A/n: You're damn right, Fast and Furious. You people should not be surprised - The new movie is out, and you know damn well I watched it. Paul Walker, with his blonde curls and baby blues, is all but the definition of fuckable. Vin Diesel, built like a small truck and voice like thunder, is just...no words. No words. Those two, they need to fuck. Or make love. Or be naked together. They would decimate the world with the pure, optimal hotness of their joining. I think we're all in agreeance, yes? The sexual tension between them is palpable through all six movies. It's absurd, and I'm going to do something about it.

This will be short, sweet, and a little angsty. I don't have too many details, but I think I want to do this in first person. I need to write more first person. Time frame? Sometime after the first movie, maybe an alternate ending sort of deal. I don't want to mess with the new movies - Brian's a daddy, all head over heels in love with his hot, latin wife. Letty rises from the grave, the grave she was never in to begin with.

Lemon? Hell no. Lemons are exhausting to write. Or maybe it's just me. I wrote a lemon for my last oneshot, and it took forever to finish. I'm slow like that.

Warnings? Slash [Dominic/Brian] & car jargon. Song of choice? Stay by Rihanna ft. Mikky Ekko. Not really the brand of music you'd associate with the Fast and Furious franchise, but the lyrics go hand in hand with this particular plot. Plus, I like it.

The bottle was warm and wet, pale yellow in the popping porch light. I swallowed a mouthful. It was flat, too much lime. Good beer just isn't good beer without good company. Crickets chirp too loud, mosquitos hum too close. It was humid. Sweat pooled in my collar bones. The splintered, chipping steps groan like a ghost. Fucking old house. We should renovate, or just move.

But then I laugh, because this is home. The creaky floorboards and peeling wallpaper, they're full of memories. My old man, tall and smeared with grease. He would leave his boots on the porch, I remember. And Mia would thank him in a very professional, adult-like way. She was eight, I was eleven. That was a lot of years ago. I drain my third bottle, and reach for another. Just as warm, just as flat.

My thoughts wander to that sad, familiar place. Gold, bright-as-the-goddamn-ocean blue. O'Conner. Brian, his name is Brian. All that run-you-down, hellfire anger has gone. I look back, and everything seems a little more clear. I check through four, simple stages. Logic, check. Epiphany, check. Guilt, check. Then anger again. More the self loathing type of anger. Check. I drag a hand across my smooth, slick head.

Brian was a cop, yes, and he lied, yes. But he kept my family alive, out of jail, and together. He let me go, he destroyed evidence, he cleared are names through some trick of magic or miracle. All at the expense of himself. He lost his badge. No job, no family, no home. Brian was just doing his damn job. I'm the criminal, the bad guy, in this scenario. I risked my whole world, panning after an easy buck. If not for Brian-shit-If not for Brian-

Vince would be dead, Jesse would be dead, I'd be in Lompoc, Mia would be alone. Brian saved us. The truth hurts.

Where is he? Did he leave the city? The state? The country? Is he alone? Safe? Does he still race, and laugh like happy insanity? Still a sucker for rice rockets and plastic, toy imports?

I don't know. I don't know. I need to know, I need to know yesterday. He eats me up inside like some cheerful, blonde infestation. When I sleep, I dream of yellow coils and neon eyes. When I race, I hear the phantom squeal of tires at my tailpipe. Sometimes, when I'm alone, I'll say his name a thousand times. Like a prayer. But nothing miraculous happens, no random bolt of lightening or pitchless, disembodied voice.

Is this punishment? It has to be. Too cruel not to be. I sigh, small and miserable. The bottle sweats in my hand. I tug at the peeling label a little absently.

I remember him in flashes. Rolling into the garage, day after day, ordering those god awful sandwiches. Fluttering honey crisp lashes, and dropping bad pickup lines like they were bombs. Mia thought it was cute. I guess I did too. I'd watch him through the screen, and he'd pretend not to notice. Then came the quarter mile races, with shiny cars and shiny women. Standing awkwardly by his Mitsubishi Eclipse, he looked so young and out of place. We raced, he was cocky, I won. The thrill still burns me up.

My memories starts blurring together. Johnny Tran, Race Wars, truck heists and bright orange Supras. Long, oily hours under the Charger. Empty Coronas on the countertop. Skid marks and dust clouds. Vince was seeping red in the sand, and Brian was calling for backup. His tan face drawn pale and tight, his eyes big and panicked. "Yeah. Yeah, this is Officer Brian O'Conner. I'm off-duty MAPD. I need a life flight roll out right away. My twenty is uh-Highway 86, mile marker 147. I've got one trauma victim, about twenty four years of age, six foot, maybe 200 pounds. He's got a deep laceration to his right arm, with arterial bleeding. And he's got a-a shotgun wound, close range to his left flank. Yeah, he-he's going into shock!"

I remember every single word. Every stutter and hitch. I was so angry, and he looked so scared. Goddamnit. Goddamnit.

"Don't think too hard. You might break something."

Mia. She stands in the doorway. Her long, dark hair is piled on top of her head. She pops a bony hip against the door frame, and frowns. She looks worried. I don't say anything. I'm too tired. "Dom, please." She says through a harsh sigh. "Come inside."

"I will." I reach for another bottle. Mia makes this frustrated, throaty sound. "Haven't you had enough?"

I throw the bottle back, pale amber drink sloshing. It tastes like shit. "No." I rasp.

A beat of silence. Mia breathes hotly, staring holes in my back. "Drinking and sulking, you're acting like a child!"

Maybe I'm sulking. Maybe I'm acting like a child. Is that so awful? So wrong? I'm tired. Exhausted, even. Beat down. I just need quiet, dark, and my weight in beer. I grit my teeth. I close my eyes. Like a bad joke, I see Brian. Papered across the black backdrop of my eyelids. He's laughing. Straight, white teeth. Split, pink mouth. His eyes are sparkling, sparkling. My chest feels tight, like a small tornado is pushing my organs against my bones. "What should I be doing, if not drinking and sulking?" I ask.

I sound desperate.

She sighs again, and the fight drains from her. "Sitting here, staring into the bottom of another bottle, won't bring him back." Brian, she means. Because Mia knows me. She knows who I think about, who I dream about, who I drink for. In a sudden fit, I throw the empty bottle. It shatters in the street. "He's gone, Mia."

"How do you know?" A simple, innocent question.

"I...don't." I admit, frowning.

"You're a man of action, Dom! If you really cared, if you really missed him, you'd hunt. You'd go out, ask questions, intimidate some people, and drag him into the daylight. You'd bring him home." She says firmly, a little harshly. I blink.

I feel stupid, and guilty, and sick, all at once. She's right. She's right! Brian deserves more from us, from me. He deserves to be found. He deserves a million apologies, a home, a family, everything. Am I so...so selfish? Sitting and drinking and wallowing in my own miserable bullshit. Brian needs me. I need him more. I'm just a rusty frame, Brian is everything. My paint, my wheels, my engine, my every nut and bolt. Without him, I'm sitting on four breeze blocks.

I stand, and turn. Mia smiles, and jingles my keys. "Drive safe."

"The Racer's Edge, High Performance Auto Parts." Big, red letters on top a big, white building. Harry seemed like a good starting point. Brian used to sling parts for Harry, and lived out the back of his shop. Maybe he left a forwarding address. I scoff. Maybe not. Brian lives on fumes and nitrous shots, all about the moment. He can only see so far in front of himself. But there's a chance, however small it may be.

I push into the stark, chromium paradise. A monotone chime sounds somewhere above. I breathe in oil and cold air. Glass cases and clean tiles and shiny, steel parts. My insides hum. Harry knows how to run a business. I spot the very same man behind the front counter. Scribbling and typing and yapping into some invisible mouthpiece.

He notices me near immediately. "Dominic!" He comes out to greet me, as enthusiastic as always. We shake hands. "Harry, good to see you." I smile tightly.

"What can I do for you? You know, we just got a brand new shipment of-"

"I'm not here for parts, Harry."

He looks curious, and a little scared. I clear my throat. "I'm looking for Brian."

Harry frowns. "Ah, I haven't seen Brian in a few months." He shifts on his feet, and stuffs his hands in his back pockets.

"Yeah, I figured. Do you have any idea where he might be working?"

He considers me carefully and nervously. I cross my arms, my sleeves straining like tissue paper. I'm not above intimidation. He looks away, swallowing repeatedly. "Why are you lookin' for him?" He finally asks. I'm a little surprised by the question.

"I'm just...I'm just trying to find him." I sound awkward, even to my own ears. He seems satisfied.

"No, I have no idea where he is. I wish I did. I'd beg him to come back and work for me. One of the best damn employees I've ever had." He grumbles.

Of course it wouldn't be that easy. II nod grimly, my heart clattering like a box of wrenches. "Thanks, Harry."

Hector leaned against the bright, blue hood of his '97 Silvia. He grinned at me. Small, dull teeth. "Dominic, what brings you to my neighborhood?" I don't bother with pleasantries or idle conversation.

"Brian. Have you seen him on the streets?"

He blinks, like the name is a distant memory. "The Snowman? Nah, I haven't seen that pretty, blonde head in months." He laughs. "A damn shame, the kid can race." And then he gets serious, his brows wiggling like little caterpillars. "Why, you lookin' for him?" He leans closer, like we're sharing a secret. I laugh low. Hector, an ally I'm glad to have in my back pocket. "Yeah, I'm looking for him."

"Why, man? He owe you somethin'? You goin' to bust up some kneecaps?"

I take a moment, feeling annoyed. Is that the general assumption? I'm out to hurt Brian, bust him up? "No." I huff. "I just need to see him."

And then Hector looks enlightened. It scares me, just a little. "Oh, oh. I see, Pappi. I see what this is." He leers at me. I twitch a bit. "What is it, Hector?" I deadpan.

"You miss him, si? Maybe your life is a little less bright without the Snowman, eh?" He grins so hard, I think his cheeks might tear. I don't get angry, because shit, he 's right. I just sigh into my palm, a wet puff between my fingers. Brian is my heat. I just need him to-to keep me warm, keep me healthy. Keep me smiling, even when I'm too cold. I shake my head, feeling stupidly in love.

"Thanks, Hector." Is all I say.

My last resort. Sergeant Tanner fumbles with his keys, grunting and cursing outside his piece of shit car. I groan, and scratch the back of my head a little viciously. Am I really this desperate? Groveling at the feet of the police, right in their front yard? I cringe. Because yes. I'm this desperate. I need answers, I need Brian. Tanner is most likely to have those answers. So I'll be civil, maybe even respectful, and ask nicely. Swallowing, I climb out of my car.

I walk loudly, so he'll hear me coming. He stops, and turns. He looks confused, shocked even. And then he looks angry. "Toretto." He snarls. He straightens, and reaches for the pistol at his side. I hold my hands up, trying to communicate my good intentions. "I'm not here to make trouble." I say quickly. He pins me with this hateful, mistrustful glare. He stares me down, scoping out weakness or lies. I meet him head on. "What the hell do you want?" He finally asks.

"Information."

He looks even angrier. He takes a heavy step forward. "Why the hell should I help you?" And he says it like I better have a great reason. I don't look away. I hold his eyes. "Brian. I need to find him."

Tanner laughs loudly. "I sure as hell don't owe you any favors, Toretto. I don't care what you want, who you're looking for. Go look somewhere else." He makes to turn away. I grit my teeth. "Please, hear me out." Just short of begging. Oh, Brian. How I lower myself for you. Tanner hesitates, and then stops. "Why should I?" He sounds gruff, strained. Before I can get a word in edgewise, Tanner goes off like a whirring gear.

"You know, Brian was a good kid. Intelligent, dedicated, realistic. His career was just starting to take off. He would've had a strong, steady paycheck. He would've made something of himself. You ruined him, Toretto. You ruined any chance of success he might have had." Every word hits harder, and harder. I breathe through my nose, struggling to keep a neutral face. He's right, and it hurts. Nausea rocks through me like cylindrical force. My organs pushed against my ribs.

"I know."

"Do you?"

"Yes." I grind out.

"Then what makes you think..." He looks me full on in the eye. "...Brian wants anything to do with you?" He asks in a low hiss. I...

I hadn't thought about it. I hadn't thought about what Brian wants, whether he hates me or wants anything to do with me. Does it really change anything? Am I going to stop chasing and hunting? Am I giving up? No. I still need to apologize, spill out my guts. I have so much to say, so much to do. "I don't know. I don't know if he hates me, if he wants nothing to do with me. But I have to try. I have to see him."

He studies me for a short, uncomfortable moment. All angry eyebrows and bristling mustache. "Last I heard, he was working in some garage on the southside of town. Mike's."

I'm staring, probably gaping, but shit. Shit. "Mike's" is no garage, it's a shack. It looks minutes away from collapse, crumbling into dusty earth. Is it made of toothpicks and string? Paint hangs off the sides in long, curled peels. Broken windows, cracked cement, weeds climbing like snakes. I grind my teeth, feeling sick. Brian works here? This is what I've reduced him to.

This is what...

I feel sick. I breathe through my nose, and choke down a noise. I need to make this right. I need to make this right.

The inside is in no better shape. Too dim, the blinds hang low and awkward. Ripped, faded wallpaper. White, plastic chairs pushed in the corner. An overflowing trash bin, crushed cans of Bud Lite rolling across the floor. Disgusting. A man hunches over the front counter, idly flipping through a magazine. Balding, shoddy jaw, heavy, in desperate need of shower. He knows I'm here, a potential customer, and has yet to look up. I walk loudly. He sighs, and frowns at me like I'm a bad smell. "What can I do for you, sir?"

I smile, and it must look scary, because he licks his lips and stands tall. I plant my elbows on the countertop, and lean forward. "As a matter of fact..." I start absently. He shuffles back a step, and my smile sharpens. "Brian O'Conner. Is he here?"

His eyes get big, then small and suspicious. "Who are you?"

"Does it matter?"

"Look, man. I don't know who you're talking about. I don't know any Brian." He says, his words cracking in between his teeth. He stinks of fear and cheap cigarrettes. I look around casually, and he starts to sweat. The shiny beads gather at his temples.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, man!"

And then I'm reaching across the counter, my fists tightening in his shirt collar. I jerk him close, and we're sharing the same air. He shouts something unintelligible, and squirms like a fat slug. I snarl in his face. "Are you sure?" I repeat in a low, vicious whisper. He whimpers, and meets my eyes. His pupils are trembling pinpricks. "Wait! He - He's in the back!" He gestures wildly, and nods rapidly.

I smile again, and let him go. He falls back, collapsing against a small toolbox. He looks at me with blown, terrified eyes. I walk around the counter, and he flinches back. "Thank you." And I punch him like a shotgun shell hot from the barrel. My knuckles tear on the bony corners of his face. It feels good. He slumps to the floor with a hollow sound, out like a light. "You shouldn't have said anything." Brian deserves better than that.

With a ragged breath, I step into the back. A tiny space, hardly big enough for three cars at a time. A radio sits on a corner bench, bleeding some heavy beat and vibrating my shoes. I look up. There he is. Thereheisthereheisthereheisthereheis, fuck. Just like that, I'm swept away by a million feelings and urges and thoughts and things to say. I want to-to-to say sorry and hug him and kiss him and bend him over and-

He hasn't noticed me. He's ducked under an open hood, '70 Chevelle, tinkering. I bite my tongue. He isn't wearing a shirt. His thin, tan back ripples like wheat fields. His jeans hang low on his pretty hips. Grease splatters him in tiny drops. Loose, blonde curls bounce around small, pink ears. I feel my heart beating a hole through my chest, it's nerve wracking. He's right there, so close. I breathe. Motor oil and smoke.

I walk towards him, and I can hear my own pulse. It sounds like a tribal drum. I stop just behind him. I can feel him, he's so warm.

I don't have to say anything. I guess he can feel me too. His back pulls taut, and he stops working. He can feel me. He draws up very slowly. He curls into himself like an abused mutt, standing so still. I stare at him. His fine, trembling lines. His filth, his beauty. My hand itches at my side. I want to touch him. So bad, it hurts. God, it hurts. This is what I've been missing. All this fire in my belly, smoke filling my heart.

"What are you doing here?" He sounds hoarse. His voice is like an old song, one of my favorites, but I'd forgotten the tune. I hear it again, and I remember.

"Looking for you." Is all I can think to say. He stiffens. I think his spine might snap.

"Why?" He grinds out.

"I..." Missed you? Need you? What do I say? What should I say? "We need to talk." Fuck, that's not what I meant to say. With an angry noise, he whips around. Those blue, blue eyes. They're just as bigbrightbeautifulwetflutteringblue as I remember. He glares at me with everything he is, everything he has. Spitting sapphire sparks at me, gorgeous.

"About what, Dom? There's nothing to talk about. Go home." He brushes past me. He won't look me in the face. Our shoulders bump. I take his wrist in a vice, holding it like china. Our eyes lock, and everything is so contradictory. Heavy, but light. Happy, but scared. The beginning, the end? Up, down? Am I having a stroke right now? "Not without you." My voice is strong, thank God. It doesn't shake like my insides. He blinks.

Then he pulls away. "No." Huffing and puffing. He clomps across the garage, and I can't help but follow. "Brian -"

"No, Dom! I'm not doing this. I'm not. I don't care what you want, why you're here. You need to leave. Now."

"Damnit, Brian! Will you shut the hell up and listen?" Shit, that's not what I meant! He makes me so insane, I can't even talk! He cuts a hard glance at me over his naked shoulder. It's hard to focus with so much exposed, golden skin. My mouth dries up, and I swallow. "Just listen. Please." I sound desperate. He hesitates. We're standing in front of a door, I finally notice. Storage closet, maybe? "No." He says again, softer than before. He reaches for the handle, and I snap like a cheap hair tie.

I push, shove, him against the plain wood. My chest molds to his back like wet clay, or a missing cog. I slide against his spine, mapping out the knobs and bumps with my heart beat. Thump, thump. Thump, thump. He makes a breathy, distressed sound. We're so close, so close, so close. I can feel every muscle and bone between us. This is what I've missed. This closeness. He smells like sweat and grease. He twists against me, and I press closer.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry for lying, for endangering my family, for blaming you, for abandoning you because you're the best goddamn thing that's ever happened to me. I'm sorry for ruining you, for letting you work in a shit hole like this, for waiting so long. You deserve better than me, you deserve better than anything I could give you, but I'm so fucking selfish. I'm so selfish, Brian, and I need you. You don't have to forgive me, I sure as hell don't deserve it, but I'll make it up to you. I'll make it up to you, Brian, even if it takes the rest of my life." I whisper frantically in his ear. He's almost deathlike in his stillness.

"Is that all?" He says after a too long pause. I nod, my nose sliding down his throat.

"Get off me."

Like ice water, it burns. Reluctantly, so reluctantly, I step back. He opens the door, and I'm taken back at the insides. A small cot pushed against the wall, and a toilet. It looks like a prison cell. "What is this?" I can't help but ask.

"My room." He says dryly.

I'm frowning hard enough to hurt. "Your room? You live here?" He moves into the pathetic, dark space. Again, I can only follow. I'd probably follow him into hell.

"It's not the goddamn Ritz, but it's enough." He looks to be sizing me up, studying me, searching me. I'm more nervous than I've been in fifteen years, since I was a teenager totaling my first car. '69 Yenko Camaro. I want to say something, but I'm too scared of saying the wrong something. "Did you mean what you said? Everything?" He asks quietly. I can't tell what he's thinking, but the question gives me some hope.

"Every word."

Without another word, he starts undoing his jeans. I blink, feeling horny and confused in the same breath. "What are you..." The button snaps, the zipper slides down one hitch at a time. "...doing?"

He raises a perfect, blonde brow. "Are you going to make it up to me, or not?"