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When anyone asks, they say they met in Mexico.
It’s not the truth, but it’s close enough.
They actual meet in LA, two or three lifetimes ago—when Dom is still fresh from twenty-four months on the inside and Han is riding high on cash, danger and something a little harder. It’s business, at the time. Han’s there with a guy named Virgil, and Dom’s there with Johnny Tran and between them there’s a table full of pricey merch all boxed up; computer parts, some laptops, DVD players, sound system components, a dozen digital cameras—shit like that.
Virgil does all the talking, but he talks too fast, trips over his words in a way that reads like sharkbait to Dom—like someone who’s out of their depth. Virgil isn’t as comfortable as he wants to be, or as hard as he thinks he is. His hands shake when he talks, and he talks too fast to begin with; he’s got all the making’s of someone who’s going to go down for something stupid.
Han is quiet, stands at his side and flicks the ashes off the cigarette he’s still holding but isn’t smoking. He's got a stare like someone who’s always thinking two turns ahead, can see the wall coming up fast—but doesn’t feel like doing anything about it quite yet. And he's watching, everything.
Dom’s not sure if they're dangerous or just stupid. It's his first time dealing with either of them, but they're familiar with Tran and it's Johnny's call anyway. Dom's just there for show, for a cut.
Call it a favor.
We need to rehash the fee, Virgil tells Johnny; things are different, he says. Dom doesn’t know exactly what he’s talking about, but he knows what the start of a deal going bad sounds like and he shifts behind Johnny, rolling his shoulders back to loosen them up.
Virgil’s words gutter out in his throat and he backs up a step, and he holds out a hand, says something fast, I don’t want any trouble, Johnny—and Dom hears it, sure, but what he sees is that Virgil’s hands are shaking, bunching up like he's nervous.
He smiles without feeling it.
Johnny’s talking, saying, we’re not renegotiating the price, and Virgil looks like he wants to argue; he’s got his mouth open, like he’s stuck that way, pissy looking. He starts to draw in a breath—Dom figures he knows what’s coming—but then there’s a hand on Virgil’s shoulder and Han’s leaning in, a stream of smoke following his hand when he gestures to the table.
"That’ll be fine," he says to Johnny and the smile he gives is half-way like someone who bit into something he doesn’t like, but Dom’s got the funny feeling it’s not for them.
"Thought so," Johnny is saying, kicking the duffel bag of cash at Virgil’s feet. "Good to know you’ve got more sense than your cousin here, Han."
Virgil stoops to grab the bag; Han’s smile grows a bit but it doesn’t get any realer. “I don’t know about all that,” he says. “But cash is cash, right?” He snags a hand in Virgil’s collar, shoves him toward the door they came in. “If you’ll excuse us, I’ve got a date.”
Johnny laughs. “Yeah I bet you do. Anyone I know?”
"I’ll let you know," Han shoots back, already turning around. "If I catch her name."
Johnny laughs until Virgil and Han leave and then claps Dom on the shoulder, tells him to grab a few boxes.
They pack everything up in Johnny’s car and Dom doesn’t think about Han again for weeks.
Until he sees him again.
The second time he runs into Han it’s been a month, give or take, and Dom nearly misses him because the club’s crowded and there’s a girl pressed against him on either side and Letty’s dancing with Mia—but there’s an itch between his shoulders that Dom knows better than to ignore. Instinct kept him alive in Lompoc and it hasn’t failed him yet—so when he turns and gives the room around him a good look he already knows he’s being watched. It takes him a minute to single out the who, and then a minute longer to remember the name, but it comes back to him eventually.
Han's leaning back into the cradle of a leather sofa in VIP that overlooks the floor from a raised spot, and the way he lays into it makes him look like he's comfortable there, like he's some kinda royalty. There's a girl to either side of him, tucked up close against him, and a crowd of people swarming around the couch, reaching for the bottles on ice, talking, socializing. It's not the kinda scene Dom would've pictured Han in, but he's never really stopped to picture it either, so there's that.
Everyone's talking around him, but Han's not talking to anyone. He's watching.
Dom tips his head in a nod he makes sure is clear—I see you. But he doesn't go over.
Han lifts his drink up a bit in a salute, then takes a sip.
He’s still watching, though.
Dom lifts his Corona, drains what’s left of it and then turns his back on Han, heads onto the floor to find the girls.
For the rest of the night Han watches and Dom ignores him. At some point later on, when Vince and Leon are belting out Celia Cruz to the ceiling and Jesse’s swaying on his feet and Letty’s leaning into him and everyone’s laughing, Dom realizes the itch is gone.
When he looks around, he’s not surprised that Han is too.
The next time—it’s three or four months later; it’s a quarter to seven and the sun’s sinking behind Hollywood hills; LA’s getting that grey-gold kind of dark that means the day’s over and the streets are filling up with traffic. The garage is empty, but all that means is that there’s no one to talk to him while he cleans up which suits Dom just fine. The stereo on the work bench picks up the barrio’s bootleg radio frequency and that fills the silence.
Or it does, until he hears the scuff of sneakers on concrete. Dom’s grip on the wrench he’d been cleaning tightens.
And then there’s Han, standing in the doorway, hands shoved down in the pockets of his jeans, slouched against the door jamb like he's going for nonthreatening, and looking like any other kid, except he's wearing a leather jacket over his t-shirt in the middle of a sticky July heatwave and he's got wells under his eyes full of shadows. But those eyes, they're still too watchful, too sharp; like he's looking out for something coming, like he's trying to watch Dom's hands, and the office at the back of the garage and the stretch of sidewalk by the street, all at once.
It doesn't read scared so much as cautious.
Like a convict.
Or a man on the run.
But Dom’s still Dom so he doesn’t take anything at face value, hasn’t since he was seven; he hefts the wrench in his grip a little more comfortably and tips his head Han’s way. “You lookin’ for somethin’?”
"A job," Han shoots back without missing a beat. "Need a hand around here, maybe?"
Dom rolls the wrench in his palm. “Thought you seemed like you were living comfortably last time I saw you. Something happen?” It’s not really personal concern that makes him ask; people with the cops on their tail get desperate, desperate people make deals—and deals get a lot of people dragged in for a lot of trouble. Dom doesn’t like snitches anymore than the next guy.
Han rocks his shoulders in a shrug and doesn’t take his hands outta his pockets. “Things went south, so I’m getting out of the business. Need to find something to do that’s—different. Away from the old scene.”
He doesn’t elaborate but Dom doesn’t need him to. Tran’s told him that Daric and Virgil are doing time, and that Steve Choe's been missing. It not the greatest news—those boys knew how to move product—but it’s news nontheless.
Han’s name has come up once or twice. Dom’s heard it, but would swear to anyone asking that he wasn’t listening for it.
He turns the wrench over in his palm again, rubs at a stubborn bit of grease in the groove absently. “You even know anything about cars?”
"I know enough," Han says, and Dom doesn’t really believe him, but that’s not really what he’s worried about. Han’s gaze has found the half-drunk Corona Dom’s been too busy to finish, right where he left it on the work bench, and even when Dom shifts upright against the Cady he’s working on, Han’s eyes don’t go back to him.
The radio’s talking nonsense in the background, static-heavy and Spanish-slick; the weather report says it’s 102 and due to rain fat, unsatisfying drops any hour now.
Dom turns the wrench in his grip, watches Han a minute or two longer, then ducks his head. He fingers the handle, then let’s it slide loosely through his grip til the head catches on his thumb.
"Lemme think about it," he says, but he’s already bending at the hip to snatch another beer out of the cooler by his feet—and it’s the slush-and-crush of the half melted sea of ice in the chest that finally drags Han’s attention back.
Dom knees the cooler shut and holds out the Corona.
"Come have a beer," he says, easy, "You look like you could use one."
Han doesn’t smile—not the way normal people would have smiled right then—but his lips kick up at the corner like he might have, on a better day. He crosses from the door way to take the dripping bottle from Dom, with a nod.
"Fair enough. Just do me a favor—don’t think too long.”
"Why? Got a hot date?"
"Nah," Han drawls, twisting the cap off his beer. "Just don’t like being dicked around. You’re the third person I’ve seen today."
"Yeah?" Dom doesn’t bother hiding the way his brows shoot up. "So I’m your third resort for job placement huh? Is that supposed to sweeten me up, Han? Because it ain’t workin’."
Han drains the neck outta the Corona and levels a glare at him over the end of the bottle.
Dom polishes off the last of his half-warm beer and drops the empty bottle in the garbage. “You like porco asado?”
Han lowers his drink, looks at him like he’s said something stupid. “Doesn’t everyone?”
"Good. You’re staying for dinner." Dom grins, just a bit. "I’ll let you know afterwards."
The lip of Han’s bottle tipped Dom’s way in acknowledgement. ”Sounds good. Got a place I can wash up?”
Dom sweeps the garage with a glance, lands on the bare-bones sink in the back, then flicks away; he lays the wrench down on the work bench and reaches for his jacket instead.
"Yeah—back at the fort. C’mon. I’m done here for tonight.”
Han follows him out the garage door and waits for him in the Honda while he locks up. When Dom finally slides behind the wheel, he doesn’t say anything about the noticeable lack of a ride—doesn’t mention the fact that Han apparently walked to his damn garage.
Dom doesn’t mention it, and Han doesn’t volunteer an explanation.
That night they have porco asado for dinner and Dom tells Han to crash on the pull-out because they’ve got an early start in the morning.
He doesn’t know how he missed it before, but Dom suddenly realizes—just then, with Han’s arms full of dirty dishes and Dom’s fingers pinched around a cluster of half-empty glasses—that Han’s got a million-watt smile and when he aims it Dom’s way it actually shocks him still for a minute, it's that kinda smile. Bright, easy.
It fades as quick as it comes, just like that; Han says thanks, nods his head like it’s no big thing, then heads into the kitchen to clean up.
Dom tries not to watch him go, but does, and catches himself looking. Hard.
That’s the first time he sees Han’s sunshine-outta-the-clouds smile, but it’s not the last.
Not even close.