Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Criminal Catnip

A Fast and Furious A/U Fanfic

By Sif Shadowheart

Chapter One: Mark

Undercover Detective Brian O’Conner was an oddity among UC operatives.

And for a simple, but also complex reason:

The best UCs were rootless.

They had no ties, no responsibilities or connections outside of their work to bog them down or trouble their minds during an operation.

The best UCs could let everything else go and sink into their roles for however long was required to take down their targets.

Of course, this also had a side-effect of risking the best UCs to going “native” or sinking so far into their roles that they turn from excellent officers of the law into the most frustrating criminals to catch as they end up creating the bonds that they lack outside of the job with the same targets they’re supposed to be spying on and gathering evidence to lock away.

Brian O’Conner was an oddity in that not only was he one of the best UCs in the Los Angeles Police Department’s stable of officers, but he also had not only ties to life outside his work but potentially the strongest ones around: 

Brian O’Conner was soulmarked.

And not merely once but five times.

He wasn’t alone in that, even among police officers, as ninety percent of the population were either born with or later acquired soulmarks.  Where things got interesting was in the number of his Marks, not that he had them in the first place.  Four of his Marks were “normal” soulmarks.  It was the fifth that made things a bit tricky.

Made of five interlocking gears - like from a car engine - shaded in greys and black, it wasn’t just a soulmark but a pack mark.

Now, Packs of multiple soulmarked members happened.  It was impossible that they didn’t, given that just because someone was your soulmate, it didn’t automatically follow that you were theirs or that you were their only soulmate.  People were far more complex than that.

But for someone to be marked with a Pack mark was something different than packs that came together out of necessity.

Pack marks only ever occurred according to both lore and more recently science, when a single member required more than one or two soulmates, either due to their own complexity or that of the Fate that had been laid out before them.

It was a way - or so said the lore - to force personalities that might not cooperate to come together for a common purpose.

Given that Brian O’Conner was one of the most adaptable little bastards his superior officers had ever met, it was taken as a given that he wasn’t set to be the sticking point of a pack needing to be Fate-ordained rather than organic.

Still, for an individual with four soulmates to reach his twenties, let alone his late twenties, without having met any of them was also strange but that was O’Conner all over: adaptable and a bit strange, even for an UC.

In every other way he was a star undercover cop: adaptable, unpredictable, with no family or significant bonds to anyone outside of the force.

Except for those pesky potential soulmates anyway.

But from the moment he’d stepped into the Academy, he’d been blowing away his instructors and superior officers with his skills at undercover work, making the potential of having his soulmates blow an op out of the water worth the risk.

It was a decision - to use O’Conner as an UC despite the potential dangers of his soulmates showing up at literally any moment - that his superior officers (as well as law enforcement officers the world over) would come to deeply regret.

And it all started on an average LA summer day when the dossier for a new operation hit Detective O’Conner’s desk.

“Over a million dollars in electronics have been hijacked at high-speed by a team of precision drivers on interstates in the greater Los Angeles area.”

Brian listened to the briefing by FBI Agent Bilkins with only vague interest.

His investment in the joint-taskforce wasn’t in the why.   It was the what and the who.  High-speed truck jackings and a precision team.  Those details were why the dossier for the taskforce had landed on his desk and not that of another of the LAPDs seasoned UCs.

The Undercover division of the LAPD was one of the most robust in the nation.  They went under to infiltrate everything from the average (and almost mundane) prostitution or drug rings all the way up to heavy-duty gun smuggling, drug and/or human trafficking cartels, and even terrorism cells.  From ground-level to the upper echelons of crime, LAPD’s undercover operatives handled it.

Brian was one of the best they had, and he knew it, but he’d only come out of his last op less than a week before the truck jacking dossier landed on his desk.

He was tired: mentally and physically.

Normal standards of operations wouldn’t have him back out and going under again so soon: it was too great of a risk.

To him, to the op, and even to the LAPD.

UCs needed at least a couple of weeks to a month to rest, recover, and reground themselves in their actual identities after playing a role.

Especially for as long as the ops that Brian tended to get tapped for.

Ever since he’d graduated with flying colors from the Academy, he’d spent more time undercover playing a role than he had just being Brian O’Conner.

He needed that time to ground himself.

But with the pressure coming down from on-high in the form of LA’s mayor, chief of police, the LA county sheriff, and now even the FBI, he wasn’t going to get it.

And for a simple reason: when it came to high-speed and/or precision driving, the UC division had no one as skilled and capable as Brian.

Add in his baby face that ensured he could easily pass as an airheaded surfer boy if he chose, and he made perfect bait for this sort of operation.

All of that was before his Juvenile Record (now sealed, not that that meant anything to the likes of the FBI) of boosting cars was added to the mix.

It was an operation almost tailor-made for Brian.

And that made it uniquely dangerous for him.

Something his handler Lieutenant Tanner thankfully realized.  Tanner, according to scuttlebutt around the bullpen, had argued with both his own boss and Agent Bilkins until he was blue in the face against sending in Brian for this op.  He recognized the unique temptation that sending in a rootless (relatively, he hadn’t met any of his soulmates yet and at this point he was doubting he ever would, even with the odds on that against his supposition) UC into a situation that would hit on just about every weakness he had.

Honestly, the only thing the set up was missing was having kids involved.

Sending in a gear-head, who loved cars and speed almost more than he loved his own dick, with no family into the underground LA racing scene where he’d have to maneuver his way into a crew - almost all of which centered around family - was the sort of recipe designed to fuck with an UC’s head.

Not giving Brian the necessary time to first get his head straight after his last op and Tanner was livid that the higher-ups had decided to risk one of his detectives in such a way.

But there was dick-all he could do about it.

Bilkins had been given a free hand to choose the UC from LAPD’s offerings, and he’d almost creamed himself when he’d gotten a look at O’Conner’s jacket.

Especially the notation that he would be up for promotion within the next six months to lead detective as he’d passed the exams and was only waiting on his precinct to open up a lead/supervisory slot for him to make the jump.

It gave Bilkins a carrot to go with the implied stick of consequences if O’Conner fucked up or went native and that was all he cared about.

Potentially burning an LAPD asset meant approximately dick-all to him.

“The most likely source of the crew being the underground racing scene in the greater LA area.  Detective O’Conner will be tasked with gathering actionable intel on the crews that the greater task force will use to investigate and find the group behind the truck jackings.”  Bilkins continued.  “He’ll be inserted as a part-time hire arranged by the LAPD with one of their CIs.  From there, the task force will provide background support as he gathers the necessary intel.”

“I’ll need a car, Tanner.”  Brian ignored the suited FBI jackass and turned his attention to making the fucked-up situation they wanted to run with work.

Hopefully without him ending up in either a hospital bed or a casket.

“I can’t use mine, and if I want to actually make my way into a crew I’ll need to be more than some random guy slinging parts.”

“We’ll take a look at what we have in Impound, and you can do whatever mods you want on what you pick.”  Tanner promised, ready and willing to let his man have whatever he needed and/or wanted if it meant he’d make it back out the other side of this op.  “Who do you want for point?”

“No point,” Bilkins nearly barked out.  “Inserting even one asset into the racing scene with the jackings going on is already risking the group going to ground.  When Detective O’Conner needs to report, we can just have a black-and-white pick him up.”

“Sure, we can do that.”  Brian shot back sardonically.  “If you want me in a casket.  Playing catch-and-release with a new element and then moving on any information I give you…you might as well put two in my skull yourselves.  These guys,” he motioned to where the leaders of the local crews' pictures were posted on a cork-board.

Johnny Tran.

Dominic Toretto.

Hector Garcia, and so on, for a half-dozen names of LA’s best and brightest of the criminal underground with either a toe-dipped or full-on immersion in the racing scene.

“They’re potential criminals, not idiots especially if they’re still out and walking around.  Especially Tran.”  Who was the only son and heir of who was suspected to be the head of the entire Vietnamese crime syndicate in California if not beyond.  Hell, Brian had even been inserted into what might have been tertiary Tran operations in the past, and never managed to find a solid link to Tran Sr.  “He’ll kill first and ask questions never if it means protecting his family’s greater interests.”

And as both the LAPD and FBI had wanted Tran Sr. on everything from drugs to guns to human trafficking for the better part of two decades when he first hit their radar and was still free, no, Brian didn’t think that was an exaggeration the way Bilkin’s facial expression clearly outlined the agent’s thoughts on that statement.

Ignoring the FBI Agent’s objection and clearly overruling it - as the actual UC part of the operation was under the control (if barely) of the LAPD - Tanner returned to his original question.

“How about Muse?”  He offered up one of the newer but potentially-good members of the UC division.

Brian shook his head, familiar with the kid but not thrilled.

“He needs more time to shake off the potential UC tells.”  Brian said honestly.  “Still too shiny and raw.”  He thought a moment.  “How about Deeks?  He does beach bum just as well as I do, and trips out to the beach to surf won’t fuck up my legend, if anything it’ll make me seem more real instead of being target-locked on cars and racing.”  He smirked, arching a brow at Bilkins.  “Even Toretto does more than work on cars and race, and he’s the biggest gear-head you’ve got in that line up.”

Bilkins made a face but he couldn’t exactly argue.  Toretto was a full-time mechanic as well as his potentially illegal hobbies to go with his record.  Everyone else from Tran on down had other “day jobs” including owning bars or nightclubs (the usual ways to launder dirty money in the current day and age) to working blue-collar jobs like the small-fries in the racing scene.

And while Toretto didn’t have a lot of interests outside of cars, they did exist.

Barely.

“Deeks will probably appreciate the vacation from Vice.”  Tanner joked, “Muse can cut his teeth being borrowed out to Lt. Jameson in exchange, help shake off some of those UC tells.”

“Here’s hoping,” Brian muttered under his breath.  Kid was so shiny he actually squeaked the other day when he got a look at an autopsy picture from Brian’s last op.

“Who’s your main mark going to be?”  Tanner continued planning the op.  “Current intel says that Tran, Toretto, and Garcia are the most likely to have crews capable of the jackings.”  And in that order, as while Toretto was the only one to have done hard time, it was also for a crime of passion rather than for serious and sustained criminal activity like both Tran and Garcia were under suspicion for.

Toretto however, had the crew most likely to be capable, even if he didn’t have the potential criminal chops like the others.

It was a roll of the dice, honestly, and the reason they needed boots on the ground and eyes on the marks to get them actionable intel they could use.

Hopefully before someone got killed.

“Well, I’m not Vietnamese, so that puts Tran right out unless I want to honey-trap my way in with the cousin,” Brian noted in a raw mixture of brutal honesty and sarcasm.  Which had the nifty side-effect of making Bilkins shift uncomfortably as if he’d never sent in an operative to sleep their way through the door.  Hypocrite.  Brian could guaran-damn-tee that if any of the main marks had a legitimate and confirmed interest in men or duals (dual/intersexed individuals) that Bilkins would be the first one in line wanting him to offer up his ass in exchange for that actionable intel the fed was so damn hot-and-heavy for.  “Which given that he’s a psycho,” with a list of petty crimes he’d been collared for that included big–o-warning signs like potential arson, “is a hard no.”  Brian paused a moment, eyes flitting between Garcia and Toretto as he mentally debated the pros and cons.

Garcia ran a larger crew.  It’d be easier to infiltrate.  But it also likely had more in common with getting jumped into a gang than joining a crew.

Besides which: Brian almost bled “white boy” with his blond hair and blue eyes.

Getting jumped into a Latino gang as the token crazy whitey would be even worse than it would be if he were Mexican or Central American - though not as bad as if he’d been Puerto Rican.

That really only left him one option if he wanted to worm his way into the central powers of the racing scene.

“Toretto.  It’ll have to be Toretto.”

Chapter Text

Criminal Catnip

Chapter Two: Finishing It

“Oh they’re bee-yoo-ti-ful.”

Jesse’s wistful admiration caught the attention of the rest of the crew, as it genuinely wasn’t that often that the youngest member of the Toretto family - blood or chosen - cleared his head of engine designs and car parts to notice let alone appreciate other people.

But when he did it couldn’t be denied that he had one hell of an eye.

Dom - Dominic Toretto, the oldest and leader of the crew - arched his brows in appreciation as he followed his littlest brother’s gaze over the crowd of the race-bunnies and gear-heads to the outer edges of the racing scene.

Though to be honest, at first he wasn’t entirely convinced that Jesse’s admiration was for the person and not the car they leaned against.

Either way: the eye certainly didn’t go wanting for beauty when turned in that direction.

Dom was honest with himself: like Jesse he appreciated a gorgeous model no matter the make.

And that pair: damn.

The car was pretty enough to draw the eye, but it was the driver who kept it.

Long and lean with a head crowned in golden, sun-kissed curls in a face defined by good bones and bright blue eyes: they were the epitome of California surfer-beautiful.  Add in a short sleeved white button down that was open over a white-beater tank top and tight white jeans, complete with pristine snowy-Adidas sneakers, and the kid might as well have “Ice King” tattooed over his forehead.  Complete with a cool, appraising expression.

“Snow man!”

Dom swallowed a chuckle at Hector’s all-too-apt greeting as the crew leader and race point-man sauntered over to Jesse’s bit-of-beautiful and the two clapped hands, the apparently-dubbed Snowman sharing a nod and respect with the rowdy Latino.

And the car wasn’t bad either, even if it was hard to notice compared to the driver once the eye turned that way, especially with the nearly blinding pearly grin that the kid had to their name.

Damn, that thing could be weaponized as it lit up the formerly resting-ice-face on Snowman.

From across and away, Dom thought the deep blue rice-rocket was an Eclipse, but how dangerous it would be in a race was impossible to tell without getting a look under the hood, even if the body work was promising.

The snowflake details were well done, with the points sharp and nearly knife-like, and combined with the frosty expression on the driver neatly explained the nickname.

But the way Hector greeted the kid was warmer than Dom would expect for fresh meat on the scene.

He’d been away for a minute, fixing up the Civics and dealing with the results of the last job his crew had run jacking semis, but not long enough in his opinion for fresh blood to be fully welcomed into the racing scene.

Still, this was LA.

They lived fast and drove faster, so it wasn’t entirely surprising.

Suspicious, but not surprising, for new blood to show while Dom was otherwise occupied.

“Jesse, Leon.”  Was all Dom had to say and already his crew were on gathering information on the new blood.

Each in their own way, as Jesse took a glance at the car and memorized what he could see of the specs and license plate to run through the internet and dark web, Leon disappearing into the crowd to gather information from race-bunnies and gear-heads alike the old fashioned way.

They were one hell of a team, even setting aside the skills of the rest of the crew.

“What’re you thinkin’ Dom?”  Vince, Dom’s best friend and brother in all-but-blood since the third grade, asked gruffly as he followed Dom’s gaze to the fresh meat.  “Cop?”

“Maybe,” Dom admitted, eyes narrowed.  “Hard to say.  Just convenient timing.  Come on,” he pushed away from his car, Letty having already run off the race-bunnies before Jesse caught sight of the new pretty.  “Let Jesse and Leon worry about it.  We’ve got money to make.”

“Alright,” just that easy Vince shrugged it off, even if he didn’t forget the suspicion that’d been planted in his head.  “Whatever you say, Dom.”

Suspicion that bloomed into full-on paranoia when not even a day later Vince pulled up to the Toretto market in Echo Park and found Snowman sitting at the counter flirting up a damn storm with Mia.

Oh fuck no.

Brian enjoyed irritating-slash-flirting with Mia Toretto more than was probably kosher for an undercover cop.

He just couldn’t help it.

Her tired exasperation was pure 100% done-hard-put-upon sister and it was great.

It wasn’t like it was going to lead anywhere.

Brian had never slept his way to a mark and had no intention of starting now when he was on a timer until leaving behind being a regular UC for his detective shield.

Being intersexed had made that easier than it would’ve been otherwise.

When birth control had to be very specialized to work, even the biggest bastards of his superior officers tended to hesitate on putting him in situations where his only option was sleeping his way through the door.

Inter-or-dual sexed individuals had hormonal balance and endocrine systems that were complicated to say the least.  Not that single-sexed people didn’t have complex systems as well.  It was just when both sexes were thrown together in one body, the problems didn’t just double; they were exponential when it came to medical issues like birth control and hormone treatments.

Crude as it was to say or think, keeping his legs closed was the best option Brian had given how fertile his biology was as either a carrier or sire.

Giving a body double the reproductive organs would do that.

It was also why his body was so long, topping him out at an inch over six foot.  Intersexed bodies had to have extra room for double the internal sex organs.  Thankfully, Brian’s personal biology had him long and lean from head to toe, unlike some unfortunate duals who had long torsos and short legs that made them look a little squashed.

Anyway, condoms had an even lower success rate for duals than for single-sexed males combine that with higher pregnancy rate and Brian had noped out on playing Russian roulette with sex back in Juvie when he’d been too young and dumb to know better.

One pregnancy scare was all it took for him become a lot more careful when it came to sex, and he’d stayed the next thing to a monk ever since.

Oh, he wasn’t a choir boy.

There were still one-offs here or there, especially when he needed to wind down after a case.

But he never took risks and always went back to a trusted acquaintance or three when he was riding that edge and needed more than his self-imposed celibacy could handle.

Popular media liked to portray duals as the next thing to nymphomaniacs.

Brian blamed the extra hormones and systemic/institutionalized prejudice against anything or anyone other.

Flirting was harmless and came to him as natural as breathing.

Too bad Mia apparently had an overprotective (and jealous as hell, if he was reading the situation right) lunkhead hanging around.

That would have been a good piece of information to know, but whatever.

It wasn’t the first time Brian had been a fist-fight either on or off the job.

On the plus side, if finally got him an up-close-and-personal look at Toretto’s team dynamics, as well as the man himself.

The sore ribs, Brian could’ve done without.

Alright, Dom would admit it:

Maybe he made a mistake getting up close and personal with the pretty parts-slinger that Harry had picked up.

Snowman aka Brian Earl Spliner.

The name was ridiculously bad, serial-killer awful, but not everything about the pretty could be perfect.

But given that the pretty ice prince had come out the other end of a quick scuffle with Vince getting the losing end of the pretty’s fists, Dom didn’t have much choice about hauling pretty off of his best friend.

Even if Vince kinda had that one comin’.

Mia was not impressed to say the least.

“What’d you put in that sandwich?”  Dom joked even as Mia bitched at him to break up the fight.

Dom easily waded in, grabbing Pretty from behind, hauling the kid up and tossing him away towards Harry’s parts delivery truck, Vince scrambling to his feet behind them as Dom focused on the newcomer, snatching up his wallet and opening it to his driver’s license.

Memorizing both the hilariously terrible name as well as the DL number while he was at it.

Jesse had found a little information on Snowman between his nickname and car information/specs but not much.

Between LA’s population, along with Snowman apparently being from Arizona according to his license, Jesse had been struggling with both too much information and not enough.

The driver’s license should help the kid filter through the excess to match up against the little genuine info he’d found.

Especially since it looked like he’d been looking in the wrong place, sticking to LA to help limit the dross instead of branching out into the neighboring areas.

When it looked like Vince would go after Pretty all over again, Dom shoved him back one-handed, pointing a finger at him in warning.

“Stop.”  He commanded.  “You’re embarrassing me.”

At that, the rest of the crew backed off, Leon and Letty having followed Vince outside - whether to enjoy the show or be back-up was a cointoss - while Jesse ducked the violence instead in the market’s office and Mia watched from the doorway.

Vince seethed, even as Letty tugged him away and into the market to Mia’s not-so-tender mercies for his black eye and split lip, while Leon hovered just in case Dom needed him.

Not that he really thought the other man would, but better to be safe than sorry.

Snowman had knocked the bigger and bulkier Vince on his ass after all.

While he likely wouldn’t manage to do the same to Dom, lacking both leverage where the older man had him pinned to the truck with one hand and the element of surprise, wellll - stranger things have happened.

“Hey man, your boy started it.”  Brian immediately went into covering his ass just in case Toretto decided to pick up where Vince had left off.

And by the size of those biceps - which Brian was not noticing, no sirreee - the head Toretto had the power to back up a swing that Brian did not want to test personally.

Being tossed around like a rag doll was enough to let him know that barring having a serious advantage, getting into a fight with Toretto would not end well for him if it turned physical.

“An’ I’m finishing it.”  Dom snapped out in little more than a growl, dark eyes narrowed on that too-pretty face surrounded by golden curls.  “You’re new, Mr. Brian Earl Spilner,” Dom snorted, still not over the name.  “Sound like a serial killer name.  That what you are, Brian?”

“Nah man,” Brian kept his hands up and open in the hair, resisting the built-in instinctual urge to squirm against the hand fisted in his overshirt and used to keep him pinned against the hot sun-heated steel side of Harry’s parts truck.  “I just moved out here from Phoenix, Harry told me Toretto’s’ was a good place for a break when I’m out this way on deliveries, that’s it.”

“And you ordered the tuna more than once?”  Dom arched an incredulous brow, even as he closed the kid’s wallet in his free hand and tossed it in through the open window of Harry’s truck.  “There has to be somethin’ wrong with you if you’re risking food poisoning like that.”

Brian beamed a grin at the suspicious older brother who’s instincts he’d accidentally pinged by flirting with Mia.

Whoops.

Not the introduction to the main Toretto he’d been hoping for, but he’d take it since the man wasn’t acting like he wanted to tune him up but more like he was exasperated with the antics of Brian and his meatheaded friend rather than actually pissed off.

“My taste buds were broken in and out of the system,” Brian told him honestly.  “Her tuna isn’t that bad after livin’ off of bologna and white bread for two meals a day.”

Dom cocked his head a bit to the side as he loosened up on his grip on the kid and took a step back as he let go.

“You do time to go with foster care?”  He asked, recognizing the standard jailhouse lunch-and-dinner menu at the more fucked-over locations.

Even Lompoc wasn’t that sadistic, but then the kid was from Arizona.

Red states tended to come down harder on convicts - no matter their age - than blue states, depending on the wardens involved.

“Two years.”  Brian answered simply, without explanation.

Dom nodded letting it go at that, he could respect the resilience.

And it wasn’t like Jesse wasn’t going to find the records now that he had a full name and DL number to go with it.

“There’s a race tonight,” Dom decided to test the kid.  See if he was worth his frosty reputation.  “If you’ve got half a brain you’ll find it.  You and Vince can come to terms on the track, not in my parking lot.  Clear?”

Brian grinned all over again, mentally doing a cheer.

“Crystal.”

Brian was in so much fucking trouble.

When Toretto was just a name and a rap sheet, the op had been so much easier.

Even when he’d been a shadow lurking in the background at the market while Brian blithely flirted with his baby sister he hadn’t been a problem.

Being pinned - one-handed at that - against a car and subject to Toretto’s everything up close and personal?

He was so fucked.

Yeah, Brian had his in after weeks of tip-toeing his way into the racing scene.

But he just knew this was going to bite him in the ass.

In the end: he was more right than even he could anticipate.

And in more trouble than even he thought possible as he walked away from the first meeting with his mark.

In more than one way.

Chapter Text

Criminal Catnip

Chapter Three: Seeing What He's Made Of

“Let Tanner know: I’ve got my in.”

“Be careful, Bri,”

“Always am.”

Marty snorted.  He’d believe that when he saw it.  There was a reason O’Conner was one of the best.

A healthy regard for life, limb, and property was not one of them.

Brian’s marks weren’t obvious - as long as he kept his back covered.

His marks were interesting not only because he had five of them, but that they were all part of one large piece with the five interlocking gears of the pack mark that started at the nap of his neck and trailed all the way down to his lower back all of a unique design.

Four of them had an alphanumeric sequence embossed on the “face” of the gears while the fifth, center gear read Passion and Precision.

Even odds had the center gear representing Brian in his eventual pack, as it suited him to a T, though he tried not to think too hard on the meaning behind the alphanumeric sequences on the other four gears.

They could be anything from passwords to id numbers to license plates - it was impossible to know until he found the first of his soulmates and matched the number against them.

Then if his marks were anything like historical pack marks, the rest would follow the precedent set by the first mark.

Maybe.

There were always outliers.

As a result of the large tattoo-like soulmarking on his back, Brian made it a habit to always wear at least two shirts when he was under that came up over the base of his neck and down below his belt.

Just in case.

Identifying marks were UC kryptonite and Brian had zero intention of getting burned because one of his legends ended up known for something as distinctive as his big ass soulmark.

That also meant he couldn’t register it with any of the national or international matching databases that specialized in upping the odds of finding one’s soulmate.

It wasn’t a perfect system - unless a pack mark was involved which was always the same across the board - as no two marks were identical.

And in Brian’s case even that wasn’t true, as unless each of his soulmates were also each other’s soulmates, then their pack mark wouldn’t have the alphanumeric sequences but a different soulmark for him.

They might have the Passion and Precision center gear, but they also might not.

Not that it mattered, since Brian couldn’t register anyway, but it did explain at least part of why he was still unmatched when the odds of not meeting any of his four soulmates yet were almost astronomical.

Plain white wife-beater tank tops might be the standard for Cali boys, but Brian almost never wore them, only when he was as certain as possible that he wasn’t going to lose his overshirt did he take the risk on an op.

As it was, he’d almost lost his infamous cool when that fucker Vince had swung on him.

Fate it seemed was working in his favor despite the fight.

Even with Toretto tossing him like a rag doll - which was far hotter than it had any right to be, there weren’t many people he’d met who could manhandle someone his size, let alone that easily - his neck had stayed covered.

Slipping into a tight, plain white t-shirt and throwing on a white button-down over top of it, Brian shook off his wandering thoughts, almost forcibly realigning them.

Focus.

He had one shot at solidifying his insertion into Toretto’s crew.

Letting his mind wander to his soulmarks would be nothing but trouble and end up screwing him over at the worst possible moment.

Hopping from one foot to the other, the lithe blond put on the Adidas that were only one part of his cover as a gearheaded Cali surfer boy.

Which, granted, wasn’t far from the truth.

But despite what many people might think, that actually made keeping his head straight on an op harder rather than easier.

Compartmentalizing himself from his legend was a piece of cake when the cover was fundamentally different from his actual personality, traits, and habits.

Playing the psycho gun runner or airheaded arm candy would always be significantly simpler than when he had to go under as a driver.

Add in racing?

And yeah: this op was harder on him than anyone but his boss probably realized.

It was the little things that helped ground him.

Adidas instead of Converse.

An Eclipse instead of American Muscle or even a Skyline.

Drinking beer instead of hard alcohol.

And so on.

Little changes, little tweaks, that helped him stay in the mindset of Brian Spilner: ex-car thief and beach bum, instead of Detective Brian O’Conner: former juvenile delinquent turned cop.

Covering his skin was also part of it.

Skin-on-skin contact was the triggering mechanism for soulmates initiating their bond.

Whether a full-on intentional touch like the grab of a hand, or the accidental brush of a single finger as they passed by in a crowd: anything that was skin-on-skin would do the job.

And while it took a bit away from his beach-bum air, Brian kept himself as covered as was reasonable in the southern California summer heat.

Long sleeves would draw too much attention, especially on top of doubled shirts to hide his neck, so full-length pants it was and being extremely mindful of what his hands and arms were doing at all times.

Pain in his ass, but it was what it was.

Snatching up his keys to the Eclipse he’d picked out of impound and modded for racing to hell-and-gone, Brian rolled his head on his shoulders and took a deep, anchoring breath, allowing Detective O’Conner to slip away behind the thin shield of Brian Earl Spilner.

He had a race to run and respect to gain.

For the next few hours: nothing else mattered.

Nothing but the job and the next quarter mile.

“Brian Earl Spilner,” Jesse rattled off between drags of his joint as Dom came to see him after they got home, the older man having given him the info from Bee-yoo-ti-ful’s license.  “Age 24 formerly of Phoenix, Az.  Did two years and change in juvenile hall for grand theft auto, reckless endangerment, and destruction of public property from the crash that landed him in cuffs.  Kept his nose clean since aging out of the system except for a couple short stays due to drunk and disorderly charges, nothing significant.”  Jesse blew out a breath as Dom gently rested his hand on the back of his neck, rubbing at bit of his nerves away for the touch-starved mechanic.  “Came close to another GTA charge about six months ago and headed out for greener pastures according to what I found.  He’s clean, not a narc, but ah…”

Jesse shifted a bit blushing even as he darted a glance up at Dom who just watched him all warm and collected like.

“What is it, Jess?”

“He’s intersexed, technically.”  Jesse shrugged, feeling more than a little shitty over outing another dual (like Jesse, like he hid from everyone after…just after) who was passing as a solo-sexed male.  “License says male, but birth certificates don’t lie.  Don’t know how he got it passed the AZ DMV but…yeah.”

“Huh,” Dom hummed under his breath, giving one last gentle squeeze to his little brother’s neck, knowing better than most just why that bit of information would make Jesse twitchier than normal.  “Go ahead and keep that to yourself, Jess.  If Snowman doesn’t want people to know, then they don’ need to know.”  Dom shrugged it off, even if he couldn’t really relate to the decision to hide such a large part of himself.

But then, he’d been born male, had always been comfortable in his own skin.

He wasn’t intersexed like Jesse and now the new kid.  He didn’t have to deal with the bullshit that they did.  People were fuckers.  That was enough of a reason in his mind to keep his birth gender to himself on Snowman’s part.

“You really going to have him race against Vince?”

“I’ve gotta good feelin’ about ‘im, Jess.”  Dom admitted, then leaned down and pressed a quick affectionate kiss to the kid’s forehead.  “But I wanna see what he’s made of all the same.”

The cobalt metallic Eclipse was becoming something of a staple in the LA underground racing scene, but no one had ever seen it pull up to the starting line as Snowman got to know the score before throwing his money down.

Not until he was invited.

Snowman might be ice-cold but he had respect which was a lot more than most could say about the newcomers that came and went with a rumble of tuned up engines and sprays of nitrous oxide.

Snowman talked a talk and walked a walk that made it clear to everyone that he was looking to make a name for himself.

Whether he’d run solo or join a crew was still a matter of debate, but that he’d been accepted became crystal clear when Snowman rolled up to the line between one of Tran’s crew, an out-of-towner, and none other than Toretto’s second in the eternally hot-headed Vince.

That there was beef of some kind between Vince and Snowman was also crystal clear, given the snarl on the former’s face whenever he glanced over at the latter’s ice-cool expression.

Snowman ignored him and focused on Hector clearing the line for their heat, which only pissed him off even more.

If Brian was a rookie UC, he’d throw the race and take the heckling from Vince.

Maybe bank on it granting him some goodwill.

Brian wasn’t a rookie undercover cop.

He didn’t throw the race.

Tires screamed as rubber met pavement and torque in a combination known the world over and as much a part of the racing scene as the people who populated it.

Ten seconds could flash by in a flicker of an eye.

It could also seem to take an hour.

All Brian heard in those ten seconds was the steady, unfaltering pulse of his heart and all he saw was the finish line.

Well.

That and Vince cussing up a storm in his Maxima as he pulled up half a car behind him.

Not quite eating his dust but it wasn’t a win set to show the new kid their place either.

And Dom had spoken: whatever beef Vince was building up in his head when it came to Harry’s new parts-slinger, it started and ended on the track rather than at the end of Vince’s fists.

Damn it, Vince cussed under his breath even as he swung his car back around to pull into his slot on the sidelines.

Letty was never going to let him hear the end of losing to the kid.

The loss of a cool thousand bucks didn’t help soothe the irritation either.

But it was his pride that was aching more than anything else.

Even the shiner the kid had left him with earlier that day.

On the bright side, for all that Dom was far more interested in the kid than Vince would prefer - somethin’ about the dude just didn’t sit right with him - at least he wasn’t no punk.

What he was, however, remained to be seen.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”  Dom mused even as the line cleared so he could pull up for the main event.  “Guess Snowman isn’t a buster after all.”

Then it was lights and sirens and panic, and running from the lucky cop who spotted Dom wandering away from the parking garage where he’d stashed his RX-7.

And Dom thought - that was it.

He was toast.

Right up until a cobalt blue Eclipse passed by the black-and-white, and the last person Dom ever thought he’d see was yelling at him to get in the car.

He had to give it to Hector who’d coined the name: Snowman was right.

Dom was a racer, NOS was in his blood and no one had ever beaten him on a quarter mile since he’d gotten out of Lompoc and gotten his head back on straight.

But Brian?

Brian was a driver with ice in his veins, not even blinking as he split between cop cars and put on moves and speed in a combination that was honestly breathtaking even as they had Dom grabbing for the oh shit bar over the passenger side door.

“You were the last person I thought would show up.”  Dom admitted it, swallowing his pride over having to be saved like some prissy princess in a fairy tale.

Brian darted a quick look over at the shaken form and pale face of Dominic Toretto, potential criminal mastermind behind the truck jackings and in that moment just couldn’t see it.

No one that freaked out over being collared would run a risk like that.

No way.

“I try not to leave anyone hanging out to dry.”  He said, a bit too honestly, probably.  “Even if your boy is redlining on my last nerve.”

Dom barked out a laugh.

Couldn’t blame Snowman there, Vince was like a dog with a bone over the kid hanging around Mia, though Dom wasn’t certain if that was all it was.

Might just be a personality clash at the end of the day between two stubborn bastards.

Might not.

Either way only time would tell.

And with Brian saving his ass from handcuffs, it was time that the pair was likely to get.

If the kid was interested in giving up his lone wolf act.

With how frosty those baby blues had been while evading the police, there was a lot of potential there but there was a lot of wariness.

Still, Dom wasn’t afraid of putting in the wrench time to make potential turn into horsepower and polish.

Never had been, never would be.

Something told him Brian would be worth it.

Maybe worth more to Dom than even he could expect.

But again: only time would tell.

Chapter Text

Criminal Catnip

Chapter Four: Oh Fuck…

Brian would’ve never potentially fucked over his in with the street crews by calling in the race.

That said: he was not dumb enough to overlook the potential opportunity the scramble to evade LAPD provided, keeping one eye on the black-and-whites and the other on which way Toretto’s RX-7 went.

He wasn’t a native of LA by any means, but he’d been serving-and-protecting on the city’s streets for years in one aspect or another.  Most academies had a minimum age of twenty-one.  California was a little harder-up for cops given both the amount that the state required to enforce law and order as well as the turn-around and burnout rates.

In the State of California per the law, a body only had to be able to pass their entrance exams, hold a driver’s license, and be eighteen years of age to enroll in a police academy.

LA had been far enough from Barstow for some breathing room from his juvie record and a graveyard that held his known blood-family, and that had been that:

Brian kept his nose clean as part of an early-release deal rather than risk being sent up-state to finish his sentence, then once his parole term was complete and his Criminal Justice Associates was hot in his hands signed up for the Academy to get his records sealed since it was either that or the military.  His hometown judge being the old-school type about sealing records and rarely did so without a damn good reason - or a deal.  At least with the police the government wouldn’t literally own his ass until his contract was up.  With his driving scores at the Academy, the UC division didn’t leave him making his bones as a beat cop or traffic officer for long, pulling him just before his twentieth birthday for specialized training.

Brian had been working one op or another ever since.

Almost ten years on the streets either as a beat cop or undercover were more than enough for him to have a damn good mental layout of most of the neighborhoods and his memory had to be both good and extremely precise to carry out as many UC ops as Brian had done in the last seven-plus years.

With half his attention lining out what direction Dominic would run and the other half on the black-and-whites, scooping up Toretto before a lucky beat cop could nab him was a piece of cake - albeit one heavily sprinkled with luck-dust.

Impressing him with his driving was even easier, as Toretto lost the spooked look as the sight and sound of police pursuit quickly faded into the background under Brian’s skilled and practiced hand on the wheel and foot on the pedal.

It took a minute, but before long that haunted expression faded into one that was considering - and that was exactly what Brian needed to secure his insertion to the street racing scene in full.

LA wasn’t Vegas, where Brian could take his car when the itch for speed and burning rubber got too strong.

When that itch started tempting him to do something stupid on an op.

Drive a little too recklessly for his cover.

Push an enforcer a little too hard.

Eye the wrong piece of eye candy a little too long.

Anything that would provide him with that adrenaline rush that was better than any line of heroin as far as Brian was concerned.

Brian had turned what was almost a clusterfuck for his op into a genuine opportunity - but what kind relied on Toretto and how deep his suspicions and caution ran when it came to new blood in his territory.

Because if there was one thing that had been made crystal clear to Brian over the last weeks that he’d spent slowly inching his way into the racing scene in LA it was that Dominic Toretto truly was the King of the Streets.

Even Tran - who didn’t respect anyone but his father as far as Brian could tell both from his own observations and the jacket on him made out - kept that in mind when it came to underground racing in the city.

They made the obligatory back-and-forth over Brian’s saving Toretto from wearing handcuffs, Brian scoring an actual laugh out of the big-and-built mechanic over his acknowledging his beef with Toretto’s best friend, then he let silence fill the cab of the car - well, except for the sound of a tuned engine and custom exhaust anyway.

But for guys like them, that might as well be a mother’s lullaby so neither paid it any mind.

Now the sound of crotch-rockets coming up fast and hard that hit their ears not long afterward?

That Brian minded.

“Shit.”  Dom cussed, seeing who could only be the Trans - because of fucking course Johnny wasn’t above taking advantage of a police raid to be a little dick - coming up and quickly moving to herd Brian into a parking lot.

From the sudden flex and clench of his jaw, Spilner wasn’t happy in the slightest either, since his only options were to let Tran herd him or take a chance on splattering one or more of the riders to break off - and then pray that the assholes aren’t packing heat for once and that he managed to get the fuck out of town before Tran did a drive-by in retaliation.

Fucker.

“It’s probably best for the next bit to pretend that you don’t know me.”  Dom admitted even as Brian stopped the car, flicking him a glance out of ice-cold eyes.

Brian just smirked.  “Think it’s a bit too late for that, Dom.”

The UC took in the automatic weapons the Vietnamese bikers were carrying with a cool glance, not a flicker of unease showing as Tran’s cousin - Lance Nguyen according to what he’d learned about the scene - aimed right at him.

Between the snakeskin pants, the glare, and the silencer, Brian was already getting a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach before Tran started talking.

But at least the kid Brian took for a cool thousand in his race that night wasn’t there.

That’d just make things awkward.

“I thought we had an agreement.”  Johnny stated calmly as he studied the beautiful racing machine that Toretto and the icy blond called Snowman that had started hanging around the bald mechanic and crew runner a couple weeks ago, climbed out of.  “You stay away, I stay away.  Everybody’s happy.”

“He’s new in town, got lost Johnny.”  Dom told him.  “What do ya want me to tell ya?”

“Who’s he?”  Johnny asked, as if he didn’t know everyone who ran with Toretto.

“Ah, my new mechanic.”  Dom pointed across the top of the Eclipse towards the blond.  “Brian: meet Johnny Tran.  The guy in the snakeskin pants?  That’s his cousin Lance.”  Dom continued as if completely unphased.  “When are you going to give me a shot at that Honda 2000 of yours?”

“This your ride?”  Johnny asked the blond softly.

“Yeah,” Brian stared right back at him, not giving an inch.  “Yeah, it’s mine.”

“Heard you’re starting to make a name for yourself, Snowman.”   Johnny continued, all-but-openly calling Toretto on his lie.  Though he didn’t doubt that the blond was going to end up in Toretto’s crew now that the Street King had staked a claim on him.  But still.  Respect had to be maintained.  “Took my baby cousin Richy for a cool G earlier tonight before the raid.”

“Yeah,” Brian repeated himself, staying frosty.  “That’s right.”

“This it?”  Johnny asked, trailing one hand gently up the side of the Eclipse as Toretto was forced to step back or be shoulder-checked.  “A lot of wrench time went into this, whattya think Lance?”  He glanced at his cousin as he stepped away from the car.

“It’s an amazing machine.”

Brian flicked a glance between the cousins, but didn’t know them well enough to get a solid grip on whatever it was they were communicating silently between themselves.

This was the part of undercover he hated.

That limbo-zone where he was known enough to be of interest but didn’t know the players well enough to anticipate which way they were going to jump or swing or what kind of crazy bullshit would pop into their heads.

One thing he was certain of however: there was absolutely more going on than an issue of Brian having accidentally strayed into Tran territory during his getaway from the raid.

And all of it had to do with the fact that he’d had Toretto in his car when he strayed.

The pair left the conversation hanging there as Johnny and the rest sauntered back over to their motorcycles, Johnny once more talking to Toretto.

“You’ll get your chance in the desert next month.”  Johnny dismissed any notion of racing against Toretto before Race Wars - not that many on the scene would be doing much on the streets with the legal opportunity to make a fuck-ton of money coming up fast.

“Gonna need more than that crotch rocket.”  Dom couldn’t help but snark at the gang leader.

Johnny Tran didn’t scare him - not really.

His old man kept him on a pretty solid leash for the most part, and Tran Sr. had no beef with Dom.

“I’ve got somethin’ for ya.”  Johnny shot right back, starting his bike back up and peeling away.

Brian waited a heartbeat for the Vietnamese bikers to ride out before giving Toretto a look.

“What the hell was that about?”

“Long story,” Dom sighed, even as he reached for the door handle to climb back into the Eclipse.  “I’ll tell ya later,” he waved it off.  “Let’s get outta here.”

Just as they were ducking down to climb into the Eclipse, both of them picked up the revving of crotch-rockets heading back towards them.

Dom traded a look with Brian over the roof of the car before both turned to face the pair of Johnny and Lance who’d turned back.

Only to face silenced gun barrels, both of their eyes shooting wide a split second before Johnny and Lance pulled their triggers and unloaded their full clips on the Eclipse.

Bullets tore through the aluminum, carbon fiber, and fiberglass of the tuner, Brian and Dom both ducking down and away from the car and into cover lest the Trans decide to turn those automatic weapons on them.

It took less than a minute for what was a finely-tuned racing machine to become little more than broken glass and veritable tin-foil, and with a smug glance at Toretto both bikers took off once more leaving the pair to stare in shock at the Eclipse that had quickly caught fire as bullets tore through the gas tank.

Dom realized it first as the fire whooshed and spread, eyes popping wide once more as the pair had come around to stand together once the bullets stopped firing.

“NOS!”   He shouted in warning, even as he swung an arm around Brian’s waist and heaved both of them back and semi-behind the stone dragon statue in the parking lot.

Good timing: as the fire hit the tanks still containing nitrous oxide and exploded, sending up what hadn’t been destroyed of the car by bullets and fire in a literal ball of green-tinged flames.

The Eclipse caught air, shooting up nearly ten feet before crashing back down to earth.

Not that either man noticed it.

Dom had slung himself around Brian, his protective instincts kicking in full-force for the kid who’d kept him out of handcuffs and been willing to stare down Johnny Tran.

All the preparation and caution in the world didn’t mean shit in the face of extraordinary circumstances - Brian knew that.

Still - he could’ve done without learning none other than one of his suspects was his soulmate as Toretto had managed to hit skin as they moved and Toretto curled his bulkier body around Brian’s slimmer form to protect him from flying glass or metal as the Eclipse exploded.

Toretto’s cheek against the back of Brian’s neck - to be precise - their formerly-latent soulbond lighting up like the Eclipse behind them as they hit the pavement. Toretto’s face had found the three-by-one uncovered space between Brian’s hair and the collars of his shirts that had been formerly covered.  Shirt collars that had moved and shifted downwards with the pull on his torso by Torreto’s grab.

Fuck.

It was the situation that every cop was always afraid of - especially ones that worked UC.

Having a mark for a Mark.

The snap and warmth of the bond was as unmistakable as it was indescribable no matter what textbooks said and for all everyone tried.

In that moment that their skin touched: they knew.

And from the storm clouds brewing in Toretto’s eyes and the sheer rage that flickered across his expression for a moment before he got control…Brian had a feeling that he knew more than that Brian was his soulmate.

Oh fuck.

While he didn’t know how one of his marks corresponded to Dominic Toretto, as Brian O’Conner saw that expression cross his soulmate’s face - and yeah, that was going to take some time to wrap his head around given that he’d honestly never thought he’d meet any of his Marks (he’d never thought he’d be worth them) - he knew that whatever Toretto’s mark for Brian was…it told him things that Brian would abso-fucking-lutely rather he didn’t know.

At least until Brian figured out how to tell him.

Either that or that Toretto was seriously homo-or-intersexed-phobic.

(But given that Brian had seen Jesse, Brian would’ve put money on the former.)

Especially as while they both climbed to their feet, Toretto didn’t take his hand off Brian’s side for a moment.

If anything, he wrapped his fist in cotton and polyester and anchored Brian down.

Short of him eeling his way out of his shirts while trying to escape from Toretto, anyway.

“So,” Dom commented even as he burned inside.  This fucking kid…   He’d lied to them.  To Dom.  To Dom’s family and friends.  This fucking…  He took a steadying breath, watching as that ice-cool gaze that had been so fascinating earlier turned nothing less than what Dom would call calculating as Dom failed to entirely control his temper from showing.  Oh well.  Toretto’s had never been known for their cool.  Not like Snowman.   “An undercover cop, huh?  Find out anything interesting, Officer…whatever the fuck your name is?”

Oh fuck.  Brian mentally cursed, even as he slowly closed his eyes to steady himself and that fist tangled in his shirts suddenly started feeling like a pair of cement shoes on his feet.  Fuck.  Fuck.  Fuck.

This was not how he’d seen the night ending.

Tran was going to pay for forcing this conversation with his street-punk bullshit.

Even if Brian had to break a few rules - or a few dozen - to manage it.

“O’Conner,” he said on a sigh, opening his eyes back up and meeting Toretto’s temper head on.  "Detective," he emphasized the rank, despite it likely being all the same to Toretto.  He knew the score: in a lot of places, a pig was a pig.  "Brian O’Conner, LAPD Undercover Division.”

“Huh,” Dom hummed a little, actually surprised that something that had come out of the kid’s mouth hadn’t been a lie.  He pursed his lips, then let go when it looked like the kid - his soulmate, the fucking cop - wasn’t going to bolt.  “O’Conner, Irish.”  He shrugged and took a firm step back.  “Suits you, Brian.”   He crossed his arms over his chest even as he appraised the kid in a long, sweeping look from his seen-better-days shoes to the top of those golden (and distracting) curls.  “So,” he tilted his head a bit as Brian stared right back, refusing to back down for even an instant.  “What’re we gonna do about this?”

“Guess that depends on you,” Brian met him - his soulmate, the potential criminal - look for look, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans.  “What do you want to do about this, Toretto?”

Dom scoffed, rolling his eyes and loosening his stance.

This was fucked up one side and down the other.

He didn’t need to be a genius to put together an undercover cop trying to work their way into the racing scene and his family’s recent…less than kosher endeavors.

A cop.

He’d known for years, since he was a kid when the mark appeared, that one of his soulmates was going to be affiliated somehow with the LAPD.

The mark of a LAPD police badge complete with number kinda gave that away.

Never stopped him from doing what he wanted, from living life a quarter mile at a time, but it’d been there: lurking in the back of his mind.

“C’mon, Brian,” Dom jerked his head towards the parking lot’s exit.  “Unless you wanna call for backup from your buddies in blue, we’ve got a long walk ahead of us.  Might as well make use of it rather than stand around waiting for someone to call in your car’s unfortunate demise.”

He wasn’t ready to trust the kid.

He was a cop after all.

But seein’ as how he wasn’t in handcuffs either, he was willing to see what the fuck about a cop made him a soulmate for Dom.

His dad had been old school.  Believed in Marks being a blessing down to his bones and taught his children to be the same.  Dom had to believe that there was a reason for someone like Dom to have a cop for a soulmate.

He had to.

Brian blinked, shaking his head softly in disbelief before falling into step with the bigger and older man.

Okay…

Not what he’d expected once the fact that Toretto was his soulmate had clicked into reality in his mind.

Honestly, he’d been expecting to have to dodge at least a couple punches with how Toretto’s rap sheet reads and how he was known to have a temper even outside of his assault conviction.

Most of him was already thinking in terms of damage mitigation for when the fact that one of his marks was his soulmate became known.  How was he going to swing this?  (And what was it going to cost him?)

The rest of him was trying to figure out Toretto’s angle.

And if a small, infinitesimal bit of him was both celebrating finding one of his Marks and also mourning the Eclipse’s demise at the same time?

Well.

That he had a functioning heart underneath his infamous cool was no one’s business but Brian’s.

And now maybe Toretto's.

Maybe.

Chapter Text

Criminal Catnip

Chapter Five: Eye of the Storm

“Tell me about Tran.”  Brian decided that he was not going to focus on finding his soulmate in Dominic fucking Toretto at the moment.

Nope.

Not gonna happen.

He needed privacy and time to come to terms with that nuke to his life.  Brian wasn’t kidding himself: there was no world where a version of him who’s an undercover cop having Dominic Toretto as his soulmate doesn’t end up making his life implode.  Nuh uh.  Not gonna happen.

Something was going to have to give, and right that second Brian had exactly zero interest in figuring out how many different new and exciting ways his life could be fucked over by both having an ex-con and a person of interest in his current case as his soulmate.

Hard pass.

Instead he did what he did best: focused on the op and locked everything else away.

“Really, O’Conner?”   Dom huffed an incredulous laugh as they walked away from the wreckage.

Both of the cop’s Eclipse and their former status-quo that had just started working itself out before their implosion by way of soul-bond.

“You’re goin’ there?”

“Hey, I don’t know about you.”  Brian shot back, walls and hackles up.  “But I just got shot at and lost my wheels before having my world turned upside down.  I need a fucking minute, okay.”

The last bit came out more snarly than appeasing, but what the fuck ever.

He wasn’t having the best night and if more of himself was slipping into his persona as a result, it was what it was.

Toretto could deal.

Since he didn’t seem inclined to fuck him up for being a cop - at the moment - anyway.

Dom considered that for a moment, then decided to give - at least a little.

“Johnny wants to be the King of the Streets and I’m in his way.”  Dom finally decided on a course.  It wasn’t the truth.  At least not the entire truth.  But there was a world of difference between being willing to see how they might make it work as a soul-bonded pair and being a narc.

Even if Dom were the sort of person who was willing to use O’Conner’s connection to him and the LAPD to his advantage - there were just some games, some depths, that he wasn’t willing to sink to.

“...and I slept with his sister.”

Brian snorted, one hand coming up to rub over the lower half of his face.

Alright.

He could see how that might make bad blood between the two - even if he didn’t believe it was the entire story.

It was going to be a long twelve miles back to Echo Park as silence fell between the newly recognized soulmates.

Even so, the words hung thick and tense in the air between them, neither willing to make the first overture.

Both of their minds churning with just how fucked they were - and neither willing to give so much as an inch.

In that at least: pure bullheaded stubbornness, both of them over the course of a silent mile before they found a cab willing to pick them up, they realized they’d found themselves well-matched.

Even if it would’ve made either of their lives a fuck-ton easier if they weren’t.

But then: they were a cop and an ex-con who the universe or God or fate had decided were a match made in hell.

Easier didn’t even begin to come into the equation.

“Hey,” Dom finally found his words again as the cab that’d picked them up turned down his street.  “I let you go tonight, am I ever gonna see you again?”

Given that O’Conner had locked himself down - curled himself up against the opposite corner of the back seat, all-but turning his back to Dom, shoulders hunkered and tense, forehead gaining deep furrows and eyes far away from a shitty LA cab - Dom didn’t think it was a stupid question.

Yeah.

Havin’ an undercover cop as a soulmate wasn’t exactly ideal for someone like him.

But he was one of his soulmates nonetheless.

Dom had to have faith that that meant something in the grand scheme of things.

Even if only - at the moment - that Dom’s little truck-jacking venture was about to come to a screeching halt faster than a buster blowing their head gasket on a quarter mile.

If ever there was a sign that that shit needed to stop - as Mia had been beggin’ him to do ever since she found out about it after the first haul - it’d be that.

It wasn’t as big of a blow as it probably should’ve been, but then…

It had always been more about the thrill than it had been done out of a real need for the easy (for them at least) cash.

“Me?  Yeah,” Brian sighed out, letting his head fall back onto the headrest with a soft thump, rolling it back and forth a little to let loose of some of his fidgets that this whole clusterfuck had dancing through his veins even as the adrenaline faded out and left him shaky.  “Spilner?”  He smirked, shaking his head just the slightest bit as he cracked open his eyes and met Dom’s dark stare.  “Nah.  Whether you say anything or not, that’s over.  Especially with how you went from zero-to-sixty on my, ah,” he flicked a glance at the cabby who was doin’ a damn good impression of sudden hearing loss.  “Status.  These things have a habit of comin’ out whether we want ‘em to or not.”

All it would take was one other person - like Vince the hothead - who knew whatever-it-was that Toretto knew about the man’s soulmark and Brian would be fucked if he kept trying to run with the op.

The FBI was going to have kittens.

Especially if the suspicion that was brewing in the back of Brian’s mind was correct and the hijackings suddenly stopped as soon as Brian’s identity as Toretto’s soulmate became known.

Brian didn’t know if it was Toretto - he sure as shit didn’t want it to be - but it didn’t matter anymore as far as the operation was concerned.

It was just standard procedure.

The second an UC was compromised by a Mark activating, that was it: operation scrapped.  Unless it was due to another UC or a cop or fellow agent etc.

But this situation definitely wasn’t that.

In fact, it couldn’t be further away from that best-case scenario what with his Mark being one of the top three most likely candidates for hijacker of the year.

Now all that mattered was damage control.

And how much the FBI was going to make him pay - unofficially of course - for daring to have an ex-con as a Mark.

“Alright, Brian,” Dom loosened up his grip on the interior door handle at the news that his soulmate wasn’t going to disappear into the sunset or whatever it was that UCs did when their cover was blown.  “You know where to find me.”

“Yeah,” Brian sighed, still weary down to his bones over the fucked-up night.

At least he didn’t have to deal with a house party like Toretto, the man looking less than pleased at the sight of people and sound pouring out of his house when they pulled up outside.

“Yeah, I do.”

“See you soon, O’Conner.”  Dom tried to make it sound more like a promise than a threat, even if the slight uptick in the corner of the kid’s mouth made him think he might’ve failed.

Brian didn’t answer however, instead waiting for Toretto to slam shut the cab door before giving the driver the address to the Racer’s Edge to collect the detritus of his busted op.

Like fuck was he going to sleep on the little cot in Harry’s backroom if he didn’t have to.

And damn if he didn’t need sleep.

Sleep he probably wasn’t going to get if he was going to follow SOP to the letter and call in the clusterfuck to Tanner.

Fuck it.

He was already going to be in hot water as they tried to salvage whatever possible from the scant intel they had gotten from the op - almost none of it actionable.

Except for Tran anyway.

Even if they couldn’t nail him for firing on an officer since Brian never identified himself as such, they still would have him dead-to-rights on all sorts of shit from firing on the Eclipse and causing its explosion.

It wasn’t much compared to what the FBI was after but: fuck it.

At this point even a minor win was a win.

What with his life getting immeasurably more complicated than it had been when he woke up this morning and all.

When the roar of one hundred percent pure American muscle hit the ears of the joint task force overseeing the investigation into the recent spate of semi-truck hijackings, just about everybody turned to look towards the door.

They’d set up operations out of a seized drug-lord’s mansion, turning the living room into a nerve-center to oversee everything from the undercover portion of the task force to the surveillance they’d put on several of the most-likely players in town to a set up for their techs charged with any research that needed doing.

But of everyone, most of whom had confusion painted across their faces, only two of them had looks of dread mixed in.

They knew who that engine belonged to.

And if it was pulling up to the ops center hidden in the Hollywood Hills, then something with the op had gone catastrophically awry.

“Fuck,” Marty Deeks cussed, rising to his feet from where he’d been talking to his current boss/handler in Lt. Tanner.  “That’s Brian.”

“Yup.”  Tanner agreed glibly, hiding his confusion from the likes of Bilkins who had a wash of anger cresting over his face at what he no doubt saw as a serious breach in protocol.  “I’d know that engine anywhere.”

“What do you mean?”  Bilkins scowled, glare shooting between the pair.  “What’s O’Conner doing here?”

“I imagine he’ll tell us.”  Tanner noted calmly, even as several of the resident cops and agents crowded around the windows overlooking the drive and caught one hell of an eyeful.

Tanner would know.

He’d seen - and goggled just like many of them - O’Conner’s personal vehicle many a time.

It was one hell of a sight, the sort of view that would make anyone with even a vague interest in cars take a second look.

It should.

A cherry-red with black detailing 1970 Plymouth Barricuda with a rare four-speed manual transmission to go with the legendary 426 Hemi - and that was before whatever upgrades O’Conner had put into it to make it racing-fit - it was a six-figure car if it ever went to auction.

Tanner was probably one of the only people around who knew that O’Conner inherited the bones of the car: shell, engine, and transmission rather than buying it for a collector’s sky-high sticker-price.

O’Conner’s bosses and academy instructors alike hated that damn car, the Hemi-cuda the farthest damn thing from a discrete cop-owned car as it could get.

At least it didn’t have spinners or some shit, was Tanner’s view.

You could take the gearhead out of the streets, clean him up, and shove him in a uniform, but there was no force on Earth that Tanner knew that could siphon the NOS out of his veins.

Tanner believed in working with what he had, not what he’d prefer.

Kept him from developing an ulcer each and every time one of his UCs did some stupid, reckless, dangerous shit that wasn’t strictly necessary to an operation.

Or in the case of Brian O’Conner, having an aneurysm whenever he decided to drive his car to work instead of catching the bus or signing out a police-issued vehicle.

It was a matter of moments between the engine cutting off and O'Conner striding through the safe house's door, heading straight for Tanner with an ice cold expression and a storm raging in his eyes.

"Tanner," the UC said, ignoring Bilkins who tried to get in his way. "We've got a problem."

"We've got a problem." 

The announcement was nearly growled out in Dom's rumbling bass as he stood in 1327's garage with his arms crossed and his back to his dad's drape-covered Charger.

Letty, Leon, and Vince traded nervous glances.

When Dom had pulled them away from the party they'd all figured they were in for an ass chewing over partying instead of going put looking for Dom when he didn't turn up in a regular amount of time after the raid.

But whatever this was - it wasn't that.

"What's goin' on, brother?" As always, Vince was unafraid to bite the bullet and meet Dom head on.

That and his loyalty were two of the things Dom appreciated most about his best friend.

Dom quirks a dry smile.

"I got one of my Marks."

The trio traded weirded out looks how the hell did Dom get one of his Marks while running from the cops???

Wordlessly, Dom reached down and tapped his hip.

His hip where a certain shield resided.

And then the penny dropped.

"I need to take emergency bonding leave."

Tanner felt an instant migraine start to throb inside his skull as at that winning announcement from O'Conner the room exploded into sound.

Bilkins shouting above them all.

And all the while, O’Conner just watched them out of those cool blue eyes, not a shred of anger, annoyance, or even humor to be seen.

Well, Tanner thought to himself in understatement, that's certainly not a good sign.

The good lieutenant didn't even know the half of it, and already he was bracing for the fallout.

Because make no mistake: when one of his UCs came to him for emergency bonding leave, there was always fallout. 

It was only the type and blast radius that differed.

Chapter Text

Criminal Catnip

Chapter Six: Damage Control

“Alright, tell me.”  Tanner sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and fingers as he leaned back against the countertop in the safe house’s kitchen.

They’d left Bilkins and the rest to freak out and throw tantrums as the implications of Brian needing bonding leave in the middle of an op hit them.

Meanwhile, they focused on salvaging what they could from the wreckage of an undercover op that had been expensive to set up - that Eclipse and parts alone were a pretty price tag before everything else was taken into account like man-hours.

“Dominic Toretto.”  Brian admitted stone-faced and ice-voiced.  “Last night I scooped him up before the black-and-whites from the raid could nab him.  Ended up straying into what apparently is Tran’s territory - we need to update organized crime, by the way.”  Brian added as an aside.  “I should’ve still been in neutral territory so the lines have shifted since the last time OC got solid intel on the territory boundaries.”

Tanner made a mental note to do just that, even if it wasn’t the information they were after at least it was information nonetheless.

His mind was swimming with all the loose ends that would have to be tied up, all the potential for disaster that was having the likes of Dominic Toretto getting his hooks into a detective and UC asset of O’Connor’s caliber.

Fuck.

He wished he could join Bilkins in his tantrum but facts were facts:

It wasn’t like O’Connor chose to have Toretto as his soulmate, it just was the universe or whatever laughing at the LAPD and FBI and all their best-laid plans.

All they could do now was damage control, and no one knew that better than O’Connor.

Hence the request for emergency leave.

The best thing the UC could do for whatever investigation remained once all the chips were down was take a large and firm step away.  Diminish his touch and input.  Cut away any areas a defense attorney might use O’Connor’s soulbonding to get any cases he’d worked thrown out due to being compromised by his soulmate’s influence - true or not.

Even if Toretto was willing to roll with O’Connor being an UC inserted in his crew to catch the hijackers: that kind of potential influence on an officer was a defense attorney’s wet-dream when it came to bandying around words like corruption and undue influence.

“They have beef: Toretto and Tran and it’s worse than anything our intel said.”  Brian got back on topic.  “Tran came up on us with his boys on their crotch rockets and herded us to a deserted parking lot in Little Saigon.  It looked like it was just going to be posturing as they took off, but Tran and his cousin Lance came back.”

Brian’s jaw clenched, muscle throbbing by his ear, and Tanner felt a pinch of dread.

“What happened, Brian?”

“They opened fire on the Eclipse, boss.”  He managed to get out, still feeling the burn of dozens of hours of wrench time going up in flames.  The Eclipse wasn’t his, not the way his Cuda was, but then it kinda was at the same time.  It hurt.  Hurt in a way only another gearhead could ever really understand.

And he was going to make Tran pay for it.

Right along with setting events in motion that scrapped both an operation that’d been weeks in the making and Brian’s career as a UC.

Maybe Brian’s entire career as a cop.

Though on that only time and how much of a bastard his co-workers were going to be over him having Toretto as a Mark.

“It went up in flames, and flames and NOS,” he grimaced, shrugging his shoulders defensively.  “Typically not a great mix.  Toretto grabbed me to make sure - I’d guess - that I got to cover before the tanks blew.  Ended up with his face on the back of my neck.”

“And that’d be that, given that now you’re asking for bonding leave.”  Tanner sighed, slumping a little even as his mind was busy. 

“Basically, yeah.”

“Granted.”  Tanner nodded crisply, then waved his hand towards the door of the safe house - though O’Connor would have to pass by Bilkins in all his glory to manage to get clear.  “Make sure that the paperwork is on my desk by this evening and I’ll get it squared away with the Captain.”

“He knows I’m a cop, Tanner.”  Brian warned him, just in case his boss was considering an angle to try and salvage putting someone under in the race scene.  “He knew right away, as soon as the bond hit us.  I don’t know what my Mark on him looks like, but whatever it is, it’s apparently telling.”

Tanner grimaced.

That was some great news and would scupper the FBI’s most likely plans going forward.

Great.

And O’Connor would be on leave and not having to deal with it.

Lucky bastard - inconvenient timing on meeting one of his Marks aside.

“Get out of here, O’Connor.”  Tanner heaved a sigh.  “Before I change my mind and feed you to Bilkins for the sheer aggravation factor cleaning this up is going to cause me.”

“Thanks, boss.”  Brian gave him a little salute, already feeling a little lighter for getting out from under some of the worry that’d crashed down on him last night.  “I’ll get the forms on your desk before I take off.”

“You do that.”  Tanner waved off the pretty little bastard to his bonding leave.  “And O’Connor?”

“Yeah?”

“Congratulations.  Sincerely: congratulations.”

Brian hovered in the doorway for a long moment, then gave a jerky nod of acknowledgement before disappearing along with the throaty growl of his Hemicuda.

Tanner gave a soft laugh, letting himself enjoy the thought of O’Connor’s everything landing in the lap of Dominic Toretto before he had to get to work cleaning up and minimizing fallout.

Good luck, Toretto.

You’re going to need it.

“Aw hell, Dom.”  Vince scrubbed one hand over the top of his head.  “Found your cop?”

“Brian ,” Dom ground out, glaring over their heads and into the middle distance.  "Detective Brian O’Conner is my Mark.”

Aw fuck, Letty traded a loaded glance with Leon as Vince cussed up a storm, complete with kicking the wall of the garage.

“What’re we gonna do, Dom?”  Letty focused on the problems that Dom’s Mark had to potential to cause, rather than the anger building in her that not only had Dom’s cop turned up - but that he’d been both a he, which meant she’d really never had a shot even if there was a chance in hell in competing against someone’s Mark, and that he’d been undercover.  “Think he knows?”

“I think he’s got an idea - that the cops have got an idea - that the truck jackings have a link to racing.”  Dom slowly unclenched when it looked like none of his friends - his family - were going to bite his head off over Brian.

Yet, anyway.

“Either that,” Dom spelled out the different angles he’d been considering, since while Brian had admitted to being undercover, he hadn’t told him what he’d been sent under to find.  “Or either Hector, Edwin, or Tran have caught more heat recently than normal.  Could go either way.”

“Yeah, like that’s the only thing around here that could go either way.”  Letty sassed, arching a brow when Dom just looked at her for the jibe over his pretty male soulmate.  “Still the point stands: what’s the play Dom?”

“You three are going to run the Civics and split them between two chop shops: Chico’s in Oceanside and Jimmy’s down in El Cajon.”  Dom laid out the plan he’d come up with to cover their asses in case what his soulmate had come looking for was them.   “Even if the cops decide to move on whatever information O’Conner managed to scrape together they can’t use shit against me - but the Fifth won’t cover you.”

The Fifth - as in the Fifth Amendment, specifically the clause that covers both spousal and soulmate privilege, meaning that anything O’Conner knew about Dom’s potential illegal activities couldn’t be used in court.

But, as Dom had pointed out: that only covered Dominic.

Anyone else involved would be fair game - if O’Conner was the sort of asshole who wouldn’t blink at putting away his soulmate’s friends.

Dom didn’t think he was.

But fuck: if that night had proven anything it was that what Dom thought he knew about Brian Spilner meant precisely dick when it came to Brian O'Conner.

“Everything else has already been cleaned up, it’s only the Civics that are a potential loose end.”  Anything else - like Tran or some other fucker trying to point the finger at Toretto’s crew - was worthless without evidence.  Hearsay.  Not exactly the sort of slam-dunk that either a cop or a lawyer would be excited to bring before a judge.  “Mia, Jesse, and I will hold down the fort and play alibi while you’re out.  Just in case.”

O’Conner had looked just as done with the night as Dom, so really it was a coin toss on whether he’d go straight to his bosses and fess up to havin’ a big-bad ex-con as a soulmate or not.

Dom was banking on not.

But even if he did: by the time the cops found their asses with both hands and a map, the Civics would be little more than parts, pieces, and scrap metal in different cities altogether.

He was countin’ on it.

“Okay…”  Leon frowned, mentally debating the angles as Vince simmered down with the introduction of something to do instead of just being pissed off.  “That’ll cover the jackings.  What’re we gonna do about having a cop in the family?  Most of the scene, but especially Tran, aren’t gonna exactly be happy for us, bro.”

“The fuck I care what Tran or the rest think,” Dom bristled at the mere suggestion, chest puffing out and shoulders squaring.  “Our soulbond is on us: it’s no one else’s fuckin’ business how we choose to handle it.  And with Tran blowin’ up Brian’s car,”

He was cut off by the winces and a loud curse from Letty at the news.

“Fuck, the Eclipse?”  Letty sneered at Tran’s balls for that bullshit.  “That’s fucked, man.”

“Yeah, Snowman wasn’t exactly frosty about it.”  Dom drawled, lifting his brows when Vince gave a silent snarl at the reminder of Brian’s existence.  “I have a feeling that even if he did have some kinda instinct about who was really runnin’ those jackings, that Tran is going to have some uncomfortable days ahead once O’Conner reports in.”

Letty and Leon shared a smirk, even as Vince started settling in for an epic sulk.

Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.

Even if it was at the hands of a cop.

It was Dom’s cop.

Bro couldn’t be all bad.

Despite the shitty choices in employment, anyway.

And Dom was right: by the time the task force made any sort of decision about their direction going forward following the spectacular implosion of their undercover operation, the only solid evidence linking the Toretto crew had been busted down into parts and pieces.

Leaving the truck jacking case to go cold, even if the task force side-eyed the crew hard over the lack of more jackings following Brian and Dom’s soulbond.

The LAPD took the minor win of having no more jackings in or around their city.

The FBI, unfortunately, weren’t nearly so sanguine.

Or so ready to let sleeping dogs lie.

Chapter Text

Criminal Catnip

Chapter Seven: Once More, With Feeling

Dom knew he should be smarter, too suspicious, to follow the address he’d gotten from an Unknown Number on his cell.

And under normal circumstances, that’d be true.

Except.

This random text that came in two days after he found out his cop-Mark was none other than Detective Brian O’Conner, who was looking into a series of truck jackings, had something that a rando wouldn’t:

A specific LAPD badge number, along with what had to be his detective's shield number, the former of which Dom had memorized before he’d even hit puberty given that it had pride of place on his hip as part of a soulmark.

After putting Kenny Linder in traction and serving two years at Lompoc for aggravated assault, which had been ratcheted down from attempted murder given that Linder had killed his dad, accident or not, and while the courts could prove motivation and intent they couldn’t pin him with premeditation; Dom had always kinda assumed that his cop-mark wouldn’t lead anywhere.

What cop would want a convicted felon as their partner?

Dom hadn’t counted on Brian anymore than Brian had counted on having a mark for a Mark.

Clearing what little evidence remained from the tractor-trailer jackings was already done.  The Civics taken to other cities and dropped off at chop shops.  The hauls off-loaded and fenced, money filtered into off-shore accounts.

Nest eggs to keep the garage afloat if his team suddenly started losing.

Or to pay med school fees for Mia.

They could launder race winnings through the grocery and garage easily enough, but the kinda cash that came from the jackings needed a more thorough cleansing before they tried to touch it.

It was one of the many downfalls of the American prison system:

Far too many convicts, Dom included, came out better criminals than when they went in - or in Dom’s case, having criminal inclinations at all.

Might as well call it Crook University instead of prison, with the amount of skill-sharin’ that went on, and since they all already had a felony on their record with no hope of ever bein’ seen as anything else on the outside, none of ‘em really had incentive not to take advantage of what they learned in lock up.

Once a criminal, always a criminal was the majority view in the States, with actual rehabilitation falling far behind when rehabin’ convicts and teachin’ new skills or lettin’ ‘em get an education couldn’t make people on the outside trust ‘em or give ‘em jobs or even still call ‘em family when they got out.

Dom got lucky with his family and crew, he knew he did.

Now he had Brian willin’ to see if they could make being marked for each other work, despite bein’ a cop… and it was everything Dom thought he’d already lost in a burst of temper and black rage.

Brian.

Detective Brian O’Conner, an undercover officer for the LAPD, was his soulmate.

Not ‘Brian Earl Spilner’ with the serial killer name, NOS and ice in his veins.

Dom didn’t know what to think about the many shades of Brian he’d already seen, or how to pick out the real from the cover, or how many more Brian could pull out and put on, on command.

All he really knew about UCs - other from movies and TV - was that they had to be both scary smart and adaptable as well as dangerous as hell from the stories that the other guys on the inside would tell about gettin’ busted by an undercover in their crews or ‘round the block.

At the end of the day, that was all he really knew about Brian, his soulmark: he was an undercover cop, which meant smart, adaptable, and dangerous.  Brian could drive like a racer, had ice in his veins.  And was probably one of the most beautiful people, male or female, that Dom had seen in real life.

That was it, and it wasn’t much…but at the same time it was more than enough to get Dom to drive out to a random beach in Santa Barbara to meet up with him, so there was that.

Dom pulled his RX-7 that he’d picked up from the covered parking garage where he’d hid it during the police raid the day before, into the small paved public parking lot for the beach access, arching a brow as he did so.

He didn’t know what Brian drove, especially given that his Eclipse had gone up in flames and NOS thanks to Johnny Tran, but at least one of the patrons of the beach he chose to meet up had excellent taste.

A Hemicuda in a pristine cherry red, black detailing, and white wall tires was a beautiful sight to put Dom in a good mood on his way to meet with his complicated soulmark, not matter the anxiety that threatened to have Dom choking up and peeling out before he could face icy blue eyes and golden curls in real life instead of his thoughts and dreams for the first time in days.

Brian had kept his word at least: Dom’d let him take off the other night, and it wasn’t the last time he’d seen him, Dom spotting the golden curls he was looking for after a minute or two of descending the stairs down to the beach.

Though they were a little less golden at the moment, drenched and darkened with sea water as the man who’d been taking up massive room in his thoughts jogged out of the surf with a board under one arm and all of ‘im soaked from head-to-toe.

Dom couldn’t help but chuckle under his breath at the sight, even as his eyes wanted to pop out of his head at the sight his soulmate made.

Brian really was a Cali surfer boy then, noted.

Also noted was the sheer amount of muscle that his soulmark had hidden under oversized shirts, layers, and baggy shorts.  Dom had known from the couple of times he’d gotten hands on him that Brian wasn’t as skinny as the clothes implied with how they puddled on his frame.  Nobody who could take down Vince as easily as Brian had was a true twig, not without a whole lotta leverage coming into the equation.

But there was a difference between knowin’ that his mark wasn’t a long skinny thing, and seein’ all that lean, cut muscle shinin’ in the sunlight and drippin’ wet.

Brian was built like a swimmer not a runner, despite what Dom’d thought.  Broad and strong shoulders, built upper arms and chest, washboard abs, but it was also clear that Brian wasn’t one to skip leg day.  Or maybe that was from his surfing hobby, either way, while Brian wasn’t as stacked or packed with muscle as Dom, he was in far better shape than his preference for concealing clothing while undercover suggested.

Watching Brian run a hand through his curls and then jog over to what must be his towel laid out in fine white sand, it struck Dom that while he’d been pretty, or beautiful as Jesse dubbed him, while playing a part, as himself he was outright gorgeous.

Dom knew that he was attractive, the sheer number of race bunnies who flocked to him left him no illusions about that, but he wasn’t beautiful or gorgeous, not like his tricky, adaptable soulmark - and made him wonder what his other soulmark might be like, let alone what any other marks that Brian might have.

Deciding that he’d been idling long enough, and not wanting his mark to think he’d chickened out, Dom got into gear and headed for the golden surfer that fate or God had determined was his.

Brian heard the RX-7’s engine before he spotted Toretto, let alone Toretto noticing him leaving the waves behind, and mentally braced himself.

He didn’t know what he wanted, now that the situation was at hand.

It had been such an academic issue.  Before.  A matter of practicality for a UC.

Keep himself covered up as much as possible while on assignment, maybe hope that he’d meet one of his marks organically while off-duty.

Never think too hard about the what-ifs or else run the risk of jinxing himself.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

Now he had met his Mark in a mark, had needed to take his mandatory two-weeks emergency bonding leave, and found himself at loose ends with a soulmate that he at the very least suspected of criminality to go along with his rap sheet.

Brian wasn’t judging by any measure, he wasn’t that kinda hypocrite between his juvie record and the shit he’d had to do as a career UC, but was stating a fact.

Dominic Toretto was an ex-con under suspicion, and Brian O’Conner had been the UC sent to investigate him.

It was what happened now that they were a former-suspect from a scuttled UC operation and a cop on leave that was the question.

What the outcome of their trying to see what about each other had made themselves a match…and what the price the powers-that-be were gonna demand because of the fallout of the UC operation.

Brian kinda saw it as consequences chicken.

Either he and Toretto were going to come to terms that led to Brian leaving the force, or his brothers in blue were gonna want their pound of flesh, and whichever was decided first would likely determine their immediate future both in regards to their match and Brian’s career.

He knew Bilkins’ type.  The feeb wasn’t going to just let the op’s clusterfuck of an outcome go.  Even if Brian was able to give the LAPD something to run with more than what he’d managed in his immediate debrief, he had a feeling that the FBI wasn’t gone.

Not for good.

It itched at him, and the worst part was, he had no idea how to explain it to Toretto without getting into major grey areas of what was covered by soulmate privilege and what infringed on the secrets act and putting an even bigger target on his soulmark’s back.

Torreto at least seemed more at ease and less spooked as he strode down the uneven stone stairs to the beach in all his ubiquitous white-tank and jean’d glory.

Tanned skin shining and muscles all…there and ripply in the sun.

The attractive bastard.

Brian knew that this whole situation would be far easier to handle if Toretto wasn’t so fucking perfectly aligned to hit his weaknesses and preferences.

If Toretto could be a little less obviously dangerous, a little less charismatic.

A lot less lickable.

Though that last bit probably-maybe-definitely had more to do with Brian having spent so long UC that he hadn’t managed to really sate his libido in months if not longer.

Putting a soulmark like Dominic Toretto in front of Brian after the kinda dry spell he was dealing with thanks to his UC career was just plain cheating and unfair by the universe, fuck.

Brian looked away as he snatched up the second towel he’d brought for a quick rub-down as Toretto cleared the thirty or so yards between them.  Giving himself a moment to collect himself.  Get himself back under his iron, ice-cool, control.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, if that was what it was like being around one of his marks, what would it be life if he ever met all of them and had them around at the same time?

Part of him desperately wanted to know.  To find them all.  To feel that.

To feel anything besides the slow-creeping ice that came over him the further into UC work he delved.

The bit of him that’d always been a survivor on the other hand, was far more gun-shy at the very thought of it, and pushed the idea away with a quickness, with the counter argument: if just being around Toretto took that large of a toll on his senses, how hard would it be to preserve himself around the sum mass of his soulmarks and potential pack?

“Brian.”

At the sound of that engine-growl voice, Brian took a break where his face was buried in his spare towel, then squared his shoulders and set it aside, lifting his face up to look at the other.

“Hey, Dom.”

Brian spread out the less-damp of the two towels on the sand, making a place for Toretto to sit beside him, even as he kept most of his focus out on the surf instead of locked on his soulmark the way his attention really wanted to wander.

“As of yesterday at 8 A.M. I’m officially on Emergency Bonding Leave for two weeks.”  He said abruptly.  “With the option to extend it using banked vacation and sick leave if needed.”

“A’ight.”  Dom almost hummed out his understanding, keeping his own gaze stuck to Brian’s profile, trying to figure out who exactly he was dealing with.

Because it wasn’t the slightly-dumb but good-natured kid who was slingin’ parts for Harry - wicked right hook or not - but someone else.

The someone who had the ice-cool to evade cops in traffic or stare down Johnny Tran and Lance Nguyen like it was nothin’, maybe.

The someone who really was his soulmark and not a character Brian was playin’.

“How do you wanna play this, Brian?”  Dom asked after a silence that seemed to stretch out way too long.  “I know the…situation ain't ideal, but the way you’ve acted ever since our marks flared makes me think you want nothin’ to do with it.”

Or with Dom.

“Nah, it isn’t that.”  Brian refuted immediately, tearing his eyes away from the hypnotic ocean and his attention from his own thoughts and turmoil and focusing totally on Dom, meeting those soft brown eyes without hesitation.  “It’s just the situation, as you call it, has me buggin’ a little is all.”  He huffed a humorless laugh, a crooked smile crossing his face.  “Didn’t exactly think that I’d meet my soulmark when I was under, ya know?  It’s the kinda thing they warn you about when you’re goin’ through training but never think it’ll happen to you or anyone you know.  We all take precautions, but…”  He shrugged.  “It’s how it happened that’s whack, not, not you…”

“That’s an easy fix.”  Dom grinned, holding out his hand and then arching a brow when Brian just stared at him, incredulous.  “Dominic Toretto, racer, mechanic, business owner.”  He introduced himself as if they’d bumped into each other on the street, felt their marks flare, and didn’t know each other from Adam.  “My friends call me Dom.”

Brian snickered, halfway disbelieving that they were doing this, or that the cheesy elevator speech introduction was Dom’s solution to his misgivings.

But…fuck, it was also kinda charming?

In a goofball way that didn’t fit at all with the man’s profile, but did, sorta, line up with the little Brian had actually seen of how he was with his crew and sister.

“Detective Brian O’Conner, LAPD.”  Brian took his turn as he took Dom’s hand, though rather than let him go right after, his soulmate twisted their grip and lowered their arms so that they were more holding hands, rough calluses from wrench-work and - in Brian’s case - a gun grip rasping against each other for a split-second.  “Full-time cop, part-time gearhead.”

“Nice ta meetcha, Brian.”

“Yeah…nice to meet you too, Dom.”