FIC: F&F
For trollsttroll, Dom/Johnny Tran, Fast & Furious, prompt: grease & flesh (100fandoms prompt #97 'graduate'). I really can't do fic in this fandom, I have just realised. I had about six different versions of this, ranging from the NC-17 Dom-POV version to this, which is as tame as it gets, and is probably more ampersand than slash. But, um. *helpless shrug*
*
He's always had a weakness for machines you called a 'she'. He can't help it. Even as a snot-nosed kid, helping his dad and kicking about in the workshop, he knew enough to not mess around with the machines. Play a little with them; sure. Pet them, and polish them, and dote on them, like he was an old man with a pretty girl on his knee. His dad understood that, and didn't begrudge him his hobbies, as long as he knew his place and didn't mess with the machines.
He had a skeleton to start off with - nothing more than the faint outline of her, really - and the bare bones of an engine. His dad wouldn't help with it - the money had an elsewhere to be - so he worked it out himself, more or less legally. (To be fair, it was usually less.) He went to every workshop in LA and beyond, scouting as far as he thought his dad's name would carry, bringing away with him cold, oily metal tucked in brown paper bags. Fallen off the back of a truck his dad would ask, raising an eyebrow, and he'd shrug helplessly. Well, you watch you don't bring any trouble on us with this.
It took a little over two years, in the end, for her to be ready, and at the end of it, his dad went and bought the rest of his crew some brand-new wheels to celebrate. As it was, Johnny wasn't even a little pissed off about that, 'cause it wasn't about the wheels, in the end. His crew didn't really understand; thought he'd had to swallow his pride and ask his old man for a favour, or a gift. His mother hated the idea, but didn't say anything, her hands twisting anxiously in knots as Johnny thanked them both.
That night, he went drinking alone, which - ok, stupid.
"Tran. I thought we'd decided this was my bar."
Toretto was drinking in a corner; alone too, by the looks of it. He'd come out of lock-up a few months previous, and it still showed on him. His crew had gathered around him like chicks to a mother hen the moment he'd appeared; Tran still thought the whole thing fucking hilarious.
He looked down at his drink. His hands still had the smudge of oil on them. "Toretto. Let me buy you a drink."
*
I'm studying like a mad thing. Ouchie, painful hands, must stop writing.
*
He's always had a weakness for machines you called a 'she'. He can't help it. Even as a snot-nosed kid, helping his dad and kicking about in the workshop, he knew enough to not mess around with the machines. Play a little with them; sure. Pet them, and polish them, and dote on them, like he was an old man with a pretty girl on his knee. His dad understood that, and didn't begrudge him his hobbies, as long as he knew his place and didn't mess with the machines.
He had a skeleton to start off with - nothing more than the faint outline of her, really - and the bare bones of an engine. His dad wouldn't help with it - the money had an elsewhere to be - so he worked it out himself, more or less legally. (To be fair, it was usually less.) He went to every workshop in LA and beyond, scouting as far as he thought his dad's name would carry, bringing away with him cold, oily metal tucked in brown paper bags. Fallen off the back of a truck his dad would ask, raising an eyebrow, and he'd shrug helplessly. Well, you watch you don't bring any trouble on us with this.
It took a little over two years, in the end, for her to be ready, and at the end of it, his dad went and bought the rest of his crew some brand-new wheels to celebrate. As it was, Johnny wasn't even a little pissed off about that, 'cause it wasn't about the wheels, in the end. His crew didn't really understand; thought he'd had to swallow his pride and ask his old man for a favour, or a gift. His mother hated the idea, but didn't say anything, her hands twisting anxiously in knots as Johnny thanked them both.
That night, he went drinking alone, which - ok, stupid.
"Tran. I thought we'd decided this was my bar."
Toretto was drinking in a corner; alone too, by the looks of it. He'd come out of lock-up a few months previous, and it still showed on him. His crew had gathered around him like chicks to a mother hen the moment he'd appeared; Tran still thought the whole thing fucking hilarious.
He looked down at his drink. His hands still had the smudge of oil on them. "Toretto. Let me buy you a drink."
*
I'm studying like a mad thing. Ouchie, painful hands, must stop writing.