Tis I, The Fool

Anakin paced past Obi-Wan for nearly the twentieth time this hour--he’d been doing laps around the room at a speed that’d put any trooper to shame. Obi-Wan’s attempts at meditation had given him some measure of calm, but inner peace was hard to find with your protégé stomping past you every moment.

“We are wasting time.”

“There’s nothing to be done but wait,” Obi-Wan murmured, unwilling to release his patterned breathing.

“I can’t just sit around.” Anakin switched directions, pacing the other way.

“You are far too eager, Anakin.” Obi-Wan shifted slightly, but did not rise.

“And you are far too boring!” He snapped, but it held no real venom. Obi-Wan sighed deeply, dropping his head, and the relaxation promptly left his bones. He stood, brushing himself off, and Anakin watched him tensely.

“Perhaps a bit of sparring would do you some good.” Obi-Wan drew his lightsaber and beckoned him closer, already assuming a combat position. Anakin drew his, twirling it idly, and they circled each other.

For all of Anakin’s restlessness, he paid rapt attention in the field. Obi-Wan could see the gears turning in his head as they circled one another, waiting for Anakin to inevitably make the first move.

They exchanged a flurry of blows, sending blue sparks flying into the air around them. One of the strikes set Obi-Wan unexpectedly off-balance and Anakin used the opportunity to press his advantage, crowding in closer to force a surrender. Obi-Wan smirked--he could never resist playing dirty when an opportunity arose--and squeezed Anakin’s side. He yelped, lightsaber flying into the air, and Obi-Wan caught it, sheathed it, and clipped it to his belt. He tried not to look too amused at Anakin’s pinkened face.

“Do you yield?”

“Never.” Anakin smirked, rushing forward. He swung at Obi-Wan and he simply leaned to avoid it, hands tucked primly behind his back. A mistimed strike gave him an opening--he sidestepped and shoved Anakin forward and away.

“Your impatience will cost you if you aren’t careful. Again.” Obi-Wan readied himself as Anakin charged. Of course, he could never make things easy, but if he moved a tad slower to let Anakin get a few hits in? Ah, who’s to say.

Anakin locked Obi-Wan’s arm behind his back and started twisting out another forced surrender. It would’ve worked too, if Anakin’s stance didn’t leave his free hand wide open. Another lesson for another day, perhaps.

Obi-Wan reached back and grabbed at Anakin’s side, but he didn’t let up this time. He felt Anakin’s forehead smack into his back and heard the faint laughter floating up, but it took quite a few stubborn seconds for Anakin to actually let go.

“Excellent work.” Obi-Wan held out the captive lightsaber. Anakin took it gratefully.

“You absolutely cheated.” The silly smile on his face was contagious.

“I prefer calling it ‘alternative strategy’. Either way, you did well.” Obi-Wan squeezed his shoulder.

“Thank you, Master.”

“Of course. Now, for my sanity, I implore you to clear your mind. I’m not sure how much more pacing I can take.” Obi-Wan took a seat on the ground, and when his padawan didn’t move, he patted the space next to him until Anakin followed suit.

He could sense Anakin’s mind slowing beside him, falling deeper into the tides of the Force, and the comfort of it enveloped him. Obi-Wan allowed himself to drift inwards. His spirit floated away from his physical form and deeper into his psyche, deeper into peace. Tension left him in droves. He inhaled.

The air punched out of him, though, when Anakin started poking his upper ribs. He tried not to startle so visibly, but it was a little late for that.

“Are you trying to accomplish anything in particular?” He cleared his throat. Anakin could smell weakness, he was certain of it.

“Juuust testing a theory.” Anakin’s prodding fingers marched down his ribs and his fingers twitched minutely.

“You will not find what you’re seeking.” Obi-Wan’s voice strained against his better intentions. It took all of his strength not to move and a little more to appear calm.

“Are you sure?” Anakin reached Obi-Wan’s sides and didn’t let up. He exhaled a little too hard. He couldn’t allow himself even a smile—Anakin would never let him live it down.

“Of course, I’m—“

A lone giggle shattered their dialogue.

“Woah.” Anakin beamed, slow and steady. The dangerous sparkle in his eye was about one of the only things that could make Obi-Wan nervous.

“Anakin, I’m warning you—“ He didn’t get to finish. Anakin’s hands darted through the various folds and layers of his robes, seeking easier purchase, and found a delightful (read: terrible) spot around his waistline that pulled snickers from him like fresh taffy. He folded forward, falling into fuller laughter at curious scribbles upon his stomach, and Anakin gasped in wonder.

This was so alien to him, a relic of a life long gone. He found himself trying and failing to break up a cage match between his human instincts and his Jedi ones. Had what little shred of pride he had not been at stake, he would’ve fallen over under Anakin’s absurdly nimble hands.

“This is the best day of my life.” Anakin laughed, letting his fingers slip beneath Obi-Wan’s arms, and the subsequent bark of laughter surprised them both.

It’s about to be your last. Though he couldn’t possibly stay mad at the way Anakin was lit up. Perhaps it would be alright to let him win. Just once in a while.

Not today, though.

“I wish you hadn’t done that.” He hit Anakin with a gentle pulse of the Force, enough to push him back. Anakin’s face settled into playful terror in real time and he fled, making a hopeless dash for the door. Obi-Wan watched him run--he’d gotten faster lately--before grabbing him by the belt with the Force and throwing him back across the room. He caught Anakin bodily in his arms.

“No, wait—“

“Consider this a lesson in patience, ambition, and sensitivity. Especially the latter.” Obi-Wan locked his arms around Anakin’s waist and lifted him clear off the ground, burying his fingers into as much torso as he could. He burst into squeaky laughter, rife with voice cracks, and threw his head back, narrowly avoiding cracking open Obi-Wan’s nose.

“Oh, looks like you may have a thing or two to teach me!” Obi-Wan grabbed handfuls of Anakin’s sides and he snorted around his next bout of laughter.

“Obi-Wan pleahahase!”

“You know I am not a stickler for rules, but do remember your manners. You could get in some nasty trouble.” He swept Anakin’s feet out from under him, still tickling, and lowered him to the ground, taking great care to avoid the flailing limbs.

“I’m gonna die!” Anakin fruitlessly scrabbled at Obi-Wan’s torso to get the upper hand. Obi-Wan hooked his arm around Anakin’s and pulled it up, exposing the perfect landing strip for pinching fingers.

“Nonsense. You’re so close to being free! Wiggle out from my grip there—oh, you’ve made it worse. Hm.” Obi-Wan clawed at Anakin’s stomach with two hands and an iron grip. Anakin tried to pry the evil hands away, but his strength and coordination had evacuated long ago.

He swung his legs back and forth, kicking wildly, and Obi-Wan was proud of the little momentum he had. It was a clever idea--using momentum to break free of the hold. A fruitless idea, but a clever one nonetheless. Obi-Wan crossed his arms over Anakin’s torso, burying his hands beneath his arms, and the resulting shriek had Obi-Wan chuckling.

“This is wonderfully endearing, Anakin, but not at all effective.” On the next swing, Obi-Wan caught Anakin’s knee and wormed his fingers behind it. Anakin threw his head back and cackled wildly, all bright smiles and nose-scrunched laughter, and Obi-Wan had no qualms with admitting how much the sight lifted his spirits.

“I see the problem. You’re laughing too hard to focus.”

“You thihink?” Anakin squinted at him.

“I do. Try laughing less and see where that gets you.” Obi-Wan rained a hail of pinches down upon his hips and the fight was lost. Anakin made a noise like a ship’s hyperdrive starting up and flailed hard—he caught Obi-Wan in the chest with a stray punch. An endless stream of high-pitched, hysterical giggles bubbled out of Anakin and he did his best to muffle them, but Obi-Wan’s fingers on his neck ensured that he couldn’t.

“You’re turning rather red. Is something the matter?” Gloating was unbecoming, sure, but the two of them had always done things a bit differently. Besides, this was beyond endearing. He’d earned a little teasing.

“I give!” Anakin yelped, scrunching as much as possible. Obi-Wan’s fingers slowed.

“Good. You seemed intent on passing out.” Obi-Wan poked his stomach and Anakin snickered.

“One day,” Anakin wheezed, “I am going to destroy you.”

“I would love to see you try.” Obi-Wan extended a hand towards Anakin, glowing with pride, and he took it.

"Oh, Maryyy~" You make sure the onboard camera is pointing at you.

Ryland lifts his head from the laptop at your tone, bemused.

"...What is it? ...wait, why are you grinning like that-"

"Maaarry, start recording, I need to keep this for posterity-"

"Recording started."

Grace's eyes dart from your face to the camera on the wall, and then down to the bench. The cogs turn for a second - and then, horror.

"No."

You nod.

"No, no, nope-" He stalks over. You lean back to let him see the complete absence of stained DNA on the gel. There's a pause as he stares, dumbfounded. You notice a slight twitch in one of his hands, and you instantly know what he's about to do.

He lunges to cover the evidence. Fortunately, you're faster- you step in front, blocking his reach but not the camera's view of his handiwork.

"MARY, STOP RECORDING- DO NOT-" Grace splutters, shoving at your shoulders. You shift the equipment further towards the wall, and start calmly extracting the gel from its equipment. If you suspend it in the appropriate buffer, maybe you can preserve it in a jar...as a reminder. The ship could do with some more decorating. Your brain runs through the practicalities of keeping agarose gels long-term.

Ryland, meanwhile, runs through every PG-13 insult known to man.

"Fudging - give it BACK, you JERK-" He swats at your arms. Ignoring this tantrum, you lovingly place the gel onto some tissue to dry off, and turn to face him. It is important that you see the look on his face for this.

"And behind us, dear viewers, you will see clear evidence that Doctor Ryland Grace, 33.33% of humanity's last hope, does not know how to load a gel-"

"Ohoho, you're in for it now-"

He redoubles his efforts, trying to stretch over you so he can bin the evidence. In your peripheral vision, you spot Rocky enter the room with an amused trill. He has probably heard the conversation and wishes to have a clearer view of whatever comes next. Better make sure the spectacle continues, then.

"-despite repeatedly claiming that he would never make such a silly mistake-" You press on, cackling at the frustrated noise your lecture draws out of Grace.

"Grace makes silly mistake all the time. It is no surprise he has done this."

"Correct, Rocky - Hey, Ryland! Don't destroy the evidence, I need to frame it!"

Grace ignores you - he's not going to stop until he's snatched that gel from its little tissue paper bed. You won't tolerate that.

He reaches over again, still failing to cover the distance. This is an easy opening; an opportunity to match his energy that you can't refuse.

Without a second thought, you dart your hand under his outstretched arm, and wiggle your fingers.

Ryland crumples, shrinking away with a screech.

You laugh at the wounded look on his face. He glares.

"Okay, that's it-"

What happens next is a bit of a blur - you know that Ryland makes one last scramble for the gel, and you know that Mary starts her usual spiel about conflict de-escalation, and you know that Rocky scuttles over, shouting something about not wanting anyone to get hurt. You don't really hear much of it though, because immediately after blocking Grace's lunge, he resorts to vibrating his fingers into your ribcage. Your hands reach out to retaliate, and both of you fall to the floor in an undignified pile of giggles and swearing.

"Let me hahave this!" You protest, trying not to reward Grace with a reaction as he trails his fingers over your tummy. He's sat over your legs, torso within easy reach - you take your chance, and squeeze at his stomach in return. You're immediately rewarded with a wide grin and an abundance of cackles.

"You lihittle-BUGGER-" Grace has folded over above you, making it even easier for you to keep tickling. You draw circles around his navel that make him go limp with laughter.

"I'm glad we're recording this, you're being adorable," You tease.

"MARY! MARY-!" He shrieks, hands struggling to keep prodding your sides. "DELEHETE RECORDING- NOHO-"

"Dohon't listen to him, Mary," You speak calmly over Grace, shifting one hand to tickle his ears and grinning when he becomes conflicted over which spot he should be defending. "In fact, make three backups."

"Backup in progress," She chirps.

Ryland is too far gone to do anything about this - you snort at the way he's blushing, trying to hide his face in your neck, and- oh no.

...He's not hiding.

The sound of him taking in a deep breath, paired with the light brush of his stubble, is the only warning you have for the horrific raspberry Ryland blows against your neck.

It's awful - the sensation completely shortcircuits your brain, your arms turning to jelly as all your body can do is scream it tickles it tickles it tickles. You don't even have the wherewithal to moderate your reactions, loud belly laughter flowing into the lab before you can think to tamper it. Somehow, you've managed to keep tickling Grace, which is... not helping, actually, because he keeps laughing through the raspberry. Which tickles more.

"Oh no no no. This is bad for you." Rocky observes, ever helpful.

Then, finally - it's over. Ryland has to take a breath. You move as fast as you can, rolling out from under him to trap him in a hug. With no time to waste, you return the favour, leaning in and blowing a raspberry of your own.

"WAITwaitwait-" He squeals, then wheezes, then giggles. It's incredibly endearing.

"Nope!" You pull away, hands squeezing at his sides. Grace scrambles to get up off the floor, and you follow, backing him against the counter. He shoots you a nervous grin, and you don't give him time to do anything more than that - you crawl your hands upwards, to his highest ribs, and wriggle in the space between the bones. Grace leans forwards, head resting on your shoulder as he laughs, the occasional snort punctuating his high-pitched wheezing.

And then, like clockwork, the revenge arrives - through his laughter, Ryland's hands creep over your torso, scritching gently at your sides. Soon, both of you are doubled over against the other, fighting to gain the upper hand.

"Ha- I'm keeping that gel!"

"You are NOHOT!"

"I absolutely am!" You're about to explain why, too, when Grace shoves his hands under your arms, and you start sinking down.

"Rocky think you are losing. Grace making you laugh a lot. Keeping gel is...unlikely."

Well, isn't that nice?

"He's right, you know. Gihive it up and I'll go easier on you. Maybe." The smug tone in Grace's voice makes you renew your efforts out of spite, fingers finding purchase on his sides. It's not enough, though - you both return to the floor, and Ryland swiftly pins your arms above your head.

"Rocky, Rohocky help-" You kick out your legs and shoot him a pleading look.

"No, Rocky not help. Last time Rocky help, Grace figured out Eridian tickling. Is too high risk."

Grace chuckles at that, and gives Rocky a warning look. "Wise decision, bud."

He turns back to face you, a glint in his eyes that makes your stomach flip in anticipation.

"Now, I'm gonna count to five, and if you agree to never speak of this again, I won't tickle you. Sound good?"

You shake your head.

"Fuck you."

It goes very, very quiet.

Okay, maybe that wasn't the smartest idea.

Ryland traces a lazy path over your stomach that makes your breath hitch, and leans in, muttering a single word.

"Language."

All hell breaks loose. His hands poke and prod and squeeze erratically over your torso, each touch designed to gauge your reaction before moving onto the next spot.

"Ha-Ryland- no!" Through your hysterics, you can see him logging the way his movements make you squirm.

He doesn't stop - rather, decides to make things worse. "Why, does it tickle?"

Oh god.

"Shut UP, you PRICK-" Swearing has done wonders for you so far. Surely more is the answer here.

"Ohoho, you've gone so red," He chuckles, thumb drilling into your second rib. "Don't like when I say that, huh?"

You are rapidly losing your ability to speak, and there's a growing warmth on your cheeks that you suspect is a blush.

"Alright, so we know this tickles," He murmers, breath tickling your ear. His hand moves higher, under your arm.

"Doesss this tickle?"

You blindly nod your head yes, hoping he'll move spots. Instead, he changes tact, his touch becoming lighter. Your laugh becomes a lot squeakier.

"I can't hear you," He grins. "Does it tickle?"

"I'm-" You grit your teeth. "I'm going to kill you-"

The laughter he's drawing from you is out of control, and just forming those words takes monumental resolve.

Grace doesn't have any issues talking, though - content with the shade of red he's turned you, he switches to providing a running commentary.

"And here, dear viewers," He smirks, scribbling over a spot near your hips that makes your back arch, "You will see clear evidence that the other 33.33% of humanity's last hope is hopelessly ticklish."

"Grahace! GRACE!" You yelp, using your feet to try and slide backwards along the floor. Ryland follows, of course, highly amused by the theatrics.

"Yeah?" He grins, slowing slightly.

You try to wipe the smile from your face, but it's stuck firm.

"I cahan't-"

"Can't what? Can't talk? I noticed." He lets your hands go, probably out of pity, but walks two fingers over your stomach just to keep you guessing. It's enough to keep you giggling in anticipation.

"Okay, okay, you win-" You gasp, trying to sit up and shuffle away.

"Oh, I do, do I? Thank you for pointing that out." Grace laughs, adjusting his glasses, which have nearly fallen off in the scuffle. He takes pity on you though, and offers a hand to help you up.

"Whatever. Mary, delete recording," You mutter, taking the offered assistance.

"Recording deleted."

"Appreciated," Ryland gives you a cordial nod, heading over to the bench.

"...Wait, where's the gel?"

"...Humans were taking too long fighting. Got bored."

"Rocky-"

"Grace pipetting technique bad bad bad. Gel punctured in several areas." Rocky holds up the agarose, which is now housed in a beautiful xenonite case. He's even had the time to fill it with the appropriate solution. Maybe you did take too long.

"Oh, for goodness' sake-" Ryland puts his head in his hands. "Fine, keep it. But we are never talking about this again."

"Don't need to. We keep next to gel area. Reminder."

"Excellent idea," You grin, still holding onto a nearby table for support.

"From now on," Grace points at you, "I'm not checking your gels for you."

"Good, I mean...You can't exactly be trusted anymore, can you?"

He raises his eyebrow at you. It's a challenge, daring you to say another word. His fingers twitch, almost imperceptibly. The message is loud and clear: Do you really want to do this again?

Alright, maybe not today. You'll give it a few days before teasing Ryland about it.

You make the brothers dress up every single year for Halloween so they don’t “lose their whimsy”, as you so love to put it.

Dean was first firmly against the idea. Said they see enough monsters without looking in a mirror. There was a Bloody Mary joke in there somewhere, but you didn’t push it.

After days and days of you giving him the biggest, saddest puppy dog eyes he’s ever seen, he just couldn’t stand to keep telling you no. He agreed, on the condition that he had to be something “badass”.

Sam, on the other hand, he’s so smitten for you that all you had to do was ask the one time. Dean still to this day says that he doesn’t think Sammy even knows how to fix his mouth to say no to you.

That first Halloween, Dean was a vampire- but not the kind you three fight, no. A full on gothic Dracula style vamp. White face paint, red contacts, two glued on fangs, a little “blood” dripping down his lip, and a three piece suit. The cape was apparently too tacky.

Sam had opted for a zombie. He let you paint him a pale green and tear up some old clothes of his. You drew some red bite marks on him and he too had to go through the torture of contact lenses- ghostly and completely dead.

You hadn’t considered how complex or time consuming it would be to paint yourself as a skeleton until you were nearly down with the jawbone, but you were a damn good skeleton. Your outfit was easier, since the look relied on your body paint. Just black pants and a white t-shirt.

So, with Nosferatu and Frankenstein in tow, you set out. Of course, the three of you were noticeably a little old for trick-or-treating, but nothing’s better than bar hopping on Halloween just to come home and watch classic horror movies on the couch until someone (i.e. you) falls asleep on the couch and has to be carried to bed.

That’s been Halloween tradition for years now. The three of you have been ghouls, ghosts, monsters, critters, night crawlers, fairytales, creatures of the night, and any other name you can think of to describe all things spooky.

And that’s exactly what seems to be the problem this time around.

You’ve been everything you can think to be, and you’ve spent days grueling over it. You’d figured out a costume for Dean, you’d already scrounged up parts for Sam’s, but you just could not land on your own.

With the golden crown and red coat you’d planned for Dean to sport, and the chainmail and sword you’d managed to find for Sam’s get-up, the choice seemed obvious. What could possibly complete the king and the knight’s trio better than a pretty princess or a dashing young prince? But that was “too on the nose”, you had said.

It’s Dean that eventually gives you the perfect idea for a costume. Something that fits the little theme you’ve established, something that’s easy enough to identify, and something you’ll feel cute in. You’re absolutely thrilled, so much so that you almost immediately run to tell Sam, but Dean stops you.

That should be a massive red flag for you, especially when he tells you that you should surprise Sam with it on Halloween day, but you agree immediately. He talks you into it without ringing a single one of your alarm bells.

So, on Halloween day, you wake up thrilled.

The jester.

It’s so genius that you’re aggravated that Dean thought about it before you did, but you can’t think about that, especially not when you’ve found the perfect outfit for it. It’s your absolute favorite color with some black checkered print, and white ruffles at the collar, wrists, and ankles. Textbook jester, and you do your makeup to match perfectly.

You jump up once you’re done getting ready, More than excited to show Dean, who is quick to urge you to show Sam. Again, you should find it odd, but when he tells you to hide behind the door and pop out once he calls Sam in the room, he justifies it with getting in the Halloween spirit, and who would you be if you disagreed?

If anything, this isn’t fair for you. You expect Sam to startle a little bit, but you don’t expect him to jump nearly out of his skin, and you don’t think you’ve ever heard a scream quite that high-pitched come out of him. You don’t mean to scare him that bad, and you’re even more confused when Dean nearly folds to the floor in hysterics at his brother’s reaction.

Sam is looking between you and Dean with that tight-lipped stare he gives when he’s fed up, and Dean is collapsed nearly in half laughing. As confused as you are, you find it hard to bite back an entertained giggle, and if you weren’t in trouble before, you certainly are now.

“Oh, you think you’re funny, huh?”

Those are the last words you hear before you find yourself staring at the ceiling, pinned firmly against the mattress by hands squeezing and scribbling maddeningly against your sides and ribs.

It happens so fast you don’t quite register what’s happening, and you still don’t know why it’s happening, until Sam drags one of your arms up, slender fingers wiggling into the flesh underneath. The thin layer of silky fabric seems to only be making things worse.

“This was my big surprise, huh? A clown? Yeah, okay, laugh it up. You’re just soooo clever, aren’t you?.”

That’s when it sinks in. All of it. The reason Dean had suggested it in the first place, why he was so adamant about keeping it a secret, his absolute delight when he first saw you in your little costume. He used you to scare Sam. You hadn’t even considered that your costume might be a little clown-like. And now you have to pay for it? How is that fair?

You try so very hard to plead your case, but Sam is seemingly only dealing in absolutes, and someone has to face the consequences of this little prank. You poor thing, you didn’t even mean to scare him, and Dean- who is seemingly somewhat recovered from his own laughing fit- is much too content to just watch you take a punishment that rightfully belongs to him.

You don’t know how long you stay that way, but you do everything you can. You try to tell him that it was all Dean’s idea— hell, you try to tell him that you aren’t even a clown, but neither of those points get through to him, and every attempt to explain yourself turns to frantic, babbling apologies when fingertips keep clawing and pinching at your belly and hips.

It’s not that he doesn’t believe your excuse. In fact, he’s positive you’re telling the truth. He’s met Dean before, he knows perfectly well not to put it past his brother to put you up to something like this. He just doesn’t care.

As unfair as it is, you can’t deny that you learn two very important lessons before it’s over with.

Never take advice from Dean about.. well, anything. And never, never tease Sam about his fear of clowns unless you, in his words, “need something to laugh about”.

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