The couch is more comfortable than Brian remembers. It's old and worn out and smells, like pretty much everything else in that house, faintly of metal and motor oil. And between the feel and the smell, Brian figures it'd be too easy just to close his eyes and go to sleep right then and there.

Except he can't. Not with Dom's eyes burning holes in him from across the table.

"So, where've you been, Brian?" Dom asks finally, breaking the silence.

Brian shrugs. "Around." He's trying to be cool, even though he feels a little bit like he's being interrogated. And Bilkins ain't got shit on Dom.

"Still peddling parts for Harry?"

"Yeah. Still peddling parts for Harry." Damn, but this is awkward.

Dom doesn't seem to notice, though. He looks cool as frost, sitting there in his armchair. "What else you been doing?"

"Aside from fighting the good fight?" And getting in deep shit with the new Saigon leadership? "Not much."

"You're telling me cops are the ones running you so hard you can't even make it to your own damn bed?" Dom says, one eyebrow raised. It's not actually a question; it's Dom calling his bullshit.

Brian hates how easy he does it.

He shifts on the sofa and hopes Dom doesn't read too much into it. Yeah, he's uncomfortable as hell, but Dom doesn't need to know that. "Nah, man, I'm keeping busy. Got out my board again, been hitting the beach." He shrugs.

"Surfing, huh?" Brian doesn't think he's imagining the smirk on his lips.

"Something funny?"

"That all depends," Dom says. "You surf like you drive?" He isn't even trying to kill the grin on his face.

Brian finds he doesn't mind as much as he should. He even smiles a little himself.

"If you mean better than you," he shoots back, "then yeah."

Dom lets out a rumbling laugh. "Vince must've hit you harder than I thought."

It's Brian's turn to laugh. "Yeah, he wishes."

"He does." And even though he's still smiling, Brian gets the feeling Dom's not joking about that. They both know Vince would jump on the chance to beat him bloody if he could. "You should try to steer clear of him for a few days."

"A few days?" He likes how Dom just assumes he's sticking around that long.

Dom nods. "Give him time to cool off."

"What about you?"

"What about me?" The smile's starting to fall; Dom's getting serious again.

Brian doesn't let it get to him. "You need time to cool off, too?"

"I figure a month and a half's plenty of time."

"Come on, Dom, don't bullshit me."

And now, the smile's gone, and Dom's brows are furrowed. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and staring Brian down so hard it's almost physical. "You think I'm bullshitting you, Brian?"

"I think you aren't being real with me," Brian fires back. He knows he's getting a little sharp, a little fresh; he knows he needs to be careful about that with Dom. But hell, he figures it's never stopped him before. He's got a big mouth: always has and always will, and if it's one thing he can't stand, it's people playing him.

"Those are pretty big words coming from you."

There it is. Dom isn't yelling, but he can see the steeliness in his eyes, the set of his jaw. He's pissed about something, and it ain't hard to guess what.

This is his chance to set the record straight, he realizes. He owes Dom one hell of an apology. He owes all of them one, really; it just…feels like he owes one to Dom more. He's got a chance to do it now, while Dom's not too angry to hear him out. While he's feeling reckless enough to try.

It's now or never.

He takes as deep a breath as he can, scooting forward on the couch and mirroring Dom's position in a way. "Listen, Dom, I—" he stalls out. He knows what he needs to say, but he has no fucking clue how to say it. It's like all his thoughts are swimming around his head, and he can't quite catch them. He knows he has to try, though, so he runs his hand through his hair and starts again. "I screwed up. I know I did, and if I could take it back—"

"Leave it, Brian," Dom interrupts. "It's history."

"No!" Brian pushes himself to his feet, and he catches Dom's eyebrows jumping a little, but he's too worked up to care. "I know I—I pulled some serious shit on you guys. I lied to you, I sold you out."

"Almost."

Brian looks at him strangely.

Dom's just got that same dead even expression like he's holding himself back. "You almost sold us out."

"That doesn't matter," Brian half sputters, half snaps. He's flustered, and it's even harder to think like this, damn it. He's so fucked. "What matters is that you trusted me, and I lied to you. You guys were good to me." That's such an understatement, it's funny. Except his laugh comes out sounding a little too much like a sob, and he pretends to pinch the bridge of his nose so he can rub his eyes without Dom noticing. He's not crying; he really, really isn't. He's just so tired.

When he drops his hands, he doesn't look up. He's staring down between his knees at the carpet and his own bare feet. "I had it better when I was running with you guys than I've ever had it, Dom…and I screwed it up. I can barely look you in the eyes – you and Mia. You should both hate me." He's not bitching; it's a matter of fact, and he's calling it like it is.

Dom apparently disagrees. "Mia doesn't hate you."

"I broke her heart."

"If you'd done that, we wouldn't be having this conversation," Dom deadpans. "I told you I'd break your neck, remember?"

Brian does remember that. He remembers him saying it while they were sitting in the garage in the heat of the day working on the Supra. He remembers the sort of awe he felt – the awe he always feels – seeing Dom in his element like that. The only thing more mind-blowing is seeing him behind the wheel.

Yeah, he remembers that. But Mia's face that night at Race Wars is burned just as deep in his head, and he can't…he can't understand how she could even stand to be in the same room as him. Much less smile at him. It doesn't make sense.

"She's moved on, Buster," Dom says. "So should you. It's time to stop living in the past."

That'd be great, Brian thinks. If it was that fucking easy, it would be great.

But it isn't, and Brian doesn't know that he'll ever be able to close his eyes without seeing the look on Mia's face…the look on Dom's face. Fuck. "I just…" he struggles to find the words. He doesn't know what he wants to say. He doesn't know what he can say, except, "I'm sorry, Dom, and I know it's not enough, but it's all I got. I'm so fucking sorry…for everything."

"Everything?"

Brian looks up. He doesn't know if it's some sort of trick question, and he's too messed up to try to figure it out. And Dom isn't helping; his face is just as stony has it's been the whole damn time, and as he stands, he's got this stiffness about him. He's revved up, but he's holding back, but Brian can damn near hear the roar of an engine just beneath the hood.

"Yeah, you lied," Dom says, coming to stand just the other side of the table from Brian. "And if it'd been anyone else, I'd have busted their damn heads in."

Brian doesn't want to push his luck, but he has to know, "And what makes me so special?"

Dom doesn't respond immediately, and Brian wonders for a second if he's pushed too far. He sees Dom's hand disappear in his pocket, and his mind is coming up with all sorts of things that Dom could be pulling out – not that he needs a weapon to beat Brian into the carpet – but just before his head can catch up, Dom pulls his hand back out.

He's holding a set of keys. A very familiar set of keys.

"These," Dom says. "You could've run. You could've let them put me in handcuffs, probably could've gotten yourself a promotion out of the deal. You could've put me in your rearview and never looked back. But you didn't. You risked your job, your life, for the team. For me." He reaches across the table, and Brian's too stunned to jump when his hand lands on his shoulder. "That makes you special. That makes you family."

That's the word that does it, Brian thinks. Family. Fuck, but that's a heavy word.

"Besides, if it wasn't for you, Vince wouldn't be here. Jesse either."

There's a lump in Brian's throat, and he tries, unsuccessfully, to clear it. "How—" his voice catches, but he pretends not to notice, "How is Jesse?"

"He's fine," Dom says. If he minds the subject change, he doesn't mention it. "He was up late working on specs for a new build, so it'll probably be a while before he crawls out."

"But he's okay?"

"Yeah, he's okay."

Brian nearly slumps back into the couch. That'd weighed on him heavy the last month and a half. He'd gone to see him in the hospital, but the whole crew was there, and he'd lost his nerve in the parking garage. He's checked up on him a few times since, but hearing he's doing okay from Dom is almost as big a relief as Dom not kicking him to the curb, and honestly, he's thinking it's about time to call it a day.

Unfortunately, Dom has other ideas. Seems he's not done talking, yet.

"What about you?" he says. "You okay?"

The comment's so far out of left field it takes him a second to catch on. His knee jerk reaction is to say he's all good, but Dom isn't an idiot; he knows sleeping in his car, even if it's just once, doesn't paint a pretty picture.

So, instead, he gives a half-assed shrug. "I'm getting by."

Dom nods almost thoughtfully. "Is this the part where I ask if your idea of 'getting by' involves getting the shit kicked out of you?" he asks. "Or am I just supposed to pretend I don't notice you limping around like a three-legged dog?"

Brian feels his face heat up at the same time something cold and heavy settles in the pit of his stomach. There's a ringing in his ears so loud, he almost doesn't hear what Dom's saying.

"—t me see." And he's stepping around the table.

And on reflex, Brian's stepping back.

Dom stops, brows furrowing deeper. "Brian," he says slowly, his voice low kind of like he's talking to a stray or something. Brian figures he's got plenty of experience with that. "I'm not gonna hurt you."

Brian wonders just how freaked out he must look for Dom to say that, but then he realizes he probably just has to look about as freaked out as he feels. This isn't supposed to go down like this. Dom's not supposed to be looking at him like that. That look means he's worried, which means he gives a shit, which means if he finds out about the thing with the Little Saigon crew, things could go south. The last thing he wants is to stir up tensions between the crews. This is his job; Dom's not supposed to get involved.

"I don't want to make any trouble," Brian says. His voice comes out steady, which is a pleasant surprise, because his heart is pounding like fucking crazy, and his palms are starting to sweat. He tells himself to be cool, but it's not working.

It's just…something about Dom. It's like he's looking right through him. It's like he already knows everything, and he's just waiting for Brian to actually tell him. It's insane, and it's nerve-wracking, and at the same time, it's more of a rush than any quarter-mile Brian's ever run.

His knee's smarting as he takes another step back. Dom took one forward, and he's just doing the dance. It's reflex to stay outside Dom's range. He's a pretty confident fighter, but despite that – or maybe because of that – he knows better than to be where Dom can reach him. Because then there's no getting out, and he knows that.

Dom's brows just furrow deeper. "There's not gonna be any trouble. Just sit down."

"I can't."

"You can't, or you won't?"

Brian shakes his head, and he nearly blacks out for his trouble. As it is, he ends up stumbling back into one of the half-wall pillars, which sucks. His back thinks so, at least, especially up around his shoulder blades. "I can't, Dom," he manages to say. "Just leave it, okay? I'm fine."

"You're whiter than my damn shirt."

"I said I'm fine!"

"And I said sit your ass down on that couch!" Dom's voice seems to shake the whole damn house, and Brian grits his teeth.

He has to get his shit together, he thinks. He can't get Dom involved in his fights; he can't let him fight his fights. It's not his job, and it's not his problem, and…

And fuck it. Brian'll die before he sees Dom get hurt trying to look out for him.

That thought, that image in his head is all the fuel he needs. He pushes himself off the column and makes for the door as fast as he can without all out sprinting.

"Brian!" Dom shouts after him, and the heavy thuds of his footsteps follow soon after.

Brian's already at the door, though. He doesn't bother putting his sneakers on; he just grabs them, and with his keys already in hand, he practically jogs down the porch steps and sidewalk.

He hears the door slam as he reaches his car, but he's got his own door open, so he doesn't really care. Maybe it's irrational. Fuck, it's definitely irrational, running out like this. And if he wanted to make a good impression, this ain't it. But he's just—he's just scared, and he doesn't even really know of what. His whole body is in fight or flight mode, and there's so many reasons, and he'll figure them out when he's out of—

A pair of arms close around his middle, and all the sudden, he's being jerked back. His bare feet literally leave the ground as he's hauled away from his open door.

He manages to twist loose, turning because it's a hell of a lot easier to fight someone you can see.

Dom doesn't let him, though. He grabs him by the wrist, and before Brian can stop him, he's pulling his arm up behind his back and shoving him forward with enough force to double him over the hood of the car. He doesn't think he's trying to hurt him; scratch that, he knows he isn't trying to hurt him, because then he would've gone through the damn hood instead of against it. But still,

It hurts. Christ, it hurts, and all the air's gone from his lungs. And what little isn't, he's using to shout at Dom to let him go. He struggles, tries to shrug him off, but he was right before – there's no getting out.

"Please, Dom," he tries, and he's finding out that it's really hard to talk like this, because his chest is on fire and his cheek is pressed up against the hood of the car. "You gotta let me go."

But Dom's not listening. At least, he doesn't think he is. He's cursing, and the next thing he knows, Dom's pulling up the back of his shirt and cursing even louder. Vaguely – and probably a little bit hysterically – Brian wonders if it was the cuts that got him, or the bruises, because he's got plenty of both.

Not that it really matters.

"Damn it, Dom, lay off!" he shouts. He throws his weight back as hard as he can, and he thinks he catches Dom off balance, because he feels his grip loosen a bit. He uses it to his advantage, shifts his weight to his front leg, and lands a kick with his bare heel straight to Dom's shin. It goes against all his training – knee or groin, they said at the academy; always go for the knee or groin – but the whole point of this exercise is to not get Dom hurt. He's not cocky enough to think he could really hurt him, at least not in the shape he's in now, but it's the principle of the thing.

Besides, the shin does the trick. He manages to get loose, and he's thinking he can run around the hood of the car and just climb across the passenger seat.

He makes it as far as the right headlight.

"Brian!" Dom's voice stops Brian dead. Because he's not just shouting. He's not just angry. It's something…else. "Stop running!"

It's too much like an echo of a month and a half ago, only it's backwards. Everything's backwards. Brian clenches his fist, and he doesn't turn around. He can't. Because if he turns around, and he sees Dom's face…if it's got the same pleading, the same worry, the same feeling his voice has, then he's done for.

"I'm not your problem, Dom," he says. His voice sounds shaky even to him.

"Not my problem?" He almost sounds indignant, except the word doesn't really do it justice. Hurt. Hurt is a better word. "What do you mean, 'not my problem'?"

"I mean you don't—you don't owe me anything, okay?"

"You think I'm doing this because I think I owe you something?"

"I don't know why you're doing this!" Brian snaps, turning around.

And yeah, he was right. Just like those months ago when they handed him the folder, he's fucked the moment he lays eyes on Dom.

The look on Dom's face is hard to describe. There's the hurt – that strikes a pain in Brian's chest that's worse than any busted rib – but there's this kind of disbelief, too. Like Brian's just said something so out there, he can't even wrap his head around it.

Brian can't move as Dom steps towards him. He can barely even remember how to breathe, even though he's sucking wind like he just ran a marathon.

Dom stops less than a yard away from him, and there's a look in his eyes that scares the living hell out of Brian. It's not angry. It's not even concern. It's just…it's pure, and it's passionate, and it's like there's a fire burning in there that was lit just for him.

"You're family," he says, like that explains everything. To Dom, Brian thinks, it probably does. "Now come on. Inside."

He knows what he should do. He knows he should get in his car and drive away before he ends up screwing things up again. He knows he should have to work harder to get to be called 'family' again.

But…Christ, he's tired. The first step he takes – towards the house or towards the car; it doesn't matter – he stumbles.

And then Dom's putting an arm around his waist and pulling one of Brian's over his shoulder, and Brian's not sure how much of his own weight he's hauling, but he's pretty sure it's not an even share.

Dom doesn't seem to mind, though. "Home sweet home," he says as they make it through the front door.

Brian doesn't disagree.