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The change happens over office poker night.
(Logically, it likely happened over time, possibly well before then, but it's the first time Reagan notices, so she considers it first contact.)
It's her turn to host. Not an abnormal affair, though the gang tried not to do it at her apartment often. This does not offend Reagan in the slightest. She gets why- when you have options like lush, expensive houses and cozy cabins and giant LSD-covered caverns, a shitty apartment with five old pizza boxes and a bottle of amaretto in the fridge and that's it might be unappealing. And that's not even going into the Cheeto-encrusted pieces of clothing strewn about, or the reek of alcohol and formaldehyde, or just- her father in general, honestly.
She gets it. He's… a lot. (She's a lot.)
Not helping matters is that he seems to view the occasion as a Peachy Keen time to try and force her to hang out with him while absolutely shitfaced.
It always starts the same way. Rand will wander into the kitchenette area (the only semi-clean room she has anymore), find them sitting awkwardly at a cheap plastic table, and whoop. He'll take a long slug of whatever he's carrying (today is a vodka day, apparently) and plonk his bottle down like it's his newest invention.
"Alright," he hums, grinning that grin that makes Reagan have five continuous hernias by principle alone, "Lemme grab a chair and get in on this! Hope you're all ready, because I'm gonna hand you your asses."
"Negatory," Glenn says; which is, in it's own right, a completely new addition to this formula. Normally Reagan is alone to handle Rand's shit. He shuffles his two cards around to make himself look busier than he is. "Table is full."
"Wassat supposed to mean?"
"Oh, honey," Gigi sighs, patting his hand consolingly. "We've all been talking, and we decided it's best to keep this a workers-only game. It's nothing personal."
"Are you serious?" His brow furrows. Reagan mentally braces herself. Vodka tends to aid Rand in his tantrum-throwing abilities. "I helped build the goddamn company you're clinging to like ticks! I should get the whole damn pot, let alone a seat at the table."
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Ridley," Brett says, and Reagan has to give it to him, he actually does sound sorry. "It's just… you bring a certain element to the game that can… make things difficult."
Myc slams a tentacle on the table, sick of teasing around the chief complaint. "You cheat! You're a cheaty motherfucker who can't play straight to save his life. We want to down shots of rum and lose the same five bucks each like the pathetic job-monkeys we are in peace."
"I do not!" he claims, but Myc touches his head.
"You do realize thinking about porn won't mask your cheating intentions, right?" Myc asks. It's amazing how wry a mushroom can sound with no facial expressions.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," he scoffs, and finally seems to realize Reagan is there. He shakes her shoulder. "Reagan, sweetie. Jelly bean. Let daddy play."
"Sorry, dad," Reagan says, but she's really not sorry, and her tone probably gives that away. She's always had trouble controlling her tone. "I have no power here."
"You're really gonna do this," he needled, "in your old man's home."
"My house. I literally pay all the rent and utilities."
"Our house," Rand replies, as if that fixes it.
Reagan sighs and stands up, tucking her chair into place. She forces herself to meet his fuzzy eyes. She hates eye contact. It's stupid. But when she does it, Rand typically seems to realize she's serious, even when he's blasted into next month. "C'mon, dad. Let's get you to bed. You look exhausted."
"Are you- are you shooing me away?" he demanded. "I'm a drunk, not a child!"
"Dad-" Reagan starts, touching his arm.
Rand pushes her. Reagan's hip collides with the table, knocking over some drinks.
This isn't something that really registers to Reagan as a problem. Sometimes Rand just didn't like touch when he was drunk. Sometimes he got mean and she had to finagle around him to leave the house. He's never hit her, but this certainly isn't the first time she's been shoved back a foot or so with a drunken swear.
This is, however, the first time Glenn has yeeted his dolphin ass over the table with surprising grace and tackled Rand directly into the wall. "Stand down!" he barked, one arm bracing against Rand's neck and the other twisting his arm.
"Whoa, whoa, calm down!" Rand squirmed a little. "I was just telling my daughter to get her head out of her as-" he hissed in pain as Glenn tightened his grip. "God damn it."
"Now, you listen here," Glenn says, once Rand has quieted, "I didn't come here to listen to a grown man whine and stomp his feet and mistreat the only reason he's not out on his ass. You're gonna walk back out that doorway and sleep off the svedka, or I will take great pleasure in tazing you at a level that will impair cognitive function. Are we clear?"
"Alright, fine!" Glenn lets him go. Rand cracks his neck with a moan and shoots Reagan a glare, as if that was somehow her fault, spitting over his shoulder, "Come get me when you're done being a bitch."
"Wow," says Reagan, a bit amazed he'd gotten Rand to back down. "Thanks, Glenn."
"He was holding my impending payout hostage," he said simply, plopping down in his chair. Everyone could see Glenn was heaving pretty hard- the hold had taken a lot out of him. "This is America. We don't negotiate with terrorists."
Brett reaches out to touch her arm as Reagan sits down. Her hip stings and her skins itches at the contact. All in all, a normal Tuesday. "You shouldn't have to deal with that," he says.
And what's she supposed to say to that? "No, duh, but I literally can't get rid of him? And every time I send him to rehab he's come back worse and angrier? And he could spell the world's secrets if I don't give in? And some part of me still loves him?" It's too sappy.
She shrugs, picks up her cards, and says, "I fold." while ignoring the looks they all give her. Reagan doesn't want pity. Everything she ever done has ended with her right where she is now.
It's her own damn fault.