Works: 5
Total word count: 4,858
Completion status: In progress
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Day 1: Karaoke night + misplaced clone goo
Escape
After their first week in their new positions, a night at the karaoke bar seems to be the perfect way for Brett and Reagan to unwind.
Word count: 1,297
Day 2: Broken inventions + human touch
Broken
Even from shadow prison, Rand still messes up.
Word count: 707
Day 3: Video cassette + green glows
Better
Their night after the events in Still Valley.
Word count: 753
Day 4: A torn dress + dry blood
Friday Night
Some missions just aren't meant for dresses.
Word count: 1,462
Day 5: Puppets + a homemade gift
#1 BOSS (+ MORE)
Reagan's favourite gift.
Word count: 664
Day 6: Sweet nothings + warm drinks
Perfection
Brett and Reagan keeping warm on a snowy day.
Word count: 651
Relationships: Brett x Reagan
A/N: Written for day 5 of @breaganweekbabeee
Prompt: Puppets + homemade gifts
Word count: 664
Day 1 | Day 2 | Day 3 | Day 4 | Day 5 | Day 6 | Day 7
Summary: Reagan's favourite gift.
Also on Ao3!
Reagan checked her phone: â10:18, No new notifications.â It was the team's first official mission without her, and Brett's second time being the head of the team alone. She had faith in him, but was still worried out of her mind; Brett knew how much she had going on, she'd dumped it all on his shoulders just last night, so if something bad happened, would he actually let her know?
That thought scared her, sure, but it was nice to have the day's work completed and not have to worry about a thing. She was already ahead in her work on the machine for the robes, so much so that she could afford to take a night off. She glanced over to the box that sat on the shelf, just a few steps away from her barren desk. It held everything sheâd felt was necessary to move over to her new office, which was mostly an assortment of notebooks, files, and writing utensils. The files all got stored in the appropriate cabinet, notebooks on the proper shelf, but she paused when she got to her mug full of pens and pencils. She smiled as she looked at it, remembering the three times Brett had given it to her.
The first time had been just after his first week in the company. It was basic, a white mug that read "#1 BOSS" the front (and "Hand painted by Brett" on the bottom), but Reagan appreciated the gesture. Brett would probably be the only one to think that, anyway. Sheâd thanked him at the time, then kindly brushed him off so she could get back to her work.
A few weeks later, Brett had sheepishly asked for the mug back. She didnât know why heâd want that, but she didnât question it. She simply dumped the pens out on her desk, then gave it to him.
It hadnât been any more than a few days when Brett came knocking on Reaganâs office door with one hand behind his back, and she happily let him in. She didnât have to wonder what he was holding for long, because after saying their good mornings, Brett revealed the mug again. It was the same one, but when she looked at it closer, she noticed the small addition of â+ BFFâ next to âBOSSâ. That time, she smiled, thanked him, and was quite receptive when he pulled her into a hug. He lingered around to chat with her before he realized he had to return to his responsibilities. That was the only time sheâd heard Brett complain about something before, when heâd had to leave her to return to his work.
A few months passed until she really thought about the mug again. The night before, sheâd been smiling wider than she had since god knows when, happily nodding when Brett had asked her out. Now, she was in the war room, unhappiness apparent, as she interrogated her team on where the mug had gone. There were no signs of it, just pens collected where it had once been.
The next day, though, the mug was on her desk again, right where it used to be, even with all of the pencils too. Now it read, â#1 BOSS + BFF + GIRLFRIENDâ. Reagan laughed when she read it, and sent Brett a text: thee heart emojis.
That was just over a year ago now.
Seeing it always made her happy, but today, she nearly cried.
Brett had helped her to rearrange her office supplies, getting it all ready for when sheâd unpack it later. When she pulled it out of the box, she saw one more addition to it. Unlike the others, it was written in dry erase, and took up most of the empty space on the mug, "+ WIFE?"
She gently wiped her finger over the question mark, then smiled as she set it down. She didn't know what she'd say when he got back, but she knew she couldn't wait.
Trigger/content warnings: mentions of homophobia, slightly suggestive content (one off comment in the beginning + more at the very end), mentions of dog attack
Relationships: Brett x Reagan
A/N: Written for day 4 of @breaganweekbabeee
Prompt: Torn dress + dry blood
Word count: 1,462
Summary: Some missions just aren't meant for dresses.
Brett's outfit inspired by @anartistinahat's beautiful doodle
Also on Ao3!
When the doors to the war room finally opened again, everyone's eyes were glued to the last person that walked in. It was late, just pushing 10:30, when J.R. had called the whole team in for an urgent mission. Nobody was happy about it, but Brett seemed the most resistant of them all. He didn't even ask what the mission was, just, "exactly how urgent is it?" and, "are you sure there's not enough time for⊠anything?" His concerns were waved off, and Brett did exactly as he was told: get to Cognito immediately.
Technically he didn't disobey the orders- he was at Cognito, after all- but he did spend a few extra minutes outside of the war room, nearly hyperventilating as he thought through all the possible reactions his friends would have. And what about Reagan? She didn't know what he was doing. Well, she kind of did; she knew he was going out to see some friends in Maryland, but he'd completely excluded the part about watching a drag show and his slight makeover beforehand. That part didn't seem to click into place with the rest of his lifestyle, or so his friends in college had told him, and it wasn't a part of himself he should embrace, or so his parents had said.
But he was here, and he knew he had to enter the room eventually, so there was no point in taking up more of the team's time than he already had. He scurried in, trying to pose his anxiety as nervousness about being late.
"What the shit?!" Myc called, being the first to notice his outfit.
Gigi, too, noticed his glam, and was totally into it. "Oooh! Honey, you look amazing! That makeup sure makes your eyes pop! And your jacket? You've gotta tell me where you shop."
Brett felt his face flush pink at the compliments, happy to know that his sparkling black jacket hadn't gone unnoticed. It covered a short, plain white, dress with thin straps and matched the sparking heels he'd worn too. He'd accessorized with pearls; nothing too much, just some studded earrings and a short necklace, but enough to make Gigi take notes. He could only smile at her in response, and the admirable looks he got from Glen and Andre, though his grin dampened when he looked at his girlfriend, who seemed confused, above anything else. âHey Reags,â he nearly whispered, âsorry Iâm late.â
Brett placed his handbag down on the table, then pulled down his dress as he sat down next to her, eyes nervously flicking towards Reagan before looking back at the rest of the group. He only looked towards her when she whispered, âhey.â This time she was smiling softly, taking the imaginary weight from his shoulders. âYou look beautiful, hun.â He grinned at her, murmuring a soft, âthanks,â before his head spun towards the screen.
âBrett! Nice of you to show up,â J.R. said, clearly startling the man. âWhat the hell are you wearing, anyways?â He squinted towards the screen, looking over his glasses as Brett turned his chair to fully face it. He crossed his legs in front of him and put his hands in his lap before he shrugged, receiving a nod from his boss. âYou look good. Anyways, youâre my A-team, so I need you on this right away. One of the security guards up on Capitol Hill said he saw a few dogs wandering around, but those ones in the video are eerily similar to the ones weâve been trying to teach to hypnotize people. Youâve gotta go down and get them back here before any nonsense happens with them.â
Brett was the first (and only one) to react, giving a salute. âYou got it, boss!â he called, posture immediately deflating when the camera shut off. âI hate to be âthat guyâ, but was this really that urgent?â
The team gave a response of mixed murmurs and bored looks before Reagan realized that, if they wanted any chance of sleeping tonight, they had to get on this ASAP. âAlright, let's divide and conquer.â With the press of a button, a map of the area was up on the screen. âEach set of partners will take a van. We'll all start here, where he saw them, and work our way out. Gigi and Andre, you're together. Glen and Myc, you too."
Andre and Gigi seemed happy with these assignments, but Myc wagged one of his tentacles. "And what? You two together?"
"Yeah. So?"
He seemed amused by this, laughing for a moment before singing, "Brett and Reagan, sittin' in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g!" He stuck his tentacle in Reagan's face, which she promptly slapped away.
"Can it, Shrooms!"
"Oh ho ho, now that's interesting," Myc hummed, causing Reagan's eyes to shoot open. "I'm sensing she wants to do a little more than kiss him in that dress."
Both Brett and Reagan's faces flushed as they glanced at each other, before Reagan shook her head. "Just go."
"I'll admit, this isn't exactly how I expected tonight to go," Brett hummed, resting his chin on his hand. His other hand was in Reagan's lap, who was sitting across from him, cleaning up his arm with an alcohol wipe. They hadn't gotten back to Reagan's place until around 1 AM, and by god, they were tired, but Brett still needed some patching up. Part of his arm was wrapped in gauze, the copperish-red of his drying blood decorating a small patch on the gauze the same way it did on his dress, and had down his arm, until Reagan had helped to clean it up. On his hand, it was brighter, fresh from seeping out of still-fresh scrapes and punctures while it waited to be dressed.
Reagan sighed and nodded while tossing the wipe in the nearby bin. "Yeah, no kidding. I'd planned on getting wasted while watching reruns of shitty shows," she mentioned with a bitter chuckle.
"That sounds like fun."
She hummed in agreement as she opened another pack of gauze and fished around for the anti-bacterial gel. "Probably not as fun as⊠whatever you were up to."
Brett shrugged. "That's subjective."
She nodded again, glanced up at him, then down to the split in his dress. That had been the first tear, simply from Brett trying to take too wide of a stance while luring one of the dog's closer. The hem of his dress was tattered, too, mostly from the near-misses of dog bites around his legs. The last rip had come from one of the prog collars Reagan had tossed to him when he wasn't paying attention, splitting the fabric horizontally along his side. "Sorry about your dress," she commented in an attempt to break the silence.
"It's fine. Nothing a bit of bleach and a few stitches can't fix!" He'd said this surprisingly cheerfully for someone who'd had his night off hijacked and been attacked by dogs in the process, but then Reagan had to remind herself that it was Brett she was talking to, after all.
"If you don't mind me asking," she began gently, not wanting to push Brett to answer anything he didn't want to, "what were you all dressed up for, anyways?"
He considered his answer carefully, he could give some bullshit response, and Reagan would be none the wiser, but it was Reagan; sweet, caring, supportive Reagan, who loved him for him. "I have some friends I met while I was a lobbyist- they live just over in Maryland- and one of them is a drag queen. She usually does shows at this one bar every Friday night, so when we can, we go, she gives us a little makeover-" Brett batted his eyes. Although it was smudged, his makeup was still incredible. "-and then we get some drinks and enjoy the show."
Reagan grinned in response as she tied off the gauze around his hand. Brett was a wildcard, and she absolutely loved him for it. "Well, you're very pretty." She gave his hair an affectionate ruffle, loving the way he beamed at the small gesture alone.
She then got up and put the first aid kit away, before offering Brett a hand. "You're not particularly tired, are you?" She wondered with a smirk.
Brett stayed close to her as he shook his head. "Not really, no."
"Great, because Myc was right," she hummed, electing a confused look from Brett.
"What do you me-"
Before he could even finish his sentence, Reagan's hand was on his hip, the other was in his hair, and her lips were on his, kissing him passionately.
"Oh," he whispered, chuckling softly when the pulled apart. "I think that's the only time I like hearing that sentence."
I Always Told You What I Did For A Living (Breagan Week - May 24)
Summary: in which an idea of Brett has terrible consequences and Reagan has to be the one to deal with them.
Relationships: Brett/Reagan
A/N: Written for day 4 of @breaganweekbabeee
Prompt: Torn dress + Dry blood
Word count: 972
CW: murder, alcoholism, problematic aspects of relationships, death of multiple characters, discussions about violence
Also on AO3!
It shouldnât have ended this way. Nay, that was being too generous: it shouldnât have begun to begin with. Still, there was no going back.
Deep inside, Reagan had known what she was doing, after kicking out her dad for who knows which time already, but somehow realising this time was going to be different; this time, he wasnât coming back. She simply hadnât expected it to be so drastic, so immediate.
So fucking stupid! A regular car accident? And all not because he had been drunk, but just too angry in the moment to PAY ATTENTION TO A CAR DOUBLING SPEED LIMIT?!
She shouldnât have let Brett stay with her that night, even if they had just slept that first day: she knew she wouldnât be able to let go of that comfort. She had let go of too many nice things already.
At the beginning, it had been fantastic. No, not fantastic; beyond words . Somehow, their relationship had been inspiring enough for Dolphman to get into a relationship with some former brother-in-arms that had also being summited to bizarre Doctor-Moreau-worthy-experimentations (though he kept insisting he was â straight with one exception, not like all those good-for-nothing leftist hippies â, but you cannot ask for too much of some people). Then, Brett did that thing he always did with everyone, all the time: he showed interest in a project she was developing.
Only that, this time, it was a side project she herself was taking as something that was likely to never come to fruitionâŠbut that obsessed Brett: a water provider that inhibited all violent instincts in people.
So, he insisted, and insistedâŠand they eventually tested it. First in just a town, then national-wide, then worldwide. And it fucking workedâŠ.for a while, because neither of them (nor anybody else) thought about the potential consequences of having no violent instincts.
The issue was the very same you could have expected if you made people lose their sense of fear: when a situation where being scared is useful appears, they have no tools to know they should run. Here, the trouble was that, if you wished to do harm, you didnât detect when you were actually doing something unhinged, being almost numb to the harm you were executingâŠuntil it was far too late for it to stop.
Cutting down the water supply was easy, but some people had been more receptive than others, and the effects took a while to disappear. And, in some cases, they didnât.
Still, those people werenât the worse outcome. That would have been the people who, almost as a withdraw effect, became next to feral as the special water wore out.
One of those people was Brett.
Reaganâs motherâs body lied, lifeless, in the middle of their house. Even if the last months filled of guilt, lack of sleep and trials to find a way out of the issue he had unwillingly created had made Brett thinner and less energetic than he usually was, he was still much more physically powerful than his current mother-in-law. The body he left was not a pretty one to be looked at and, in the middle of her shock, Reagan could only think about how that would have been what would have pissed her mother more.
She kneeled next to Brett. Apparently, this ordeal had been enough for him to go back to normal, and know he was cradling himself while still wearing the nightgown Reagan liked to call sleeping-dress (to what Brett usually answered: â I wish â), sobbing so violently Reagan feared for his rib cage.
She should hate him; this had been all his idea. She had felt something was off, something was going to go south from minute one, and had told him. And he had just thought she was being too pessimistic and those fucking puppy eyesâŠshe usually didnât like puppies much, but with Brett she could do an exception.
She had made too many exceptions with himâŠand, as she was readying her gun to end the life of the man, as she shouldâŠshe realised she couldnât. Nor erase his memory: she wanted to keep him, and she would keep him, even if it wasnât good for either of them.
She sat next to him, thinking about how this was all also her fault: both her parents had died because she had not foreseen the consequences of her acts clearly enough.
âI am sorryâ she couldnât tell who of them had spoken, but she put her head in his shoulder and just began crying almost as strongly as him. Up to the point they had begun a completely inappropriate and anticlimactic weeping-strength competition.
Then, she stood up, looked at Brettâs torn nightgown; the blood of her mom scattered all over the floor and frowned.
âHer blood is already dry, but I think I can still collect it and turned it into yours so we can sell that she was the one that wentâŠâ she shut up; she would rather cut her tongue that pronounced the words that would absolute massacre Brett right now.
Then, she began to work and, before she could even tell, Brett was helping while insisting this was far too much for her to do and giving tips of how to better clean the room up in a casual way (so it wouldnât be too suspicious).
Reagan allowed herself to smile; how could she have thought about taking him out of her life? Never.
Even if she knew she was going to have to drink to prevent her guilt from completely consuming herâŠshe could convince him to join her; they could made each other functional in their drinking, that would be nice.
After all, their kid was already two; it wasnât something they couldnât handle with a little needed handicap.
Content warnings: They're showering together, but it's 100% SFW
Relationships: Brett x Reagan
A/N: Written for day 3 of @breaganweekbabeee
Prompt: Video cassette + green glows
Word count: 733
Summary: Their whole night after the events in Still Valley.
Even with the sound of the water hitting the tile, Brett could hear the door squeak open, clothes falling to the floor, and the curtain being pulled open, but he still let out a soft breath of relief when he heard Reagan hum, "showering all by yourself, handsome?"
Brett couldn't stop himself from giggling as he turned around to face her. "Not anymore." He brought a hand up to gently cradle her chin as he placed a chaste kiss to Reagan's lips.
"Feeling any better?" She asked, to which Brett nodded. Sure, the residual guilt of everything that had happened still weighed on his shoulders- he did nearly kill his best friends, after all- but it was nothing compared to the feeling he'd had on the ride back from Still Valley. God, that had been tense. Nobody wanted to say anything, still too exhausted or tired to speak, but Brett had a million things he wanted to say. Whenever he'd opened his mouth, though, the only thing that would come out was, "sorry."
Brett sighed softly and closed his eyes, letting the warm water run over himself again. "Yeah," he whispered, "this helps."
She watched him for a moment, smiling when an idea came to her mind. "You haven't washed your hair yet, have you?" she wondered.
"Nope."
"Turn around."
With the gentle push of her hand on his shoulder, Brett did as she said, now facing away from her. The unmistakable sound of the shampoo bottle clicking open echoed around the shower, then Reagan had her hands in his hair. "Why do you have to be so damn tall?" She asked with a chuckle. Brett laughed around with her, and smiled in return. Reagan's fingers worked their way into his hair, fighting the excessive amount of hair spray he'd used to keep it back as she gently massaged his scalp. Brett was quick to relax into her touch, sighing as she continued to wash out his hair.
Eventually, she had to pull her hands away to add some more product. "Holy shit," she murmured, observing her palms, before glancing up to Brett's hair. "Brett, I think you took a bit of the Nostalgia Max with you," she teased, laughing at the utterly shocked look on Brett's face when he turned around. Lo and behold, her hands were glowing bright green, making Brett's breath catch in his throat.
"I don't wanna see that stuff ever again," he declared, turning back around, her continued laughter just hitting his back.
"You won't," she assured him, "but not until I finish washing out these luscious locks of yours." Brett chuckled at the compliment and closed his eyes, humming softly when her fingers worked into his hair again.
Thankfully, getting all the chemicals out of Brett's hair wasn't too much of a process. After a few good rinses, it was gone, the green glow no more. Brett had gotten out of the shower, leaving her when she insisted on washing her own hair- really, it was because Reagan didn't want her boyfriend to see that she was still using that shitty 3-in-1 stuff that she couldn't bear to part with. By the time Reagan was finished, Brett was dressed in a hoodie and pair of boxers, his hair wrapped up in a towel.
"Now I must ask," Brett hummed, loud enough for her to hear him from the living room, "what was your idea?"
Though he couldn't see it, Reagan tilted her head with confusion. "Huh?"
"In Still Valley," Brett began to clarify, "you said you had an idea. I doubt it was helping me get all of that gunk out of my hair."
She laughed, telling him that she'd show him in a minute. When Reagan returned to the living room, she was dressed in her pyjamas, and she held her hand behind her back. Brett eagerly watched her. She then pulled her hand out, revealing a tape of The Goonies. "Tada!"
His face lit up with excitement, his smile wide, before patting the spot on the couch next to him. "Get over here," he called. Once the tape was in and rolling, Reagan finally joined him on the couch, and Brett wrapped his arms around her, placing a soft kiss against her temple before she rested her head on his shoulder. He looked down at her with a content smile, humming, "now this is better."
Summary: Even from shadow prison, Rand still messes up.
Reagan glanced around the room, eyes scanning over the scattered papers, burnt drywall, and other remains of the fight today. She took a breath and stood up, her gaze stretching past her other teammates, out through the hole in the wall. After a moment, she brushed her scraped hands against her lab coat, thin streaks of red trailing in their wake, before walking towards the door.
Brett was worried, to say the least. He didn't expect her to say anything, but when he couldn't read a single emotion from her expression, it became frightening. He'd understand mad, upset, heartbroken, or even disgusted, but her eyes were calm, lips stoic, and overall, she just looked empty. He glanced around at his teammates, all who seemed too stunned to speak. Beyond that, they looked fine, so Brett darted past them, trying to catch up to Reaganâs fast stride. âReagan?!â He called with equal parts concern and desperation. It didnât take him long to catch up to her, but he kept his distance. She looked like she was balancing on a tightrope of her emotions, and disturbing that would be detrimental to at least one of them, and he really didnât want to find out who.
She only stopped walking when she got to her lab, shoulders deflating as she stood still. That was when Brett tried again. âReagan,â he nearly whispered, âare you-?â But he didnât need to finish his sentence. One look at her was enough to tell that her world seemed to be crumbling- again. She stared up at Brett, tears pricking the corners of her eyes, and all Brett could do was look back with sympathy.
âI canât deal with this place,â she finally said, turning away. âI have spent months- months, Brett- working on this! The machine shouldâve been ready next week. Thatâs when the Robes are expecting it, and thatâs when I planned to have it finished! But-â she couldnât even find the words to express her exasperation over the entire situation. Brett watched as she picked up the robotic arm, studied it for a moment, then tossed it back towards the monitor, which was now fractured, fragments of the electronics scattered across the floor. âAll of my code was saved internally. No way for a mole or a competing organization to steal it. The last time I backed it up-- Itâll take at least a few weeks to rewrite all of that.â
This time Reagan grabbed a robotic eyeball, the projection from it flickering and glitching obnoxiously. âI wouldâve been on track if it wasnât for my fucking father! That deadbeat, dogshit, selfish bastard always ruins everything!!â She chucked the eye towards the monitor, sending splinters and sparks flying from it. âIf only he could pull his head out of his ass and see that his actions have fucking consequences! Or even just think through one thing before he does it! When has anything heâs done ever ended well? He fucked with my memory, fucked with my DNA, for Godâs sake, invented this batshit robot that tried to kill everyone! And now trying to break out of shadow prison, back into a workplace thatâd probably try to kill him on site?!â
She snatched a mostly-in-tact robotic leg from the ground, and suddenly, the anger in her eyes scared Brett.
âReagan,â he said quietly, placing a hand on her shoulder. She nearly jumped, as if sheâd forgotten he was here. âHey, sweetheart, put down the leg, okay?â Just as heâd asked, Reagan put it down, turning fully to face him. âYour dad sucks, I know, Iâm sorry he does. And you don't deserve any of the shit he puts you through. But the Robes know what happened, and they should be far more than understanding. After all, it was their prison that he managed to break out of. Plus, youâre literally a genius. Thereâs no way youâre not going to remember how to make that, and I bet itâll be better this time.â
âYeah,â she sighed. Brett couldnât stand to see her like this, so he chose not to. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her, smiling gently when Reagan relaxed into his touch.
amandla
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
germansingergirl
