Chapter Text
All around the violent purple storm raged, striking out at the land surrounding them, various realities all around them, wind pulling at their hair and flinging dust towards their eyes. Reagan stood a few paces away from him, it was only them now, the other members of the gang already fled for greener grass in their new realities. Her vulnerability struck him in that moment, despite the robot arms she looked scared, resigned. He wanted to tell her it would be okay, but it might not. And wasn't that a thought for spiralling. Reagan pulled her attention back to him, hair whipping in the wind.
"Thanks for sticking by me when no one else did." Reagan told him, pausing to look out over the swirling wasteland. She focused back on him, meeting his eyes with a slight sigh.
"A good leader wouldn't drag their best friend into their dad's bullshit. I don't know if we'll ever get back to our realities, but I've seen yours and it looks good." Reagan looked away again for a moment taking a deep breathe, Brett tried to respond but his mouth suddenly felt dry.
"If I succeed, I'll see you again. But if not, good luck Brett. " She finished. Brett's head finally caught up to what she meant, even as he scrambled to object, a robotic arm had already reached up and pulled at the tinfoil hat on his head, it slipped off with little resistance. Brett only got a moment to watch the flash of metallic shine as it fell in front of him and Reagan attempt to school her face as she separated herself from what she'd just done.
All at once, the world blinked out, unfolding and scrunching into a swarming surrounding buzz of nothing. It receded slowly, like a cloud of dissipating steam back into cold air, leaving a rough brick lined corridor, hung with various framed photos of professionally lit puppets, either on clear edited shoots or what were certainly frames from some television show or movie, again featuring puppets. Brett looked down at the carpeted floor trying to ground himself, wherever he was.
Still dressed in his suit, Brett clutched the poster tighter, it was oversized and strange in his hands, he couldn’t quite remember why he had it.... but clearly it mattered since he'd gone to the trouble of protecting it with tinfoil.
It felt like sleepwalking, his body knew the way forward intuitively -like muscle memory pulling him in the right direction- despite the hazy feeling that seemed to smother his environment. After numerous doors (Marked 'fabric', 'archive' and various names he only half recognised) he was at the end of the corridor, facing a plaque marked B. Hand. Hesitantly, as if it would burn him, Brett reached for the polished door knob, turning it with a click.
He was met with a room that reminded him of his childhood treehouse, stuffed with fabric and lined with puppets in various degrees of completion. He leant the Shazam poster beside the door carefully, image hidden against the wall, and settled into his desk chair beside the window. He took a breathe that felt too shallow. And another. And another. Running a hand over his face and trying to calm himself down. Everything just felt wrong, out of focus. Once, when he went to Summer camp his brothers had moved everything a couple inches to the left, to laugh at him when he stubbed his toe on the bed frame, and tripped on the rug. It was funny, obviously, but when he'd first come back, pushing against the homesickness, there had been a sense of something just a bit wrong in some unidentifiable way.
Brett's heartrate had finally, finally, started to lower panic receding to the background of his mind. A knock rang out from the office door.
"Hello?" A voice called, "Martin Nathans, renowned puppeteer and designer, your receptionist said you were expecting me?" They called out.
"Yes, right- come in." Brett told them. The stranger walked in, tall thin and dressed in an expensive sweater. They focused in on the projects scattered across his desk.
"Your stitching is... fine. " The other man commented, tone sneering as they glanced over his work with a critical eye.
"You said something nice but it felt mean..." Brett swallowed, looking back down at his work, instinctively pulling it closer, and doing his best to ignore the sudden thickness in his throat.
They scoffed, "Clearly I was mistaken to think we took this craft with the same level of sincerity." They, poked another before turning and leaving with an eyeroll.
Brett ignored them, turning his focus to the closest half finished puppet. He found it easy to get lost in the felt and calming repetitive motion of the needle and following thread, looping through fabric.
The sun made steady progress down the sky as he worked, forming the shape and structure of the body. He carefully settled it onto a shelf and made his way back out the room and down a set of stairs, into a large foyer with floor to ceiling windows showing the street outside.
"Bye Brett, I got my fingers crossed for later!" The receptionist called looking up from her desk and holding a hand up to show a pair of intertwined fingers.
"Um, thank you, bye Macy." He called back, heading out faster towards the street. The name had come instinctively in the way someone memorises multiplication table or learns to ride a bike as a child, but he couldn't summon her in any particular memory. Brett glanced back over the building, it was old brick, large and rectangular, maybe three floors.
'Sunshine Studio' the logo read, printed on the door, a smiling sun wearing sunglasses with the writing circling it. Again the name seemed to be both familiar, but chaff in his mind. He pushed away the thoughts again, turning right and working to focus on his surroundings instead.
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Finally, Brett reached rows of brownstones lined up on either side of the street, and stood outside the door. Quickly, he reached into his pant pocket and thumbed through his keys, but the only one on the ring was a large Cognito Inc key and a UFO key chain accessory. It didn't fit the door. He was trying to decide what to do, when the door swung inwards, revealing Reagan. Framed by pale blue walls, a messy shoe rack and hooks which held coats, scarves and a slightly warn lab coat.
"Oh hey, you’re back," She looked at his still searching pose, "Did you loose your keys again." She asked, scrunching up her nose in the equivalent of a half laugh.
"Yeah, something like that," Brett responded nervously.
"Well, I'm going to the grocery store to grab bread, then I'll get ready and we can go." She looked a little sheepish, "I just got a bit distracted in the study so I'm running a little behind. The dog walker came round earlier, but I'm sure Bud wouldn't mind a walk if you want to come out to the park with me still?" Reagan offered.
"Right, no worries, we'll take Air Bud out." Brett assured her.
"I still can't believe you convinced me to name him Air-Bud," Reagan muttered, pulling on an MIT hoodie and heading out past him.
Brett slipped off his shoes and moved into the main room of the apartment. Sure enough, a large Golden retriever was spread out on the rug, rolling onto its feet to greet him. Brett knelt down, running fingers through the soft golden fur on his head.
"Hi there, you must be Bud," he muttered, the dog's tail stating to beat faster in response to his name.
After several minutes of stroking, he moved into the kitchen and made some decaf coffee, Bud pattering after him. Following him onto the couch where he drank it. Then he went to change, switching out his suit for a sweatshirt. But, as he took it off, and hung on the hook his coat shifted, and a small navy box fell out of the pocket, Reagan was written on the top, in a curling silver font. His surprise. Just as he began to open it, the door clicked and Brett instinctively shoved it into his pant pocket. Reagan moved past with a plastic grocery bag, and put away the last few things, fidgeting slightly with her pony tail before turning to him expectantly.
"You wanna go out?" Brett asked, Air-Bud barking once in response, as Reagan grabbed a leash.
They circled around a few blocks before heading into a park entrance. Small talk about Reagan's lab work and Brett's day. The surrounding trees had began to shed, leaving crispy leaves scattered on the path. Brett felt a pull towards a wooden bench which faced out over the rest of the park, Reagan moving over towards it without prompt. The sun had started to slip into the horizon, rippling orange light and splashing pink onto the clouds above it.
"I still wanna know what this 'surprise' is by the way." Reagan questioned from beside him. Lightly leaning against his shoulder.
"Right," Brett laughed nervously, but Reagan didn't seem to notice, fidgeting with her sleeve cuff.
"So-" Brett started, digging the box out his pocket, 'Reagan' still on the top in careful silver lettering. Glancing over it once more, tempted again, to see what it was
"Here." He handed it over to Reagan, who took the box carefully popped it open. Her mouth and eyes widened for a moment. Staring intently into the box.
"Brett I..." She trailed off, eyes still fixated on the content of the box.
Slowly, Reagan reached in and pulled out a ring, gingerly sliding it onto her ring finger- it fit perfectly. She looked up at him slowly, eyes shiny in the evening light.
"How did you know? This is like... a carbon copy of the one I saw in a magazine as a tween." She laughed lightly, "I thought if I ever got married it would have to be with that."
"Lucky guess...?" Brett offered, Reagan only rolled her eyes affectionately. Turning fully towards him. She moved in close towards him and met his lips in a soft kiss. To his own surprise Brett met her in the middle and it felt normal, practiced even.
"I love you." she murmured.
"I love you too." Bret responded after a beat. For that moment, the poster and any other implication of the off-putting day was pushed aside as he held her close, allowing himself to just sit on the park bench.