Chapter Text
Reagan tossed her wrench onto the table, groaning. She’d spent the last ten hours attempting to rework the time machine from Project Pegasus, but none of the math or notes the researchers had kept made any sense. Granted, they were all likely high on meth at the time, but still. She didn’t want to completely scrap the project, though her grumbling stomach and bleary eyes told Reagan it was time to call it a night.
Plus, she still had to take care of Robo-Reagan.
Look. Yes, Robo-Reagan had tried taking over Real-Reagan’s life and even tried killing her. But ever since Robo-Reagan limped her way back into Reagan’s world, she’d actually been pretty useful. Reagan dialed the robot’s confidence down to a five instead of ten and offered a deal: Robo-Reagan (now lovingly known as RR) would take over leading meetings and dealing with consultations and other day-to-day human interactions that Reagan absolutely despised. In the meantime, Reagan would have more time to work on her projects and be able to spend time with the few people whose company she actually enjoyed.
RR didn’t have to be turned into scrap parts and Reagan got to enjoy life as a CEO. Win-win, right? Nothing could go wrong.
Reagan dragged herself out of her lab and to her office. RR should be done with all the meetings for the day and ready to stick downstairs with Alpha Beta, leaving Reagan free to go home.
Turning the corner, Gigi appeared in the hallway, heading in Reagan’s direction. Her gaze remained glued to her phone even as Reagan stopped her and asked, “Have you seen RR?”
Gigi continued to type away on her phone as she responded, “Your creepy murderous twin? Yeah, she mentioned something about Brett about an hour ago.”
Her blood chilled. Despite her exhaustion, Reagan’s focus sharpened. “What about him?”
“Something about ‘giving him some balls’? I dunno.” Gigi sidestepped out of Reagan’s path and continued her brisk walk. “I’m late for, uh, something. See you tomorrow, Rea.”
Shit. Reagan spun on her heel and beelined for the elevator. That robot was up to something and she didn’t like it. Anytime RR got an idea of her own, it ended badly.
She peered into Brett’s office, only to find the lights off and the door closed. Racking her memory, Reagan finally remembered Brett bringing her a coffee and telling her he was leaving work early for the day. That was, what, two hours ago?
And RR left an hour ago? Oh, God. This was worse than she’d thought. Reagan all but ran to her car, dodging cryptids and sheeple and janitors along the way.
Maybe if she hadn’t completely ignored her best friend all day, this wouldn’t be happening. But it’s not like she had any other choice! Last night’s conversations and feelings and thoughts were all too much for her to even attempt to decipher.
Reagan cringed at the mere thought of the previous night. Fuck, she’d been so drunk. The things she said to Brett made her want to send herself to Shadow Prison and never have to see him again. Drunk Reagan had been lonely, and apparently, that led to her imagining what his lips might feel like against hers…which also led to much, much more detailed fantasies.
Through her swimming memory of the previous night, Reagan could recall trying to liken their friendship to a romantic relationship. She’d told Brett they had an ‘emotional connection’ (what the fuck does that mean???). Fuck, when Brett had joked about getting married, Reagan’s stomach had flipped and jumped like it was a gymnast in the Olympics.
Getting married to my best friend? That’s the fucking dream. In the most platonic way, of course.
Reagan squeezed her eyes shut as the words she’d said echoed through her mind. She’d basically told him that her dream would be to marry him. That’s the least platonic thing anyone could ever say.
For once, Andre had been a godsend and interrupted their conversation before things got worse. And, believe her, they would have. Reagan was seconds away from telling Brett that she would put up with his puppet kink if it meant being together.
She still didn’t know what to make of that.
Reagan stopped her car. She blinked and looked around at her surroundings. While trying to dig through her messy feelings for the first time all day, she’d gone on auto pilot and ended up…
She groaned and threw her head back against the headrest.
Reagan had ended up in front of Brett’s house. Because of fucking course.
Glancing at his door, her heart thumped. It was wide open. RR might still be there.
Every bone in Reagan’s body screamed at her to stop moving, to stay in her car and drive away. She ignored the blatant intuition and trudged up the steps. Reagan raised her fist to knock on the open door, peering into Brett’s home.
Her body stilled. Brett stood in the living room, his back turned to Reagan. He was staring at RR, completely infatuated.
She watched as he took a step forward and leaned down. Her stomach lurched. Bile crept up her throat and her knees trembled.
RR finally caught her gaze and--the bitch grinned at Reagan. Grinned as Brett’s hands wrapped around her waist and pulled her closer. Kept grinning as Reagan stumbled backwards. That fucking robot sneered at Reagan until the very moment that Brett suddenly stopped and stepped away from her.
Fuck. Reagan naturally got angry over things, both small and big. But she’d never understood when people claimed that they were so angry they ‘saw red.’
Until now.
Now, her vision tunneled and everything fell in on itself. Her fists trembled and her tongue began to bleed as she bit it too hard. I am going to rip that robot apart, piece by piece, wire by wire. Her angry heart pounded in her ears, deafening every other sound but her rage.
Brett spun around and finally faced Reagan. At first, an ecstatic smile grew on his face. Her name fell from his lips, as gentle and hallowed as a prayer.
But it didn't matter how reverently he stared at her. Reagan swallowed. “What the fuck is this?” A moment of agonizing silence passed. Brett’s face fell and RR’s grin widened. Neither denied a single thing. “What the fuck?”
Brett reached out with shaky hands. “It’s not what it looks like.”
Behind him, RR crossed her arms and shrugged. “Actually, it’s exactly what it looks like.”
He didn’t say anything as Reagan continued to stare at Brett. Exactly what it looks like. What it looked like was Brett kissing a different version of Reagan--no, kissing a better version of Reagan--instead of her.
Oh, shit. Reagan shook her head to dismiss the thought and took a step backwards. “I’m fucking out of here.” She didn’t wait for either to protest or try to think of a lie to keep her there. Reagan dashed down the steps and collapsed into the driver’s seat of her car.
Shit. It all made sense. The wanton comments, her lingering thoughts, the long gazes, the wishful dreams she held in the back of her mind. No wonder fury and jealousy consumed her only a few moments ago. It all began to make sense.
Fuck. Reagan was in love with her best friend. Her right hand man. The one person who ever truly understood her. She was in love with Brett Hand.
And he would rather make a move on a fake, improved version of herself.
Reagan shifted the car into drive and slammed her foot on the gas pedal. The only thing she wanted to do now was completely drain this memory from her mind. An enormous bottle of vodka sat in her kitchen at home, calling her name.
Blinking back watery tears, either from hurt or anger, Reagan drove off. She should have scrapped that robot when she had the chance.