Brian's not really surprised that Stasiak's not there. It's nearly two in the morning; way past his bedtime. Guy needs his beauty sleep.
Apparently, Brian doesn't get the same courtesy. Although, honestly, he could think of worse things than not seeing Stasiak so early in the morning. Screw a balanced breakfast – he doesn't think he's had a square meal in a month solid, and he's still doing fine, right? – this is a good way to get the day started off right.
Minus the whole 'dirty cop errand boy' thing, he guesses.
Instead of Stasiak, one of his boys is there. Brian doesn't actually know his name or even really recognize his face; he's just assuming that it's one of Stasiak's, because the guy's got that same sour look on his face that they all do, and he's waiting by the hood of his car with a rolled-up sheet of paper.
"I don't think I've seen you before," Brian says as he gets out of his car. "You new or something?"
The guy scowls, which is an expression Brian thinks he should avoid with a face like his. It makes him look like a constipated rat. "Or something."
"So, what's the deal this time?" He knows he sounds conversational. Truth be told, he really doesn't give a shit. He'd actually like to get this done ASAP, so that there might be a chance in hell of him snagging more than a couple hours of shuteye before he has to go in for work.
That said, as pressing as his need for sleep is, his need to satisfy his curiosity – and to annoy the hell out of anyone Stasiak considers 'good company' – is even more pressing. See, he's curious because Stasiak's been calling him out every day it feels like, for the past week. It used to be maybe a monthly thing, or every other week, but lately, Stasiak's been calling him in more. He doesn't know if that's his way of tightening the leash, which he wouldn't put past him, or if it might be something else.
The whole 'wanting to annoy the hell out of them' thing is just payback for the bitch of a headache he's got thanks to Forsythe. And yeah, he knows this guy ain't Forsythe, but in his head, they're pretty much all the same person, so it'll do. Especially when the guy thwaps him in the chest with the rolled-up sheet of paper like some sort of bad puppy.
He takes it off his hands and, very admirably he thinks, resists the urge to smack him with the thing right back. "This is the third time this week, man," he says as he slides the rubber band off the paper. And if the rubber band happens to go flying off his fingers and peg what's-his-face in the chest, he swears it wasn't on purpose.
It's kind of funny, though.
"Sorry, man." He's really, really not. "That was my bad."
What's-his-face is not amused. "Stasiak told me about you, O'Conner," he says, and holy shit, his voice is deep. Not as much as Dom's – he's not gonna think about why he's the first one Brian compares people to – and it's a different kind of deep. It's thinner, and it doesn't have that rumble to it that Brian can almost feel echoing in his chest.
He's not gonna think about that, either.
"Nothing bad, I hope."
"He told me you're a punk," the guy says.
Brian chuckles and glances up from the papers he's started thumbing through. It's mostly just pictures of the impound lot. "That's all?" Honestly, that's awfully conservative for Stasiak. He figured there would at least be a few more curse words involved.
"He told me you're a little shit, too."
There it is.
And what's-his-face isn't finished. "Don't know how to follow orders, don't know how to listen."
"What can I say? I have a problem with authority." He flips to the next page casually, because even though the guy's moving towards him, and even though he's about six-feet-six-inches of biker-looking muscle, Brian couldn't care less. He knows intimidating – he just spent an hour with it, with him – and this ain't it.
It's when the guy grabs him by the front of his shirt that he gets a little antsy, and that's not because he's nervous, but because he's getting ready for a fight. Least this one has the balls not to come at him from behind.
"This is my operation, O'Conner," the guy tells him, and Brian almost winces when he feels a button pop off his shirt. He liked that shirt. Fucking beefcake. "You fuck this up, I'll give you a problem."
He guesses that'd explain why Stasiak's not here. This isn't his gig, which kind of pisses Brian off, because now he knows he's being ponied out to other parts of their little operation.
He feels the pressure on the front of his shirt increase, until the back of his collar bites into his neck, and he instinctively reaches up and grabs the guy's wrist. He doesn't pull, doesn't try to squirm. If he wanted to get loose, he could; he's just trying to keep this under control.
"You wanna let me go?" It's not really a question; it's not even really a suggestion. He just looks down at the guy's arm, then back up at him, and he hopes that the guy can figure out from that, that if he doesn't, this isn't gonna end well for him.
The guy's lip twitches under a Colonel Sanders mustache in what Brian's pretty sure is a snarl, but finally, he shoves him back. And he's thinking, if this shit's gonna go on, he's definitely gonna have a talk with Stasiak, because all his guys manhandling him ain't gonna fly.
Mostly because he can't afford to lose anymore shirts.
"Feel better?" Brian says. He tries to fix his shirt, before realizing half the buttons are gone, and giving up. "Now, what's this about?" The folder's just got a bunch of security cam frames from the impound lot and an address on a sticky-note on the top.
"We got a shipment needs moving."
Brian's been in the business – especially with these guys – long enough to know what shipment means. Stasiak does most of his work with drug-dealers and runners, helping them move shit around, and he knows a little bit of it slips through the cracks.
Brian narrows his eyes. "I think you got me mistaken for one of your mules."
"And I think you got me mistaken for someone that gives a shit. I got IA breathing up my ass, and I got them checking out that impound lot tomorrow. I need it moved to that one," he flicks a sausage finger at the post-it, "before six, and I need it done under the radar. Capische?"
Actually, Brian's a little shell-shocked. Not about what this guy's telling him to do, because honestly, he'd much rather play pizza boy than enforcer, even if it is an assload of drugs. No, he's just snagging on the fact that this guy actually used capische in a regular sentence, not ironically.
And people laugh at him for saying 'copacetic.'
"Alright, yeah, I got you," he says, rolling up the papers and stuffing them in his back pocket. He's already got it in his head what he's doing; he's already had a little experience breaking into impound lots. Call it the product of a misspent youth. "I'll get it done."
"You better, or I'll have your ass."
Brian's eyebrow twitches. "You're not really my type, bro," he says, but what he really means is, you're not D—
He slams the door on that real quick. He's screwed enough without his head going places like that, places it doesn't need to go. The last thing he needs is some sort of internal crisis. Not over something that doesn't even matter.
Because it can't. Matter, he means. He's doing all this to keep them safe, to clear Dom's name, to bring him home, because he owes that to Letty, and he owes it to them. To Him. What he wants has nothing to do with it, and neither does who he wants because…shit, it's not his home he's trying to bring Dom back to. It's the Torettos' home: Mia's and Dom's. He's not a part of it anymore, and if he can make this happen – and he's going to try until his dying breath to do it – then he knows he's gonna have to find a way to be okay with that.
It's just really fucking hard. It's been bad enough staying away from Mia. He still…he has feelings for her. And even if he doesn't know what they are anymore, because shit, five years is a long time and they've both done a lot of growing since then, he still wants to be part of her life.
It's even worse now that Dom's back stateside, now that Brian's found his way back into his orbit, it's just…gravity. He's doing all he can to stay outside it and do what he needs to do, but it feels like the longer he spends, the harder it pulls him in
And yet here he is, doing shit like this: beating up dealers, threatening their families, their kids, playing drug mule for a bunch of dirty cops, and he feels like he's moving away. He feels like Dom's Charger, feels like he's spinning his wheels, like he's taking off, like his chasse's folding in on itself, and frankly, he's fucking amazed he hasn't fallen apart yet.
He can't, though. He can't, now, and he won't later, because that's just not how he rolls. He's just got to get through this: this job, this week, this bust, this clusterfuck. He's just got to get through it.
One quarter mile at a time.