just for tonight. He's earned it.

"What's with you?"

Rome's voice snaps Brian out of his head, and he looks up. Apparently, he's been staring holes in the table for the past who-knows-how-long. Because that's a good sign.

He covers it up with another pull from his Corona, and he leans back in his chair as far as he can without the shitty plastic number falling over. "Nothing, man," he says.

"Bullshit."

That's the problem with hanging with someone that's known you for so long, Brian thinks. They actually know you. Brian hasn't had to deal with that since…shit, since Dom.

And they're right back to that thing he's not gonna think about.

"Hold up," Rome says all of the sudden, and Brian's not sure if he should be worried that he can pretty much see the light bulb over his head as he leans forward over the table. "Don't tell me this is about Monica."

Brian wants to flinch, because even though that's not a bullseye, Rome's a lot closer to the mark than he's comfortable with. He doesn't, though. He knows he doesn't. He's better than that. Too long playing a role, hiding reactions starts to come natural.

Not that it matters. He doesn't have to do or say anything, because Rome's already got an idea in his head, and he's sticking with it, whether it's right or not.

"That's what it is, ain't it? You're all bent about that female." Now he's the one smiling, and Brian kind of really wants to throw his now-empty bottle at his face. This distance, he wouldn't miss. "Shit, man, it's always about the females with you."

"Yeah," Brian says, and his voice sounds a little duller than he wants it to. Thinner. It's true that Monica's got something to do with it, but she's so far from the real problem, it'd be funny if he wasn't so screwed.

Rome notices. Of course he does, Brian thinks; even after all the shit, Rome probably knows him better than anyone. But he doesn't know everything, and it's that part he's missing that's got Brian's head in a spin-out.

"Can't believe we brought down a drug lord, and your ass is sittin' here sulking 'cause she wasn't into you."

"It's not like that," Brian mumbles.

Rome raises an eyebrow. "Then what's it like?"

And Brian's not really sure how to answer that. He means, he knows what he wants to say, knows what he should say, but those two things aren't really the same, and so he's kind of fumbling. "It's just…I thought I got her, you know?" he says. "The whole deep-cover shit…mine wasn't that long, but I know what it's like being in that deep. I thought she got me, too, but…" He trails off, because he's hit the border: the things he can say, and the things he doesn't think he should. The things he's not sure he can.

"But what, Brian?" Rome pushes. He's abandoned his beer, and Brian can't help thinking he looks a little too focused for someone on narcotics and two and a half bottles.

He shakes his head. "Never mind." He's not ready to have this conversation.

Which sucks for him, he guesses, because turns out Rome's not ready to let it go.

"But what, Brian," he repeats, and there's a reason the kids back in the yard used to call him Bulldog, because the man just doesn't know how to let things go. He sure as hell won't now, not looking at him like that.

He guesses, if he has to fess up to somebody, it might as well be Rome. Might as well be the only family Brian hasn't managed to fuck up.

"You remember that guy I told you about, back in LA?" he says. He's got his eyes fixed squarely on the empty Corona bottle sitting on the table in front of him, and he twists it back and forth, watching the way it catches the light in the garage.

"The guy you let go? Yeah, I remember." There's a pause, and then, "Don't tell me you went fairy for him."

Brian can tell he's joking, probably trying to lighten up the heaviness that's settled in the air, and Brian lets himself smile a little, if only because that's easier than giving the comment any serious thought. That's not a conversation he's ready to have, either. Not even with himself.

It's not the fairy part that gets him, mind – a good body's a good body, no matter what it's on, and he really doesn't give a shit what that makes him. He likes what he likes on who he likes, and worrying about that other stuff is just a waste.

Except that who part in there's tripping him up this time, and a little of the why. That's what he doesn't want to think about. That's what Monica made him think about.

"She didn't let hers go," he says after what's probably too long a silence.

"What?"

"Monica." He sighs, and ow, shit, his ribs hurt a little more than he thought. The sad thing is, he's kind of glad for the distraction. Makes it easier to get the words out when he's not thinking too hard about them. "She didn't let Verone go. She had a shot, but she took him down."

Rome makes a face. "So?"

"I didn't."

It takes a little bit longer than three seconds this time around – or maybe it just feels that way – but he sees it on Rome's face when it hits him.

"Oh," he says, and it's hard to tell from just that how much he's pieced together, but Brian figures he's pretty much got the gist of his dilemma. Monica let her guy go; Brian gave him his keys.

He refuses to think about what else he might've given him. His career and his whole fucking life in LA's bad enough without throwing anything even more pathetic in the mix.

Instead, he just leans back in his chair again, and tries not to wince, because fuck, his everything hurts. He wonders briefly if Rome would mind parting with one of those multi-vitamins of his, but he's not really considering it. He hates that shit. Hates feeling like his brain's been scooped out and stuffed with feathers, hates feeling like all the world's edges have been smudged. It's not worth it. He'll take some aspirin, he thinks, and pray that Rome turns in and passes out in that order, because he's pretty positive he can't carry his ass.

They don't get quiet after that like Brian thinks they should. They talk shit about Verone, crack jokes about his henchmen, and he thinks Rome's meds might be kicking in, because although he wishes he could've seen the dude's face when Rome ejector-seated his ass, he doesn't think it could've been that funny. Rome's laughing like he's about to piss himself.

So, when the guy goes to reach for another beer – they're down to two between them; Brian's had six already, and he's feeling pleasantly buzzed, and Rome's had four, and Brian's pretty sure he's high as a kite – Brian pulls it out of his reach.

"Nah, man," he says, and he's smiling a little too now, because it's fun to screw with Rome, "I think you've had enough."

"That's bullshit and you know it."

Brian just smiles wider. "Now who's sulking?" And for a second, he thinks Rome's about to be mad, but then he busts out laughing again. "I rest my—" He pauses when Rome suddenly stops laughing. "What? What is it?"

Rome's sobered up awfully fast, and Brian would be impressed if he wasn't too busy wondering what the hell Rome's looking at over his shoulder.

"You expecting company?" Rome says.

That doesn't help Brian any. "What?"

Instead of an answer, Rome just kind of nods towards the space over Brian's shoulder. Brian turns around to see what he's looking at, and—

And turns right back around.

"Brian?" Rome says, but Brian's not listening. About ten thousand things whip through his head over a span of what feels like an hour, but what's probably really closer to half a second, and then they just…stop. Because he knows what's about to happen. He has no illusions about what's about to go down, and what He is here to do, and there's something strangely calming about all that knowing.

Still…

This is really gonna hurt.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

It dawns on Brian somewhere between the garage and the boat that he should be scared. Hell, he should be fucking terrified. That's a couple hundred pounds of muscle and righteous fury stalking behind him, and there's not a whole lot he could do about it if Dom decided he really did want to beat the shit out of him after all.

Thing is, he's just too tired to care. He'd stared his own death in the face more times in the past few days than most people do in their whole lives, and he's just not sure he's got the adrenaline to get a rush going anymore. He feels a little queasy, like his body's trying to work up some nerves or something, but all it manages to do is turn his stomach a little. Awesome.

Least his fingers are still working. He gets the key in the lock first try, gets the door open, and lets Dom follow him in. And yeah, the place is kind of a wreck. He's got his engine parts right up next to his coffee and energy drinks, and the place still looks like it's been tossed.

Considering nobody actually did, that's probably pretty bad.

Still, he can't muster up a single fuck to give, at least not about that. Not when Dominic Toretto's no more than a few steps behind him, and he figures he's only got about a one in ten chance this doesn't end bloody. For him, specifically.

"So?" he says with a sharpness he doesn't feel. If it's not the beers weighing him down, it's the lack of sleep. And possibly the concussion. He doesn't even fucking know anymore; he just hurts all over. It's not the worst he's ever had, but on a scale of one to ten, he's gotta be batting at least a seven.

And Dom's just standing there, a few steps inside the door, arms folded across his chest like this is an everyday thing. "So?" he shoots right back.

Brian feels a little twinge of something that might be self-consciousness as he watches Dom's eyes rove over his place. He watches him register the turbocharger on the table, the half-empty oil containers on the countertop next to the open box of Cheez Its and the stacks of ramen noodles.

Course, it could just as easily be anger. Or frustration, more like, because anger's got a heat in it that Brian doesn't have. He's just frustrated, because Dom's standing there cool as ever, but he knows, he fucking knows there's something under there just waiting to come roiling to the surface, and but instead he's sitting there playing games.

He grits his teeth. "So, you wanted to talk. Talk."

Dom just arches an eyebrow. "You got somewhere to be?"

Brian doesn't answer, just looks pointedly to the bed between them. He figures Dom's smart; he'll catch on.

"You tellin' me you need a nap, O'Connor?"

Shit, but why does it hurt when he says that? It's his last name, but it hits him like a curse. Maybe 'cause it's not right, not coming from Dom. With Dom, he was Buster, and then he was Brian. He was only O'Connor after he fucked things up, and every time Dom says his name like that, it's just a reminder. He. Fucked. Up. He had a good thing going, and he gave it up.

He still can't figure out how Monica did it. But then, Carter Verone ain't Dominic Toretto. He's not even close.

He feels another twinge. It's in his chest, now, but it ain't the kind of pain he can blame on his busted ribs. He ignores it. Don't mean nothing, not to Dom. He's nothing but a rat, a liar. He doesn't deserve sympathy, and he ain't expecting to get it.

That, at least, is a familiar place to be.

He sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair. His elbow sings, and he tucks his hand in his pocket, because that's a lot more subtle way to keep it still than cradling it like he wants to. "I'm just askin' you to hurry this up. Whatever it is you think we need to talk about, just come out with it."

Both Dom's brows are up, now, that sort of mock incredulous expression that always made Brian feel like a dumb ass punk getting chewed out. He hates that feeling. Everything he's done so far, everything he's been through – he's no punk.

"What I need to talk about?" Dom says. "I think you're the one that's got some explaining to do."

"You want another apology? Fine. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I fucked up your family." Even that hurts a little. 'Your' family, like he's separate from it. Like he's not a part of it.

He isn't, though. Not anymore. Maybe he never was.

"An apology?" Now he really does sound incredulous. "You think I drove all the way down here for an apology, O'Connor?"

"I don't know why you drove all the way down here, Dom." He sounds tired, even to his own ears. He doesn't know what he's doing. He doesn't know what Dom wants, but Dom's still standing there with that expectant look on his face like he thinks Brian can do better. But that's tough fucking luck, because Brian can't. "What the hell do you want me to say, Dom?" he snaps, because he can't do this anymore. His head's spinning. His whole body feels like one big bruise, like he's been run over a few times and kicked for good measure. It hurts to breathe; shit, it hurts to think. And now it's like he's on trial by the only guy who's opinion of him ever seemed to matter, and he knows there's no way he's gonna measure up. It's a new level of hell, just when he thought he'd run the gamut. "You say you don't want an apology, but you're lookin' at me like I'm gonna be sorry. You tracked me down, drove all the way down here—"

"I didn't track you down," Dom cuts in, and Brian almost scoffs. Of everything he said, that's what Dom's got a problem with? Because that would be too much fucking effort to waste on a guy like him. He didn't track him down. "Hector's got contacts down here, said he heard about some white boy with a thing for fast cars and stupid decisions gettin' in with the local boogey man. Sounded like somebody I knew."

"Well good job on the detective work," Brian mutters wryly. He glances over at his fridge as he does, wondering if it's worth the effort to grab another beer. He's not drunk enough for this, and he's gonna be sick come morning anyway. Might as well sleep easy.

He no sooner pulls one out, though, than Dom's grabbing it out of his hand and putting it down on the counter. And there's something so fucking patronizing about the way he does it that Brian can't deal with it anymore. He doesn't know why he does it, but he shoves him. Hands on his chest, and now he's angry. Finally, he's angry. Angry is easy. It's better than scared for his life or scared for somebody else's or guilty or confused.

"Back off, Dom!" he shouts. "You got something to say to me, say it. But I paid my due. I put everything on the line for you and your family, trying to make it right. I lost everything I had, 'cause I couldn't deliver you on a silver platter like Bilkins and Tanner wanted. You still think I owe you some sort of explanation, some sort of guilt-tripping, boot-licking reparation, then fucking come out with it. But otherwise," he leans back against the counter, all the shouting making his head throb harder, "just get out of my house." The last comes out sounding more like a plea than a command, but he's past caring. He's just so damn tired. Not just physically. He feels drained, used up. He doesn't have anything left.

And isn't that the story of his life?

Thing is, that shove he put so much into? Barely put Dom back more than a step. And all that shouting? Didn't even get a rise out of him. He just stands there. Takes it. It's like throwing bottles at a stone wall.

For a long minute, Dom doesn't say a thing. Just stares at Brian, studies, that same penetrating stare he's always had. Brian almost forgot what it was like, getting looked at like that. Nerve wracking. He feels exposed.

But then, he breaks the silence. "Why'd you do it?" It's quiet, but no less intense for it. Everything Dom does is intense.

He could argue. Maybe he should, if he really wants to hold the line on the whole, 'don't owe you shit' front. But that's a lot of effort to spend on a battle he knows he's gonna lose. So, instead, he sighs again. "'Cause for all they called you a crook, a thug, for all the shit they tried to paint you as, you and the others were the first people that ever made me feel like I could fit in someplace. You could've cut me loose. You could've let Vince shoot me that night at the garage. You could've done half a dozen things to shut me out and leave me hanging, but you didn't do a damn one of them. None of you did." Even Vince wasn't as big a dick as he could've been; Brian knows that. He suspects he's got Dom to thank for a lot of that, but it's not just Dom. It's all of them. "After Vince, after Jesse…" he shrugs. "Figured you didn't deserve to get your whole life ripped apart."

"And you did?"

Brian gives a one-sided shrug. He's not moving his left arm any more than he's got to, thanks. "You had a family. People that needed you. I didn't." As if that's what it was. As if, standing there on those train tracks with sirens blaring in the distance, he could be that stone cold rational.

As if it hadn't been a gut reaction. Him or Dom.

As if he hadn't chosen Dom over everything.

Dom doesn't buy his answer; he knows he doesn't. He can see it in his eyes. But he seems to have bigger items on the docket he wants to get to, and Brian's good with that. Because that's not an avenue he's ready to explore.

"So why'd you never get back in touch?"

He actually snorts at that, but bites back the laughter threatening to follow it up when he sees the stern look on Dom's face. Not funny, then. Okay. "You were there half an hour ago, right? In the garage?" He can still taste blood on the back of his tongue. "Wasn't lookin' for a fight, I guess."

Dom's look just gets harder. "That's twice you've lied to me, Brian."

Brian. Not O'Connor. And he thinks he should be worried about getting caught like that, but he's just so damn relieved he nearly misses it altogether.

"You wanna try telling the truth?"

Does he want to? No. Absolutely not. Does he think he has a choice?

No.

Absolutely not.

"You said it yourself. You guys welcomed me into your home, into your family, and I nearly destroyed it for a job. Figured that's not the kind of thing you forgive."

"You walked away." It sounds like an accusation.

Brian feels defensive all the sudden. "I didn't walk away from anything. I got chased away."

"Brian." Just his name, but it sits in the air heavier than an engine block. "You're gonna want to think real careful before you keep goin'. You know I don't take to lyin', and you're out of strikes."

And damned if that ain't a little bit chilling. It doesn't even sound like a threat. Brian's not in fear for his life if he doesn't comply. But there's a certain note to it, just this importance, that makes him feel a sick twist in his gut. It's like he's telling him he's not mad, just disappointed.

Why that's so much worse, Brian has no idea.

But he does. He thinks hard before he answers him, leaning heavy on the counter again and letting his aching head hang on his shoulders for a few minutes. He doesn't look up when he speaks again. "Couldn't stay there," he says after a second. It feels like a confession, like he's tearing it out of the deepest parts of him, putting light on something that's supposed to stay in the dark. "Even if I wasn't on every Most Wanted list on the West Coast, I couldn't have stayed there. I fucked up, Dom. I know I did. I fucked things up with the FBI, and I fucked things up with you guys." He scrubs a hand over his face, feeling more weary now than he has this whole damn time. He feels heavy. Sick. "Couldn't stay there with that lookin' me in the face every day. So I came out here, tried to start fresh." He looks up with a bitter laugh. "Guess that didn't work out so great, either. You're here, anyway."

"I am."

Brian nods stiffly. "You are. Great timing you got, too, by the way."

"Would've caught you sooner, but you've been pretty hard to pin down." He's utterly unapologetic. Hell, it almost sounds like praise, coming from him.

It's pretty damn pathetic the way that still gives him a rush. Praise from Dom became his drug there for a while. Seems he's still addicted.

"Well, you got me now. So what's the big plan? You gonna throw me in the trunk of your car and haul me back to LA? Or you good now that you got your answers?"

There goes that eyebrow again. "Who said I got my answers?"

Brian could've cried.

"What else is there?" It sounds way more plaintive than he wants it to, but he's too tired to try to cover it up. "Told you I was sorry. Told you why I did it. Told you why I'm here. What else do you need to know?" 'Cause he's not sure he's got much longer on his feet – and that's already a stretch; he's already more or less sitting on the counter – not the way his head's throbbing.

Dom studies him another few seconds, and damned if those eyes don't still have a way of pinning Brian down like it's nothing. "Just one more question I came down here to ask," he tells him, and that's the best news Brian's heard all night. One more question, and he's home free. One more question, and Dom goes, and the dagger stops twisting. Which is weird, 'cause the dagger twists right then, at the thought of Dom walking out that door. Stuck between a rock and a hard place. Story of his life: Chapter Two.

It ends up more literal than he wants it to, when Dom takes a step forward into his space, and Brian's suddenly very aware that there's really no place he can go. And damn those eyes of his. Damn everything about him. Damn the way he makes Brian feel, even after all this time, after all the shit that's gone down between them.

"Ask it, then," he says. Not begs. Says. Because he can't be that desperate…right?

Dom's stare just gets that much more intense, and it's all Brian can do not to flinch when he reaches out to put a hand on his shoulder. He does stand, but he holds his ground as Dom looks him dead in the eyes and asks plainly, "Are you okay?"

And Brian's about to answer, really he is, but he's just got his mouth open when his stomach drops to the soles of his shoes and his vision grays. Sitting too long, standing too fast. Too much to drink, too much punishment. And that hand on his shoulder becomes two on either side of his chest, and he can't quite manage to bite back the choked sound that wrenches from his throat, because his ribs are busted and Dom's grip's hard.

On reflex, he's pushing Dom's hands away, but they stay until he manages to get a different hold, grabbing Brian by the waistband of his pants and using the grip to push Brian the few feet it takes to get to the bed. He hits it hard. Not as hard as he would've if Dom wasn't holding onto him, but hard enough to rattle a grunt out of him, and he's pretty much had it, then. He lays back, because he knows if he doesn't, he's blacking out, and it doesn't matter that his legs are still hanging off the side of the bed or that Dom's somewhere near them; he's finished.

"Jesus, Bri," he hears Dom saying, and then there are hands on his shirt where it's already ridden up, pushing it higher up until he feels it bunched up under his armpits. Dom lets out another round of swears, and since lifting his head's not gonna happen, he tries to feel the damage out with a hand.

Dom bats it away.

"Hands off, Buster," he says, and for a nickname that used to drive him up the wall, it sounds an awful lot like music to Brian's ringing ears. Dom swears again, but it's a lot milder this time. "Guess that's a no, then."

Right. The last question.

Brian almost chokes on a laugh, because when you're as far up shit creek as he is, there's really nothing left to do. "Least I didn't lie."

"Yeah." Dom doesn't sound too impressed. "Least you didn't lie."

Chapter Text

It takes all of a minute for Brian to get his bearings back, or at least close enough to it that he feels like sitting up. Which he does. Or, at least, tries to do.

Dom's not having it. He puts a hand on his shoulder, pushes him back. "Stay down, Buster."

Only this time, it's Brian's turn to bat Dom's hand away. "It's fine, Dom," he says, and this time, he manages to get sitting up. He knows it's probably only because Dom's not expecting it.

Dom doesn't look happy when Brian gets sitting up so he can see him. He's leaning over the bed – well, now he's standing up straight – and he's looking at Brian like he wants to shake him. "Thought you were done lying."

"I am." He's got his sore arm cradled around his middle and his other arm behind him to hold himself up, since tensing anything near his stomach or ribs is apparently a monumentally bad idea for the time being. "Got checked out on sight, medics cleared me." And that's gonna have to do, because even though Dom's not out to kill him anymore, he's still not sure he knows how to deal with the idea of him looking after him like he was. It'd just confuse things that don't need confusing.

Namely Brian.

Problem is, there's no explaining that to Dom. He can barely get his head around it himself, why the thought of Dom looking at him with those worried eyes and furrowed brows is getting him so damn antsy. It's just…it's a little too much like it was. A little too close to what it could've been. A little too much of a reminder of what he threw away. Dom looks after his family, but that ain't what Brian is. He doesn't have a family.

"Then the medics are idiots." Dom likes to put a lot of things bluntly, Brian's discovered. Pussyfooting's not his style. "You look like you got dragged behind a truck and kicked down a hill."

"Or like I crashed a car into a moving yacht," Brian offers.

"Don't be a smartass."

He can't help it. It's a defense mechanism. And it occurs to him that he feels oddly cornered. Here, in his own house, on his own bed, he feels a little bit trapped. It makes him uneasy. Cagey.

He needs to stand, so he does. Gets his feet under him, and doesn't even gray out too much. He's fine, really. He'd know if he wasn't, and he's not enough of an idiot to play hardass if something's really up. He's just beat up a little. Nothing he hasn't had before.

"You got your answers. So we're done here, right?"

"Not a chance in hell." And the 'just sprouted a second head' look is really salt on an already stinging wound. "You think I'd leave you looking like that?"

"Looking like what?" Brian snaps, voice raised maybe a little higher than he means to. And oh, fuck, that hurts.

Dom just looks at him, like, "Do I really need to answer that?"

He doesn't, for the record.

Brian feels something dangerously close to a whine creep up his throat, but manages to bite it back. "Please, Dom, just—just leave. Come back tomorrow, if you gotta, after I've had a chance to sleep. I can't deal with this right now."

"Deal with what?" Dom says, like he really doesn't know. Maybe he doesn't.

But Brian has a hard time believing that.

He goes for blunt, too. "You, Dom. Deal with you."

Even confused, Dom can't seem to help but look like he's the one in control. Damn him. And damn every last part of Brian that wants to take comfort in that, that wants to stop calling the shots for one damn minute and let Dom take over. Yield to surer hands.

Except that's never been his style.

"I know what you're thinking, but I don't need to be looked after. And you don't need to be looking after me."

"You think your buddy out there's up the job?" Dom asks, looking more pointed than amused.

Brian almost snorts. Knowing Rome, he's passed out in the garage somewhere. He's a light enough sleeper he'd wake up if Brian needed him, but otherwise, there's not a chance in hell. But hey, that's fine. "Nobody's got to do the job. I'm fine. And I'm not your problem."

"Not my problem?" Dom looks genuinely confounded. And pissed. Very pissed. "You just let me beat the shit out of you out there, Brian. Your ribs like that, I could've broken something. I could've killed you. Never mind what else you got going on under there. You should've said something."

This time, Brian does snort. "Right, 'cause you were in a real reasonable mood. What? You expect me to tap out? 'Sorry, but can we put this off till later? Hell of a day. How's Tuesday for you?' Something like that?"

"Brian—"

"No, Dom," Brian bites out. "What the hell's your problem? You roll up here looking for a fight, next thing I know you're looking for a heart to heart, and then all the sudden you wanna play mother hen? I'm not Jesse, Dom. I'm not Mia. Shit, I'm not even Vince."

"And what the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"It means back the fuck off!" He's shouting again, but he's too riled up to stop. "It means you can't just pull a one-eighty and start acting like nothing's wrong, like everything's cool and all's forgiven."

"You're putting words in my mouth." And Dom, damn him, is calm as ever. His voice is a little louder, maybe, but he's not on Brian's level. Yet.

Doesn't stop Brian any. "Then explain it to me, Dom. Explain to me what the hell you're doing here, acting like you give a shit about what happens to me! Come on, Dom. I'm not some idiot. What, you think I don't know you got contacts here? I know you got contacts everywhere; I read your file, remember? Surveillance?" There's no sense hiding from it. What's done is done. "You could've found me anytime you wanted—"

"You don't know shit, Brian." There it is. The heat's coming.

"No, Dom! No, you don't know shit. You don't know the first damn thing about me. But I know you, Dom. I know you and your goddamn messiah complex, thinkin' you can save everybody. You got your own little island of misfit toys, and you were just fine without me on it till you found out what I was doing. You're not here for me; you're here for you and your conscience. Gotta save another lost soul. Gotta rescue another stray. Why else would you've waited? Why else would you show up now, of all times, acting like there's some sort of redemption waiting for me at the end of the line?"

"Because I thought you were gonna get yourself killed!" Dom shouts, and damned if it doesn't shake the whole boat. That's the fire he remembers. Dom's a loaded gun, and he's just gone off. But it's the same as a gun: quick, violent, and then it's over, and he's looking at Brian like he's begging him for something. Like he's trying to make him understand some great truth. "Jesus, Brian, don't you get it? You're damn right I knew where you were. I've known for months now."

"So if you really wanted to do this whole forgive and forget shtick, why'd you wait?"

"I waited 'cause it had to be your idea." It hits the air like a hammer strike. He doesn't know how Dom manages to stop things dead with just a single sentence, but he's done it. There's some significance to the words, some weight that Brian doesn't understand, but he can feel it. Christ, he hates him. But Dom's not stopping. "I was pissed; you nearly tore my family apart. You used my sister—"

"I never used Mia, Dom. I never—"

"Shut up, Brian."

And Brian does, despite himself.

Dom looks, if not pleased, then at least satisfied. Enough so that he continues, at least. "But you saved my ass, too. And Vince's, and Jesse's, and I could've forgiven what you did, if you just tried to reach out and make it right. But instead you hide out in Miami, like you put the whole thing behind you. You want reconciliation? It's a two-way street, Bri. That's how this works."

"I don't even know what the hell 'this' is," Brian says. He feels weirdly helpless as he does. Like he's missed out on something, like he's behind the curve. He hates the feeling. Almost as much as he hates the burning in the chest and the tightness in his throat. Because this isn't how this was supposed to go. This isn't how any of this was supposed to go. He was supposed to get his shit together. He was supposed to get a clean slate, to start over and never darken the Toretto doorstep again.

But instead, Dom's here, and Brian's so far from having his shit together, it's almost funny. And it feels like he's fighting himself, because part of him wants to shove him out the door and never see him again, but part of him wants nothing more than to take anything he's willing to offer, even if it's just a couple days. Even if it's just a couple hours. He just wants.

He's so tired of being alone. He just wants to let it happen.

He can't, though. Everything he touches turns to shit, and he's so mixed up on where he and Dom stand that he can't figure out heads from tails or up from down. He's got him so turned around, he's dizzy, and he's sick, and he's too damn tired and too damn hurt to figure it out right now. He's tired of being alone, but being alone is exactly what he needs right now.

"Just get out, Dom. Please, just get out." He's begging. He knows he is, and he knows it's fucking pathetic, but he's desperate.

But Dom stands his ground. "I'm not goin' anywhere Brian. I waited long enough. Too long, it looks like." And there's a touch of regret to the words that Brian wishes he could've missed but didn't. But before he gets a chance to process it, Dom's reaching for him.

He doesn't think; he just reacts, shoving Dom again with as much force as he can muster. "I said get out!" He's shoving at him, like he can physically muscle Dom out of the place. Never mind that he couldn't have done that at full health. He can barely keep himself upright, much less move somebody like Dom anywhere he doesn't want to go.

And he doesn't. Want to go, that is, at least that's what it seems like. Because he's grabbing Brian by the upper arms, even as Brian's shoving at him, and he's walking him backward like he weighs next to nothing.

Brian loses it. The helplessness, the weakness, the exhaustion – it all comes to a boil, and he just can't deal with it anymore. "Let me go!" he's shouting, and maybe Rome's too far gone to help after all, because nobody comes. "Damn it, Dom, get the fuck off me." He twists and pulls for all he's worth, but Dom's grip's like a vice.

"I told you I'm not going anywhere," Dom repeats, steady as anything. "You're family, Bri. Whether you realize it or not. And leaving you alone right now's the last thing I'm gonna do."

"I don't need you." A lie. God, why does it taste like a lie? "And I said get off me!" And maybe Brian's got a little bit of fight left in him, because instead of trying to pull away, he changes tactics, and instead drops his shoulder and throws all his weight forward into Dom's gut. It's not enough to bowl him over, but it's enough to make him loosen his grip so Brian can get loose. And he bolts. Not to run away – this is house, for fuck's sake, and he's not gonna be the one leaving – but just to put some distance between them. He needs distance. He needs a chance to think.

He doesn't get it.

He's barely made it a couple steps before Dom's grabbing him by the arm again, but instead of pulling him in straight, he's twisting it behind his back, and Brian feels a hand clamp around the back of his neck for the second time that night. He tries to break the hold, but his left arm's shot. He's got no strength in his elbow, no leverage, and there's nothing he can do as Dom pushes him forward into the wall. He tries. Damn, but he tries, trying to bring his heel down on Dom's foot, but Dom just knocks his leg out from under him. Reflexes and sheer force of will are the only thing keeping Brian upright, and Dom's right there, pinning him face-first against the wall.

"Take it easy, Bri," he's saying, and his voice is low and firm like he's trying to talk somebody off a ledge or coax a stray dog out from under the porch. "Just take it easy. I got you."

And maybe a part of him realizes it's not just reflexes and sheer force of will keeping him up. It's Dom's weight against his back, his grip and his strength that's keeping Brian's knees from giving out. But he's not ready to lose just yet. Not when he's just started winning again.

"I don't need your help," he repeats through gritted teeth. It's hard to talk with his cheek pressed up against the wall, but he tries. "I don't need you."

Dom doesn't let up, though. "You need somebody," he says, and he's just so sure of himself, and Brian's so unsure, it hurts. Because it's just like it's always been. Dom's like gravity. He's a sure thing. A constant. And Brian's this thing floating out there somewhere, caught between too many winds blowing too many directions. "And I don't see anybody else around, so you're just gonna have to trust me."

Trust. It's a heavy word for someone like Brian. Someone who's been used and abused his whole life. Someone that lies as easy as he breathes, except apparently to anyone with the last name Toretto, and has been made to fit so many molds, he's not even sure of his own shape anymore. Trust is terrifying for someone like that.

Thing is, he doesn't seem to have a choice.

"There you go," Dom's saying, and his voice is too close and too steady in Brian's ear as the last of the fight wanes out of him. "Just settle down, Buster. Just like that. You're okay."

Except he isn't, he realizes with a hitch in his breath. He isn't okay, because he's spent the last couple weeks running and fighting and driving for his life. He isn't okay because he hasn't slept right since this whole thing started. He isn't okay because he's spent the last year living on next to nothing and burying himself in fast cars and close calls, more or less alone, because he's too damn scared of what happened in LA to risk it happening again.

He isn't okay, because his ribs are bruised, his eye's swollen, his head's throbbing, and his arm's screaming, and without the adrenaline of a fight to dull the pain, he's realizing there's a whole lot more of it than even he's equipped to deal with.

There's no telling how Dom knows – just one of those things he does, God only knows how – but it's like he can tell when Brian gives up, because he eases up. Not entirely. Just enough that he can shift his grip, grabbing Brian's waistband again and sliding under his shoulder on his right. "Come on, Buster. Time to sit down before you fall down."

And Brian wants to argue, just because it's what he does, but he finds he's got no problem with that plan. He lets Dom help him over to the bed, lets him guide him down like some sort of geriatric, lets him take his shirt and lift it up over his head.

"For what it's worth," Dom says, eyeing his ribs. Brian knows he's gonna start poking around them in a minute, make sure nothing's broken. It's gonna hurt. "I'm not gonna enjoy this, either."

But he does it anyway, because that's what needs to be done.

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

So much for not enjoying this.

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

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

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

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

So why's it make him feel better?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He deserves some goddamn shuteye.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well what is it?"

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

"What do you think I'm doing?"

"This ain't your business."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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