Chapter Text
The excited chattering of birds and a rush of chilly air rouses you from your sleep. The ambience of morning pours through the window you forgot to close, amplifying sounds you’d normally drown out until a much later hour. It’s a more pleasant awakening than you’re used to though, so you don’t mind the early start.
You flip over and smile at the sight of a still sleeping Brett, strands of his tousled bed head glowing in the gentle morning light. He breathes deeply, content smile twitching ever so slightly. Good dreams, you presume. Maybe he was chasing squirrels. You curl into him, lying your head on his chest to feel his steady breathing, savoring the calm before the day begins.
You linger there, mind light and focused on nothing but the warmth beside you and the sounds of waking birds. Brett stirs lightly, then again, and rubs his cheek against your head with a sleepy hum. “Mmmm… M’rning…” You’re only mildly bothered by his breath. “How long’ve you been up?”
“Not long.” He kisses your forehead and pulls you closer. You’re both wrapped in the other's limbs, grasping tight as if trying to close the smallest bit of space between you. You glance at the clock on his nightstand, making sure you have ample time to laze around.
“Should we get up?” Brett asks, groggy words fading into a yawn.
“Mmm, not yet.” You settle back down, gliding your fingers over and around his waist. He jumps, almost imperceptibly and probably without his own notice, but the reaction triggers something impish in you. You drag your fingers back and forth over his bare side, skin bouncing under your touch.
“Mhmhm… nohoho… ” Brett wiggles in your hold, not fully committed to escaping yet. “Toohoo early…”
“Your fault for sleeping with a shirt off,” you tease, scribbling with purpose where his back meets his ribs, “Leaving all this ticklishness out in the open, that’s on you.”
Brett can only giggle in response, curling around your hands and jerking to protect each new spot you target. He gasps and whines when you swoop your fingers around his shoulder blade, just teasing the edge of his tightly clamped armpit, and when you wiggle a finger in between, he barely muffles a squeal.
If you could keep him this way forever, flushed and alight with happy titters, you would, but the harsh beep of your alarm demands the start of the working day. You slow your scribbling back to tracing, place a gentle kiss on his jawline, and force yourself to leave the warm, soft, comfortable bed. Brett’s residual giggles and shy glances follow you through your morning routine.
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You’re hit with the sizzling sound and smell of bacon the moment you leave the bathroom. Donned in his “Kiss the Cook” apron, Brett expertly flips a pair of over easy eggs in the air. You’re not sure if he notices you enter, but he doesn’t startle when you wrap your arms around his waist.
“What’s cookin’ good lookin’?” You kiss his neck, per the rules of the apron, and rest your chin on his shoulder.
“I was gonna ask if you want cheese on your eggs, but I guess you brought your own.”
“Pff,” you scoff, bringing your hands down to squeeze his hips, “Who’s cheesy now?”
He doubles over, bending into you with a startled wheeze. “Ah-! ” He releases the pan to battle with your incessantly pinching fingers. “Hot stohove-!”
“Oh, sorry,” you say, your unapologetic fingers still wiggling intently along his waist. He whines your name and twists in your arms, snapping at you with his tongs.
“Nohoho~!” His admittedly weak struggling falters further as he resigns himself to your second tickle attack of the day, leaning into you with a weight that threatens to knock you both over. “Ihihi have to- hh-! F-flip the bahahacon!”
The lovely smell is beginning to burn, it would be a shame to waste such a delicious looking meal. You keep him in stitches for just a few moments longer, before sparing the poor pork (the eggs were getting a bit brown too). He takes a few giggly gasps of air, then hurriedly flips everything, grabbing for plates to salvage the now over hard eggs. You can’t help but hover, stomach growling in anticipation. He flinches dramatically when you rest a hand on the counter.
“What?” You raise both hands innocently. “I’m done, I promise!”
“I don’t trust you!” He points at you accusingly with the tongs, his only defense, then gestures towards the small dining table. “Go sit down, go, go.”
Brett eyes you suspiciously as you move to the table, tongs at the ready in case you try anything. He shoots you the occasional look as he finishes up, still anticipating another attack (out of fear or longing, you’re not sure). He slides a plate of slightly overcooked breakfast in front of you, skittishly jumping away to the chair on the opposite side of the table before you can react.
“Thank you, dear~” You chomp down a whole strip of bacon, you like yours crispy anyway. “Mmmm, delicious.”
“It would’ve been better if you weren’t…” Brett mumbles, poking his half-burnt eggs with his fork, “…distracting me.”
“By my standards, this is gourmet.” You take a few big bites, making a show of savoring each one.
He perks up slightly, but is determined to brood. “There were gonna be pancakes too…”
“Aww, I’m sorry, love. It was very sweet of you to make us breakfast.” He made breakfast most days, equally as extravagant. You suspect that his melodrama is part of the game, but his sad puppy dog eyes still make you feel guilty. You scoot your chair to fit against his, and though he jumps when you wrap your arms around his neck, he leans into the hold. He leans further into the kisses you pepper on his face, despite his mildly annoyed huffs. “I promise- mwah- I’ll make dinner tonight- mwah- ok?”
Brett simply pouts, his attempt to look bothered betrayed by how the corners of his mouth wobbled in a stifled smile.
“Hmm~?” Your fingers find his waist again and tease the spots that jump.
“Fihine, fihihine, okahay!” He wiggles out of your hug trap and holds your wrists an arms length away. “What’s wihith you?”
You’re not entirely sure yourself. Some days, you wake up uniquely smitten with Brett. And today in particular, after he’d recently confessed something very interesting about himself, you felt it was time to fully exploit that knowledge. “You just seem so ticklish today.”
He doesn’t know what to say to that, just giggles nervously and looks intently at anything but you. As hard as it is to restrain yourself, and it is hard, you give the poor guy a break and finish your meal with minimal teasing.
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Dating for employees of Cognito Inc. had… unique challenges, to say the least. Brett was more than familiar with this fact, as he had dejectedly sworn off dating just a week before the two of you met. Poor loose-lipped Brett had to call an extraction team after nearly every date, and one party losing their memories after every interaction isn’t exactly a recipe for the healthiest relationship (he likened it to 50 First Dates, lamenting how it made him realize just how creepy his favorite movie was). Fortunately, ritual memory wipes weren’t an issue when you both knew the same classified information.
A mandatory assembly for all deep state operatives called you away from your station in webcam surveillance, and you were quick to find Brett among the crowd. The two of you took your seats and braced yourself for the next 2 hours.
Recent negotiations with a newly formed shadow government union (The Unified Forces of Opposition) brought about changes to how employees were allowed to conduct themselves outside of the workplace, as well as a foosball table for the break room. You were now allowed to disclose certain basic information about your job to first generation family members and spouses, a presenter with a startlingly wide smile explained, so long as you adhered exactly to the provided script. Leaflets were distributed to the audience, pages of approved responses to probing questions coupled with graphic images of people who presumably divulged a little too much information. The unblinking presenter, after thoroughly explaining the consequences of going off script, began running over helpful tips on keeping your family members at a comfortable emotional distance.
You glance at the clock. 42 minutes in, oh boy. In the time you zoned out, the presentation had devolved into an odd mix of job training, life coaching, and motivational quotes; nothing you could will yourself to focus on. You nudge Brett and point to a man in the crowd wearing a disproportionately tiny hat. He puffs with a barely stifled laugh, covering his mouth with one hand and shoving at your shoulder with the other. You scan the room again, this time pointing out a man with his shirt inside out. He shrugs with a smile, unimpressed. Yeah, nothing special, damn this surprisingly boring sample of Cognito workers.
You glance at the clock, 4 minutes past 11. The presenter instructs everyone on the least suspicious way to shake someone’s hand, a woman in the audience nods and scribbles something in her notebook. You check the clock again, still 11:04. Your leg bounces impatiently, and you notice Brett’s doing the same. A familiar idea pops in your head; the devil on your shoulder is being very loud today.
Brett fails to notice your hands creeping towards him, and gasps when he feels something nip at his thighs. His nervous eyes meet your mischievous ones in a silent plea, one that will be enthusiastically ignored. You dive in, dodging his frantic swatting to poke and pinch at his thighs. The battle draws a few bored stares from the people around you, and a brief but pointed look from the presenter. Brett feels the pressure, and does his best to sit straight and still. You, however, are not so easily deterred, you’re too enamored with the way Brett trembles from your spidering fingers on his now unguarded thighs.
His legs shake violently, but he keeps his arms at his sides and his eyes glued firmly to the screen. His breathing is unsteady, interrupted by strangled yelps and whimpers. You lighten your touch, lulling him into a false sense of security with gentle circles, then deliver a devastating pinch to that spot where his thigh meets his hip.
He makes a sound that starts as a gasp and ends as a squeak, and freezes when quite a few people turn to stare. The presenter has perfected the art of ignoring your antics, and doesn’t miss a beat as she wraps up the meeting on the note that Cognito Inc. truly cares, like a big brother or other supportive older figure. Brett profusely apologizes to the people around him as they get up to leave, and they do their best to ignore him as they tiredly shuffle back to their soul-sucking jobs. He turns to you with a flushed look that tells you he’s fighting a very complicated internal battle.
“You’re the worst,” he groans as the two of you head for the door, you grinning smugly the whole way. He yelps as you taze him and dart away to your office. “The worst!”
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Another day of hijinks and conveniently resolved shenanigans. Sometimes it felt like the two of you, and maybe like 3 other people, were in a cartoon. At least it kept work interesting, even if your particular adventures felt suspiciously like B plots.
Brett roots through his pocket for the key to your apartment and slides it into the lock. You can’t wait to put on PJs, cuddle up to Brett with a movie you could enjoy ironically and he could enjoy genuinely, and turn your brain off for the night. Still, through your post-work mind fog, you feel an all too familiar spark of mischief.
You can’t help yourself; your fingers feel a magnetic pull to pinch the backs of his ribs. He pushes the door open with a yelp and nearly tumbles into the entryway.
You fail to bite back a bark of laughter at his expense. “Ahaha, shit, ok, I’m sorry-” You barely finish your cursory apology before your wrists are pinned against the wall, both of your arms easily overpowered by one of Brett’s. “Ah! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”
“You…” he says with an almost predatory growl, “have been very mean to me today.”
“It’s not mean if you like i -HIHIT?” A wriggling claw attacks your ribs before you can think to anticipate it. You shriek and pull desperately at his unyielding grip, and when it doesn’t budge, you slump deadweight in resignation.
“Oh, then I guess this isn’t mean either.” You made a grave mistake in forfeiting your underarms, apparently, because the precision with which he kneads into them makes your voice crack into a silent scream. You’ve tickled each other enough to know exactly how to go for the kill, how foolish of you to forget this. Someone with more preservation instinct might have some regrets right about now, but you find yourself wishing you hadn’t gone so easy on him.
You take a bit more punishment in stride, it’s only fair, but you should probably start looking for an out before you get too tired. “Okokok! Ihihi- shiHIT-" He sees you’re trying to speak and slows down to make it easier for you. Such a sweetheart, even after everything you put him through. “I’m dohone ticklihihing, prohomise-!”
Brett hums a bit, poking up and down your side in thought. “I mean…” He suddenly looks a bit sheepish. His hold on your wrists loosens a bit as he forgets his confidence. “...you didn’t really get to that part yet… just teased.”
Oh. Of course, you already knew that. He doesn’t want you to stop, he wants more .
“Teased, huh?” The dynamic has palpably shifted, your pose should match. You flip the pin he has on you, which would have been clumsy if he hadn’t compliantly followed your lead. Your hand intertwines with his, and stretches his arm as far up as you can manage. You kiss him deeply as you crawl your fingers up the hem of his shirt, muffling his excited giggles against your lips. “Just how bad do you want me to wreck you?”
Brett doesn’t answer, unless you count the steady, high pitched giggles pouring past his lips.
“Mmm, usually I’d make you ask, but I don’t think I can keep my hands off you that long.” You drop both hands and squeeze once at his waist. “Go get in something comfortable~.”
You release him from your admittedly performative pin, and he all but skips to the bedroom, eager to please as always. You reckon Brett is probably going to preen and fret about his appearance a bit obsessively, and the sound of the shower running confirms this. Poor thing must be anxious, it’ll be your job to melt those worries into something pleasantly foggy. A pleasant fog sounds nice, actually. You think you have the fixings to make your favorite drink.
As you reach for the fridge, Brett’s dog, who is somehow a real life version of Air Bud from the movie Air Bud and not the dog actor who played Air Bud, walks into the kitchen on his hindlegs, opens the cabinet below the sink, and pours himself a bowl of kibble. He's starting to walk a little too… smoothly, not to mention the very human looking arms and hands. Probably nothing to worry about, maybe you could teach him to vacuum.
“Umm…” A sheepish voice from the hall pulls you from your thoughts. “I’m ready…” Brett peeks out from behind the door frame before shyly stepping into view and- Oh.
Your jaw nearly drops at the sight of him. The outfit is a bit ridiculous on his frame, a cropped tank with the shortest shorts you didn’t know he owned, but god damn if he isn’t pulling it off. The top obviously exposed some of his (and your) favorite spots, and the shorts, which were showing a healthy amount of thigh, had been purposefully pulled down to accentuate his hips. It was as if he had giant red arrows pointing to exactly where he wanted attention.
If Brett’s goal was to pay you back for all the flustering you’d done today, he’d succeeded with flying colors. Your cheeks burn and you can’t seem to unglue your eyes from the stretch of stomach he’d generously bared. Your fingers twitch at the sight of it. Something about the strategically revealing clothing was even more titillating than if he’d worn nothing at all.
Your silence must have added to his anxiety, you realize as he shuffles in place and meekly asks, “Is this ok…?”
“Brett, this is more than ok.” You give him another once over with an approving whistle. “You should wear stuff like this more often.”
He blushes and beams at the compliment. “Maybe I will, crop tops are very in right now.”
“That’s great news for me,” you smirk, quickly scrabbling your nails against his bare sides. He ducks away with breathless laughter, but makes a concerted effort not to grab your hands. “C’mere, cutie.”
You take his hand in yours and swing him into the bedroom.