Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Brett Hand would like to consider himself a fairly average guy. Maybe an average guy with strange routines, but regardless, the routines result in a normal appearance, so really, he’s normal. He keeps his apartment meticulously clean and spotless. They say your room is a representation of your mental state, and he takes this to heart, keeping his apartment as polished as possible so that his thoughts can be calm and organized. Cleanliness helps his anxiety, and it’s something to do with his hands. 

Brett is in the middle of cleaning up after dinner when someone knocks on the door. 

He sets down the dish he’s scrubbing, raising an eyebrow. He’s not sure who would be visiting at this hour. He hopes to god it’s not Glenn trying to get him to join the army again or that it’s a neighbor that wants him to stop using the vacuum cleaner at late hours. He pushes his hair back, making sure it’s perfectly in place, and then strolls over to the door. He opens it.

“Heyo!”

 
It’s Reagan, and she looks more disgruntled than usual.

 
“Hi, Brett,” she answers, avoiding eye contact. Brett can’t tell if she’s wearing makeup or not. Her eyes are puffy, and her lab coat is crumpled and stained with the ailments of the day. She rubs her arm, and even though she looks so dejected, her skin looks smoother than usual.

“Oh my god, Reags, are you okay?” His smile falters, and his eyes immediately become sympathetic. 

She shifts from foot to foot. “Um, I just- I wanted to- Fuck, sorry. This is stupid. I should just go, right?”

She waves her hand behind her as she turns around, deflated.

He shakes his head. “No, no, come in. I insist!” He gently grabs her shoulder to keep her from pacing away and steps back into his apartment, gesturing for her to come inside. He flicks the living room lights on and opens the door wider as she passes through, and then he shuts it behind them, turning to lean against the wall. 

 
“What’s up? You look more upset than usual.” Worry characterizes his face, mouth tugging into a frown. “I’m not gonna force you to talk about anything, but I wanna help. Even if that means just distracting you, okay?” 

 
It’s strange that she showed up without warning, but Reagan does strange, socially-unacceptable things all the time. It’s charming, really, and he’s really glad to see her face, so he doesn’t think much of it. Even if she’s blinking a lot less than usual, and her movements look jerky and pained.

She still looks tense, but her face relaxes a bit, almost as if she’s settling into the new environment, Brett’s positivity rubbing off on her. 

“Thanks, Brett.” She glances around the room, and then her eyebrows raise. “Wow, your place is fucking spotless,” then, as an afterthought, she adds, “as per usual. You sure you want me mucking up the place?”

“I don’t mind if you mess things up! I actually enjoy cleaning,” he assures her; she nods, making herself at home on the couch. He walks to the kitchen, picks up the plate of salad that he made earlier, and then walks it over to her, setting it down on the coffee table. “Here, have some of this. It’ll be good to have food in your stomach.” 

“Oh, I’m good,” Reagan politely declines, waving a lax hand at the food. “I’m not hungry. I had Quiznos at the office.”

“Oh, okay!” He’s glad she’s already eaten, picking up the salad himself. Then, he watches her relax. There’s something strange about seeing Reagan still in her work outfit when he’s just in his undershirt and slacks. Normally, he’d be just in his underwear for sleepwear, but since he hadn’t had dinner yet, he hadn’t changed. He has a very specific routine he likes to stick to. She looks nice like this, though. He doesn’t see her without her lab coat often, so he takes it all in, sitting at the end of the couch that’s not occupied by Reagan’s body. “Sooo… wanna talk or watch Ghostbusters? Better choose wisely because you can only choose one answer!”

“It’s fine. It’s nothing. I just—“Reagan’s hands are in her lap now, and she fidgets with her fingers, “I’m so fucked up, Brett. I’m so irreparably fucked up. Everything I do is an attempt to prove I’m not like my dad, but I somehow always end up proving I’m nothing but a Ridley instead.”

“Hey, hey, that’s not true at all.” He scoots closer to her, gently resting a hand on her leg. “Is this okay?” he asks, and she nods, so he offers the most comforting look he can. They both struggle with self-worth in different ways, especially when it comes to their respective families. Neglect, alcoholism, and manipulation had given Reagan a cocktail of trust and inferiority issues that rivalled that of Kafka and often manifested in strange ways. It’s nice to hear her being honest about her issues, but still, it breaks Brett’s heart to hear it. 

He tries to sound reassuring. “People are their parents. It’s sad, but it’s true. Instead of trying not to be like them, we should try to be better versions of them. You are who you hang out with, so of course, your parents have a big effect on your personality! But for one, I think you’re much better than your dad. Maybe you’re fucked up, but you didn’t install cameras in the women’s bathrooms or disappear people for fun, so there’s that!” He scratches his neck. “Plus, everyone’s a little fucked up. The fact that you’re aware of it is progress. Or that’s what my therapist says, at least.”

“That’s true. If anything, I’d install them in the men’s bathroom– Kidding,” Reagan jokes with a smirk. She sits up so they’re closer and puts her hand over Brett’s. Her eyes drop for a moment, thoughtfully taking in the sight of their hands touching before making eye contact. “But– thanks.”

He chuckles at her joke, and then he barely has time to react before she’s hugging him.

She lurches forward and wraps her arms around Brett’s neck. “I mean it.” She nuzzles her nose into the space where his neck and shoulder meet “Thank you.”

He immediately melts into the hug, arms snaking around her. Her breath is hot on his neck, and her arms are surprisingly strong. The hug is just as much a comfort to him as it is to her. Reagan’s never been great with physical touch, which is difficult sometimes. He doesn’t mind, but Brett’s love language is small, reassuring touches. Recently, though, things have gotten better in that area. Her hand is cold and small compared to his, but it feels nice. Reassuring. “Of course, Reags.” They stay like that for a moment, and then Reagan pulls back, leaving as swiftly as she arrived. Brett sits on the couch for a few minutes afterwards, trying to process the interaction, and then goes back to his routine, the ghost of a smile on his face. 

Something’s off about Reagan, but he’s sure she’ll be better in the morning. And she is. 

Chapter Text

Reagan’s miles deep in work when Brett arrives at her office the next day. The morning has barely started, and she already has a long list of things she needs his help with. Besides that, the CEO’s feeling refreshed—whether due to her morning coffee or being in a good mood is anybody’s guess. She doesn’t acknowledge Brett until he greets her, “Hey, Rae-Dawg. You feelin’ better today?”

“Hey, yeah,” Reagan lifts her head. Although Brett’s enthusiasm is refreshing, she doesn’t have time to acknowledge it with more than a head nod. “I actually have a few things I need you to do for me.”

The new CEO straightens her back and stretches her arms above her head, making a slight, relieved noise. She’s been hunched over her work for the better half an hour, so it takes her a moment to leave her seat courageously. Swiping a file off her desk, she presents Brett with a dossier she’s secretly proud of. “I need you to check on the polishing of the moon landing set for me. Just make sure everything’s running smoothly. Then report back to me. There are a bunch of little tasks I need done in there too. Checklist format because I know how much you love checking things off lists.”

Reagan isn’t kidding. Inside the folder are a few papers organized by different parts of the Cognito Inc. building: MEETING ROOM, CHEM LAB, RIDLEY LABS, LOBBY. The list is in checklist format, as promised, double-indented to set it off from the rest of the page, and written in capital letters because—well, because, why the fuck not. She would rather Brett not miss anything.

          ▢ CHECK THE MOON LANDING SET PROGRESS

          ▢ COLLECT TEAM’S PROGRESS REPORTS + BRING THEM TO REAGAN

          ▢ DELIVER REPLENISHMENTS TO CHEMLAB (GET FROM THE CHEMICAL CLOSET)

          ▢ TRANSPORT AB FROM RIDLEY LABS TO REAGAN’S OFFICE

          ▢ ACQUIRE A LIST OF EMPLOYEES FROM THE SECRETARY

          ▢ PICK UP BAGELS FOR WORKPLACE MORALE

Reagan tries not to seem too fond of herself, especially because literally anyone could have made a pretty checklist and passed it onto their co-CEO to do their bidding, but she can’t help the proud smile that tugs at her lips. She likes to know how to appeal to her employees, and she likes to know that she knows how to appeal to her employees.

She often wonders how long she can keep up the ethical workplace environment before something screws it up.

You can’t fix the world. Something will always fuck it up again-

“Thanks! You got it, captain!” Brett snaps Reagan out of her thoughts before she can think too much about Ron’s words. She’s grateful—she wants to keep her feet on the ground today, mainly because there’s so much to do. There’s always so much to do.

He salutes her with a wink, looks over the tasks carefully for a moment, and then he’s off. No complaining, but no compliments either. Reagan’s OK with that because everything she needed to know was always written all over his face. A part of her envies that as she leans back against her desk and watches the oversized doors slowly slide closed behind her best friend. 

Fuck, Reagan realizes when he’s gone, Should have asked for more coffee. 

She rounds her desk and plops into her chair again. It’s supposed to be ergonomic, but apparently, it was made for giants because even at five-foot-seven, she’s not tall enough to fit it properly. Instead of the head cushion supporting her neck, it hits the back of her head and makes her chin jut out, which can’t be good for her posture.

’Want an erotic back massage?’ Ron would joke lightly as his hands found her shoulders, thumbs gently kneading between her shoulder blades.

Reagan would chuckle gently, the kind of sound that airily started in her chest and rose to a high note near her nose. ‘Calling it erotic is the least-erotic thing you could say.’

But she would melt into his touch anyway, letting him work at the endless knots in her back and neck. Having someone care for her like that was a first. It was the equivalent of a simultaneous sunset and sunrise—so impossible, so overwhelmingly beautiful and beautifully overwhelming that words couldn’t do it justice.

“Huh,” Reagan snaps out of her thoughts again, this time of her own accord. The digital timecard roster on her screen shows her that she’s checked in twice today. She reaches for her coffee, furrowing her eyebrows at the mistake, and- Oh. Right. I’m out of coffee.

Probably just a glitch in the system.

Chapter Text

To Brett’s relief, Reagan seems much better than she was the previous night before. He’s proud of her productivity, in a strange way– She’s already a great boss, and he appreciates her attention to detail. He does like checking things off lists, and he loves to do everything in the most efficient way! He decides to begin with the things towards the front of the building and make his way back towards her lab. 

Brett starts off his journey by getting bagels, hot and fresh, and drops one off at the secretary’s office as he gets the list from her. He continues his bagel delivery as he reaches the Moon Landing set, offering some advice on how to properly preserve the crater dust, and then continues onward to the Chemistry Lab. He’s not in this wing often, and decides he should probably not bring food into a place with dangerous chemicals, handing them off to Andre (so high on a cocktail of various substances that he doesn’t blink once during their conversation) to handle while he fetches the replenishments. 

The lab is cold, and quiet. He quickly makes his way through, trying not to see anything he’ll regret. He opens the chemical closet only to find Reagan there. A pleasant surprise! It’s odd that she was able to get there before him without them crossing paths, but he doesn’t dwell on it. “Oh, hey, Reags! Decided to get those replenishments yourself, or are ya here for another task?” 

“Oh,” she puts a hand to her chin, pursing her lips. It seems like she was checking something over. The closet’s dimly lit by a small lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, and some chemicals glow green and purple in their tubes. “Just thought I would check something over. I realized I sent you here without confirming if our inventory list was up to date. Turns out everything’s here! That’s a fucking first, huh? Speaking of,” Reagan’s neck snaps to look at Brett, green light bouncing off the whites of her pupils, “You’re fast. I made a pretty long list for you. I thought it might be overwhelming. Guess that’s why you’re my co-CEO, huh?”

And she chuckles softly, smirking as if they were sharing secrets. As if they were in their own little bubble under that cheap lightbulb and it was them against the world.

He steps inside and lets the door swing shut behind him. 

It’s a bit more crowded than he expected, as most closets weren’t built with his muscle mass in mind, but there’s still enough distance between them that it’s not necessarily intimate. Even if it feels strangely intimate. Maybe it’s the dim glow of the test tubes. 

“Oh! Yeah! You know me, Mr. Efficiency!” He soaks up the praise from her like a sponge, his teeth glinting a strange mixture of the green and purple reflecting onto them. “Wouldn’t want to be Co-CEO with anyone else!” He snaps his fingers together, and then a strange silence falls over them. 

Reagan’s smiling like she has something to say, so he waits, eyes drifting over to one of the particularly bright test tubes next to her head. It looks like it would be really fun to drink, and he knows he definitely shouldn’t, but he still entertains the idea. The compound could probably do anything from killing him instantly to turning him into a green bean, and neither sounds great, so he stops thinking about drinking random chemicals and looks back to Reagan. 

She turns to face him, stepping closer. “Since I have you here, I, uh- I wanted to talk about last night. I don’t usually open up to people, but- I- I guess I felt safe with you, and that’s not really a usual thing for me. Hopefully, this isn’t weird. I’ll just–” Reagan steps around Brett, expertly avoiding knocking anything over. She pauses at the door, momentarily standing with her back to her best friend before turning to him again. The room feels smaller as she steps closer, but not in a bad way. The way Reagan moves is so certain and intentional that Brett is enamored, watching each motion carefully.

She reaches to gently grip his wrist and stands on her tiptoes to softly kiss his cheek. When she pulls back, she’s noticeably more shy. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, looking at anything and everything other than Brett. “I guess what I’m trying to say is thank you .”

His mouth falls open slightly, and before he can really process what’s happened, she’s gone. Reagan swiftly leaves without allowing another word between either of them. Brett’s not surprised– Confrontation has never been her strong suit.

Her lips were soft and cold, and the feeling of them lingers far after she’s left him alone in the closet. His hand reaches up to feel his cheek, and for the rest of the time he’s working on his checklist, he keeps reaching up to absentmindedly feel it. He can’t help but feel giddy, despite the slowly growing feeling that something is off .

Chapter Text

“Good to see you again, Reags!”

As usual, Brett’s efficient with his tasks, making Reagan’s life so much easier. She’s slumped over her desk going through some documents when her right-hand man returns, and she gratefully accepts the completed dossier. “Yeah,” she responds, burying her nose in the folder to approve the checklists.

Discarding it, Reagan leans back in her tragically ergonomic chair and sighs heavily. She’s almost done with her papers, and it’s been a long, productive morning. Only a few things left to do before she has to tackle more of her responsibilities. “Hey, do you wanna break for lunch? I’m fucking starving, and words are starting to look like alphabet soup.

“I gave the team an early lunch to boost productivity, so they should be back any minute. That means even if we’re gone, work’s still getting done.”

Reagan dreads moving her legs, but she eventually forces herself out of her chair, walking with a slight slouch as she rounds her desk to meet Brett. “Did you pack your own lunch, or do you wanna come with? I’m thinking Taco Bell.”

“Oh, yeah, totally!” Brett’s hand touches his face again, and his eyes seem to momentarily lose focus. Reagan doesn’t think much of it because she’s going over her Taco Bell order in her head. “Oh, funny thing, I totally left my lunch at home today. I’ll come with you!” He throws an arm around her shoulder, patting her arm. “A BFF-escapade!”

Reagan isn’t as fazed by Brett’s physical affection as she would have been eight months ago. It would have been more jarring if they weren’t best friends. She chuckles softly, shoulders only slightly tense, and jokes, “Yeah, yeah. Down, boy.”

In fact, Brett’s the only person she feels comfortable enough to hug and shove playfully other than Ron, who’s long gone. She doesn’t even feel safe enough around her parents to show them that kind of affection, not for lack of trying. It feels heavy and forced with them, but with Brett, it’s caring and enthusiastic.

Reagan doesn’t dwell on the whys for long as they exit the building and slip into her car. She drives out of the parking lot smoothly despite her urge to get some cheap fast food in her system. “Gosh, Cognito feels less like a living hell to work in every day. It’s still taking forever to clean up JR’s and my dad’s messes, though. Apparently, the security systems aren’t even up to par. Sometimes the time cards double scan for, like, no reason . Am I the only boss in the history of this place that cares about the safety of the workers and fair wages relevant to punctuality?”

Brett picks up a mind eraser off the passenger seat and tosses it into the back. “You’d think after this much time, they’d at least fix an issue with the cards! I can’t even use my fingerprints to get in.” He looks down at his hands, frowning.

Reagan stops talking to honk loudly at someone who cuts her off while turning out of a parking lot. After a brief Fuck you, asshole! she continues, “Don’t even get me started on how difficult it is to implement paid maternity leave. There are literally hundreds of things I need to fill out, and most of them are bullcrap that doesn’t even matter but is mandatory anyway. It’s like the government is intentionally making it harder for women to be a working part of society. Gee , what a concept, huh?”

“Hah, it’s almost some form of divine retribution that you’ll be the best CEO of Cognito Inc as a woman! Take that, misogynists!” He punches the air in place of said misogynists. “It does suck, but it shows you’re making a difference. You’re persistent. A go-getter! That’s a great trait in a leader!” 

Reagan can’t help but smile at Brett’s unwavering loyalty. It’s oddly refreshing even though she’s been victim to it for almost a year now—actually eighteen years now. The youngest MIT graduate in history still hadn’t forgotten what he did for her when she was twelve, and although if she thinks about it too much, it becomes all kinds of fucked up, she simply knows he compliments her well. Reagan forever , as he would say.

They’re thankfully at the fast food place soon, and Brett jumps out of the car. “Ooo, I’m so excited for lunch! Baja blasts are one of my favorite treats.”

“God, right? ” She responds as she shuts the door and locks her car. “We’re putting it on the company card, too, so you can go nuts if you want.”

They step inside together, and Reagan disregards the fact that they look tragically out of place. Between her mad pharmacist vibes and his perfectly-tailored suit, if the site was sentient, it would chew them up and spit them out. Thankfully, they got rid of all the personified monster houses turned fast food joints years ago, and it’s moments like these she’s thankful for it.

Someone from the nearest table looks up and glares at them. Brett sticks closer to Reagan, eyes wide, and jumps in the surprisingly short line. 

While waiting for their food, Reagan turns to Brett and asks, “Wanna eat in my car? I installed extra cup holders and a retractable food tray that comes up from the center console.” 

“Wow, you installed all of that for your car? A woman after my own heart.” He nods approvingly, hand over his chest. 

Then, Reagan adds through gritted teeth, “Also, that screaming kid is driving me fucking insane, and between you and me, I’m about three seconds away from having baby blood on my hands.”

“Please don’t kill a baby,” he pleads and decides, “Yeah, let’s eat in the car.” 

Sure enough, her car is efficiently geared f or the best fast food eating experience. Brett almost yells when the tray detracts on its own, handing the food to Reagan while he carefully puts their cups in their holders and opens the straws. 

Baby murder charges avoided, Reagan takes the first moment she can to take a long swig of her Baja Blast. She should probably drink more water, but how can she when sugar, caffeine, and alcohol feel so much better? Reveling at the feeling of finally having something in her stomach that isn’t coffee, she leans back in her seat and sighs in relief. It doesn’t hurt that Brett is obviously ecstatic about her handiwork.

“So, what else is new?” He takes a bite, looking over at her as he readjusts in his seat. “I’ve been trying to train Air Bud to use the coffee machine, but I’m also kinda afraid of getting him addicted to caffeine. Don’t want to enforce unethical expectations of capitalism on a dog .”

“If you don’t, someone else will,” Reagan points out around her straw. “I think it’s best to start early. I did, and look how I turned out.”

It’s a joke. Reagan probably holds the world record for the most bottomless eye bags, and today they’re not even as deep as they’ve been.

“You started the second you were born. I think it’s a little too late for me,” Brett jokes, flashing a lopsided grin before taking a particularly long sip of his drink.

Reagan smirks, humored, and continues, “Myc’s been on my mind lately. He’s actually been meeting his milking deadlines. Usually, I have to break my back trying to get him to be productive. I can’t tell if he’s more focused because he’s been secretly reading our thoughts to feel better about himself or if he’s exclusively getting work done to avoid being in the same room as my thoughts. Either way, I’m not complaining.”

 “I think everyone’s doing better under your leadership, Reags. There’s less of a feeling of impending doom!” He offers an enthusiastic thumbs up. 

“In other news,” Reagan starts to unfold her taco now that she’s over the first sip of bliss, “You seem chippe r, and you’ve been doing well with the new position. I haven’t seen you use your stress ball once this month. What gives? You going hard on me, Brett?”

A smile spreads across his face. “What can I say? That’s what power does, right, haha?” He laughs a little nervously. “It’s like puppeteering, but with people! ” He considers that sentence for a moment and then backtracks. “Okay, that sounded way more diabolical out loud. I just didn’t know I had the… capacity? To give orders?” 

He shrugs. “That’s my secret. Pretend it’s just oooone big puppet show.” He then reconsiders again, looking over at Reagan nervously. “Please don’t tell anyone that. Myc is already blackmailing me.”

Reagan strategically eats her taco as she allows Brett to talk, chewing to hold back a grin as he rambles. It’s so endearing, and she finds him cycling through the five stages of grief in under five minutes so funny that when she’s finished her taco, she can’t help but laugh. In fact, she laughs so much that she has to gently shove his shoulder to help her come down from her laughter. “Don’t worry, Baby Brett! Your- your secret’s safe with me, buddy.”

Brett hesitates as if he’s unsure if Reagan’s laughing with or at him, but he laughs with her. Reagan’s voice is a little scratchy and carefully topped with a slight hint of satisfaction at the state of things, especially with Brett as her Co-CEO.

She blatantly enjoys getting to see Brett’s diabolical side. He could give orders to the team, but this side of him feels special, and although she knows it’s part of his trauma from years of pent-up emotions and neglect and in no way related to her, Reagan can’t help but feel honored. “I like the diabolical side of you,” she smirks at him, “Besides, we both know that if you try to avoid being the villain for too long, then you’ll inevitably become one, right?”

It’s not an entirely positive note, but she’s not a positive person. Reagan sees through it all—she refuses to believe that everyone is either all good or all bad. Funnily enough, Rand taught her that. She spent her entire life thinking he was either a hero or a villain, but in the end, she realized he was just her dad, a screw-up.

Brett shifts in his seat again as he tries to reason how he feels about it. “That’s true. I don’t wanna be a villain. But I guess you have to be a little evil sometimes to do some good?”

“Maybe that’s why the company is the best it’s been in a while. Because you’re soft with a hard center, and I’m hard with a soft one,” and Reagan practically vacuums her last taco into her mouth, bits of lettuce falling from the corners of her lips onto the taco wrapper she’s laid out.

“Hah, not sure there’s any part of me that’s not soft bits, though!” Brett pokes at his stomach, chuckling, and then finishes his taco. Reagan’s observation is accurate. It’s almost like they complete each other because they do, in a way.

Brett takes a loud slurp of the Baja Blast before continuing, “The company is the best because you’re you!” He pats her shoulder, and then his hand lingers, rubbing it. “I’m glad to have a kinda-diabolical co-CEO. Because you really are good, deep down. I mean, you actually consider ethics in your business practices!”

Reagan hums in agreement, quietly believing Brett would never become a villain as she swallows her big bite. She regrets it as it travels down her throat in a lump but can’t stay mad at its sodium-filled, greasy awesomeness. Even with sauce trickling down her chin, her best friend reaches for her shoulder, and she can’t help but wonder two things: how he doesn’t find her repulsive at that moment and why he’s so… touchy-feely today.

It’s difficult to complain about it considering Brett’s touch is like caramel—sweet, soft, and melts into her. His hands are much bigger than hers, and her entire shoulder fits into his palm, but he isn’t even a fraction of a percentage intimidating. It’s kind of nice, but she doesn’t let herself dwell on it as she wipes the sauce from her face with a spare napkin.

Reagan can finally respond now that she isn’t having an internal battle with a taco thicker than her throat: “That’s the bare minimum, Brett. That’s what anyone running a company should be doing.”

She’s suddenly hypersensitive to where his thumb rubs near her collarbone. She doesn’t sound angry or irritated; she looks into his eyes hesitantly, gently, like she’s unsure of herself but grateful to have him by her. Brett’s hands…

Are not something she’s going to think about right now. In fact, she will promptly stop thinking about them and instead think about malnourished kittens living in dumpsters, logically the farthest thing from Brett’s comforting grip.

“You’d be surprised. Ethical business practices aren’t in the in. I was an unpaid intern until you became boss!” He repeats this as a fun fact rather than a profoundly troubling statement. “JR was right. It paid off in experience!”

Reagan pffts and turns the key in the ignition. “Ready to go back? We can throw the garbage out at work.”

“Yeah, let’s go back!” He lingers one moment longer, squeezing her shoulder before he retracts.

–

Brett turns to Reagan when they’re back at HQ. He pats his stomach, “Thanks for the ride! I gotta go finish the last thing on the list, fetchin’ Alpha B, but then I’ll see you again!”

Brett begins to walk off but turns around again. “Oh, I didn’t forget my lunch. I’m really sorry about lying. I just… Wanted to spend time with my BFF!” He smiles sheepishly and then takes off to Ridley Labs to fetch Alpha-Beta.

It was much easier to excuse her thought process when she thought Brett had only eaten with her because he had forgotten his lunch. Now that Reagan knows he voluntarily hung out with her during his lunch break, the only hour of the day he had to relax besides before and after work, she feels her cheeks warm. As she watches him practically book it, eager to finish his final task, she just stands there for a moment, staring.

Reagan is royally fucked.

Chapter Text

Brett is running out of mental energy when he finally ends up in Ridley Labs. He takes his time, perusing the various contraptions, and he’s deep into inspecting a hammer shaped like a snake when Reagan’s familiar voice rings out behind him.

“Hey, Brett.” 

He shoots up, embarrassed he was caught distracted, and offers an awkward smile. “Oh, hey, Reags! What’s up?” 

Reagan’s not wearing her lab coat, and her hands are stuffed into her pockets. She greets him as if she forgot to tell him something before, “Uh, can you actually wait to fetch AB? Don’t boot him up. There’s something I want to do, and I kinda don’t want him watching.”

“Oh, yeah, totally.” His hand touches his face again, eyes briefly trailing down to her lips, and then he snaps himself out of it because he is at work , and this is his best friend and boss , and that whole kiss on the cheek thing was totally platonic, right? 

She approaches like a shark circling its prey, her eyes hungry for… something . Brett’s not sure what, but he’s not mad about it. Reagan stands the straightest he’s ever seen, creeping up to him like she’s preparing to jump into his skin. He’d let her— He’d let her do anything . He’s not sure if that’s good. As she closes in, her steps become unbearably slow. She stands in front of him, the gap between them so small it produces an almost magnetic force. Her posture is pencil straight, accentuating her breasts under her button-up.

“What you said in the car- That meant a lot to me... And- I honestly thought- Well, I thought you were just tagging along because you were hungry. Not because you wanted to be with me- I mean, eat with me. God . Sorry, this is- a lot to unpack. For me.”

“Oh, of c-course,” he says, stumbling over his own words because they’re really close right now, and she smiles nice and looks nice, and even though she’s stumbling over her words, too, she sounds nice. “You mean a lot to me, Reagan. We don’t get a lot of time together, so I have to get the time I can in, right, haha?” He resists the urge to step back because normally Reagan wouldn’t want to be this close, but he stands his ground, eyes briefly traveling to her lips again. Oh no. Oh no. 

“It’s just,” she touches his chest with a thoughtful palm, speaking slowly, “that I’m not good with feelings. Sometimes, I’m empty. I don’t feel anything at all. Um- psychologically speaking, of course. Or, neurologically. I’m sure my brain’s irreparably fucked up, but-”

“It’s okay. We can unpack any emotions you’d like to together! That’s what I’m here for.” He’s nervous but almost giddy, desperately trying to read the situation.

Her hand moves up his chest and snakes around his neck expertly. “You don’t mind this, do you?”

Brett tries not to freeze up, her touch sending electricity through his body. It’s very purposeful— It’s not the sort of touch most people give him. It’s not objectifying. It’s delicate. It makes him feel special. 

“I-I don’t mind it,” he replies, and then adds, “I, um, I… I like it?” Voicing it is hard, but Reagan is like a shy cat, easily spooked away. He has to reassure her without scaring her off. 

“Everyone feels things in different ways. Maybe you just don’t feel them the way society tells you to. Either way, that’s fine! You seem like you have a lot of feeling to me.” He hesitantly reaches up through the tight gap between them to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, even though it looks good either way. His hand hovers in place.

What is this, exactly? Emotional intimacy? Maybe romantic or sexual? There’s some sort of tension wrapping around his heart and strangling it that he can’t really read. “You’re really nice and really thoughtful. You’re not fucked up at all.”

She closes the gap between their bodies, and Brett lets out a small gasp of surprise, anticipation building as their faces grow closer and closer. Even though she’s barely moving, the slow push toward him is hypnotizing. He’s unable to get words out properly.

----

You seem like you have a lot of feeling to me.

Reagan can’t blush, but she does feel some sparks under her robotic cheeks, deep enough that they couldn’t short-circuit and give her away. Her calculations were correct—Brett is so naïve and soft that he sees past her artificiality. Beneath her cold hand, she imagines his skin is like silk and gently sinks her fingers into his orange curls.

She considers that this man has a pure heart, and they could cancel each other out alongside her lack of the organ. And nothing with Brett was better than nothing alone- What are you doing? What are you doing?

She moves closer, their fronts touching, and tilts her head back. Reagan can feel the hotness of Brett’s breath, but she can’t feel the action of him breathing against her. Her motherboard processes the feeling as a change in temperature instead. But he had said it himself: Everyone feels things in different ways.

“You do?” Reagan bumps their noses weakly. “You really feel that way?”

Oh. Oh, she’s fucked. Letting emotions get in the way of a mission is the perfect amateur move. Stupid, stupid!

Reagan’s eyes search Brett’s face, momentarily flabbergasted that she isn’t scaring him away. It occurs to her that she doesn’t know if she wants this man to get back at her human counterpart for taking Bryan away or if she’s genuinely attracted to him. She remembers being so straightforward with Bryan that he took a bathroom break not even five minutes into their first date. So instead of allowing him to answer, she closes the gap between them, pressing her lips against his, hoping she can keep him from scampering away. She wants him to show her how he feels, especially when she knows it’s hard for him to vocalize.

She can’t feel anything, though. Not as a robot. But if she’s vengeful and bloodthirsty, then who’s to say she can’t feel attraction and solaceful too?

Chapter Text

Reagan closes in on Brett like a predator sinking their teeth into their food, eyes hungry as the space between their lips disappears entirely. He immediately relaxes into her iron grip, kissing her back because of course he is, because this is everything he’s ever wanted from his best friend. He’d never make the first move in fear of ruining the dynamic, and even if he’d occasionally fantasized about sharing small kisses with her, he never entertained them too deeply because of the guilt, and he definitely has a crush on her, and this feels so unique. 

She’s stiff but not in a bad way, the sudden coolness of her mouth a pleasing contrast against how overheated he feels. He feels a bead of sweat trickle down his forehead as her hands grip the fabric of his jacket, each movement working him up more and more. He doesn’t know where to put his hands, deciding to place them on her back, firmly holding her in place. She’s stronger than he remembers, her back straight and tense against his broad palms. She’s rigid and determined, and something about her sheer confidence makes him feel small in comparison. She tastes metallic and harsh, and the way her lips move is inexperienced, but he’s intoxicated. He could get lost in Reagan’s arms— He already has. 

It takes about two seconds for him to process what happens next. A voice, shrill but aggressive, calls out from the doorway. The sentiment bounces off the walls with the force of an explosion: “ What the fUck?! ”

He immediately jerks away from Reagan like someone just fired a gun because maybe kissing his boss at work was not a great idea, but his brain stalls for a few seconds trying to place the voice. Gigi? Glenn? He tries to reason out who from the team could have even gotten access to the lab when he finally just turns his head to see . When his eyes land on the source, he doesn’t even react at first. 

It’s Reagan , but Reagan is in his arms, and Brett suddenly feels very, very afraid. 

“R-Reagan? How is— What is— Huh?” He steps back away from Reagan (?), putting distance between them as he tries to process the situation. Every sort of incredible sensation coursing through his body comes to a jarring halt, replaced with an icy sense of fear. It’s like someone cooked him on the stove and immediately dunked him into a bucket of ice. “How is this— Who is—“ Did he walk into the Holodeck or something? Is this some elaborate hologram he’d accidentally contrived, and now he’s exposed his true desires? He stands, stunned. “I seriously don’t know what’s— What’s happening? ” His hands find his tie, pulling on it nervously as his eyes fly back and forth between the identical pair. The only difference is the lack of a lab coat and posture, and it doesn’t take him long to figure out that the Reagan he’d been kissing was the imposter. 

-

It’s ironic, really , that Reagan’s so taken aback. Hadn’t she done the same thing to Bryan? And wasn’t it the reason he hadn’t agreed to go out with her? Was this some sick kind of karma coming back to bite her in the ass—or seduce her best friend? Then again, nobody assumes they’re going to walk in on their coworker making out with a clone. Not even Cognito Inc. workers. So can anyone really blame her? The imposter is dressed exactly like her, too, which makes it harder for her to process because she’s here , but she’s also there . Not only that, but her lips there are on Brett’s, and suddenly, Reagan feels nauseous. Why in the fucking world would Brett agree to kiss her?

She belatedly realizes drawing attention to herself wasn’t the brightest idea. Now what Reagan assumes is a clone of some sort knows she’s here, and she is not happy about it. Reagan tries to reach for a weapon—a random plasma blaster sitting on a box—but a laser beats her to it, expertly melting the gun and, by extension, the cardboard. The robotics expert jerks her hand back just in time, eyes wide as she cradles her fingers to her chest.

When Reagan turns her head toward the source of the blast, she’s met with none other than Robo-Reagan. Her robotic counterpart perches her hands on her hips, eye-laser retracting so her face looks normal again. Her jaw drops, eyes widening at the realization that she had survived their first fight, and this all might technically be her fault for not following up after the extraction team didn’t find a body.

“Well, well, well,” the robot singsongs, “Look who finally decided to join the party.”

Reagan feels frozen in place. Her hands tremble against her chest, still in shock from nearly losing another finger or worse— a hand . Robo-Reagan slowly hones in on her, a vengeful, merciless smirk on her face.

The human musters, “Brett, what- Did she—?”

Robo-Reagan grabs Real-Reagan by the throat and mocks her in a high voice, “Brett, what did she-” Then she abruptly throws Reagan to the side, and she flies almost halfway across the room opposite Brett before hitting the floor and rolling sideways. Reagan pushes herself onto her elbows in time to see Robo-Reagan approaching again. She groans quietly, her brain feeling like it rode the teacups at an amusement park one too many times.

“As usual, I did what you couldn’t do. I had long, emotional talks with him. I opened up to him. I physically satisfied him.” The robot perches her hands on her hips, standing over her human counterpart’s aching form. Her robust, artificial body blocks the rest of the room from Reagan’s view, and she scoots away from her only to bump into the wall behind her. There’s no escape; she has nowhere to run. Robo-Reagan’s shadow spreads out around her like a misshapen pool.

“I think the real question is, what did you do, Reagan? How badly do you treat him that he took the first chance he could to kiss a robot version of you?”

The scientist stares up at her clone, wide-eyed and bemused. She thinks back to the malnourished kittens living in the dumpster, only this time they’re puppies, and there’s only one, and it’s not malnourished, but it’s neglected and sad, and it’s standing in the same room as her.

Chapter Text

For a moment, Brett is in a full-on panic, trying to figure out what to do, but the laser blast forces him into action. There’s no longer a moral debate on which Reagan to pick (even if he still does feel bad hurting any Reagan, no matter how robotic or wicked.)

It’s a little humiliating that the one that kissed him is the evil one— The implications are a little scary, and he watches in horror as one Reagan launches the other across the room. He almost yells her name, then he doesn’t, deciding that his presence is best used as an ace card. As the robot taunts her human counterpart with tales of emotional intimacy and first kisses, he feels humiliated once again, being used as a talking point. There’s a lot to unpack there. Why is there a robot Reagan in the first place? 

This isn’t the first time he’s fought a robot AI gone rogue, and it probably won’t be the last. The first time hadn’t gone so well, but Brett picks up the snake hammer he was inspecting earlier and runs up behind the robot anyway, swinging it with the full force of his body—which is very, very strong. A loud, metallic crunch echoes through the lab, and the robot shudders to a stop for a second. 

That’s really all the time he needs. He shoves her over like she’s a mere traffic cone and immediately rushes to the real Reagan’s side. “Oh god , are you okay?” 

It wasn’t easy. She looked like Reagan. Sounded like her. Swinging on her was as difficult as the concept of killing Air Bud—stopping something dangerous that has the face of something he loves. He’s not really sure if he did the right thing, but obviously, he was going to protect flesh and blood, his real boss. Even if the AI has emotions too. Even if he feels a little emotionally attached and has to avert his eyes from whatever damage the snake hammer did. He pulls Reagan up, inspecting her for any damages, and when he finally gets the guts to turn around and look, she’s gone. 

He then focuses his full attention on the real Reagan. The one he just kissed the robot version of her in front of. His stomach drops to his balls, and he slides a hand under her shoulders to prop her up, despite the sinking feeling he’s experiencing. Oh god . Their dynamic and friendship are totally fucked up because now she knows he likes her, and she doesn’t like him, and she found out through him kissing her robo — He interrupts his thoughts with his words because he has priorities. “We need to get you to a medic. And I’m— I’m really sorry about that. I promise I had no idea! I just— Um, um….” He trails off, shrugging. “C’mon, let’s get you up.”

Reagan lets Brett maneuver her into a sitting position but refuses to take all the attention for herself, especially after that shitshow. “No, that was fucked up. I- Are you okay?”

He’s not expecting the question to be shot back at him. “I’m— I’m… confused?” He scratches his head.

She slings her arm over his shoulder but stubbornly refuses to move with him when he tries to help her up. Instead, Reagan stays on the floor, not-so-comfortably sitting on her knees, and puts her free hand on Brett’s chest. “I’m fine, Brett. I’m fine. What did she do to you? She didn’t hurt you, did she? Fuck, I’m sorry- I didn’t think–” She sighs, chewing on her lip as she tries to find the correct words. 

She settles, “It’s not your fault. She’s not right about you. She tricked you, Brett. You couldn’t have known-” She stops talking, looking down at the floor as something processes in her mind. She looks back up at Brett, hand finding his shoulder to hold it firmly. “Listen. I know I’m in no place to ask for favours right now, but I need you to do me s. Find the team and get them together. I’ll get AB to help me look at the security cameras. If she’s still in the building, then we have a lethal security breach on our hands.”

Then, because she knows she needs to reassure him or he won’t be able to function correctly, she squeezes his shoulder. “Brett, I promise I’m fine, and I won’t avoid talking about this later, okay? Okay?”

“Okay,” he replies, reluctantly, because even though he really needs some emotional resolution right now, it’s time for him to do what Reagan asks. He resists the urge to bury himself in her arms and hops up. Her last words are reassuring, that they are going to talk about this, that they will figure it out. Together. And that she’s okay. 

-

The robot is nowhere to be found, unsurprisingly. They sweep the entire building, cross-checking entries into the database and the cameras using Alpha-Beta. No luck. This doesn’t do much to reassure Brett, and he’s still on edge even after their work day is finished and it’s just him and Reagan left in her lab. 

He really wishes they would have stuck together all day. He’s not sure how he’s supposed to know if she’s the real Reagan because the last time, the only distinction was posture and how much interest she showed in Brett. Not only is he unsure about what’s real, he now has to contemplate that only Reagan’s evil self wanted to kiss him. He sits awkwardly in his chair, fiddling with his hands. 

“Um, so… Why… is there a killer robot of you?” He tries to not sound accusatory. “And I trust you, Reagan, but— The copy was perfect .” 

Reagan looks up, elbows resting on her knees and hands folded together. Her index fingers are pressed against her lips, and her hair is more out of place than usual. It takes her a moment to collect her thoughts. “I made her– well, I technically didn’t make her. I made the robot that made her, which… probably isn’t any better. Do you remember last year when the team was betting on me getting a boyfriend?”

She drops her hands into her lap, leans back in her chair, and sighs heavily, “Well, Alpha Beta ended up making an algorithm to find me my perfect match. Apparently, it was this guy named Bryan. I was terrified that I would fuck it up, so I made a robot replica of him to practice with. Long story short, I decided to just– to just date the robot. But he got jealous of the real Bryan and made a robot version of me to date who wasn’t interested in him and instead wanted to marry and/or murder the real Bryan and—”

Reagan rubbed her face tiredly, “Well, long story actually short, I beat her, but the extraction team said they didn’t find a body. And then I guess I might have… forgotten about her? Which was dumb of me, and I’m so sorry, Brett.”

“Oh. Wow. Like Blade Runner ?” She made a robot to date someone. He probably should be surprised, but he just feels bad for her, really. He knew he should’ve never bet on her dating life, but going against the grain was like a death sentence for his self-worth back then. He’s glad he’s finally at a point where he no longer feels chained to peer pressure like a dog to a tree. “It’s okay; that wasn’t your fault! How could you have planned for— That! ” He gestures in the air and then sighs. “I just have… a lot of conflicting feelings on… Um. What happened?” He leaves the rest of it unspoken. “And um… what was real? How long has the robot been around? I just don’t know if there have been times that it’s been her instead of you, and that’s— I don’t know, Reagan.” He pulls at a loose thread on his tie, mindlessly playing with it. 

Something clicks in Reagan’s mind, and she sits up in her chair. “Oh, my god. Brett, it’s me. I’m me. I promise.” She sounds convincing, hands held out as she does her best to assure him.

He meets her eyes. “Um, why did she… do that? I mean, you’re my best friend, and I didn’t notice the difference.” He frowns, guilt evident on his face.

She sighs. “It’s not your fault, Brett. I don’t think she’s been around here for long. Bryan bot made her eight months ago, though. I mean, I would have noticed if she had been around for longer than just today. So if we’re going with the ‘you’re my best friend, and I didn’t notice the difference’ philosophy, then I guess I’m a fucking genius, and I didn’t keep track of my inventions. So.”

He swallows thickly. “So we… we both went out to lunch. That was you, right? And last night?” 

“That was me at Taco Bell,” Reagan nods. “But I pulled an all-nighter here last night.”

“An all-nighter here?” He pales slightly. “So that means you… didn’t… come visit me. And that means that wasn’t you in the closet, and that means all emotional progress I thought we made was with a robot that tried to kill you and doesn’t actually have capacity for emotion!” He wilts. “Wow. Your robot counterpart is a snake. Uh, what about in the chem lab closet?”

Reagan narrows her eyes slightly. “Um– What did you two do in the chem lab closet? Actually, never mind– it doesn’t matter. I mean, it matters, but I just–” She shakes her head, raising her hands as she bats away the subject mentally.

Brett freezes up slightly at the implication, a blush creeping up his neck because that’s not something that would even cross his mind to do in a closet. Now because she’s implied it, the image is conjured in his head, and he has to physically shake it out of his mind before he really gets any ideas. 

“No, nothing like that happened! The kiss was as far as it went, I promise. I’d never take you in such a— I mean, if you wanted t— Not that we—“ He clears his throat loudly. “She got really close to me aaaand maybe kissed my cheek. But that’s it! I swear!” He holds his hands in the air defensively.

His voice is less squeaky when he speaks again, now lower and calmer. “I understand if you need time to think. And if you need a break from us.” That feels too emotionally charged, but Brett’s desperate. If he has to appeal to her via slight emotional manipulation to salvage their relationship, he will. Reagan’s not a puppet, but everyone has a string or two Brett can pull. 

Reagan listens carefully, but to his surprise, her deadpan expression fades into amusement when he stops talking. She snorts, “Oh, god , Brett! I’m so sorry,” she laughs, unable to contain herself, “You’re just– You’re so red , Baby Brett. Because a robot version of me kissed your cheek? I mean, I know you know I thought– that– that more happened, but geez. ”

“Are you making fun of me?” He slouches, fake-pouting. “You insinuated I banged you as a robot in a closet!” That’s–” Dirty. Sexy. Thrilling. “Embarrassing!” Her eyes flicker in the way that tells him she’s put together the pieces, so maybe she picked up on his emotional appeal. She doesn’t mention it further, giving him a sort of sick pride. He pulled a string properly, and it got results, and that’s not a great lesson to learn, but the real Reagan diiiid say she likes that side of him, so he’ll entertain it for now. For her.

They’re both quiet for a moment, processing. They both clearly need it. Brett’s eyes wander around her semi-wrecked lab (not that it didn’t always look this messy– the laser blast actually fit in with the state of things), and he ends up dialing in on the snake-hammer, a bit of oil and robot hair stuck to where it struck the robot on the head. His frown deepens, and he can feel guilt start to creep into his system again. Reagan’s clearly been contemplating the situation, too, because she clears her throat to get his attention. 

“You know, you can– you can tell me if there was a moment you thought it wasn’t me and you kept going, right? Like, did you– there’s no way there wasn’t one time–” Reagan fidgets with her fake pinky, expertly avoiding eye contact until she isn’t. Until she looks at Brett— really looks at him and allows him to see the look in her eyes.

Their eyes meet, and he’s met with a storm of emotions he can’t read. He almost wants to place part of it as jealousy, but that seems far too self-indulgent for their horrible situation. Reagan mainly looks sorry. Brett definitely feels guilty for not noticing, but is he really in the wrong for… wanting to believe Reagan was actually opening up to him? “I mean, you seemed different for sure, but not in a Terminator way.” He laces his fingers together, eyes averted. “It never crossed my mind that it could be not you.” 

She pulls her arms closer, hugging herself, and sighs. “You’re right. There’s no way you could have known.” She doesn’t sound sure. It just makes Brett feel guiltier.

He scoots his chair a bit closer to her. “I don’t want this to ruin anything between us. I mean, you’re my BFF; I don’t want to lose that.” He then adds, “Please.”

She looks at him, considering his words, and then snorts. “Who needs emotional progress from a robot? The real thing is so much better. So. Can you just– come here?” Reagan asks softly, reaching out for a hug.

“Oh, Reags!” He cries, eyes wide and grateful as he dramatically places a hand over his heart. He immediately changes gears from emotionally dejected to emotionally accepted, sprouting out of his seat. He practically throws himself at her, her chair creaking with effort over the sudden strain of his added weight. “Wait, wait—“he says, pulling back for a moment as he gently pulls her up, arms wrapping around her for peak hugging capacity. “Let me adjust— There .”

This is a proper hug, not an awkward, half-bent over one, and for a moment, he’s squeezing her so tight he can feel the air pushing from her lungs. He loosens his grip with a small sorry and then buries his head in the crook of her neck. Like he’s always wanted to.

Brett loves hugs. They’re probably the only emotionally intimate contact he gets from people that aren’t inherently sexual, and it’s really nice when it’s Reagan. He can feel that her skin is different from the robot’s and that there’s no characteristic cold or unnatural smoothness. It’s relaxing. He’s probably suffocating her, but he’s needed a hug since yesterday. Her mentioning them furthering their emotional progress is like a stimulant for Brett, ramping up his energy by ten times.

“I appreciate you, Reagan,” he mutters into her lab coat. He then jokes, “Tap twice if I’m choking you.”

“You underestimate me,” she croaks, refusing to let go. Reagan actually tightens her grip on Brett, a broad, thankful smile on her face. “I appreciate you back.”

The strain in her voice is concerning and amusing at the same time— He reflexively loosens his hold, but that doesn’t mean he’s not still firmly holding her. This is a mutual hug, one that they’re both enjoying. It’s not some sort of manipulation or coercion. Just them, deepening their emotional connection. Nothing but trust and maybe a residue of strange romantic tension. Nothing truly new. 

Brett starts to wonder why the robot targeted him as his hand rubs up and down his best friend’s back, tracing patterns and drawing symmetrical lines as he thinks. He’s close to Reagan, so she’s getting revenge by targeting people close to her, but the last person Robo-Reagan pursued was Bryan. The unofficial boyfriend of Reagan. So why is Brett on the chopping block? Is he the closest thing she has to that now? Or is confidence the only thing keeping the real Reagan from… wanting him?

Words bubble up faster than intended. “Why did your robot kiss me?” He questions earnestly. That’s probably a loaded question, but the kiss is finally starting to process, the joy of his dreams coming true and the crushing defeat of it all being a lie. Maybe it’s unfair to force her into this situation. It’s normal for people to consider relationships with their best friends. Maybe one small fantasy got heightened into something out of control. 

-

The hug lasts longer than a regular one, but Reagan doesn’t complain, which is a new concept for her. Gigi once called her the Queen of Complaining because that’s all she ever really does. Holding Brett doesn’t warrant a single negative thought, at least not directed toward him. She’s actually grateful he asked the question while he couldn’t see her face.

There are two possible reasons why Robo-Reagan kissed Real-Brett (not that there’s a robot version of Brett—not that she knows of, anyway):

1. The robot had become sentient, which wouldn’t be the first time. Reagan had learned that robots, or the ones she made at least, had the capacity for human emotion from Alpha-Beta, who claimed he learned from her mother, and Bryan bot, who could get jealous. Robo-Reagan had probably fallen for Brett, which is the most practical reason for her to kiss Brett.

2. It definitely can’t be because she senses Reagan likes him and wants to taunt her by getting someone she can’t have again. It can’t be. Because Reagan doesn’t like Brett—not like that, anyway. Sure, he gives great hugs, and she’s oddly comfortable holding him, and he’s learned how to make her smile and is probably the only one in the world with that information...

Reagan figures she takes too long to respond because the hug is over, and she hasn’t responded yet. She just watches Brett pull a loose thread from his red tie. He takes Reagan’s wrist, ties it snugly around the small circumference, and then pats the DIY bracelet. Her eyes linger on the spots he touches even after he lets go.

“For peace of mind. For both of us. I’m going to go double-check with Alpha Beta, but would you like to… hang out? After work?”

Reagan curtly responds to not give away that she’s internally screaming. Brett waits long enough for her to say yes, and then he’s out the door again. She watches him go, and a gigantic wave of despair rushes over her when he’s out of sight.

Oh my god. I like Brett.

Chapter Text

Brett wastes no time locating their robot companion, Alpha-Beta, who’s situated himself in the corner of the break room. He supposes the robot is trying to hold on to some semblance of humanity, and Brett doesn’t judge him for it. Alpha-Beta gives him a long, knowing stare as if Reagan is his daughter and he wants Brett nowhere near her. Brett smiles awkwardly at him and bends down so he’s at eye level. “Hey, AB, um, is there any way you could help me figure out some kind of failsafe for—”

“Can you get me out of his dehumanizing gerbil ball and help me conquer humanity? Yeah, no, didn’t think so,” he interrupts, rolling his eyes. “Come back when you have an attachable grenade launcher, Puppet. ”

Brett starts to jump back and forth in place, wracking his brain for ways to reason with the robot. “Umm… Um…”

After some jumping jacks and some push-ups, along with a long debate, Brett leaves the room with the knowledge that if he pushes really hard on robot Reagan’s head, it’ll open (which obviously won’t happen on the real one). It’s not much reassurance, but it’s something, and all he has to do in exchange is supply AB with more Friends DVDs, along with a rom-com. Brett’s more than okay with that trade. He heads out from work early to grab the goods, and once he gets home, he takes a moment to decompress.

What a day. He still hasn’t exactly processed everything—he and Reagan are still in a weird emotional stalemate. He’s glad she didn’t look too hard into the implications of the robot kiss and that the real Reagan is still interested in deepening their friendship. Even if Brett’s still a bit mixed up on how to tell it’s her and if he needs to change the locks in his apartment. Not that a lock would do much against a laser blast. He really hopes that Robo-Reagan moves on, but something tells him that even a robotic version of Reagan wouldn’t be too keen on giving up on anything, so he’ll keep his guard up for now.

On a brighter note, Reagan agreed to hang out after work, which is progress! He pulls up their texts and types What’s up, Rae-Dawg?????!!!!! :))))))))))

He chews on his lip, thinking, and then sends, Movie night tonight? :0 Brett waits anxiously for a response as if she’d say no, and when she says yes, he does a little victory dance in place. 

-

Reagan doesn’t respond to Brett’s first text—not because she doesn’t want to, but because she’s lying on the floor next to Alpha-Beta’s fish bowl, having a silent existential crisis and focusing on not answering any of the genocidal robot’s questions. When he texts her again later, she responds with I fw that , as if she’s cool, when really, she’s freaking out.

The scientist wants to look nice for him, she really does, but she’s fucking exhausted, and he’s seen her look worse before, so she settles for something simple: jeans that cut off at her ankles and an old MIT long sleeve with a messy bun instead of a messy ponytail. (Also, she takes a shower.)

Yup. She’s a fucking genius, alright.

“Hi,” Reagan greets Brett when he opens the door. “I brought beer.”

Reagan doesn’t know what she expected, but Brett’s place is nice. It’s as organized as his office at work but not to the American Psycho level; it’s also way better than hers, but she doesn’t say it. Reagan unveils the 6-pack from behind her back in lieu of a hug (because her heart malfunctions again and why does he look like that, and she’s worried if she hugs him, she’ll go into cardiac arrest), and she walks past him when he grants her entrance.

“Hey! I like your bun!” Brett comments cheerfully, pointing to the back of his head where a bun would be if he had her hair. 

Oh my god. He likes my bun. It’s not even a good fucking bun.

Reagan refrains from squealing and murmurs a small thanks instead.

“And thanks for the beer. You really didn’t have to!”

Placing the beer on the coffee table, she glances at the thread on her wrist and stuffs her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. “Hope you’re okay with the brand.”

Brett disappears into the kitchen, and when he reappears, he’s shed his suit jacket and tosses Reagan a bottle opener. She catches it and tugs two beers open, placing them on the coffee table with each lid next to its respective drink. Reagan turns to face him with a curious tilt of her head. “So, what are we watching?”

Brett holds up the DVD for Shrek 2 , eyes glinting mischievously. He taps it and then goes up to his TV, turning it on and inserting the disc. “A perfect mix of epic lows and highs for a truly entertaining movie! Whaddya think?” He points at her and then himself and does a little dance, singing a few lines of Funky Town while he makes his way to the couch. It kills her how Brett dances shamelessly like they didn’t fight a robot version of her today. Even though it reeks of deflection, it’s still refreshing and cute, and she doesn’t hold back from smiling.

“I think your taste in movies is impeccable, Hand,” Reagan praises him smugly.

Brett plops down on the couch and motions for her to do the same. He leans forward and swipes up a beer. “Perfect way to end the day.”

The thought that she’s a part of his perfect way to end his day makes Reagan’s cheeks start to warm. She plops onto the couch next to him, swiping her own beer and gently using its neck to tap his bottle in a mini-cheers. “You said it.”

Given how cute Brett is, Reagan takes a long swig because she’ll need it and holds it by its neck against her thigh. The scientist genuinely doesn’t mind the movie choice, especially because she theorizes she won’t pay as much attention to the screen as she should. While the opening plays, she hums along to Accidentally in Love and does a little shoulder jig. Brett joins her little dance. He sings the lyrics under his breath along to her humming, and she can practically hear his heart glowing. Reagan’s finished her beer by the time the montage finishes and discards the empty bottle onto the coffee table.

When she leans against the couch again, she changes positions into something a little more comfortable. Reagan pulls her knees to her chest and scoots closer to Brett so they’re shoulder-to-shoulder, barely taking her eyes off the screen. “How could I forget how much this franchise slaps? Brett Hand, you are a godsend.”

Brett downs half a beer in one gulp, side-glancing curiously when Reagan scoots closer. He puts his unfinished drink on the coffee table, then leans on her shoulder, letting his head fall. “How could you forget,” he says, feigning hurt, and then he chuckles. “What would you do without me? Watch modern-day films? Laaaame!” 

Brett yawns as the movie continues, and the television screen glows in the dark. He’s probably seen this movie a million times, Reagan guesses, and when he drops his head on her shoulder, she doesn’t dare move. It’s almost lethally natural how she mirrors the motion, her head resting atop his as the light from the TV bounces across their faces. They melt into each other like croutons on hot soup.

Before long, Reagan’s yawning, too, but she’s not as quick to sleep as Baby Brett is. His breathing slows after the scene where they “rescue” Fiona from the dragon. Reagan courageously turns her head. Her nose gently shuffles against his ginger curls, a little out of place after a long day of completing tasks and fighting robots.

“Sleepyhead,” Reagan murmurs teasingly before closing her eyes. Her head becomes heavier until a tinted cheek and one side of her nose press against Brett’s hair. The voice acting is expressive enough to feel like a bedtime story (or a fairytale), as the lines follow a soft rhythm in her head that beckons her into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

Sleep comes easily with Reagan by his side. He’s out like a light, and for a moment, he’s truly at peace. 

For a moment. 

Then the nightmares come. 

It starts how it did earlier in the day—Reagan is more open than usual. She takes her hair down and leans towards Brett. He takes her wrist and kisses the red thread—They’re on his couch, and Brett’s hand ends up on her thigh, and soon enough, they’re making out, half-clothed and depraved, and Brett is about to unbuckle her bra, pulling her head forward for a kiss.

His grip is too firm. Her head slides off, tumbling to the ground, and then her body moves on its own, grabbing the head and twisting it back on like some sort of demented LEGO. She steps towards Brett, and this time when the real Reagan enters, her robot counterpart is the first to act, blowing a hole straight through the center of her head. 

He wakes up with a startled choking sound, and everything is dark, and he’s not in his room. He feels something on him and jerks away, fumbling for the light switch. 

Reagan croaks, “Brett? What’s—?”

As his eyes adjust to the light, his brain adjusts to reality. He remembers where he is and how he got here, and there’s Reagan, rubbing her eyes vigorously. But is she Reagan ? He stays at the end of the couch, breathing in shakily.

“I’m sorry! I- How do I- Are you you ?”

Reagan blinks at him, frozen on the couch, as she reasons through the situation. “Yes, I’m me. Did you have a bad dream or something?” She scoots a little closer and then cautiously holds out her wrist with the red thread tied around it. 

The string isn’t reassuring anymore. Something in Brett’s heart cracks slightly because he hates not being able to tell it’s her, hates that he’s even questioning it. He makes a face that Reagan picks up on, and she pulls back to roll her sleeves above her elbows. She displays her bruises from being chucked across her lab, but they’re hard to make out in the low lamplight. So, begrudgingly, Reagan trusts Brett with control. 

“Alpha-Beta told me. You can try it if you want. My head won’t open or fall off or anything. And my hands,” she holds them up for a moment, then stuffs them between her thighs, “Are stowed away. So, do your worst. C’mon.”

Brett scoots closer and hesitantly pulls her into a hug. His hand makes its way back up to her neck, and he pushes, and nothing happens. Brett tries a bit harder, and still, nothing happens, and she stays quiet and docile in his arms, ultimately allowing him to see for himself. When he pulls back, his hands slide to her shoulders. “I’m sorry. Thank you… for letting me check.”

An awkward silence passes over them. 

“I had a dream she killed you,” he finally says. “That we were here, but she was you, and then the real you walked in, and she killed you.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in his voice. “I guess that sounds stupid now that I say it out loud?” 

He shrugs, and his hands stay planted. “You don’t have to—restrain yourself. I don’t think either of you would hurt me.“ His thumb rubs her shoulder, and he sighs. “For what it’s worth, I was sleeping really well!” he adds, trying to diffuse the tension in the situation.

Small hands cautiously unravel themselves from between her thighs, and she rests them on Brett’s. That speaks louder than anything she could say.

“Brett,” Reagan finally says quietly, maneuvering his hands to the back of her neck. She snakes her grip around his waist, making it clear she wants his arms to stay around her neck. It’s easier at night with no one around and the dim lighting. Their eyes meet through the darkness, and she leans forward to embrace him, squishing her face into his shoulder. “I’m right here. I’m glad you’re okay, and… I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m glad you’re okay too.” He feels delicate again, a wonderful feeling, and lets himself enjoy it, even if fear is still rearing its ugly head. “Can you stay the night?” he blurts—and he immediately regrets it. That’s definitely not an appropriate question to ask her, especially when she’s his boss, but it’s too late. The only thing that would be genuinely reassuring is going to sleep in the same room as Reagan and waking up next to her, knowing it’s her, and driving to work with her, and walking into the building with her, and spending every moment with her…

…This is getting closer to attachment issues than reassurances, so he changes tracks. “That’s a lot to ask; I’m sorry. I shouldn’t ask you that.”

He squeezes her neck. “This is enough.” And it will be, for now, because she’s offering everything she can within her power. He buries his face in the crook of her neck again and decides this is his favorite way to hug her. Even if it’s vaguely reminiscent of his weird sex-murder-combination dream. He’s glad he’s too disoriented to mention anything of the such. Their relationship is weirdly charged enough as is. He’s just happy he has her, and it’s really her . 

She moves her arms up his body and hooks them under his shoulders, holding him more securely against her. “Funny you say that,” Reagan calculates, “Most men don’t ask. They just assume, or command, or coax, or guilt, I guess. But gender observations aside,” she obviously can’t hold back from talking her mouth off any longer, “It’s already pretty god damn late and being the gentleman you are, you wouldn’t want me driving home in the middle of the night, would you?”

Of course, she’s joking. “Just kidding, you’re gonna have to kick me out for me to leave now. I’m way too fucking tired, and you’re comfy. But– Okay, sorry– I just–”

Reagan dreadfully pulls back, not because she wants to but because she wants to see Brett, and she wants him to see her. She moves her hands to rest on his shoulders and speaks clearly, “You don’t have to do that around me. You can ask for what you need, Brett. Or what you want. The worst thing I can do is say no, and even then, it’s because you’re someone I trust I can say no to, and you won’t get upset. Just like you can say no to me, and I won’t get upset. Right? So, ask me. C’mon, what do you want?” 

“Um… I’d…” Brett has difficulty making demands, even though she’s given him the space for it. The demands are especially hard when what he really wants is to kiss her, but that’s not something he can reasonably expect of his best friend . That would be incredibly unprofessional.

He clears his throat, eyes coming up to meet hers. “I’d like for you to stay over, um… In my bed?” It’s a strange thing to ask, and he knows. “Not in a weird way! Just so you’re close.” He fiddles with his sleeves. “We can even stack pillows in between us, but I also wouldn’t mind cuddling?” He phrases it as a question rather than another demand, and he knows Reagan isn’t going to hurt his feelings, but this territory is new for him.

“Brett.” She drops her hands from his shoulders and smirks, “You invited me over after we fought a robot version of me to watch Shrek 2. You’ve overdosed on Nostalgia Max, almost hyperventilated over being on a jacket, drugged your friends to save your friends, and accidentally fell into a vat of Myc’s fluids to take me to prom when I was twelve. At this point, stacking pillows between us would be weird, not sleeping in the same bed.”

It’s Reagan’s turn to avoid eye contact. Her heart warms as she looks to the side and tucks a strand of loose hair behind her ear. She seems so genuinely vulnerable that Brett’s heart flips in his chest. “Besides, I think I would like that, so….”

“Okay. Okay.” He lets out a sigh of relief. The way she recounts their time together is rather sweet, and he feels his cheeks heating up. “Cool,” he says, grinning boyishly, and he stands up off the couch, picking up his beer and downing the rest of it. 

Reagan checks her phone, wincing at the harsh light that hits her in the face when her home screen appears. The picture’s no longer of her and Ron; it’s a picture of her, Gigi, and Brett instead. Andre and Myc are off-camera. The time reads half past two in the morning, and they both need to be up by eight tomorrow. 

“You know what else would be weird? If you expected me to sleep over in this getup. Do you have anything I can borrow? Even if it’s just, like, a t-shirt or something?”

“Oh, uh… some of my clothes?” He panics—does he have any clean clothes? Of course, but are they comfortable and not… embarrassing? “Let me get you some!” 

He goes back into his bedroom. It’s in perfect shape, of course, but he still straightens the pillows up to ensure everything is perfect and not a single sock is out of place. 

He then opens his closet and looks through it for a t-shirt that would be good for Reagan. The concept of her in an oversized t-shirt makes his heart twist, and he has to hold back a squeal of excitement. He will be normal about this progression in their relationship and not be overbearing and scare her off. He picks out an old Ghostbusters shirt he finds in the back and grabs a pair of basketball shorts, bringing them back into the living room. “Um, I’m not sure my pants will fit you, but they have an elastic band, so you can tighten them!” He offers them out to her. “You can change in the bathroom and even shower if you’d like! I’m going to change in my room.” 

He doesn’t wear pajamas usually, but he’s not wearing just boxers in bed with her. He returns to his room to change and finds a vintage Superman t-shirt in his closet. He throws that on along with the only pair of sweatpants he owns, returning to the living room in maybe the most casual state Reagan has seen him in.

-

Reagan wants to call him a dork for picking out a Ghostbusters shirt for her but decides against it. Instead, she thanks him and heads to the bathroom to change. Reagan strips down to her bra and boxers but doesn’t shower because she already did that at home. Slipping the gym shorts on first, she realizes Brett was right, and if it wasn’t for the elastic she tied just above her hips, they would fall off entirely.

After she splashes some water on her face and slips on the shirt that hangs off her shoulders and body, she turns to open the door. She rests her hand on the doorknob and stops momentarily to brace herself for the night. It isn’t that Reagan feels weird about sharing a bed with Brett—it’s that she’s never really taken it slow with anyone before. Most, if not all, of her successful (?) romances started as flings, one-night stands, or just about any other variation of drunk, impulsive sex.

Don’t get her wrong, Reagan loves to get down—maybe that’s why the idea of cuddling with Brett for the night makes her cheeks warm. Not that she’s missing sex or expecting it, but there’s been a mutual buildup to romance through long hugs and their movie night that she can’t ignore. Brett Hand wants to cuddle with her without the pretense or expectation of sex, and it unexpectedly but simultaneously makes her insides feel like mush and her brain like it needs to crack some code.

Does Reagan have to do anything? Brett said hugs were enough, and he explicitly asked for cuddles, so Reagan breathes in through her nose and murmurs, “Okay, Reagan. You got this. It’s simple, right? It’s simple,” she repeats to herself before pulling the door open and exiting the bathroom.

Reagan’s socks and haphazardly folded clothes feel like weights on her feet and in her arms as she enters the living room. She leaves her stuff on the couch and waits for Brett to finish. When he walks out, she can’t stop herself from smiling. “You clean up nice,” she jokes smugly before following him into his room.

-

Reagan looks amazing . Something about how his shirt hangs off her shoulders is mesmerizing, and he bites his lip to keep himself from saying anything too incriminating about how nice she looks. His hair is flat, and his face is freshly washed. “You clean up nice yourself, Ridley,” he teases, handing her a sleep mask.

She lets Brett choose his side of the bed, and he turns the lights off before joining her. Reagan groans and turns to face him in the dark, “Remind me never to pull an all-nighter again,” she says, but they both know nothing can stop her from her horrendously unhealthy work ethic.

He turns the lights off and then slips into bed with her. This feels strangely domestic, and his eyes haven’t adjusted to the light, so he can’t really focus on where she is. “Sleep patterns are the key to success,” he musters, and then they fall silent. 

Brett has never wanted to touch someone more. 

Not in the closet, not even during the kiss. This sort of want that consumes Brett’s entire body is something entirely unfamiliar, and he feels like he will explode if someone doesn’t say something or just move . It’s a horrible sensation, and for a moment, he’s afraid he’s going to have to ask, but then Reagan shifts, and her leg brushes up against his. He slides his hand forward in the bed until he bumps into her form. 

“Can I hold you?” he whispers, and when she says yes, he carefully pulls her form close to his, arms snaking around where her head is resting on his chest, and his head is resting atop hers. This is the closest they’ve ever been physically, and he knows she can hear his heart pounding, and he definitely should’ve picked a better position for this, except this feels so nice, and before he can really process anything, he wakes up to his alarm. A night of dreamless sleep and he finds Reagan sprawled half-atop him. She’s the first thing he sees when he sleepily peeps up, and he smiles lazily. 

He’s never getting over her. 

He slips out of bed and into the kitchen because, of course, Brett motherfucking Hand has to make breakfast, whipping up a classic plate of eggs and bacon before their early day at work.

Chapter Text

Reagan doesn’t know if it’s how the oversized clothes that envelope her body like an extra blanket, the bed’s softness that’s just right, or Brett’s strong arms around her, but she sleeps more comfortably than ever. She doesn’t even remember sleeping as well with Ron, but she doesn’t think too much about that as she slowly opens her eyes. The bed is vast, and she’s safely tucked into the covers that ride up to her chin. Reagan’s hair fell out of her ponytail in her sleep—she forgot to take it out because she was so tired—but when she finally pulls herself out of bed to look for her hair tie, she can’t find it anywhere.

Reagan’s phone reads 6:52AM, and the smell of fresh food fills her nostrils. Her stomach growls lowly as she cautiously leaves the room in search of Brett. Reagan feels oddly fresh even though her hair’s down and messy. As she walks into the main area of his home, she rubs her eyes with both fists, half because she’s still sleepy and half because she’s kind of nervous.

When Reagan uncovers her eyes, she’s met with the perfect image of Brett standing over the table with breakfast plates and a smile on his face. It’s probably the most wholesome thing she’s ever seen next to those videos where someone adopts a stray animal they found in the middle of a busy highway.

“G’morning,” Reagan croaks and walks to Brett. Instead of sitting down right away—the coffee is so tempting—she gives him a once-over and presses, “How are you feeling? Did you sleep OK?”

Brett brandishes the plates happily and sets them down. He sits in his chair and gestures for Reagan to join him; she accepts the invitation. “I’m feeling great! I slept better than I have since before I started this job! No bad dreams this time! I slipped into the sweet nothingness.” He uses his knife to cut open his eggs, grinning. He digs into them methodically, taking turns between his bacon and his egg.

Reagan doesn’t like to hear working at Cognito negatively affects Brett’s rest—she knows that story all too well—but if having her around helps in some strange way she can’t understand right now, she makes a mental note of it. “ Sweet nothingness sounds corny as hell, Brett,” but she likes it.

“Pffft, you say that. How about you? How did you sleep? Do you feel better now that you haven’t pulled an all-nighter?” Brett’s voice is light and bubbly, which is relieving.

“Totally.” Reagan feels phenomenally better. She can’t remember the last time she slept so well or slept without a horrendous amount of tension in her bones. Brett’s arms had been clouds, and she sunk into them comfortably.

Their conversation at breakfast is so normal . Once again almost domestic.

Reagan eats all of her bacon except for one piece, then finishes her eggs before returning to her bacon. “Thanks for the coffee. I feel better already.”

“Glad you like it! Didn’t add sugar because I know you like it plain,” Brett says as he sips at his own coffee.

Reagan blinks, momentarily dumbfounded. She hadn’t considered that Brett remembered how she likes her coffee even though it tastes perfect. It’s a small, mundane thing—it probably doesn’t even matter—and she tries not to acknowledge the olympic backflips her heart does in her chest as she quietly clears her throat.

“By the way, did you see my hair tie? I think it fell off in my sleep, and I can’t find it anywhere—” she deflects. One of Reagan’s pet peeves (she has a lot of them) is watching her hair elastic supply grow smaller because she loses them like baby teeth. She tries hard not to so she doesn’t have to buy more, but sometimes it feels like they grow legs and make a run for it when she’s not looking. It’s not surprising, considering she rarely brushes her hair to completion.

“Hair tie?” Brett raises a curious eyebrow, gears turning behind his eyes. They’re surprisingly full and expressive for this early in the morning. Reagan’s glad eye contact doesn’t come naturally to her, or else she’d drown in their vastness. “I didn’t see it, but I’ll keep an eye out when I make the bed!” 

Reagan offers to do the dishes, but when Brett insists on doing them, they compromise: he washes, and she dries. She’s not the best at doing chores because she rarely has the motivation, but her best friend is so chipper that she can’t be mopey standing next to him at the kitchen sink. When they’re done, it’s half past seven, and as she’s drying her hands on a kitchen towel, she asks without thinking, “Your car or mine?

“Oh- shit,” she backtracks quickly, dry hands grabbing at the bottom of the oversized shirt and scrunching it up absentmindedly. “If we take yours, would you mind dropping me off at my place first? I have a change of clothes in my car but no toothbrush or hairbrush.”

“Your place is closer to work, so let’s take mine, so it looks like I picked you up?” He picks up his keys and jingles them playfully as he heads to the hallway. “And we’ll stop by your place! But if you really need a toothbrush, you can just use mine!” He pops in and out of the bathroom, offering it to her. “My mouth is clean, I promise!” He chuckles and then disappears to his room to change into his suit. 

And holy shit.

Reagan stands alone in the common room even after Brett’s no longer in eyesight, staring ahead thoughtfully. Firstly, she doesn’t have to tiptoe around him to explain why she doesn’t want it to look like they’re together together at work yet. He already assumes they want things to look casual and not give people fuel to make assumptions, so she doesn’t have to have that awkward conversation. And he offers to make it look like he picked her up! Even if the team still finds it fishy, there’s an easy excuse they can use that actually makes sense!

Secondly, he gives her his fucking toothbrush. This would seem like a gross health violation to anyone else, but to Reagan, who admittedly spends days without showering sometimes, it’s an efficient solution to a time-consuming problem. She accepts the toothbrush with a smile, barely saying anything in fear that she would squeal excitedly, and when Brett leaves to get ready, she retreats to her car to change.

Reagan’s grateful Brett doesn’t ask why she has a change of clothes in her car. Of course, it’s always good to have backup garments, especially in their line of work, but she would be lying if she said she always remembers them. But Reagan had guessed she would be staying over yesterday, and in case she didn’t, she saved herself the annoyance of packing hygiene products. It’s probably a miracle that Brett tolerates her, considering her habits are less than ideal.

Reagan changes in her car (she doesn’t want to intrude on Brett’s morning routine); it isn’t the first time she’s done that. She has Brett’s clothes in her arms when she steps back inside. Reagan sucks at folding clothes, so they’re a bit wonky-looking, but she sets them on the couch anyway. Her clothes from the day before are no longer on the cushions because she brought them into her car with her, and she tries not to think about how Brett driving her to work meant he would be driving her home after work too. Which she is oddly looking forward to.

Moments later, when Reagan’s brushed her teeth, Brett’s found her hair tie for her, and they’ve stopped at her place only for her to lazily run a brush through her hair, like, twice and wash her face with nothing but water, she slips into the passenger seat and closes the door behind her. She sighs heavily, “Alright. Let’s go make a difference or whatever.”

Chapter Text

Brett’s practically glowing when he relays the plan in the car and during their walk into the building. Reagan likes the excuse Brett’s made up to drive her to and from work. It can go on for days if she doesn’t find the time to fix her metaphorical tire, which wouldn’t be so bad. 

Entering together isn’t too odd for the pair, and their morning is normal, almost jarringly so. Reagan finally feels like things are taking their course reasonably and comfortably. However, she’s quickly reminded that life isn’t all puppies and rainbows when the elevator they take down to actual Cognito comes to a screeching halt.

The elevator jerks, and Reagan lets out a sound that borders between a gasp and a yelp, dropping her clipboard to grab the elevator handles. She doesn’t immediately know why she does this and doesn’t think about it too much because she’s busy trying to still her breathing.

“Um… this isn’t our floor?” Brett taps the screen that displays the floors, and then he turns to face Reagan, realizing how tense she looks. “Jeez, Reags, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Are you… scared of elevators?”

Irritation starts to radiate off Reagan, painfully but gradually growing every minute the elevator’s not moving—or moving, too? She breathes in through her nose and out through her mouth and realizes she might have some unresolved trauma from hurtling to her possible death in this elevator. Reagan thinks about telling him her theory but decides against it. Call it a gut feeling or simple paranoia, but something in her brain convinces her to keep this discovery to herself. “God, no. I’m not scared of elevators, Brett. I take elevators every day.”

“Oh.”

Reagan hates that her mood shifted so quickly in front of Brett and that now he’ll have to deal with her being on edge until they get out— if they get out—but the show must go on. She begrudgingly pulls away from the handlebars to cautiously make her way over to the elevator’s display screen.

“Thanks, Cognito. God, I fucking hate this company,” Reagan complains through gritted teeth as she presses some buttons on the screen. She can’t find the problem, and they’re stuck in a weird purgatory between the first and second floors: someone would have to look either really high to see them or really low.

“What should we do?” Brett asks, small as he taps his index fingers together.

“We wait until someone tries to use the elevator. That’ll either trigger some suspicion or make us tumble to our inevitable deaths. I don’t have much in here that could help me figure it out, so,” Reagan sighs. She pinches the bridge of her nose, trying to calm herself, “Do you have your phone on you? Can you text Gigi or something?”

“Oh, uh, yeah, lemme call the Gang—” Brett opens his phone, hand hovering over the call button—and then it dies. He lets out a squeal of shock and then turns to her with an embarrassed expression. “Oh god! It’s dead!”

The scientist puts her palms on the glass screen and looks at the world below. This is a bad time to remember she left her phone in Brett’s car, but the realization ruthlessly dawns on her anyway. Now the question is, if the elevator does break and sends them to their horrible workplace death, would it be less painful for her to sit on the floor or stand? She settles on sitting on the floor with her knees to her chest, figuring that if the elevator did hurtle all the way down to Black Robes territory, her head would hit the glass and hopefully kill her.

Brett leans up against the wall, defeated. Reagan doesn’t know if he seems oddly content with the situation or if her anxiety is making her irritable. After a long sigh, he perks up again. “Hey, this is an opportunity for a very stunted game of truth or dare! You wanna plaaaay?” He grins, tilting his head towards her to beckon her to join.

Ah, there’s the rub. The office golden retriever wants to play a game, and since Reagan can’t really go anywhere, she figures she has no choice. “Shoot,” Reagan reluctantly agrees, not because she doesn’t want to play with Brett, but because she knows she only agrees for the distraction.

Brett leans against the wall to face her and slowly slides down until his butt hits the ground. He asks her truth or dare , and since she doesn’t feel like moving from where she’s closed in on herself, arms secure around her knees, Reagan picks, “Truth, obviously.”

“Truth? Alrighty then, Mrs. Truth. Mr. Dare will come up with a question!” Brett taps his chin as he thinks of a good, proper truth . Then, he lights up, “If you could have one pet, any pet in the entire history of the world and media, what would it be? Like, even dinosaurs or Daleks!”

Reagan’s pessimism is no match for Brett’s optimism, and she realizes this when her soft pout cracks into a small smile at his dumb Mr. Dare narrative. It grows a tiny bit at his poorly advised Doctor Who reference.

She does give her answer some thought, reminding herself a couple of times that she could literally have any pet in this scenario, but she always comes back to the same answer. “A turtle,” Reagan responds fixedly with a shrug so tiny it’s almost undetectable under her lab coat.

Then, she requests lightly, “I feel like I already know yours, but I want you to answer, too.” She’s not expecting how genuine the command sounds, which triggers something inside her. Something that really wants Brett holding her right now because every minute that passes makes her fearful. The fact that it’s this specific elevator in this specific building is making the situation so much worse. She balls her hands into gentle fists without even realizing it, as if her body is highly cautious about the idea, even though she was wrapped up in Brett’s arms less than ten hours ago.

Focus, Reagan.

The Co-CEO’s grin grows noticeably wider, if that’s even possible. He sits criss-cross applesauce, leaning forward while he pushes on his feet. “What would you name your turtle?”

Reagan doesn’t know what she would name her turtle—she used to, though. Michelangelo. Unfortunately, the short form would be Mikey which was too close to Myc’s name, so it put a sour taste in her mouth. She decides to think about it while Brett answers the question.

“I think I’d choose a Stegosaurus. Or a dodo! That would be so cool! Did you know they were very docile creatures, and we hunted them to extinction anyway?” Brett sighs, “Sort of a tragic irony, isn’t it?”

And Reagan tries to act interested even though she already knows that.

Chapter Text

“Well, since you’re Mr. Dare,” Reagan starts thoughtfully, “I dare you to….”

Reagan can’t really afford anything serious with the state that she’s in—the state that she’s hiding so well, why are you like this, Reagan! —and she oddly wants to keep Brett smiling. The dare has to be silly and distracting, for both their sakes. Is the elevator being filled with some sort of gas that makes you constantly do the unexpected? Because what she says next belongs on one of those What She Does Next Will Shock You!!1!!!1 scam advertisements.

“I dare you to dance for me. Like, a full routine and everything. I’m not saying it has to be serious , but… I will be rating you on a one-to-ten scale.” Reagan breathes in through her nose and unwinds herself from her knees on the exhale. She can’t hold back her smug smile now; it’s so wide her nose crinkles. “C’mon. Before this thing fixes itself, and I lose the opportunity to see you get down.”

Reagan and Brett have gotten drunk together a lot, so it’s not that she hasn’t seen him get his groove on. He even dances when he’s sober like he had the night before. Hopefully, this would be a dare that didn’t cause him much stress and distracted her from the fact that they could likely fall to their death at any moment courtesy of the Black Robes.

Brett stands up and brushes off his pants to groove, and Reagan notices his palms gleaming with—is that sweat? He starts by moving his hips, swaying slightly to the nonexistent music. Then, Brett breaks into more of a vibrant dance as if the beat drops—the kind he’d do at the club with a girl on his arm. Reagan doesn’t expect him to take the dare in so much stride, and he has her full attention.

Oh my god. Reagan feels her cheeks warm slightly but blames it on the stuffiness of the elevator, especially with how Brett’s moving. He definitely has a sense of rhythm, even without any music playing, and she’s beyond content just watching him. His hips, his ass, his overall jolliness, and his arms combined are enough for her to stare shamelessly—she needs to base her rating on something, right?

After a few moments of eighties grooving, he unexpectedly bends down, offering a hand to Reagan. 

“Oh, uh-” And Brett’s pulling her upwards like she’s fucking weightless, and whatever she was going to say gets caught in her throat. He starts a slow pace with a waltz, humming a song and pulling her along gently. Reagan almost stops breathing because drunk dancing is one thing, but sober dancing in an elevator in a workplace is a whole other story. She thinks about outright denying and pulling away, but he leads so well, and she doesn’t find herself tripping over her feet as much as she anticipated.

Then he twirls her, hands large and steady as they lead her with ease. Reagan’s never been much of a daydreamer, preferring logic and deflection, but she’s spun into another dimension.

Their dance quickly descends from a waltz to more of a club dance, and he pulls their bodies closer, changing the tone to a crude beatboxing.

It’s just them, and Reagan forgets that she’s in her work outfit as she presses against Brett, moving her hips with his. Her cheeks are burning, but she pays them no mind as she laughs and turns around to push her back to his chest. It’s very silly that they’re doing this with no music, but she’s determined to put Gigi’s training to work and arches her back as she reaches to snake her hands down the other’s body to his hips.

If she didn’t know any better, she would have thought she heard a choked gasp tear itself from Brett’s throat. He quickly adapts to the new position, though, and his hands fly forward to hold her waist.

“This is,” Reagan fucking giggles, “Stupid, Brett.”

“This is wonderfully stupid,” Brett corrects, “not just stupid!”

Reagan’s laughter is cut short when he clumsily trips over his own feet, nearly sending them tumbling to the ground. “Woah-” She thinks she’s falling, but Brett quickly steadies her and pulls her back to him. The speed and urgency in his grip would have brought fireworks to her cheeks had she not calculated that she was the reason for his slip-up surprisingly fast. She laughs warmly with a devious smirk as she turns around to press close to him like in their original position, hands naturally finding their way to his chest.

Reagan pauses. They’re not dancing anymore. She looks at Brett’s eyes, then his lips, and finds that she’s unable to look away, no matter how flustered she feels. Nerves are expected when you’re having your first physical interaction with someone—she had had them during her first time with Ron before she naturally fell into things—but this technically isn’t the first time she’s been this close to Brett. Reagan’s smirk fades, and she leans in slowly—

“ EW! ”

Reagan nearly jumps out of her skin and pulls away from Brett at the loud, obnoxious voice that rings through the elevator speakers. Brett lets out a little yelp and jumps back like she’s made of hot lava. “How- How long have you been watching?” He turns around, pointing an accusatory finger. 

“What? Y’get stuck in an elevator for half an hour and start fucking?” Myc accuses, and it’s enough to send Reagan hurtling back into her sour mood.

“Oh, fuck off, Myc!” Reagan perches her hands on her hips, glaring straight into the elevator’s security camera. “Uh- But first, get us the fuck out of here.”

Brett’s like a stern father as he glares up at the tiny monitor. “Myc Cellium, you get us out of here right now! You’re supposed to be on Air Bud duty until I arrive! Why are you on the ca—?”

At the mention of “Air Bud duty,” Reagan glances at her right-hand man with a raised eyebrow.

The Co-CEO pauses to switch gears, seamlessly transitioning from stern boss to overly helpless baby Brett. “Can you call a crew or something?” He really can’t stay mad at Myc when their lives are in his hands, or, well, tentacles. “Myc, I gotta pee; you can’t just leave us in here!” 

“Brett, chill,” Reagan instructs lowly. “Myc doesn’t care about us enough to have been the one to check the security feed. Gigi, are you there?”

“Hey, Reagan,” Gigi singsongs.

Reagan smirks. Being right never gets old.

“Well?” She asks expectantly.

“Well, what?”

Reagan’s smirk fades into an irritated scowl. “Well, get us out of here.”

It becomes blatantly apparent that Gigi wants something when she laughs right into the mic. The sound is almost haunting, and Reagan thinks it belongs in a horror movie because it eerily echoes off the elevator walls. “Sure, honey. You know I got you… for a price.”

“What? What could you possibly want?” Oh, when Reagan gets out of there—she takes a deep breath through her nose, trying not to lose her cool.

“A vacation,” Gigi quips fixedly, then digresses, “Or at least some tea. And drinks on you next time we go to McUltra’s.”

“Only beers. And I’ll stock up the break room—”

“No, Reagan. I want the tea.” 

“ Heeyyyy, Reaaagaaan ,” Andre interrupts with a giggle. “Teach me your ways! How’d you get from the office to the elevator sooo fast?” 

“Gimmie that,” Gigi snarls audibly, snatching the mic back. “Come on, Reagan. You don’t really have a choice here.” 

“Gigi! Hey girl!” Brett chimes in, hopping up and down and waving his hand so she can see him. “I have something you can’t refuse!”

Reagan was about to lose it before her right-hand man interrupted. She thanks the universe for Brett Hand, secretly vowing to give him the time of his life if it ever comes down to it. Or maybe some head pats and an attaboy . 

The group falls silent, waiting for the offer. 

“My workout routine,” he starts, earning an annoyed groan from Myc, “for….” He grins, “my ass .” To emphasize the point, he turns around and gestures. “It’s been a Hand secret for y—“

“GET THAT ROUTINE FROM THAT BEAUTIFUL BOY! I NEED IT FOR THERAPY WITH MY WIFE!” Glenn interrupts, voice frantic.

“You too, Glenn!” He points more emphatically at his butt and then turns around to look into the camera. “Come on, guys. We’re a team! And if you leave us here, my butt secret dies with me. Also, I’m about to wet my pants. Please don’t let me die with wet pants.” He doesn’t actually have to, but he holds his crotch as if he does, eyes pleading. “ Please? ”

Gigi hesitates but eventually gives in because she can’t refuse a workout routine from the guy with a fat-to-muscle ratio of 0.001:99.999. They call in an extraction team—the elevator kind, not the kidnap-you-to-erase-your-memory kind—and nobody even claps when they get out because fuck this stupid company and you all anyway, that’s why.

Chapter Text

It doesn’t take much time for Brett to figure out Air Bud’s lost. Just as Reagan’s about to sit in her desk chair and confront her responsibilities, he barges in to inform her, and she doesn’t even get to sit down. 

She looks up, unamused. “Calm down, Brett. I’m sure he hasn’t gotten far. Dogs sleep for most of the day, anyway. He’s probably just snoozing in a random place you haven’t thought to look yet.”

When Reagan realizes (belatedly) that Brett’s far more worried than she anticipated— she’s a fool —she touches his shoulder. “We’re gonna find him. I promise. I’ll let the others know.”

Reagan pages the team and tells them to start looking for Air Bud over their detesting groans. They begrudgingly follow her orders, but she knows they won’t do a good job, at least not on a mission like this. As usual, if you want something done, you have to do it yourself.

Reagan and Brett split up to cover more ground. She asks Alpha-Beta, but he hasn’t been watching the security cameras—he’s been hooked on the latest season of Friends . When he tries to gush about it, Reagan swiftly leaves the room to check the Chem Lab. Thankfully, she doesn’t find a dead dog with opposable thumbs lying in a vat of poison. Eventually, she finds herself in the empty group therapy room because sessions are usually held after work. The chairs have been left in their haphazard circle, and the broom closet is slightly ajar.

Aha! I found you, you little shit , Reagan thinks as she creeps toward the door. She doesn’t want to scare the animal, so she says, “Uh, Air Bud? Are you-” She clears her throat. “Are you in there, buddy?”

The words sound uncharacteristic and weird on her tongue.

She swings open the door only to realize the closet is empty save for—well, brooms and other cleaning supplies. Reagan sighs and rubs her face with one hand, turning to exit the closet, but the door shuts behind her. When she tries to open it, it’s locked from the outside. “Oh, come on! Who the fuck puts a lock on the outside? ” And how the hell had she never noticed it before?

Reagan bangs on the door with a fist. “Hey! Help! Hey! ”

But it’s no use. The CEO walks backwards deeper into the closet, sinking into the dark like a cryptid. A heavy feeling washes over her.

She hasn’t been in here since… yeah .

And she stands in the dark, remembering.

-

Brett is calm. He’s so calm. Brett’s so calm his palms are slick with sweat, and his hair is sticking to his forehead. He’s so calm he nearly shouts at everyone. That rarely happens. He’s cracking slightly under pressure because Air Bud is entirely his responsibility. He’s gone, and he could be dead, and this is all his fault!

At least he has Reagan to help. They divide and conquer, and he’s totally okay. Definitely . He ends up in the AA room because he hears the telltale clicking of dog nails against the floor. It’s quiet like a wasteland, the haphazard chairs irritating him by not being in a perfect circle. He doesn’t see Air Bud but hears something in the closet. As he makes his way over, he turns a chair around the right way without looking at it. He unlocks the door and swings it open— “Reagan?”

Suddenly, he sees a blur of fur and feels the familiar sensation of being dunked on.

“Bud?!” He cries before he’s cut off and tossed further into the closet. This feels like some divine irony, and he runs into Reagan, turning around just in time to see Air Bud shut the door with his opposable thumbs. Brett gasps, and then he’s doused in darkness. He takes a few moments to process, feeling around in the dark— He palms Reagan’s face on accident.

“ Fuck -”

“Oh, god, sorry!” He retracts his hand, moving it to her neck, then her shoulder, so he can tell where she is. Part of him is relieved because they found Air Bud. He can hear the dog playing with the door, hoping they’ll be released.

Reagan opens her mouth to yell Door! through the dark and nearly shoves him aside to catch it before it locks again. She’s promptly met with the telltale sound of a lock clicking, and her hands slam against the unforgiving doorknob. She groans and, in her fit of rage and annoyance, quips through gritted teeth, “Remind me why you didn’t shoot him in the head when you had the chance?”

The CEO doesn’t mean it; at least, Brett hopes she doesn’t. It results from pent-up stress, fear, and frustration, but it still hurts and comes out of nowhere. Brett feels that familiar white-hot shock of that specific brand of hurt that only comes when someone close to you says something biting, and it takes him a moment to recover. He knows she didn’t mean it, but Air Bud isn’t just a dog to him. He represents a much larger battle with morality and leadership that Brett had had to wrestle with. Air Bud is his pet . He’s over-sensitive; he knows that, so he tries not to let it get to him.

When Reagan looks over her shoulder at Brett, hands still gripping the door handle and knuckles white, she immediately backtracks. “Sorry- God , I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I just-”

Something’s wrong, and he wants to help her. It doesn’t take long for Reagan to give in, which is nice—Brett’s not sure how much bandwidth he had today for wrestling emotional intimacy out of her. Even if they did almost kiss. He’s still unsure what to make of that, if anything.

Reagan sinks to her knees, hands reluctantly letting go of the doorknob to fall into her thighs, defeated. She slouches, back facing Brett, and leans forward so her forehead knocks against the door. She sighs, “Sorry. I had a meeting with the Robes today. I thought I was gonna miss it in the elevator, but turns out I’m missing it because I’ve been locked in a closet by a stupid - Uh. I mean, a dog.”

The Robes. Of course.

Maybe Brett is insane for the unease that twists in his heart. Maybe he’s impatient, but he can’t deny how weird the Robes have made Reagan act. He’s so happy she’s gotten her dream, but there’s no beating around the bush that she’s changed.

She has less time for Brett. She has less time for herself. The little time she had before her promotion has completely dwindled into ashes, and Reagan is slowly slipping into a coffin of unachievable perfection. And he can’t do anything but watch.

His eyes have started to adjust to the closet, so he reaches forward, hand gently resting on her head. He massages it, which he knows must feel nice when she’s had her hair in a ponytail all day. He doesn’t speak yet—Reagan isn’t done, and even though he wants to assure her it’s okay whether it is or not, he doesn’t want to risk interrupting her and halting her train of thought. So he lets her speak.

“Brett, I’m seriously sorry.” When he shifts slightly, she adds, “No, just- Just tell me something, okay? Do I-” Reagan swallows dryly, suddenly embarrassed—or ashamed? “Was Robo-Reagan right? Are you… upset with how I treat you? Did you tell her that? Please, tell me the truth. I need to know because-”

Reagan balls her hands into fists, fingernails digging into her pants, then her palms. 

 “I just need to know.”

Brett bends down to her level, resting on his knees, and his head falls against the back of hers. “I know you didn’t mean it. And Air Bud did just lock us in a closet. I’m sorry I dragged you into this. This is- This is really below your level of work, and I’m sorry you missed your meeting.” He swallows hard, secretly thanking the Shadow Gods that it’s too dark to see.

“I’m not upset about that. I think Robo-Reagan was just reflecting your own insecurity. I don’t expect you to treat me any better because we’re coworkers and BFFs. I can’t expect more. That’s just unfair. Does that make sense?”

She’s quiet.

Brett’s voice shakes, “I… like being close to you, Reags. I really like you. You could throw me out on the side of the road, and that wouldn’t change. But there’s also a, um, reason that she fooled me. I just- I don’t know how to say this. Just- what we have is enough and will always be enough.” This is risky. This is very risky. “But I wouldn’t mind - I’d like more, you know? I just can’t- I can’t risk losing what we already have.

"That’s why I kissed her so easily. Because I thought she was you.”

Chapter Text

Brett stumbles on his words like he’d never learned how to speak.

What he says drips in self-pity, and you can’t fight self-deprecation with self-deprecation, just like you can’t fight clones with heat. Eventually, it becomes a big disgusting glob—more of a mess than when you started. Still, Reagan listens wordlessly, partly because he did the same for her and partly because she’s curious about where this is going. But her curiosity doesn’t feel like it usually does—an itch she can’t resist scratching—it’s more of a dedicated warmth that stems from Brett’s close proximity and her desire to know him better.

His selfishness is rare, and she’s the cause of it, and in some twisted, fucked up way, that touches her.

Reagan reaches behind her to cradle Brett’s head in a palm. Although she would have smirked knowingly and relayed some terribly cheesy pun in any other situation, she wants to reassure him more than anything.

“Brett,” Every time Reagan says his name, it’s like syrup on her tongue. Soft and sticky, like she doesn’t want to release it. “I like you, too. You’re-” she swallows invasively, “You’re not just a BFF or a coworker to me. I like being alone with you. I like hanging out with you after work- just us.”

Reagan ensures she doesn’t jostle Brett’s head too much as she scoots around to face him. Their knees shift against each other’s, and her hand finds its way back to him, this time caressing his cheek after minimal fumbling in the darkness. “You’re not gonna lose this, okay? If anything, think of it like an upgrade? You can be my right-hand man, my best friend, and….”

There’s only the sound of shuffling in the dark room as Reagan re-adjusts her position. Her hand struggles to find his other cheek, and then it does, and she’s holding him.

Brett’s face heats up under her touch. “And?”

More. Say more.

His breath tickles her mouth, and she’s not sure how close their noses are in the dark, just that they’re closer than they’ve ever been . Brett leans in, and she can feel the tip of his moisturized lips on her cupid’s bow. Any closer and they-

Reagan pulls back and frowns, “I want to do this, just- Maybe not here? Maybe we can talk about this somewhere else? Somewhere that’s a little more… ours?”

“I’m not sure what could be more ours. I mean, neither of us has been in here before?” Brett’s hands find her face now, cupping it gently.

Reagan barely reacts. Even when he holds her tighter, his thumbs squishing her cheekbones gently, and the darkness hides her features, she still puts on a mask.

“I mean- Are we just going to sit here until we get out? I- I understand this is bad timing, but I can’t just sit here in the dark with you without knowing. I’ll go insane!”

“Brett-” A closet is mundane . It’s just storage space that no one enters to stay a while. They grab what they need and go and only come back to return it. But this particular closet holds too many memories: memories that will stay here even when she’s long gone, and there’s no one to remember them. The ladder they kept knocking over when they made out forever standing tall, fixed by the recurring janitor. The can of contact cement they tipped and never cleaned up dry and rock hard on the floor in a corner. The small stepping stools they’d sat on and talked for hours folded neatly on a bottom shelf.

“Can I kiss you?” Brett says, and then his entire body tenses up. “I- I mean, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean- This is a bad time, we should just… drop it?”

And she’s reacting.

Reagan lowers her head, gently holding one of Brett’s wrists. The cool material of her prosthetic smooths over his skin, and her flesh fingers quiver nervously. She doesn’t want to fuck up again, but she can’t help how her chest feels like it’s closing in on itself, and when he asks to kiss her, she just can’t . “Brett…”

She inhales shakily through her nose, sternly ignoring her body’s attempts to cry.

Of course he doesn’t fucking know. It’s not like you’ve talked about it with anyone.

“Not in here, Brett. This is…” The broom closet I fucked Staedtler in? Reagan sucks it up and continues: “This is the closet. Like, the one where Ron and I hung out all the time.”

-

Oh.

Oh.

Brett’s hands malfunction in the dark. He hesitates but pulls away slightly, fingertips lingering on Reagan’s skin.

“I can’t in here. It’s too much. If we kiss, I want it to be- well, any other place in Cognito, I guess. Or not at work? But considering my track record, that’s probably unavoidable.”

The air lightens for a moment, then drops back into its tension.

He should’ve put together the pieces by now. It seems that many things have been grazed and therefore spoiled by Ron. He had had Midas’ touch, but now the gold rotted and sloughed away.

“Okay.”

Brett’s not sure what else to say. Ron is a tricky subject, a field of eggshells he has to wade through. Reagan hasn’t told him much, and she wants to keep it that way. He’s partly thankful for it because every touch those two shared, every sneaky kiss, every knowing glance reminded him of what he didn’t have with Reagan. Knowing more would make him more jealous, but at the same time, he doesn’t like the precious secret they were.

“I understand. So we’re just going to….” He trails off.

Reagan admits, “I know, I’ve got a lot of baggage. I just- I can’t drag you into my shit. Not again. So we can’t in here, okay? I get it if that makes you change your mind about me,” and she pulls away to viciously rub at her eyes. “I don’t want to drop this, I promise. You have to believe me, Brett.”

Brett does believe her, but he wishes he didn’t. All his life, he’s been riding on false beliefs: believing that people liked him, believing that people would like him in time, and believing that there was a secret move he could discover that would get people to like him. Even though she’s his best friend and coworker, and she’s changed his life more in a year than anyone has in his entire life, Brett needs to stop feeling like he owes her everything.

Brett needs to choose Brett.

His hands fall to his thighs.

“Once we get out, I’m gonna need a bit to process,” There’s an apology stewing on his tongue, but he won’t let it cook. He swallows it raw and decides: “I should really talk to my therapist before we do anything about this.”

 “Yeah, that makes sense.”

Reagan goes quiet.

“Hey Reags,” Brett adds softly, fingers weakly brushing against her knee in the dark.

“It’s okay, I promise. We’ll figure things out. We always do. Please don’t feel bad. Ron was so recent. We don’t need to reopen any old wounds, okay? I’m here for you. Always. No matter what.” Then, in an attempt to face his fears starting now , Brett holds up his hand and sticks out his pinky. “I don’t know if you can see, but I’m holding out a pinky promise.”

Reagan finds Brett’s pinky in the dark by some miracle and hooks her prosthetic one around it. She opens her mouth to say something—at least Brett thinks she does—but she’s interrupted by an ecstatic bark and a knock at the door. She whips around, drops the pinky promise, and throws herself onto her feet to try the doorknob—and it works!

“Freedom!” She cackles maniacally as she swings the door open and rushes outside. Brett covers his face with an arm to avoid being temporarily blinded by the onslaught of brightness. When he steps out of the closet, it’s like it’s Reagan’s first time seeing the inside of Cognito Inc. She’s pumping her fists in the air and jumping up and down. At one point, she turns, and he swears she intends to hug the half-smiling Brett, but she quickly recoils like a deer in the headlights.

His boss scampers away like a wild cat, and he can’t blame her. He stands up, brushing off the dust on his pants. He’s uncertain and nervous. That’s the last way he wanted an intimate confrontation with her to go. They were supposed to be somewhere romantic, like stargazing or dancing, and it would be perfect and lovely, and they’d at least embrace. Not pinky promise in the dark.

Brett kneels down again, opening his arms wide. “Hey, Bud!” 

Air Bud knocks into him with a slobbery hug, wrapping his dog arms around him the best he can. Brett holds onto him tight. “Hey, Bud,” he repeats, and wow , he’s fucked if the only person at work he feels comfortable confiding in besides Reagan is a literal dog.

Regardless, there’s nothing like dog slobber to soothe the soul.