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English
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Published:
2022-03-28
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1,771
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1/1
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Lessons in Being Spilner

Summary:

Brian was never good undercover

Notes:

hi! this is my first fast & furious work. it was supposed to be a cathartic dom/brian saga, but instead we get neither catharsis or dom/brian. i might do a re-write that follows the original plan, if theres any interest.

Work Text:

He knows the linoleum beneath his feet. He knows every crack, every seam, every stain. 

His heart is beating so fast he can hear it; it washes over his ears and drowns out his step-father’s tirade. He knows where the door is, he just needs to get there—

“Brian—“ someone yells, and his step-father’s hand clamps down on his shoulder; he smells like beer and Brian hears him slip his belt out of the loops…

“Brain, calm the fuck down!” But the hand is still on him; hot breath sticks to the back of his neck. He just needs to get to Rome’s. 

“Jesus, Bri,” the voice yells again, disembodied and close. His eyes fly open; his step-father’s face looming in his vision. He throws a punch—not a good one, but it’s enough to clear a path, and then Brian focuses on the door. He needs to get out, needs to get to Rome’s, or anywhere that isn’t here . The punch lands, and the figure backs away, eyes shocked. Without taking a breath, Brain pushes himself off the sofa—when did he get on a sofa?—and throws open the door. 

He doesn’t know where he is. The air on him is cool, too cool for Barstow, even at night. The dream clings to his bones, awakening old aches that have long since healed. He leans over the porch railing and vomits. His heart is still racing, and his car keys dig into his leg through the pocket of his jeans. He’s at Dom’s, he realizes as he opens the car door and reaches into the glovebox. He’s at Dom’s, he’s undercover, he’s Brian Earl Spilner, and he needs a goddamned cigarette. 

Brian sits heavily on the steps of the porch, and lights a cigarette. The pack is almost full: leftovers from the last time this happened. His fingers fumble with the lighter, shaking slightly, but it’s worth it for the heaviness that cigs bring him. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not here, not while undercover, certainly not while crashing at his mark’s house. Brian Earl Spilner doesn’t have a backstory, doesn’t have any reason to freak out and fly out of a house like it’s on fire. He ashes the cigarette and thinks. Maybe Spilner had a crash a while back, or maybe he was dreaming of juvie, although Brian never indicated that juvie was bad previously. Fuck. He needs a story, and he needs it now. He can’t go back in there without an explanation. 

Somewhere in Brian’s third cigarette, the front door opens. He has to stop himself from sprinting to the car and gunning it out of here; his brain repeating get to Rome’s over and over like a broken record. He doesn’t flinch, but it’s a near thing. Brian knows it’s Dom the second he takes a step: he’s memorized all of their footsteps, and there’s a faint clicking of two beer bottles being held in the same hand. Spilner is easy-going, Spilner can answer questions, Spilner isn’t going to blow his cover. Dom sits beside him carefully, like he’s approaching a stray dog. Familiar contempt bubbles within Brian’s chest, but he pushes it down. He takes a drag of his cigarette, exhaling slowly. Dom could crack a beer bottle over Brian’s head if he wanted to. 

“Didn’t know you smoked,” Dom says softly, voice even. Brian doesn’t look at him—he won’t, brain stubbornly clenching onto the fear that instead of Dom, it’ll be his step-father, belt in hand. 

“I don’t,” Brian replies curtly, and curses himself. He’s not Brian; he’s Spilner. Brian is a mouthy little shit, but Spilner isn’t. What had Tanner said to him? You have to become your identity, it’s not enough just to act

Dom is silent beside him, for long enough that Brian lights his fourth cigarette. “What was that about?” Dom says, finally. His voice has an edge of softness that Brian has only heard when Dom speaks to Mia. 

“Drop it,” Brian says before he can think, harsh, in a tone a bit too close to his cop voice. His hand shakes around the cigarette. He needs to go—he’s either going to blow his cover, or go too deep. Either way, he’s fucked. 

“After Lompoc, I had a hard time sleeping,” Dom says. It hangs in the air in front of Brian, taunting him. Get to Rome’s , his brain insists. Get away . Brian hums in response. Dom stands, abruptly, and reaches a hand towards Brian. Faster , Brian’s brain whispers. He takes Dom’s hand, who nods towards the car. “Driving helped.”

 

 

Dom is silent in the passenger's seat beside Brian. Brian takes the car onto the highway, accelerating through the ramp so fast his back tires spin a little as he comes through the curve. He feels like his mind is a few feet behind his body, watching as he shifts gears and lays into the gas until the engine roars beneath him, throaty and impatient. Look, body Brian is passing a semi on the shoulder. Body Brian is pushing 120 and weaving between the few cars that straggle along the road. 

“Brian,” Dom says, somehow both chastising and concerned. Brian laughs, grinning. 

“What?” He asks, and pushes the gas harder. The road ahead snakes around the curve of a mountain. The car is gaining speed steadily as they hit the first real curve: it handles it beautifully, and something within Brian’s chest screams. His fingers twitch and his eyes find the Nos button. He can’t: Spilner wouldn’t. So he slams the gas hard, pulling the car around the outside hip of the mountain, when suddenly there's a semi in front of him. Brian smiles, and keeps accelerating. 

“Brian,” Dom says again. Brian waits until he’s a few seconds from hitting the semi, then yanks the car across the yellow lines, turning sharply, the car sliding close to the red rock of the mountain. As he rounds the corner, headlights flash at him: a car honks and swerves, and he twists the wheel roughly, slotting the car back in its lane. One more turn , he thinks, and takes the final turn so fast that his back wheels do spin out: the car rotates once, twice, before Brian wrestles the wheel enough to get the car under control. Dom is looking at him like he’s crazy, and Brian realizes Spilner wouldn’t do this. Hell, Brian usually wouldn’t do this. But the dream—memory, whatever—left his fingers antsy and his body aching for speed. 

“Pull over,” Dom says from beside him. And fuck, Brian is torn between pulling over just to get the adrenaline of a fight, the calm focus of pain, and that small, child-like part of him that’s terrified of being alone with Dom. Brian grins, and pulls the car to the shoulder with no preamble, throwing the handbrake as the car shudders in the gravel. 

“What was that?” Dom shouts as he gets out of the car and flings Brian’s door open. “What the fuck was that?” And Brian’s shoved against the car, and reality blinks in and out of focus. Blink, he’s beside the highway with Dom. Blink, he’s crouched behind his kitchen counter, and his step-father is shouting.

“Driving,” Brain replies. Desperate laughter claws its way out of his chest. 

“You call trying to get yourself killed driving?” Dom spits. “Huh? You call trying to get pulled over driving ?” Punch me, Brian thinks. Punch me until my face is numb and I pass out. Get to Rome’s , his brain parrots unhelpfully. What would Tanner say? What would Spilner do? 

“What do you want me to say, man?” Brian asks, pushing roughly at Dom’s chest. “This isn’t fucking twenty questions. You said drive, I drove.” He should’ve seen the punch coming, but he didn’t, and his whole body presses back against the car. He laughs, rubbing his jaw, and then throws himself at Dom. Dom overtakes him quickly, but barely hits him: he lands a few punches to subdue Brian, but then hauls him upright, braced against the side of the car. 

“Why are you looking for a fight?” Dom demands. 

“Gotta get out, Dom,” Brian says, before he can stop himself. He can feel the sting of the belt, the gravity of the buckle. Spilner twists away from his brain, leaving Brian, raw, aching, and desperate. 

“Where are you, Bri?” Dom asks, eyes flickering with uncertainty. “You’re sure as hell not here right now.” Brian laughs, a wet, choking sound that grates on Dom’s ears. 

“Nowhere,” Brain says. “Rome’s in prison.” The words are out before Brian can register that he’s saying them: Rome doesn’t belong here. Rome belongs with Brian, in Barstow. Spilner doesn’t know Rome, Spilner doesn’t know Barstow, and Spilner is fracturing into smaller and smaller pieces before Brian’s eyes. What did Tanner call it? Going native? Brian doesn’t feel native—he feels like his skin has been peeled back, and he’s left standing, flesh open and breathing. Dom touches Brian’s shoulder, not gently, but grounding. 

“Bri—”

“I’m a cop,” Brian says, cutting Dom off. “I’m a cop. I’m undercover. I’m supposed to arrest you.” He sees everything now: he’s going to tell Dom, Dom is going to hit him, Brian is going to get fired. There’s no way out. He can’t arrest Dom. 

“You’re a fucking cop ?” Dom repeats, backing away from Brian. 

“I can’t do this,” Brian responds. “You—all of you—need to go now. To Mexico, or anywhere further South. The cops are closing in. They want to get you for the truck hijackings. You need to go.” Dom’s looking at him with fury in his eyes, his jaw, and the set of his shoulders. 

“Fuck you,” Dom says. Then he shoves Brian off of the car, gets in, and drives away. Brian watches the tail lights for a few moments before the car goes around a turn and he can’t see it. His chest heaves. Dom never hit him. The air is heavy with barely-contained rain as Brian walks, slowly and too far into the road, back towards the city. The sun rises lethargically, climbing away from the horizon and relentlessly onto his skin. He, through some grace of a sadistic God, finds his way back to the spare room at Harry’s. 

The room is small, dusty, and impersonal. Brian sits in the stiff mattress and reaches under the low bed frame for the case of Corona he bought last week and never drank. His mind is silent as he drinks. He dials Tanner’s number, and gets his voicemail.

“It’s O’Conner. I quit. Immediately.”