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The job had fallen through. At the last possible minute, Cook had called off the job—and decided to try his hand somewhere with the robbery—Standard not included.
For Irene, this meant bliss. Her husband was okay; he was out of prison, and Benicio had his father back—along with the coolest new uncle: Driver. Or Casey, if they were using their "real names", rather than his alias of Driver.
Though if Benicio was going to be honest, Driver was a much, much cooler name than just "Uncle Casey" could ever be.
For Standard? He was alive, the scars he bore from his beating notwithstanding, and had enough room in his heart to include the man that had wormed his way into all of theirs. They'd become… them, three people tangled up in a relationship they had no way of predicting, or loving.
For better, or for worse.
And Driver—Driver was awake. He'd awoken from the bed he shared with Standard and Irene, legs tangled between theirs, and it had made his skin crawl.
What was he even doing in bed with them like a damn parasite? His brain had hissed, so he found himself in the other room, staring out the window at the streets of Los Angeles, rolling his favorite tree-tea oil toothpick between his teeth.
There was a type of bird that had a penchant for worming its way into a nest and kicking out the biological species—and some part of Driver felt like it was fitting for him.
Isn't that what your mother did? When she slit your father from throat to hips?
But he wouldn't. There was something good here, with Benicio, Standard, and Irene. Driver wouldn't—wouldn't bring what he carried across the river to them. No, there was benefit to being the one in the nest with them—
"Uncle Driver?"
…Shit.
Benicio had wandered in, rubbing at one of his eyes as he notices Driver, pausing as he does so. Why was Uncle Driver awake and wearing all of his clothes?
Wasn't he with Mom and Dad?
"What…" Benicio yawns, jaw cracking slightly. "What are you doin up?" He asks, as Uncle Driver offers him a tiny smile, gesturing with his head to the window.
"Couldn't sleep. You?" Driver asks, as he instinctively lets Benicio come close, as he did with Irene and Standard. And he's a good kid, too.
"Couldn't sleep." Benicio echoes sheepishly. "M'room gets too hot sometimes, so I get water."
It was brutally hot in Los Angeles tonight—Driver couldn't blame Benicio at all. His tongue absently felt around his lips—dry.
"Let's get us both one, hm?" Driver asks softly, as Benicio nods eagerly. "Yes! But we can't wake them up; I'll take you!" The kid grabs onto Driver's hand without hesitation, pulling Driver along.
And Driver's only happy to follow after Benicio, the knot in his chest already loosening.
"Uncle Driver?" Driver ends up on the couch with Benicio, the boy's knees hugged to his chest, one of his hands near Driver's—callused from the work he did on cars and gripping onto steering wheels like his life depended on it.
Which it often did.
"Yeah?" Driver responds, glancing towards Benicio. "Wanna watch something together? Low, so we don't wake your mom and dad up?"
That was a lot of words for Uncle Driver, Benicio realizes. It's not that Uncle Driver was unkind, far from it. But he often had a hard time talking to people outside of him, Mom, and Dad that wasn't a 'yes' or 'no'.
"Uncle Casey often doesn't have a lot to say." Mom would say, before she and Dad leaned over to kiss Uncle Driver, which, ew, gross—but it made Uncle Driver blush like the girls he'd see at recess do when the boys kissed them.
…Did that mean Uncle Driver was happy with them? Benicio certainly hopes so—he might have been too little to understand what their relationship was, but the way Mom and Dad got all happy when he was around? That was probably happy.
And it made him happy too.
Benicio nods, grabbing the remote off of the arm of the couch. The TV gets flicked on, some sort of cartoon about a sponge that Driver can't remember—but it's nice.
It's nice to see Benicio being a kid. Driver can't remember if he'd ever gotten that luxury, and he thinks he never did.
It was either old movies at the behest of his father, something smoky and noir, or, on the rare occasion that his mother allowed him to watch television, something like The Dukes of Hazzard that ignited his love of stunt driving.
So it's nice to see a kid, a genuinely good kid, get to be one without the specter of his father's beating hanging over him.
I'm not his parent, Driver thinks, but still shifts his arm to around Benicio's shoulders, but I'll be damned if I let that happen to him or Standard again.
The TV's been on the fritz for a bit now, the screen flickering between the cartoon and illuminating the time on the corner of the screen.
4:25 AM.
Driver shifts upon seeing the time—shouldn't he be putting Benicio back in bed right now?
That's what he should do. But—As he twists to find Benicio, the weight against his ribs makes him pause.
Oh.
Benicio's head was against his rib cage, a slight bit of water spilled down his front from when they were able to drink, feet jammed awkwardly under Driver's knees as he slept, clearly content.
It… it was cute. That was the thing, wasn't it? It was cute. A kid, and not just any kid, Irene and Standard's, found him safe.
Driver couldn't help the smile from creeping across his face as he shrugs his jacket off, draping it across both him and Benicio.
The Scorpion's facing outwards—Driver was placing himself between Benicio and the door, as he should. Like he always should.
It's what you know how to do, right? Always the one with the stinger at the ready—or your back bared for someone else to get across.
Someone else. Never you.
Driver's hands briefly tightened, though not enough to hurt around Benicio, when footsteps quietly pad out of the darkness, revealing a yawning Standard Gabriel, rubbing at one of his eyes.
"Case… What? What are you doing up?" Standard asks at the normal volume—only to blanch sheepishly when Driver holds up a finger to his lips, nodding at Benicio against his ribs.
"Couldn't sleep." Driver murmurs before his gaze finds a knot in the carpeted floor in front of them. "…Was thinking you'd want time with just you and Irene."
Standard froze, as the implications settled in his chest. Oh.
Well… that was realistic, wasn't it? Hell, Standard thought that Driver was… with Irene and Benicio, replacing him.
But it wasn't that. And since the heist failed, Standard knew that Driver hadn't been replacing him.
…Sure, it was still a bit hard to work through, but it was, at least, worth it to Standard and Irene.
"Hey." Standard murmurs, moving closer to Casey, who moves his head back to allow Standard near his head.
"We still want you here. We might all be fucked up in so many ways, but I really don't think we fucked up in loving you." Standard murmurs, and Driver can't help the tiny shudder that passes through his body.
Loving him.
Hearing it from Standard's mouth was both an elation and a mild bit of horror—Driver was not meant for this, to be anything more than a guard dog. Someone who maybe got love for doing what he was supposed to do.
But not like this, right?
Even still, Driver leaned in, as Standard's stubble grazes the shell of his ear as he's talking—sweet nothings that made his cheeks warm yet again.
"Honey?" And if that wasn't enough, Irene. Irene had wandered out of the room behind Standard, clutching her pajamas close to herself—and gaze softening at the sight of Casey, Standard, and Benicio, who thankfully didn't wake—"We still want you around. You and your cloud of motor oil and that little smile of yours." She says, a hand finding its way to Driver's face as he leans into it, desperate to soak up the contact.
"You do?" Driver asks, hating the way his voice cracks like that. What was she doing to him?
"We both do," Irene says, as Standard lowers down to sit beside them as well, all four of them somehow tangled on the couch and in each other's arms.
Driver struggles to hold back a barely used laugh, as the way they ended up tangled left Standard's finger in his ear, and Irene's foot was firmly in his stomach.
"Case, you're ours, remember?" Standard adds, before his gaze shifts towards the sleeping Benicio between them all.
"Besides, I don't think I have the guts to explain to Benicio why his 'cool Uncle Driver' would go away…" He teases, glancing a kiss off of the hollow of his throat, and Driver yet again has to resist shivering, what with an entire child still on his ribs.
What were they doing to him?
"And if you're concerned, Casey, you can always talk to us, you know?" Irene adds, as she presses a kiss to one of his palms. "We both want this to work out, and we hope you want it too."
Oh, Driver did.
He wanted love. Before Driver's mother disappeared, she used to say that whatever her son did love, he loved with the passion that would make a dying star envious, but he never got that.
Driver did, however, know how easy it was to love this little family. Irene, from the moment he'd seen her walking through Shannon's garage—Benicio when he'd thought that, clearly, his new Uncle figure chewing through toothpicks was supremely cool.
Even Standard, when he'd found Driver after he'd gone after Cook and shoved a bullet down his mouth for threatening Benicio and Irene before the failed heist—and let Driver fall apart in front of him when he'd realized what he'd done.
Oh yes, Driver wanted that. And maybe, just maybe, he could convince himself that he deserved it, too.
Mongrels knew eventually when they became house dogs, after all.
"I want it." Driver whispers—the sound of his voice a lot louder than he was used to. His voice could be used against him, warped and thrown back as a weapon. Silence often made people uneasy, off their game, but it put Driver firmly in his element.
There wasn't a use talking when one was ferrying scorpions across the river, was there?
So this? This was new. But Driver wanted this; he wanted it so badly that every part of him would… cease to be if it was anything different.
"I want this." He repeats, glancing between Standard and Irene. "If you'll have every part of me." That last part's a whisper in the air, but they know what Driver means.
All of Driver. His reluctance to talk. How he showed up out of nowhere to work for Shannon, all those years ago. How Driver would do anything if it meant keeping those he loved with his heart safe.
How he drove for criminals.
"We'll have you any way we can have you," Irene says with a soft smile, before she glances at Standard, both wearing equal expressions of love—not before cuddling close with kisses on whatever bare inch of skin Driver had.
And Driver? Whatever protest he had had flown out the window, because he was loved, damnit.
And he loved that he was loved.