In hindsight, Brian thinks that tackling that guy Serrato off the roof wasn't one of his brighter ideas. It's only been about a half hour, and he's already starting to feel every one of those three stories they fell.

He's barely made it back to the office, and he's already heard five people call him crazy – and a few other things that actually make 'crazy' sound like a compliment – and Brian thinks that's pretty rich, because they don't know the half of it. These last few months have been one clusterfuck of crazy. He's hoping, though, that all that's about to change.

He catches Trinh coming down the hall just as he's finishing changing into some clothes that aren't covered in broken glass and jogs to catch up with her.

"Oh, thank God," she says when she sees him, and he'd probably make some smartass remark about just calling him Brian, except she looks about one sideways look away from ripping her hair out, so he thinks he should probably let it go. They're heading for Penning's office, and Brian knows that stress plus this area of the office doesn't generally mean good things for anybody but maybe the office counselor. "Listen, he's in a mood, because yesterday was his cheat day, and then today, some genius brought in donuts."

Yep, that'd do it.

He thinks that explains why it feels about ten degrees cooler when he gets in Pennings's office. "Sorry I'm late," he says, even though it's not his fault. He only got back to the station ten minutes ago; he didn't even know there was a meeting. The gang's all here, though, so he's thinking he must've just missed the memo.

He misses a lot of memos.

That might be why he doesn't mind the looks he gets when he drops down into the seat in front of Pennings's desk, except he never really minded them in the first place, so he's thinking that can't be it. Mostly, he thinks it's just the people. Pennings looks annoyed, but Brian's figured out that's pretty much his factory setting; Agent Curnen just crosses her legs and looks at him like she expected nothing less – or more, he guesses, depending on how you look at it – and Stasiak…him, Brian minds.

But he'll be damned if he lets him know it.

"Complaints keep rolling in after your little downtown Olympics, O'Conner," Pennings says as he sits down. He thinks he's just about got his tie right. He's getting the hang of tying the damn things, after nearly a year working as a Fed. Still hasn't got the hang of wearing them, though. Damn things are uncomfortable as hell. "Tell me that reinstating you wasn't a mistake."

Nope. Tie's not quite right yet.

"I got a name," he says as he tugs on the knot, trying to get it so that it doesn't catch his Adam's apple every time he swallows. "David Park."

"That's it? That's all you got? David Park?" Stasiak's voice grates on Brian worse than the pretentious whine of a hybrid engine, and that's saying a whole hell of a lot. Fucking Priuses, man. And he knows that's not gonna be the end of it from Stasiak. Not by a long shot. "I could throw a fortune cookie out this window, hit fifty David Park's right now."

Brian's sorely tempted to see what he could hit if he threw Stasiak out the window. But unfortunately, he's not thinking that'll solve any of his problems.

"It's Korean, not Chinese."

"Whatever."

He knows Curnen didn't say it for his benefit, but Brian still wants to kiss her for calling Stasiak on his bullshit. Brian wants to, but he's gotten a little more careful with that shit lately. He's had to.

Instead, he just smiles at her and makes a mental note to buy her a round next time the office goes out for drinks, before turning back to Pennings. "Park is a scout that recruits street racers to be mules for the Braga cartel. We find Park, and we bust the bad guys." And Brian's pretty psyched about that, because taking Braga down means getting out from under all the shit he's gotten in these past few months.

It means getting out from under Him.

After that, there's really not much to talk about. Pennings gives him a slap on the wrist for causing trouble in the streets today, and Brian wants to tell him it wasn't his idea, that if he wants to blame someone, he should be looking somewhere else in this room, but he doesn't. He can't. Not if he doesn't want to bring anything down on the people he cares about.

And that…that's not even an option.

So he stands there, takes it, and tries to walk the line between not giving a shit and giving enough of a shit that it doesn't piss Pennings off more until the man's said what he wanted to say, and then he leaves.

He makes it all the way back to his desk – after a quick detour by the break room for a donut and coffee, because he hasn't had breakfast and he's fucking starved – and is getting ready to sit down and start on the mountain of paperwork he's got waiting for him from his "downtown Olympics" when Stasiak comes walking over like he owns the place.

Brian just leans back in his chair and grins his most pleasant, 'fuck you very much' grin and waits for Stasiak to do all the talking.

He doesn't have to wait long.

"What the hell are you grinning about, O'Conner?"

Brian shrugs. He doesn't give a shit what kind of attitude Stasiak gives him; he ain't ruining this for him. He worked too damn hard, ran too damn fast, and jumped off too many damn buildings to get this lead, and now he's a giant leap closer to getting Braga and playing out the rest of his end game, and he figures that's a hell of a lot to grin about.

The fact that he's going to stick it to Stasiak in the process doesn't hurt.

Except…Stasiak's not bristling like Brian thinks he should. He's not dishing out threats that Brian knows he's just underhanded enough to make good on, or talking his usual rich boy smack.

Which means, Brian realizes, that he's sitting on something better. And that can't mean anything good for Brian.

He resists the urge to shove him off when Stasiak comes and leans his hip on the corner of Brian's desk closest to him, because doing that would mean letting Stasiak know that he's getting under his skin, and Brian resolved a few months ago when all this shit started that he would never do that. Never. So he raises his head, and even if he lets his grin fall a little bit, he's still chill.

Brian, don't lose that cool of yours. It's your meal ticket.

It's been almost five years, and he can still hear that voice in his head clear as the first time. Can still smell the unique mix of metal, motor oil, and musk when the wind's just right. Can still see that face, if he lets himself. That's the one person that's ever gotten under Brian's skin, and it's got him doing all of this: the FBI… the other things. And if that doesn't mean he's screwed, then he doesn't know what does.

Next to all that, Stasiak's nothing. Staring down his beaky-ass nose at him like he's something special – it'd be sad if Brian didn't hate him so much. "You heard about what happened with the Braga case this morning?"

"Nah, man," Brian says casually, because if there's one thing Stasiak hates, it's casual, especially from someone like Brian. "I was kind of busy this morning, remember?" He should. He's the one that called him at the ass crack of dawn to track Serrato down. "Not all of us get to sit around on our asses all day and read e-mails, you know?"

"You think you're the shit, don't you, O'Conner?" Stasiak says.

Brian shakes his head and reaches for the donut he nabbed on his way to his desk. Because he figured, fuck, if he's gotta suffer Pennings's bitch fit about these donuts, he's at least gonna enjoy one. "I don't think nothing." He takes a bite of his donut, and doesn't bother with the whole chew-and-swallow thing before he says, "Seriously. You can ask anybody," and gestures vaguely around the office with his donut. He knows he's got a bit of a reputation for acting first and then thinking about it later, which works just fine for him. Fact of the matter is, he thinks just fine; it's the decision-making he tends to rush. His take on risk-return might be a little skewed, too.

Stasiak's nose twitches, and Brian thinks he might be sneering, but it's hard to tell the difference between this and his resting face, and it doesn't help when he leans in. He reeks of expensive cologne and one of those French vanilla decaf soy monstrosities they whip up in the overpriced coffee store downstairs, and Brian has to wonder if he's trying that hard to be a douche, or if it just comes naturally.

The next time Stasiak speaks, his voice is quieter, hissed, and so damn smug it makes Brian's stomach turn. "I own your ass, O'Conner," he says. "That shit you tried to pull with that Ortiz bitch? Did you really think that was gonna work?"

It takes everything Brian has to keep his face even. "What's this about, Stasiak?"

Instead of an answer, Stasiak pulls a folder from the top of Brian's box and drops it in his lap, and he waits until Brian's opened it to tell him, "Those are crime scene photos. Your girl Ortiz was found dead this morning. Murdered by one of Braga's men, we're assuming."

Brian wants to say something, anything, but all he can do is stare at the pictures. Skid marks on asphalt, the wreckage of a 1970 Plymouth Roadrunner that Brian knows was…shit. Shit, shit, shit. Letty.

He knows his face doesn't change, but Stasiak still seems to know he's won, because he grins and sits back. "You and me have funeral detail Wednesday." And then he leans in again, until his mouth is right up next to Brian's ear, and he wants to shudder, to flinch, to do something, but he stays dead still, and Stasiak whispers, "You're not getting out of our deal that easy, O'Conner. And if you try and pull that shit again, Pennings is gonna find out your little secret. You understand?"

"Yeah." Brian's voice is hard, but miraculously steady. "Yeah, I understand."

Satisfied, Stasiak leans back, and Brian would've breathed a sigh of relief if he wasn't so royally fucked again. "I'll let you get back to work," he says, and with a pat on his shoulder that burns Brian's skin, Stasiak's gone.

Brian gives it a second to be sure, and then he promptly tosses the rest of the donut in the trash. He's suddenly not hungry anymore.

Miraculously, he makes it through the rest of the day. He finishes his paperwork, meets with some DEA pricks that he's pretty sure are friends of Stasiak's – he saw them getting chummy in the conference room on his way back from the can – and when the clock hits five, he closes out of everything and goes the fuck home.

He makes it two steps into his shitty little apartment in Downtown Los Angeles, manages to get the door closed, and then…

And then he loses it.

His legs buckle, and he falls back against the door, sliding all the way down until his ass hits the cold tile. He barely even notices. All he can think about is Letty, dying. About how he should've protected her better. About how he never should've agreed to help when she'd come to him to get a deal for Dom.

And Dom….

"Fuck," he breathes, his voice hitched high and reedy. He throws his head back, and it hits the metal door of his apartment with a sharp thud that echoes in his head and aches and does absolutely nothing to clear his thoughts. Christ, when Dom finds out….

He let him down. Again.

He let Letty down.

He let himself down. Stasiak's got him on a leash again. Without Letty's deal for Dom, Stasiak's still got all the leverage he needs to run Brian like a puppet on a string, and there's nothing Brian can do about it.

He doesn't sleep that night.