Chapter Text
He should have seen it coming.
Casey hadn't expected to fall for someone like he had Irene and Standard—at least, not again.
He stares up at the ceiling of his crappy apartment, his bare back slick with sweat and sticking to the sheets of his twin sized bed. His chest raises and falls rapidly, breaths stuttering past his lips.
He can't get their blood stained faces out of his head. He reminds himself that Irene and Benicio are fine—then he distantly remembers Standard being shot down in front of him.
Casey’s eyes slip close as a hand comes up to his chest, clawing at the skin.
They had just come from the little grocery store on the corner of the street—he couldn't help but think they made an odd family, them four.
Benicio had begged to make cookies—Irene was sure he just wanted to get flour all over the kitchen, but she couldn't deny her little one, and neither could Standard by the way he ruffled Benicio’s hair.
They had bought the cooking supplies with what little money they’ve acquired from their jobs—everyone pitching in to make sure Benicio could have an unforgettable family memory. Even Benicio tried to hand them what little money he had earned from doing chores around the apartment—Irene was quick to shut it down with a gentle kiss to his forehead, urging him to save it for something special.
They all looked at him expectantly, dragging him into their apartment without asking if he wanted to join—he would have said yes.
He leaned against the pass-through wall, lashes fluttering as he rested his head against his forearms. He watched as they threw flour all over one another, leaving prints on clothing.
Casey liked the sound of their laughter.
He hadn't wanted to intrude—he just wanted to watch, and to be around them. They had found a way to include him anyway.
Benicio threw flour directly at his face, making the entire kitchen go quiet—it was then soon filled with the sound of his own laughter, easily followed by his family laughing at his misery.
Casey got his hands dirty. Not the way he’s used to, hands bruised and bleeding—but tenderly, with flour and bits of egg. He could ignore the disgust he felt at all the different textures if it meant they were all happy.
There was batter stuck under his nails and bits of dried flour on his face—Standard had smudged some over his nose before promptly licking it off, Benicio ‘ewww’ed as he stirred his bowl.
He wonders if this is what happiness looks like.
Casey gets out of bed.
He scrubs the phantom blood off his face with warm water, leaving his skin numb.
His morning goes by in a blur. Shower, dress, eat, watch the world go by outside his window, leave for work.
Same old routine he found himself in before them.
Casey finds brief comfort in his car, sliding a gloved (always gloved) hand over her new paint job appreciatively before slipping into the driver’s seat. He finally allows himself to breathe, sinking into the seat he knows well.
He relishes the drive to work. Casey hasn't been in San Francisco for long, but he’s spent enough evenings driving these streets to know where they lead and what types of people live there. Many of these evenings were spent driving for other criminals—it was important to know which roads the police often patrolled.
Casey easily slides back into what he knows. Cars. His hands are used to the motions by now—fix a blowout, giving a car an oil change, routine maintenance, et cetera, et cetera.
The worst part about the job is the clients. Normally, they'll leave him alone, ignore him as they take their important business calls or try to chat up Isabel in bay one—she never takes their shit, always cursing up a storm so they walk out.
Casey likes her. At least, more than his other coworkers. There’ve been times where she tries to invite him out with the rest of the shop, trying to get him to join them for drinks or shoddy karaoke.
His answer is always no.
Don't get him wrong, he considers it—sometimes. The thought of genuinely building a connection with others was welcoming, but he didn't want to drag his coworkers—friends? Into his mess.
He was better off alone.
“I’m telling you, man. You should join us for drinks tonight! It’s been so hot out, it's about time we all reward ourselves—especially with the customers we’ve been getting lately. Yeeow.” Isabel stretched her toned arms over her head, skin glistening with sweat.
Casey almost feels bad for her. The heat the past year has been rough on everybody. He distantly remembers that Isabel has a fan in bay one—his feelings of pity quickly morph into jealousy.
Maybe he should invest in a fan for his bay.
“I'm okay,” he shakes his head, keeping his eyes on the open hood of a 2015 Nissan Altima. Casey’s hands are already covered in soot and grease, but it doesn't bother him.
“Ugh, that's what you always say.” Isabel huffs in annoyance, leaning against the car so Casey could see her—he hates when she does that, always demanding his attention while they (mostly her) have a conversation. “One day I’m going to convince you to go with us.” She states, her face pulls into a serious expression.
Casey raises a brow. “Sure, keep telling yourself that.”
Isabel snorts, shaking her head as she finally leaves his bay—most likely to go bother another coworker of theirs.
Sometimes he wonders if he should say yes, to break routine and finally change something about his life. Casey shakes his head.
He lets the music from bay two wash over him, focusing his attention back onto the engine he currently has his hands buried in.
Engine misfire, the client was scared out of her mind when, according to her—the car was jerking and hesitating at stop signs and red lights. He believes her, it's typical of a misfire.
Casey makes quick work of it, dedicated to finishing the job so he has time to work on his 1973 Chevrolet Chevelle Malibu—poor girl has some rust on her undercarriage, and he didn't want her to suffer any longer, not if he has any say in it.
He pulls her into bay three smoothly, getting her raised with the automotive lift, leaving a safe amount of space for him to slip underneath.
He never doubts his abilities, after all, this is his element. Just like how Irene used to love spending time outdoors despite it being difficult to find an accessible and safe spot for Benicio. Just like how Standard always dreamed of making his own car—something they had bonded on, and of course Benicio, who loved to color and spend time with his family.
Casey leans back onto a creeper and slides under his 1973 Chevrolet Chevelle Malibu, sighing in relief.
He’s able to work on her for an hour and eleven minutes before Matías—their receptionist, hollers from the open door leading to the front desk that he’ll be having a client coming in, something about white smoke and ‘he sounded very stressed.’
The name Ryland Grace floats through the air, and Casey files it away for later.
Casey doesn't worry about what time the mystery man will arrive. If he shows up before he's finished working on the undercarriage of his car, then he’ll deal with it when the time comes. Like he always does—even if this usually ends with the clients being upset they're being ignored by the guy who’s supposed to be fixing their car.
It's easy for Casey to get lost in the inner workings and exterior of his car, dragging a finger over the almost rust free material—he feels dirty, allowing himself to touch the last connection he has to his family.
A shadow blocks his source of light from the open garage, making his brows pinch together before the expression is mechanically smoothed out. Dress shoes shift nervously from their spot, seemingly unsure if they should speak up or let him continue his work on the undercarriage of his car.
There’s a radio droning on in the background—some Spanish station his coworker always has on when he's working—always mumbling along with the lyrics, even going as far as to dance. Casey doesn't understand the lyrics, and he doesn't care to.
“Um,” a voice—the one belonging to the man with the dress shoes speaks up, seemingly cracking at the end, which causes the man to clear his throat. “Sorry, Mark said I could come to you—about my, uh, truck!” His voice sounds strained, like he recently used it to scream into the sky, or maybe a pillow.
Casey can see as the man motions wildly with his hands, despite being half hidden under his car—the shadows of his hands moving against the polished concrete floors.
This must be the man Matías told him about.
“No worries if you're busy! Because, obviously you're busy right now—I mean, you're literally under the car. Gosh, sorry, I’m rambling.” He sounds flustered.
“But I really need my car fixed, it’s—it isn't my truck, it's my brother's. Please take a look?” He’s pleading now, hands clapping together like he's clasping them.
Casey takes pity on the man.
He slides himself out from the undercarriage of his car, the creeper he's laying on squeaking against the floor.
It doesn't happen like it does in movies. There’s no bells ringing in the background, no fireworks going off behind his eyelids, there’s no overwhelming urge to sing and dance.
The music from the radio fades into the background till there’s nothing but silence and the sound of his breathing. His eyes latch onto the man in front of him—he’s tall, about his height—there's a nervous hunch in his shoulders as his lips move to an unheard rhythm, waving his hands around as if that would help get his point across. The light from the open garage caresses the edges of this man, bathing him in something that could have passed as holy, if he were still a religious man.
He's distantly aware that this being of a man is talking to him, but all he can focus on is the golden wisps of hair that fall onto his forehead, the slightly crooked nose—mostly likely having been broken before, his golden framed glasses rest on the tip of it—his stubble, a pathetic excuse for a beard, that looks like he had recently shaved but ultimately decided to skip a day.
It’s nothing like how he felt about Irene, and by extension Benecio. And it's not like how he felt when he saw the polaroid with Standard on the fridge in Irene and Standard’s shared apartment. Then, he had felt fireworks under his skin, the sense of something clicking together in a puzzle.
But now? There’s a distant warmth that's slowly taking over his sense of being, like the featherlight brush of fingertips over his skin. It’s an odd feeling, something that almost makes him feel safe.
Casey is brought back to the now as the man mimes the engine blowing up—psshh, is the sound the man makes, his lips part to form the sound—and Casey, who doesn't often indulge in fantasies, wonders what it would feel like to press his lips against the man in front of him.
“—And that’s about what happened, I think?” The man frowns, the action sends a pang of hurt through his chest. “I'm not—not a car guy, so I didn't bother touching it, I didn't want to make it worse.” He blew air out his nose, making a few hairs bounce off his forehead.
Casey is suddenly aware he hasn’t spoken a single word.
“I can take a look at it,” the words come tumbling out of his mouth before he can even think of a response to give him. The other man seems… relieved, his face brightening significantly, a smile pulling at his cheeks.
“Let me just finish with this,” Casey pats the hood of his car, “then you can roll her in. Say, maybe five minutes?” He tilts his head to the side slightly, watching the man’s shoulders droop with relief. And, because he feels confident, “you can wait here.” He nods to a rolling stool off to the side, the wheels having been long past their prime.
Ryland talks a lot.
He likes to fill the silence with tidbits of science facts and details that Ryland considers ‘mundane’—such as how he’s a teacher for middle school students who he swears are ‘the world's next generation of geniuses.’
Casey doesn't find any of it mundane. In fact, he could listen to Ryland talk about the particular way he cleans his apartment or the specific brand of soap he uses for his laundry. He’d find it all interesting.
This is bad.
Would Irene and Standard be happy for him?
He can't help the twitch he feels in his lips as Ryland continues on about the students in his class. It’s cute, really—how much the man loves what he does and the students he teaches.
He talks with his hands. A lot.
Casey watches him from the corners of his eyes. He’s incredibly expressive, both in his facial expressions and the way he moves his body—he’s an open book.
Even when he quiets down to grade homework for his students. There's a pinch in his brow as he nibbles on the edge of his blue pen, mumbling out his corrections before scribbling it down on the paper, even going as far as to include stickers—if Casey had to guess, they were used to encourage them, and maybe even lighten the feeling of getting a bad grade.
Casey wonders if he talks this much in bed.
Right, he has a truck to work on.
Blown head gasket, something that typically takes three days to replace, assemble, clean, et cetera et cetera. He could easily give the truck a temporary fix, but that would leave Ryland—or he supposes who he thinks is his brother, with the demand to fix it whenever it broke once more.
Besides, fixing it over the course of a few days gives him more opportunities to talk to Ryland. They had agreed to grab lunch together today, the thought making his chest feel… fuzzy. Casey hopes to convince him to get dinner on the days they can't meet for lunch—he can be good, he can listen to Ryland talk about his day and what he has coming up.
He can be good.
"Why?" Casey asks, his brows pinch in confusion and the corners of his lips turn downward. Why would Ryland go all this way?
Ryland barely knows him.
"Why what?" Ryland frowns, head tilting to the side in confusion—he almost looks like a kicked puppy.
"Why do you care? You only just met me." Casey clenches his jaw, he's sitting extremely still—he feels like if he moves, Ryland will take back everything he's said.
"Why?" Ryland parrots back, blinking dumbly up at him. If he wasn't so confused, Casey would find the expression cute.
"That's silly," Ryland shakes his head, lips pursing in thought. "I’d care even if we were just strangers—which, I know, technically we still are, but I think everyone deserves a chance at doing what they love. I mean, you like driving, right? Why not offer to get you a job doing something you like?” He motions with one hand, Casey follows it with his eyes for a moment.
"If you don't want me to pass your name along, then that's cool too, you don't have to worry about it," Ryland's face seems to brighten as a thought crosses his mind, but he's quick to stamp it down into something calmer—how sweet, he's trying not to scare him away. "—orhey, I can give you my brother's information and you can decide if or when you reach out!" He blinks up at Casey, leaning into the palm of his hand.
Casey stays quiet—mulling over the possibility of being able to work on stunts once more. He could make extra money. Working at the shop has given him the opportunity to do what he loves, but the money is barely enough to keep himself afloat—if he can't provide for himself, how can he provide for Ryland?
Ryland doesn't seem to mind that he's thinking things over, head tilting into the palm of his hand. Pretty, blond lashes batting up at him.
"That isn't to say you don't enjoy being a mechanic, I’m sure you do," Ryland gently nudges him with his foot from under the table—Casey gently nudges him back.
He hasn't played footsie with anyone in months—the last time was with Benicio, but the boy was more keen on kicking him and giggling at his misery.
"But having choices makes you feel more in control, no?” Ryland smiles softly, and Casey promptly melts into the booth.
All of his worries seem to melt away with that smile, making him feel loose and warm.
Casey breathes out, "Okay." He licks his lips, his eyes never leave Ryland. "I'll think about it. Give me his number later?" As much as he wants to do good for Ryland and reach out to his brother, he also wants to bask in his presence.
"Give me your number too." He's not quite sure where the confidence came from—maybe it's the way Ryland stares up at him, lashes fluttering against his cheeks.
"Oh!" Ryland gasps, the sound is breathy and fogs up his glasses from where he leans against his hand.
Casey savors the look of surprise on Ryland's face, watching his cheeks flush a pretty red as he sits up straight.
"Of course, here." He shoves his phone into Casey's face, hands trembling with… nerves? Excitement, maybe?
Casey can't help but feel a little smug.
He grabs the phone out of Ryland's hands—still warm from his touch. Casey files that feeling away for later.
Driver.
He hasn't used that alias in months. Casey types it into the contact name—maybe one day he'll give Ryland the name they used to call him.
Ryland stares down at the contact once his phone is back in both of his hands, blinking slowly at the name. "Driver?" He asks, curious as ever.
"Call me Driver." He states simply.
Ryland tilts his head slightly, contemplating—he really does look like a puppy. "That's.." he hums, tapping his chin. "Cute. It's fitting, you like driving and you work on cars." And he smiles that beautiful, warm smile of his. His eyes crinkle at the corners, he feels blessed to have seen Ryland like this.
Casey feels his cheeks warm at the gentle spoken words. He feels as though he hasn't been treated this way since Irene—no, he knows.
He sinks into the cushions of his booth, watching Ryland intently—every bat of his golden lashes.
Casey orders the exact same meal as Ryland. He doesn't bother looking at the menu—what's the point? He has no allergies, he's not on a specific diet; he wants to know what Ryland thinks is good food.
That's oversimplifying it—Casey wants to know every like and dislike of Ryland's. Wants to know about the things he insists he doesn't like, but the look on his face says otherwise.
Ryland had promised—and even insisted on paying for lunch, but Casey simply wasn't hearing any of that. If he couldn't pay for a simple meal, was he even worth being in Ryland's presence?
Casey drives Ryland back to the auto shop after their date. His hands clench the material of his steering wheel—their date.
He feels giddy the rest of the day.
He could see himself listening to Ryland talk for the rest of his days—if Ryland would let him.
His voice is like the very music that flows through the shop, something that makes him yearn for more—even when he has a steady supply of it.
Sometimes his voice cracks, and Ryland clears his throat in embarrassment—Casey looks over his shoulder to catch the way his Adam's apple bobbles. The things he'd do to run the tip of his finger over it, or to press his lips to the spot and feel it move underneath.
He's beautiful in the afternoon lighting, with small rays of rainbow light laying over pale skin. Casey drags his eyes over his rolled up sleeves, eyeing the skin of his forearms like a starved man.
"Hey," he licks his lips, watching as Ryland snaps his eyes up to his face—he supposes he wasn't the only one staring.
"Hey yourself," Ryland smiles, cheeks tinted a light pink from the heat—or maybe from the fact he was caught staring. He wishes he knew.
The corners of his eyes crinkle, every smile Ryland has directed his way make his heart race. "It's getting late, how about I drive you home?" He asks.
Ryland stares mesmerized for a moment, his eyes flicking over his disheveled form. Casey waits patiently—he has all the time in the world for him.
He shakes out his shoulders, and Casey promptly misses the feeling of Ryland having his eyes on him.
Ryland fumbles to pack his things away into his bag, deliberately stalling—it's endearing, really. Casey eyes the stickers Ryland used as he graded homework, and he wonders if he'd been good enough to earn one. The thought of Ryland smoothing a sticker over his chest with the pad of his finger makes his face heat—maybe if he asked politely, Ryland would cave.
He hates to pull away from him, but he does have a job to do—cleaning up his bay so it was prepared for tomorrow, clocking out, letting Matías know he wouldn't be taking any more clients.
By the time he's back, Ryland is fixing his hair and attempting to make himself look presentable. Casey finds it both charming and funny—Ryland never needs to 'fix' the way he looks for him, he'd admire him either way.
Ryland startles, looking up at him with a mix of surprise and.. happiness. His chest tightens at the expression.
He nudges his toothpick to the opposite side of his lips with his tongue, he catches Ryland's eyes tracking the movement
He nudges his toothpick to the opposite side of his lips with his tongue—a nervous habit he had picked up in his teenage years. Casey catches Ryland's eyes tracking the movement with an intensity he wasn't aware the man possessed—his eyes reflect the sunset prettily, even as he snaps his attention elsewhere.
Casey wonders what's running through his head, and he wishes he could pry it open to see every thought—no, he mechanically shakes his head. He doesn't want to hurt Ryland, he could never lay a hand on Ryland that wasn't meant to bring joy and pleasure—Casey yearns to protect, after all.
He wants to tenderly pry the words from Ryland's waiting lips instead.
All he's ever known was violence, but that changed with Irene, Standard and Benicio.
He intends to keep violence out of Ryland's life, he wants nothing more than to shield him from the biting truth life has to give—he wants to foster the gentle smile on Ryland's face.
He wants to be loved, and he wants to love.
Ryland Grace sits in the passenger seat of his car.
The wind blows through gold streaked hair, strands brushing against his face—they must tickle, if the scrunch in Ryland's nose is anything to go by.
Driving is his safe haven, and yet he can't help but sneak glances at the man beside him. He can feel Ryland's eyes on him in return, and he preens under his gaze.
Ryland is beautiful, here in his car, face open and trusting.
"Oh! You know what," Ryland slaps a hand to his forehead, the sight makes Casey raise his brows slightly. "I never got your name. I know you said to call you Driver, but I wasn't sure if it was because you were uncomfortable in the diner. You already know I’m Grace—well, Ryland Grace. What about you? I mean, your name.” Grace—no, Ryland’s face turns a pretty pink, highlighting the light sprinkle of freckles on his cheeks.
Casey maps out constellations he doesn't know the name of on the ridge of Ryland’s nose and on the expanse of his cheeks. He’s sure Ryland knows the names of them all—after all, he’s destined for the stars.
“It’s nice to meet you, Ryland.” There's a small uptick to his lips, and Grace smiles back brightly, almost enough so to brighten the outside of the apartment building—they need to get lights, it's not safe for anyone, especially Ryland.
Grace seems happy enough with his answer—giving him a friendly wave as he hurriedly walks towards the doors of his apartment building. He doesn't call after Ryland to remind him that he never got his name.
He doesn't go home right away, no—he has another job that night, something he does with the calmness he always possesses.
It was simple, act as a getaway driver for some lowlife criminals so they won't be caught right away, leave them in plain sight surrounded by other people—then leave, like he was never there.
Casey thinks about Ryland all night, even when his mind should be unoccupied
He receives Ryland's message when he finally parks his car in its designated spot—it's not technically his spot, but it felt right
Casey doesn't fumble for his phone and he doesn't let it fall to the floorboards, but his hands are trembling, he feels like he's vibrating with joy.
March 2
R.Grace 8:32 PM
Hey, Driver! This is Ryland. Hope you don't mind me sending you a text! Thanks again for today, I really appreciate it all. 😊
Driver 🚗 8:33 PM
I don't mind.
See you tomorrow.
He basks in the silence of his car—the only sound he hears is the engine rumbling, there's nobody to hear him from here. He stares down at their short conversation, such few words were exchanged (on his end, at least) but he can't help but feel fulfilled.
Casey finds himself lying in bed once more.
He's not slick with sweat, clutching his sheets as he stares up at the ceiling in horror—no, he's staring at the contact information of Colt Seavers.
Ryland, kindhearted Ryland, had given him Seavers' information during lunch. He had given him an opportunity, a second chance at making something out of himself—starting anew.
He wants to be good. He wants to make Ryland proud—make Irene, Benicio and Standard proud.
Casey breathes out shakily, swiping out of the 'make new contact' screen as he opens his browser, instead searching up the name Ryland Grace.
He deserves a treat for being so good today. He'll look up Colt after—first, he wants to find out more about sweet, sweet Ryland.
Ryland Grace, a middle school teacher at Grover Cleveland—Ph.D in molecular biology, all things he already knew. Ryland had been so kind as to tell him this information during their shared day.
Something he didn't know about was the UNESCO conference. He watches the recording with rapt attention, eyes wide as they take in a version of Ryland he was unaccustomed to.
There are butterflies in his stomach as he watches Ryland Grace being held back by two men he could care less about—"staggering waste of carbon!" spills out from his lips in harsh puffs, his face was flushed from the exertion—or maybe the rage.
Casey can't help but feel he looks divine with anger on his face.
It doesn't feel like Ryland though.
Not the way his hair is slicked back into something neat, his gold frames nowhere to be seen—and not his ironed suit. None of it felt right.
He much prefers the Ryland he met today. Soft, carefree Ryland—the man who loves his students very much, the man who talks enough for two people.
Casey downloads the video and keeps it hidden in his gallery anyway. His stomach twists, not unpleasantly, at the thought.
He searches the name Colt Seavers.
Anybody who's anybody in the stunt business knows who Seavers is—but it doesn't hurt to see what the man's been up to. Surely, Casey's missed something while laying low.
The top three search results are about Colt Seavers and a Jody Moreno getting engaged—he clicks on the website.
Jody Moreno is a rising director, originally working as a camera operator before transitioning into a director role.
The website shows a few pictures from her Instagram—highling the engagement ring on her finger.
Casey feels happy for them.
And distantly, a little jealous.
He clicks on the back arrow. Most of the websites are about the engagement, so he scrolls and scrolls. Finally, he finds something interesting.
Tom Ryder.
Casey remembers watching a few of his movies with Benicio—covering his eyes and ears whenever something inappropriate would pop up on screen.
He doesn't have much of an opinion of the actor. Tom Ryder wasn't necessarily a good actor, but he wasn't horrible either. Benicio, on the other hand, had found his movies entertaining—but maybe he just liked all the action.
Casey closes out of all of his tabs, only leaving open the conversation he had with Ryland.
He holds his phone to his chest and closes his eyes. He'll contact Colt Seavers tomorrow.
He falls asleep to the thought of his family and Ryland.