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soelitist · 2 years ago

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Regime Change: Okay [1/6]

Summary: Rand Ridley is officially in charge of Cognito, Inc. None of that danger feels bassive anymore.

Day: 1 | WC: 2.1k | AO3 | Prompt: Adverse Effects

If Brett has learned one thing in his time at Cognito, Inc., it would be that there’s no such thing as an accident anymore. Someone is always scheming and plotting, as much as he would love to think otherwise, and so anything that happens even by chance was carefully planned out. Something like Reagan, practical, uptight, driven Reagan, getting dosed with any sort of drug from inside the company is undoubtedly not an accident. Sure, it looks like one, he thinks. Andre had a chemical spill during his latest experimental drug development for Rand, completely by accident based on his panic at the thought of it getting out anywhere. Accident. His lab and Reagan’s are connected by the ventilation system. Accident. Reagan didn’t smell the vapors because her allergies have been off the charts for days. Accident. It’s just that only so many accidents in a row are excusable, even to him, and this has the potential to be really, really bad for everyone involved.

He gently nudges Reagan into his office chair, which no one complains about despite it being the only chair in the room. She goes easily, much more so than he’s used to when it comes to her, and spins in it a couple of times without any understanding of the gravity of the situation she’s found herself in. Brett stops her only because he doesn’t want to make her dizzy enough to get sick.

“We just have to keep her out of Rand’s sight for the rest of the day,” he says. “It can’t be that hard, right?”

“Except for the cameras, genius.”

Myc punctuates his statement by gesturing to the offending security camera in the corner, red light blinking steadily as if to remind them that it’s watching.

Andre nods and shifts his weight. “Yeah, um, if he wasn’t suspicious before, he definitely is now.”

They all look back to Reagan. Normally, she has some kind of solution for any kind of problem the world throws at them, if not immediately, than within a minute. It’s the whole reason their team, and this company, is so successful. She has nothing to add now besides a vaguely coherent noise and a giggle.

“Right. So, uh, we… take her home?”

“Normally I’d say to the hospital, but who knows what Andre was cooking up. It could make her seriously sick,” Gigi says.

“Wow, I take offense to that, actually.”

“So what were you making?”

“It’s sorta kinda- uh. Well.”

Brett pinches the bridge of his nose. Is this how Reagan feels all the time? "Okay, just- is it dangerous?"

"I don't think so," Andre says, sounding not very convincing at all.

It's simpler to believe him, and Brett is reasonably certain that Reagan would prefer to avoid an unnecessary hospital trip. He leaves Glenn in charge, much to everyone else's chagrin, and nudges Reagan's shoulder lightly.

"Hey, Rea-dog, I think it might be time for us to get going for the day.”

She blinks up at him owlishly with her dark eyes. “Already?”

“Already,” Brett confirms. “Up you go, come on. We can get coffee on the way back, four add-shots, just the way you like it?”

This seems to be enough to convince her, though once Reagan stands up again, Brett has to get a hold on her quickly to prevent her from falling back into the chair, or worse, onto the floor. He tries to just keep one hand on her arm to steady her, not wanting to initiate contact he knows a sober Reagan would not appreciate, but after just a couple of steps, he wraps his arm around her waist to support more of her weight.

He takes them through the side-exit rather than the front, even if there are definitely cameras everywhere, and chirps his car to help him find it in the parking structure. No one else traverses the concrete building while they walk, mostly due to the fact that it’s the middle of the workday, but the privacy is welcome in the face of Reagan bursting into a fit of giggles at a vaguely inappropriate license plate on an old Honda.

“Brett, Brett, look! It’s- it says-”

She breaks off into hysterical laughter before she can finish explaining the joke. Brett gives her a little chuckle of his own to placate her, letting out a soft sigh of relief when he sees his car. He unlocks it and opens the passenger side door for her, more dropping her into the seat than letting her get in herself. When he comes around to his own door, he feels better already. The sooner they’re away from Cognito right now, the better.

With the turn of his key in the ignition, the radio comes on, playing a mindless pop song. If he connects his phone, he could have one of his playlists, but those might be a little intense for Reagan right now; she’s always a little oversensitive to all sorts of sounds and lights and touches, and he can only imagine that’s amplified now with her limited ability to think.

“Seatbelts!” he proclaims, clicking his into place.

Reagan fumbles with her seatbelt briefly, not even getting a solid grip on it, before turning to him. “Your seatbelt is fuckin’ broken, Brett.”

“Okay.”

He leans over her anyways to get ahold of the buckle, bracing his free hand on the door, and tugs it across her body to secure in place. He adjusts it for her, too, making sure that the edge of it doesn’t dig into her neck. She always does that when they ride in the car together.

“Coffee and then home,” he says, almost to himself. “We’re good. We’re fine. We’re not doing anything weird or suspicious right now.”

He flashes his and Reagan’s badges to the camera on their way out of the parking garage. Within minutes, Cognito is just a smudge in the rearview mirror. There’s a Starbucks midway between his place and work, one with a drive-through and everything, so he takes them there for the promised coffee. He gets the same thing every time, and so does Reagan, which makes looking at the menu obsolete when he pulls up to the speaker.

“Thank you for choosing Starbucks, what can I get started for you today?”

“Hi! Um, I’ll take a grande iced skinny vanilla latte, and a venti hot white mocha with almond milk, no whipped cream, and seven shots total, please! Oh, and can I have…” Food is probably a good idea. “Some of those mushroom egg things, and pumpkin bread.”

The speaker crackles out his total and instructs him to pull forward. Reagan is still awake when Brett glances at her, but her eyes are unfocused as she snaps her fingers next to her ears. It’s not the strangest thing he’s seen her do, drugged or not, and she’s not hurting anyone, so he doesn’t say anything about it.

At the window, he hands his card to the barista, who returns it quickly with the addition of two little paper bags. One has the eggs, which he got for Reagan, and one has the pumpkin bread, which is his special treat to himself for not completely freaking out over this entire situation. A moment later, the barista gives him their coffee, which he thanks her for before pulling out of the drive through.

“Why don’t you have some of your coffee, Rea,” he suggests. “It might help you feel a little more yourself?” He gestures to the coffee cup, but when she nearly drops it trying to pick the thing up, he covers it with his own hand and bats hers away. “On second thought, maybe when we get home.”

It’s only fifteen more minutes of driving, but they last an eternity. Reagan keeps it together pretty well, mindlessly tearing chunks off her eggs with the plastic fork and eating them. At least, Brett thinks she’s eating them, because she keeps putting the pieces in her mouth, but she doesn’t seem to be chewing it so much as holding it there for a while before swallowing and then having another piece. The egg bites are soft, from what he remembers of the ham ones he used to get before they were discontinued, so they don’t seem like that much of a choking hazard, and Reagan is still breathing beside him. Maybe he’s blowing this whole issue out of proportion. It’s hard to tell whether or not his emotional reactions are the right magnitude, and none of his business family seem to be good benchmarks to check with.

Finally, he pulls into his driveway, and comes around to Reagan’s side of the car to help her get out. She has her half-eaten bag of egg bites in one hand and the still folded-shut bag with Brett’s food in the other as he unbuckles her seatbelt and pulls her out of the car.

“Think you can walk inside?” he asks.

She swings her feet out of the car and over the pavement. “The floor is lava.”

“Okay.”

So he picks her up, careful to keep a secure but respectful grip around her body as he carries her toward the front door, barely managing to unlock it. Home at last. Brett carries Reagan through the threshold and toward the couch, which welcomes her in its soft embrace when he settles her on the cushions.

“This isn’t home,” she complains. “You said we were goin’ home, dude. Messed up.”

He blinks. “Oh. Yeah, huh, I did say- sorry. I’m sorry, that’s totally my fault. I brought you to my place. But we can still hang out here!”

She grumbles unintelligibly and stuffs more egg into her mouth.

“Great! Great. Um, I’m gonna go get our coffee out of the car, I’ll be right back. Don’t move!”

Brett nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to get their drinks and come back as quickly as possible, but he feels better once he shuts, locks, and deadbolts the front door behind him. Nothing can get to them here. It’ll be safe to let whatever drug got into Reagan run its course.

“Here’s that latte,” he says, extending it out to her. He takes his pumpkin bread in exchange, sitting on the coffee table in front of her. Some of the ice has melted in his drink, and the pumpkin bread isn’t really warm anymore, but he doesn’t mind the inconvenience. It’s better than nothing, he reminds himself, crunching down on one of the seeds from the top of the bread. “How’re you feeling, Reagan?”

She blows a raspberry and sips at her coffee. “This doesn’t taste right.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“There’s no whipped cream!”

He smiles at her without meaning to. “You don’t like whipped cream.”

“Oh.” She squints at her cup. “Yeah. I forgot. Sometimes I forget to tell them not to put it on there, but even when I remember, they still do it sometimes. It’s so fucked up, dude, you have no idea. Whipped cream is evil.”

“Okay.”

They finish their coffee without further words. Reagan seems to be too intently focused on drinking her coffee and humming something to herself, and Brett is busy just watching her. Part of it is to make sure she’s alright; if she’s in any kind of distress, physical or emotional, he’s determined to make it better. But part of him just likes to look at her sometimes. All the little details of her visage, from the bags under her eyes to the slope of her nose to the indent of her cheek when she bites on it in concentration, are unique to her and filed away under the metaphorical box in his brain labeled “Reagan” with little hearts doodled around her name.

“Hey, Brett?” she drawls, lazily waving her empty cup back and forth.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

She sets the cup on the ground and slouches further into the couch. “No one ever holds me.”

“Okay.”

He joins her on the couch, leaving a few inches of space between them and keeps his arms wide, making room for her to let him hold her without forcing too much contact she may not want. Almost immediately, Reagan leans up against him, burying her face in his shoulder. He tentatively embraces her, more mindful than he’s ever been about keeping the pressure light to avoid any sort of discomfort on her part, only to find the weight of his arms causes Reagan to relax further into him.

“Okay?” he asks softly.

“Okay,” Reagan mumbles, and drifts off to sleep.

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