Disclaimers can be found in first chapter.

A/N: Don't worry, there is an actual plot to this, trust me.  But we need a little set up first is all.

"Dom?"

There he is, just beyond these wide open glass doors, a cool breeze provided by the air conditioner the only barrier between us.  That and nine years of estrangement soothed only by a stray birthday card here and there, convincingly signed 'love.'

"B," he says, a smile forming on his lips.

It's a good sign—his smile—one I take to heart to mean that he doesn't thoroughly hate the fact that I'm and here and not leaving.  He motions briskly with his hand for me to come forward, his eyes warm and comforting.  It's all the reassurance I need to cross over the threshold between the tarmac and bus station—so much more though—and walk over to him, stopping just short of his personal space.

The world falls silent around me, the muddled conversations of passing travelers and the roar of departing buses dissipate like the morning fog at noontime, and all I can concentrate on is Dom.  He stands tall, smiling down at me, and radiating a coolness that I've never experienced before.  He has a sort of gleam in his eyes that reeks of accustomed superiority, like he's the reigning monarch of a country that's secret to the rest of us.  And who knows, maybe he really is.

It's an odd feeling, being near my brother, like a perpetually wistful state of awareness.  I've dreamed of this moment since… well, forever, and for it to actually be coming true seems beyond surreal.  It's downright bizarre.  Oh, and awkward—can't forget the awkwardness.

He's studying me closely, that amiable grin still tugging at the corners of his mouth.  He doesn't move except to tilt his head to the side.  As the seconds tick by and are lost forever, that tight ball of anxiety at the hollow of my spine grows and I wish with all my might that he would just do something.

And then when he finally does, slipping his strong arms around my shoulders, I tense up in his hold and wish that he had just remained standing there, staring at me like a deer caught in a hunter's headlights.  But I do return the embrace, hugging my arms around his upper body.  I finally notice just how huge and muscular he is when my arms refuse to completely circle the thick part of his chest, leaving a few inches between my reaching fingertips.

I pull back too soon, just milli-moments after he initiated the embrace.  The feeling of rightness that erupted in my heart from having his arms around me is scary in all kinds of unspeakable ways and forces me take another step back.  This is the brother I was forced to abandon so many years ago, it makes no sense that his embrace would be the one to comfort me, or that it should be so warm with love.

I should be yearning for Mama, but instead I catch myself wishing his arms to encircle me again, soothe my tired soul as only a brother can.

He clears his throat and asks, "How was your trip?"  His smile brightens and I get the feeling that it's strained.  Forced.

I swallow down the lump in my throat along with that uncanny feeling of family that just developed here, in the doorway of a bus station.  Could my life never be normal?

"Okay.  The bus stank."

He laughs.  It's a nice sound and comes across as noticeably more genuine than the fake smile he flashed moments ago.

"Most buses usually do."  Noticing the bag on my back he asks, "You got any more stuff?"

I shake my head 'no.'

"So you got everything you need in that backpack?"

What's that supposed to mean?  I don't know, but I don't like it.

The need to defend myself is overwhelming—like always.  "It's bigger than it looks," I reply, unable to heat the ice in my voice.

He laughs again, his eyebrows rising in surprise at my sharp tone.  I can't tell if he's pleased with my feistiness or just shocked by it.  "Hey, chill, B.  I'm just playin' with ya.  It's better that you don't have truckloads of clothes and shit for me to carry."

I wish I had truckloads of clothes for him to carry.  I'm wearing my best clothes: a worn, faded pair of brand name jeans my next door neighbor treated me to and a plain white tank top, looking suspiciously like a size small version of Dom's 'wife beater.'  In my backpack are two more tank tops and another pair of jeans, along with some knick-knack things from home that I couldn't bear to part with and basic toiletries.

"Besides, I like your style," he says, casually slinging an arm over my shoulders and leading me towards the bus station's exit.

--

"This is… nice" to say the least, I want to add, but don't.  I run my fingers over the tan interior of Dom's Toyota Supra once again, reveling in the luxurious friction between the soft pads of my fingertips and the leather.  I don't get to touch such nice things very often.

"Thanks," he says.  I act like I don't notice the way he keeps glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.  "How have things been?" he asks me quietly, broaching the sensitive subject.  His voice is as soft and gentle as the leather I'm currently seated on, as if a heartfelt tone will ease the pain.

"Rough."  And that one word couldn't ring any more true if it tried.

"I'm sorry about what happened to her." Mia warned me that Dom never calls our mother 'Mama,' as we all do, but to hear him purposefully dodge her name hits home like a winning grand slam in the bottom of the ninth.  For the other team.  "Really, I am."

"Thank you," I say, and I mean it.  He didn't come to the funeral, didn't send any condolences, but he sounds genuinely saddened and I get a sick feeling of triumph out of that.

"You know, B, me and her—"

"Just don't," I snap harshly, interrupting him from explaining something I already know all about.  "Don't."

Tears that I deny freedom sting my eyes, forcing me to turn away from Dom and pretend to focus on the passing streets of Los Angeles in order to hide them from him.  I would rather have him think that I'm a heartless bitch that doesn't have a compassionate bone in her body than a sniveling little girl who gets all weepy at the drop of a hat.

I don't cry in front of people and can't stand the thought of weakness, bitch or not.

"So, you're going to be a senior this coming year at school?" he asks with a renewed sense of false enthusiasm.  I'm glad he's decided to change the subject.

"Yeah."  I add an exaggerated touch of gloominess to my voice, letting the issue of our mother drop.  A new school is not something I'm looking forward to.

"You, uh, play any sports?"

"Volleyball."

He nods while saying, "That's cool.  I've never been to a volleyball match before."

I want to ask him what makes him think he'll get to watch one now, but keep my mouth shut.  We both fall silent again and the awkwardness returns—did it ever really disappear?—but I'm determined not to let it win.

"So, what do you do?" I ask.

He stiffens for a moment before easing back into the driver's seat, his hold on the steering wheel tightening briefly.  "What do you mean?" he questions without so much as a passing glance my way.

"For a job.  You do have a job, right?"

Oh God, what if he's some bum that sits around on the couch all day, drinking beer and scratching—

"I'm a mechanic.  I've got my own shop, but I pull in some extra wages for a bigger shop that a friend of mine owns."  He sounds cold, almost robotic, as if this is a practiced answer he recites regularly.  I shrug it off.

Dom's job: touchy subject.  Check.

"Hey," he nudges me lightly in the side with his elbow playfully; his good mood has apparently returned two fold.  "You got a boyfriend or anything?"

I 'pfft' away the question with a swat of my hand and an eye roll.

He laughs again.  I'm really starting to like that sound.  "I'll take that as a no."

"Take it as a hell no."

"Will do," he says, turning the car into the driveway of a nice, if not a bit run down, white two-story house.  There's a porch, too.  I've always wanted to live in a house with a porch.  "Well, this is it," he says, unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the car door.

I peer through the windshield, squinting against the late afternoon sunlight, and gaze at the house I'll be calling my home until… whenever.  There are four other cars parked in the driveway and along the side of the road, all of which look like they're worth more money than my life.  Which they probably are.

And then there's that damn feeling again, popping up and refusing to be ignored.  The one that combines nervousness and fear to form an unnamed tonic so potent that it paralyzes my body, cementing me to the leather seat, which seems like a much better place to be than inside that house.

It was good in this car with just Dom.  It became comfortable.  And now he wants to throw me into something like this?  Something big and new, something where lots of other strangers are residing, something that is sure to make me feel unwelcome?

The jerk.

"Hey, B," he swings open my door, startling me from my thoughts.  "I'm all for opening the door for the girl, but don't think you're gonna get this treatment all the time," he says, chuckling at my face of bewilderment.  His laughter dies down and I still don't move.  Another beat of silence passes before he says, "Now would be when you get out of the car."

I feel myself nod and step out of the car slowly, none of this done by my own conscious will.  Movements, that's all they are.  I'm just going through the motions again—right foot, breathe in, left foot, breathe out: repeat.  Nothing in life is hard when you think of it that way.

When I come back to myself, a soft whoosh of phantom air in my ears and a feeling like my skin has just been dry cleaned and is soaked with starch, I've already followed Dom into the house and through the door.

Oh God, this is worse than I thought it would be.