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Rand’s reign as a CEO was nearing its third week and so far, nothing has turned out the way Brett expected it to.
At that time, he thought he knew how this was going to go down. Rand would have a power trip, grind their whole team into dust, Reagan especially, turning their lives into living hell. And it was supposed to be hard, but they would at least have each other and that's all that would matter because when they work together, there's nothing Team Ridley - Team Reagan Ridley, always Reagan, Reagan forever - couldn't accomplish.
There is something like shame gnawing at his guts when he thinks how he imagined it, perhaps even anticipated it a little despite himself, being the heart of the team, holding them together through the dark times.
Needless to say, that's not really what happened.
It quickly became clear that Rand had no intention of going to war with them - and, in hindsight, why would he, really? After all, buried under a few coatings of intense personalities and regular less-than-workplace-appropriate shenanigans, there was a group of devilishly competent professionals whose skills he had no qualms about using to prove his efficacy to the Shadow Board. Otherwise, he appeared deeply uninvested in their lives, nowhere near strongly enough to actively want to ruin them. As long as they delivered results (and with no signal to rebel coming from either Reagan or Brett, they did), they were mostly left alone.
And then there was Reagan.
He was ready to comfort her. To uplift her. To be a helping hand or a shoulder she cried on, anything she needed from him so long as she needed him.
He wasn't ready for her to disappear.
After her dad’s takeover, she all but faded into her lab. Whenever someone from The Gang dropped by, they’d find her working with furious determination. Brett has never seen someone stay so consistently angry for so long. Reagan worked with a clenched jaw and eyebrows furrowed into an angry slant and every gesture, every snap of the pliers, every twist of the screwdriver exuded tension, sparking in the air along with the sparks from her welding torch.
Eventually, Myc stumbled onto a tourist mattress stashed behind a filing cabinet, prompting the questions of if she wants to put it to good use (from him) and whether she intends to sleep here (from the rest of them, who haven’t yet fallen on their heads). As a result, entrance into the lab became strictly forbidden and Reagan did not spare the means to enforce the ban.
After that, the only chance they had to see her was during lunches, giving them a window into her progressing dishevelment. She was distant, spacey, hunched over whatever she was having, with unwashed hair and eyebags so deep she could probably start storing things in them soon enough. From the way she communicated, it appeared she might’ve been on the brink of losing capability for speech. Even though she was present, she rarely showed any interest in the food – which was fine, Cognito food was not exactly something to show interest in, but she also refused offers of takeout and didn’t appear to bring anything of her own to work, which kicked off the formation of a betting pool as to what it was that still kept her going. Major candidates were coffee, drugs or the sheer force of spiteful momentum.
(It wasn’t actually very funny, but short of staging a full-on intervention complete with melting the metal door Reagan hid behind, no one knew what to do, not after any offer of help, more or less loaded, got very consistently shut down)
As for Brett specifically – he’s worried for Reagan. Of course he is. But there is another set of thoughts he can’t get out of his head, thoughts that make that something-that-feels-like-shame nip at him again but still, he can’t get them to leave him alone.
"There are special people, like us, who should run the world, and then there's normies like Orrin, who deliver our pizzas and fight our wars".
There it was, out in the open, not even directed at him, and yet cutting right to the core of everything Brett's been doing his best to keep out.
He's not... disagreeing.
He doesn't have it in him to disagree. He has no reason to think he and Reagan belong to the same league. But he was desperately hoping this wouldn't be enough to drive a wedge between them. It didn't look like it would. They were fine, she said it herself.
But now she was gone, off into her lab, into endless new projects and though Brett didn't know that much about Rand, he didn't spend 30 years living with the man, he had an uneasy suspicion that if he was in his place, sincerely believing in what he was saying, this is exactly what he would've wanted - Reagan, isolated, completely focused on her work, with nothing distracting her brilliant mind.
He hoped Reagan would push back. She didn't and it worried Brett more than he wanted to admit. That she might start to believe that too. That she might be another person too good for him.
And he knows, in his rational brain, he really knows that it isn't true, that this isn't Reagan, not after what they've been through. She just needed time to process everything and lower her defenses enough for the team to reach out over them. And it's not like she was doing it for her dad, it was just that sadly, the only way for her to prove herself again has become aligned with doing his bidding. She wouldn't actually do any of it of her own choosing, he knows, he knows all of that.
But.
The smart, minimalist, corporate hallways of Cognito really don’t have all that much in common with the halls of his parents’ mansion, all tall ceilings and polished marble in warm undertones, but with every day, he still finds himself shrinking as he walks them, until he feels eight again, drifting through spaces perpetually liminal, with no niche to settle into and truly call his.
***
He tries to visit Reagan at her home despite the lack of invitation exactly once.
It’s a dumb move that obviously doesn’t go anywhere.
He’s been here once before, but that one was at her explicit request, helping her carry boxes filled with their current employer’s things to the curb. It was a simpler time.
He’s almost scared to cross the few meters between his car and her porch. She had good reasons to fortify the place since he’d last visited (assuming it hadn’t been fortified all along) and he half expects a discreetly placed laser to vaporize him the second he presses the doorbell.
It doesn’t.
In fact, absolutely nothing else happens either.
He rings the doorbell again. Then knocks. Nothing.
An empty bag of crisps carried by the wind crinkles down the pavement.
In the relative silence, he tries to listen for any sounds coming from inside. Muffled footsteps down the stairs. Radio playing in the kitchen. Clanking of metal.
Oh? And what are you gonna do if you do catch her home?
The thought, unexpected and vile, feels like a punch to his gut. Reagan did not want to see him right now. What kind of friend was he if he waited out under her door, looking for an excuse to disturb her? If he made her feel like she had to sneak around her own place, away from the windows, to get her peace?
Stupid.
He gets back inside the car so hastily it basically feels like a retreat. Once inside, he shoots Reagan a message.
“Hey! I was running some errands near your place and thought I might drop by, but it seems you weren’t there! If you’d ever like to hang out, don’t be afraid to let old Brett know!”
There. Reasonably non-intrusive, non-desperate, not pushy, but still letting her know he’s trying to reach out. Well enough done, Brett.
He starts the car and drives away. The message remains unanswered.
***
He finally, finally catches her in her lab, with the door open and the security mechanisms disarmed, no doubt by sleep deprivation-induced oversight. She has her hands buried wrist-deep into the innards of a biomechanical pigeon spy drone and it’s hard to tell which one of them looks more miserable.
- Rea-dawg! - he announces his entrance, stupidly overjoyed to be inside, and immediately regreting his decision as he sees her jump up slightly in surprise.
- Fuck! - she looks over her shoulder, glances at him, then somewhere behind him, probably at the wide opened metal door. - Um, hey, I guess.
She turns back to her work. He walks over, undeterred, and watches her careful movements, as she blows a strand of hair away from her face.
Seeing that he has no intention of going away, she finally speaks.
- Need something, Brett? I thought you'd be out there with the rest, raising morale or something.
He strains his face in his best smile, going straight for the opening she left so conveniently.
- And what about your morale? Doesn’t it need a little raising, hmm?
- Shot to shit, not unlike that thing over here - she replies curtly – If you wanna raise it, it’d need to be all the way from the dead.
- Hah, you know me, I always liked a challenge!
She turns to him, with her full body this time. With the tools out of her hands, she tucks the cumbersome strand of hair away from her face and behind her ear. Her gloved fingers leave a long smear of synthetic blood on her cheek. She doesn’t seem to notice.
Brett was, regrettably, somewhat used to seeing her angry these days. Angry at her father. Angry at the Robes. Angry at the workload. What he wasn't used to was seeing that anger directed at him, but the way she was looking at him right now, all exasperation, pent up frustration and exhaustion evident in every aspect of her demeanor, he felt as though he was the single cause of all her misery.
- Brett, I’m… trying very hard not to be too… myself about this, but what I’m trying to tell you is that I’m not in the mood right now.
He swallows as his throat feels dry, swollen and filled with sawdust. Is it him or is it really so much harder to squeeze the air through right now?
- Sure, got it. No worries. Brett over and out.
- Thank you - she says, turning back to her work as Brett hurries towards the exit.
The beady, tormented eyes of the pigeon follow him on his way out.
***
It’s fine.
As he hastily tears his way through the Cognito building, he can feel the unmistakable way his breath catches in his throat and his muscles tense. His thoughts are disordered gish gallop, all piling up and crashing into each other, his panicked brain running in circles around him.
They’ve been there for a while now now, gathering slowly, patiently taking their place at the starting line and it looks like it was finally time for them all to kick off at once and start wreaking havoc in his mind.
The bathroom. Just get to the bathroom, get out of sight, lock the door and you’ll be Anonymous Cognito Worker #6621, properly and privately having the third breakdown of the day, like God intended.
It’s fine
- Hey! What the fuck, man?
It’s only after the collides with someone that he realizes he might’ve been running or at least gearing up to run. The someone is cool, slimy to the touch and blue and Brett realizes it’s Myc and now he needs to say something, something that will get him out of this interaction as quick as possible…
A twenty car pileup of excuses, explanations and reassurances crashes in his head, thoughts going too fast to really hold onto or shape, and the sole survivor is a choked, mangled garble, the contents of which he’s not sure of. There might’ve been something about the bathroom in there. Myc’s non-expression stays eternally unreadable. Brett has no time to dwell. Brett’s vision is going blurry.
It's fine.
At last he reaches the male bathroom door and can make a beeline for the cabin, just as he feels the hot sting of tears in his eyes.
It’s fine.
He throws open the door to the stall, so rapidly they nearly fly off the hinges.
ItsfineitsfineitsfineitsitSFINEFINEFINEFINE
The door gently clicks shut behind him.
God it's not fine
He collapses onto the ground, pulling his knees to his chest in the cramped space and lets out a pained sob. There is so much, too much in his chest, the hollowness that feels like an implosion trying to suck him in and a throbbing pain, like his own ribs have constricted his innards in a vice grip.
God, he’s pathetic. Look at you, bawling like a kid in a temper tantrum just because you can’t take someone might be dealing with shit of their own instead of humoring you. Some friend you are. This is the one thing you bring to the table and you can’t even do that right. They should just fire you.
He runs his hands through his hair, yanks on it, searches for something to hold onto, to ground himself as his breathing spirals out of control and he’s all but panting now, heaving through an open mouth as his nose clogs up with snot…
Oh, but they wouldn’t, would they? Not the perfect fucking golden guy. If they were to ever, they would’ve already, long ago, God knows he really doesn’t contribute anything that couldn’t be replaced by another pretty face and a set of strong arms. But people like him don’t get fired, don’t fail, they stay comfortably in their positions, held in a secure cradle of their safety nets.
What are you crying about? What are you crying about? What is this great, traumatic tragedy of your life?
People like Reagan needed actual skills, drive and ambition to claw onwards through the same life that he would spend drifting along with, floating on a gentle current, lukewarm, basic and content.
No wonder she doesn’t want anything to do with you, no wonder she doesn’t, what do you have to offer to her, what, what, what?
Well, it’s not like Rand Ridley had much regard for his pretty face, so chances are, he will finally fire him and cut this embarrassing show short. Or maybe he won’t have to, because he, Brett, will just die right here on this very bathroom floor and the most trouble that will cause anyone is that no one will want to pee in a stall where a guy kicked the bucket and that will be exactly the kind of mark on the world worthy of his pathetic life…
- Brett?
Oh, and now he's hallucinating too.
- Brett, are you in there? Would it be okay if I come in?
A second voice chimes in from an adjacent stall:
- What the hell, get out of here!
- Do you fucking mind? I'm trying to have a moment with a friend here! – Reagan’s voice replies in all its angry glory, all tenderness gone.
- Go have it somewhere else, this is the men's bathroom!
- Suck my dick, shithead, my metaphorical balls are bigger than whatever’s between your legs!
Oh God, he definitely did not hallucinate that one. And that meant...
He feels the tremors turn into a cold chill up his back.
Sure enough he didn't, because there is a scraping noise on the other side and before his scattered mind is done wrapping itself around the realization, the door opens wide and it's Reagan, standing over him, flat screwdriver in her hand.
His hands immediately shoot up to his face, because oh God, he can't let her see that, he's never gonna live it down, never be able to look her in the face if she sees this, sees him like this...
He tries to move away, like there's even anywhere to move to, but it's too late, there's a faint, surprised gasp above him, a shuffling of material, and when he peeks through his fingers, her face is level with his as she kneels.
- Shit, okay - she mumbles under her breath, and he's practically sure she meant that as a reassurance to herself, and he's sorry, sorry, so sorry for being a nuisance...
- Brett, can you look at me?
He isn’t sure he can or wants to look, in fact, he’s almost sure he does not, but it’s Reagan and if there is one thing he’s good for it’s doing what people ask from him, what they need from him. What Reagan asks, Reagan gets, so if she wants him to look at her, he will look at her.
He slowly peels the hands away from his face and he’s feeling breathless and heaving again from the sheer strain, the vulnerability of it.
- Okay, Brett. You’re having a panic attack, right? I’m going to need you to breathe with me, ok? Can you do that?
And if he’s ever been good with anything, it’s following directives, so he nods and does his best to match the rhythm of his own breathing to hers, four long, steady seconds in, another four out, despite his body screaming that he’s going to die if he doesn’t keep the oxygen flowing, as quick as possible. He’s not sure how long it takes for it to start feeling calming, the weight of air in his chest firm and secure. Something to be in control of.
- That’s right, you’re doing great.
And despite his mind still feeling a bit precarious and raw, the praise makes him melt.
- Ok, do you think you could name five things… - she looks around – I mean, not like there’s much here… Five things either of us are wearing, think you can do that?
He wills his voice back and it’s helpful to hear it echo in his ears, actual words, not panicked sobbing.
- Um, suit, tie, lab coat, hair tie, sneakers…
Reagan nods.
- Alright. So, how are you feeling?
- Better. Um, self-conscious, a bit. We should probably get out of here, I don’t want to cause a scene in…
- Fuck that – she cuts him off – We can stay here as long as we need, and I dare anyone try to give us shit for it.
Her eyes dart for a moment to the left, then to the right, as though expecting reactions from stalls next to them. No shit is given.
Brett chuckles a little and decides it’s time to whip the smile back out onto his face.
(He remembers one time in college, when a girl he was dating told him that his smile freaked her out at times. “It looks like a grimace, I can immediately tell when you’re straining for it.”
In retrospect, that was rich coming from her, since she was likely a reptilian in disguise, like much of his social circle at the time, but still, her point might stand. He hoped Reagan won’t be able to notice.)
- Okay, no need to get aggressive. I’m fine to go, Reags, I promise.
She walks him over to the faucet and he takes the cue to splash his face. Deep breaths, cold water, fix your hair, grab a rough, shitty paper towel, scrub your face dry and raw. Sobering. When he looks up his eyes are still red-rimmed and puffy, but at least there is now plausible deniability. Too little sleep, a shot of something from Andre's stash. No uncomfortable questions.
- How did you find me anyway? - he asks Reagan, turning away from the mirror. She shrugs.
- Myc had a run-in with you. Must've gotten a glimpse of your mind, cause he said at lunch you, uh, "got your brain scrambled worse than good ol' JFK". His words, not mine.
There is a moment of silence, before the question he was fearing hangs in the air:
- So... wanna talk about what happened there?
He doesn't reply initially, looking at his own reflection.
He should talk about it. Definitely so.
But not with Reagan. It feels wrong to come with this to Reagan. Sweet, emotionally abused Reagan. Reagan, who is not male and who is not white, or straight or neurotypical. Reagan, who graduated MIT as a teen and who needed to be a literal supergenius to work her way up to a position he stumbled into by accident and it still wasn't enough. Especially now since it wasn’t enough, and what they both should focus on is getting her through, not Brett’s daddy issues or his long-repressed rich kid guilt. Brett has a therapist, he’ll be fine.
(And God, of course he doesn't want his disorder to turn into a threat he holds over her head.)
So the smile stays firmly glued to his face.
- Eh, I don’t really know. I mean, who knows why panic attacks happen anyway? You know how it is with them, sometimes they just drop on you randomly and that’s all there is too it, am I right?
Brakes, Brett. Right about two sentences ago.
Reagan groans in exasperation, running a hand through her hair.
- Jesus, man, if you don’t wanna talk about it, it’s fine. You’ll tell me when you’re ready or not at all if that’s what you feel like.
She looks at him, looking for confirmation, so he nods and mouths “thank you”.
- Anyway, I should probably get back to my work. Are you gonna be alright?
An expression crosses her face, like she just got an idea.
- You know, if you have something… stationary to do, like paperwork or some emails, I could clear out a workbench and you could probably do it there. Just so I can keep an eye on you and make sure you’re not spiraling again. You just need to promise to be quiet and not to spill acid all over yourself.
He has already established he wasn’t hallucinating, but if he hadn’t, this would be enough to bring all the suspicions back roaring with full force.
- Wait, seriously?
She gives him a smile, small and lukewarm, but just the sight of it makes him feel like maybe it’s all on its way to being… not okay, but stable. A smile might not be much, but Reagan doesn’t dish smiles out easily. Certainly not to people she plans to abandon after realizing their inferiority.
- Just no commenting on what I do or don’t do in there. I sleep wherever I want to – there is a bit of hesitation before the next sentence rolls off her tongue – So… want a Reagan-brand Awkward Hug?
Okay, that might be a bit much, even for a happy ending.
He looks her over for signs of discomfort and sure enough – the hand rubbing against her shoulder, the gaze cast off to the side, the fact that despite offering a hug, her posture couldn’t be less open, all hunched and shrinking on itself.
- Is that… something you actually want to do?
Her lack of reply is a tell that’s more than obvious and he laughs half-heartedly.
- Dude, I don’t want you to go out of your comfort zone for me either – he raises his palm in an invitation to a high-five – Here. More than enough.
With a sigh of relief that surely must’ve swept through half the building, Reagan’s body relaxes, before she raises her hand to meet his in a first act of meaningful physical contact they’ve had in weeks.
The thoughts are still not completely gone from his head as he follows her.
“Does she know? Does she feel guilty? Did you just emotionally manipulate her into letting you be close? Is this how you want to go about helping?”
He shakes his head as the door to Reagan’s lab slides open in front of him. Deep breaths, this isn’t a moment for another guilt spiral. You didn’t have a breakdown on purpose, you didn’t even intend for anyone to know. You’re fine.
And he wasn’t proud of how he got that chance, but it was a chance nonetheless and he was going to make the best of it.