Soft Fluff

—

The fear of open water is known as thalassophobia. I learned that from one of the captains of the aircraft carrier a while back.

It was never something I really knew I had, considering I rarely ever found myself in situations where I’d be so far out on an ocean, that no land could be seen in any direction.

Despite the fear, the upper deck of the carrier was one of the few places I could go to catch my breath, collect my thoughts, and enjoy some silence.

I’ve been there most of the evening. Honestly, I completely lost track of time. I had only come back to my senses as I noticed the last glimmer of our dying sun had long since dipped below the horizon

How long has I been standing here in the dark..?

My watch promptly told me that I’d been there a while. It was well past midnight.

In any case, I absolutely was not interested in being on the deck with a pitch black sky, and endless void ocean coming to meet it right in the middle. I stood, took a breath of the cool, salty air, and started for the lower deck of the vessel.

I passed a few clocks on the walls on my way down the long corridor, each of them, seeming nearly to scream at me that it was, in fact, WAY too late for me to be wandering around. I ignored them all, as I pushed my way into the crew lounge, standing for a moment in the doorway, enjoying the rare, and absolute silence.

I make my way over to the bar, planting my hands on the counter as I look out over the array of weirdly shaped bottles along the wall. It’d would be really sad for me to drink alone at this hour…

Good thing I don’t drink.

Behind the counter, there’s also a fountain drink dispenser. The kind you’d see at a fast food restaurant. I grab myself a cup, and nudge it against the metal lever that dispenses sprite.

I set the drink down on the counter as if I were serving someone else. “Here you are.” I mutter before walking back around, and taking a seat on one of the barstools.

“Why thank you” I reply to myself, taking a sip of the sprite.

I spend a few long moments staring into the cup, watching bubbles of carbonation form, float to the surface, and burst. The silence is peaceful.

No more than a minute later, I hear the door to the lounge open. I jolt, spinning around to see Stratt walking in, eyes glued to her phone.

I stiffen up my posture. Of all people?! Really, Stratt?!

“Oh- h-hello- Sorry, I hope I didn’t disturb you. I know lights out was hours ago-“ I say, unsure of how I should be acting, deciding in ultra-polite and proper.

Stratt raised a hand, giving me a nod as if to say “no need for that.”

I relaxed, slouching back over my cup on the bar table, resting my cheek on my hand.

Stratt took the chair beside me, sitting so that her back faced the bar, her gaze toward the rest of the empty lounge. We sat in understood, peaceful silence for a few moments.

“You are up late, Dr. Grace.“

“Yeah… lost track of time. A little stressed, and can’t sleep.“

“ me neither. Most nights I can’t.”

“… I’m… Sorry to hear that.”

“Hm.”

Stratt hummed in reply.

“A bit late for drinking, no?”

I smile awkwardly, lifting my cup, tilting it towards her. “Oh, no… It’s just sprite. Never been much of a drinker. Want some?“ …What a dumb question.

Stratt huffed. The closest thing I’d ever seen to a laugh out of that woman. To my surprise, she took the cup from me, peering into it for a few seconds.

“It’s not… It’s not poisoned, if you’re worried about that.”

“ I know, you just drank from it yourself. Habit, I suppose.”

That worried me for some reason, but maybe that’s something we can unpack another time.

Stratt took a long sip of my sprite, cringing as she did.

“What?!” I chuckle, tilting my head.

“Why is it so sweet? Is this how all American soda is?” She set the cup back in front of me.

I snort, picking it up myself. “Yeah, pretty much. You know if you want a reliable fuel source, maybe you should give Mountain Dew a try. Untapped potential right there. A liter of that battery acid could probably power a space station for a year..” I say with a smile.

Stratt hums again in reply, but her gaze drifts. I follow her eyeline to on a world map tacked onto the wall on the other side of the lounge. I think I’ve lost her.

I spin around on my barstool so that we’re both facing the same way.

“What’s up?” I soften my voice, slouching down to meet her gaze.

A long, heavy silence passes.

“ You know of Atlas, yes? The… figure. Not the map.”

I raise an eyebrow. A little random. Definitely didn’t expect mythology of all topics, but I humor her anyway. “Yeah, the guy that holds the Earth on his shoulders. The Greek titan.”

“ Yes, the carrier of the Earth and the heavens.” She pauses, looking over to me with just about the most exhausted pair of eyes I’ve ever seen. “It is hellish work, truly. To carry all that is, was, and will be on one’s own shoulders.”

I can see where this is going. I sigh, steepling my fingers under my chin, resting my elbows on my knees.

“ I bet you feel a lot like him right now, huh? I mean, from the outside, looking in, I’ve got to admit, the whole ‘ I can make any country do whatever I want as long as it’s to save the world’ does look pretty cool, but… It is a lot to ask of one person.”

Silence falls between us again.

“But for what it’s worth, what you’re doing, is something no one else on this planet could pull off. And I think that’s something to be proud of, y’know? You’re badass. Overworked, but badass.”

I hesitantly put my Hand on Stratt’s shoulder.

“And more importantly, you don’t have to carry the world by yourself. I mean- you’ve got an entire team here on the ship to support you. You’ve got allies all over the world all sharing the same goal.”

I pause.

“You have me.”

I smile, swueezing her shoulder gently, and pushing her playfully to the side.

“If I can give my honest advice, if you want to lessen the pressure you feel that’s suffocating you, you’ve gotta learn to rely on others to share the burden with you.”

Since when was I an on-board therapist? Wish I could give myself that kind of advice.

Stratt is quiet for a while, and I let go of her shoulder. Her posture loosened a little bit, and I couldn’t quite tell if she was glad I moved my hand, or disappointed.

“Thank you, Dr. Grace. For the advice.” Her response was distant, her focused had dropped from the map, to the floor, but I could tell she internalized my words, which made me happy.



“Can I get you a drink? A soft drink- it is… really late.”

“I shouldn’t. Far too much sugar for this hour.”

“What’re you tryin’ to say?” I raise my arms in mock defense.

She looks over at me, giving me a once over, before looking forward again.

“Not a problem for you. You need the calories.”

She mutters the last part to herself as I stand up to pour her a sprite.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.”

I chuckle, returning to my seat, handing her the cup. She nods in thanks, taking a sip

“For your information, I’m not that skinny. I’m just tall. More room for-“ I gesture to myself “distribution.”

Stratt chuckles quietly, looking to the side. I beam, leaning forward to get a look at her face.

“Did you just laugh?! Did I just make Eva Stratt laugh?!” I smile wide. Stratt waves me off, shaking her head, but I know what I saw.

She raises her cup to cover her mouth, clearly embarrassed by the attention, but I didn’t care.

“It’s the sugar in your damned soda.” She mutters into the styrofoam.

“Ha! That’s a myth! Sucrose does NOT cause hyperactivity, thats a lie peddled by health conscious parents. Don’t get into a fun fact fight with a middle school science teacher. It’s a fight you will ALWAYS lose.” I grin, annunciating my point with a gentle jab to Stratt’s ribs with my elbow, to which she jerks away.

I straighten up, the smile dropping from my face. That was a pretty strong reflex. Did I hurt her-?

“Woah-! Sorry, sorry- did that hurt?” My eyebrows knit together as I awaited a reply

She shook her head with a thin smile that I could only see when her hair moved out of the way. A smile?

Why is she still smiling? Why did she flinch so hard?! What should I be apologizing for, if anything?! I- …ohhhhh.

I regain the smile on my face, gently nudging her in the ribs again, this time earning a quiet gasp of surprise in addition to the same jolt from before.

And she’s still smiling.

“Stratt. Are you ticklish?” I can’t hold back a laugh, as I fold my arms, leaning back against the bar. As fascinating as the information was, I didn’t want to push it.

“Most everyone is. Why is that shocking?” She indirectly answers the question, but I still get my answer.

“Mmm, 77% of the population. Majority, but not ‘most everyone.’” I say with a shrug. Stratt throws me a confused look.

“Fun facts. Full of ‘em.” I smile. “Anyway it’s shocking because you don’t seem like you’d be in that majority.” I say, taking another drink of my sprite.

“And you seem like you are part of the majority.” I choke on my drink. She says it just as coldly as she says everything else, but it still catches me wildly off guard.

“W-what?” I feel my ears and neck burning, and I can only imagine my face is just as red.

“Am I wrong?”

“What makes you think I’m in the majORITY- hehey!” She pokes me hard in the side. I rub the area with my hand. Her nails are sharp.

“It appears I’m correct.” She says. I laugh incredulously, shaking my head.

“You know what?” I reach over, grabbing her around the shoulders, pulling her toward me like you would if you were about to give your little sibling a noogie, but instead, with my other hand, I gently claw at Stratt’s side. I leave plenty of slack for her wo wriggle free if she wants to, but she doesn’t.

I’ve never heard Stratt laugh before, aside from the occasional, polite, heavy huffs, so I wasn’t exactly sure what to expect. Apparently, she hiccups?

“Dit is dwaas-!” She barks out between hiccuping laughter.

“I don’t speak Dutch, Stratt.” I chuckle, continuing to scratch at her side. She leans further into my chest as she loses her grip on her own stool. I chuckle, scooting us both over so that she can regain a point of contact with her barstool. All the while, I don’t let up, making a rigid claw tith my hand, and vibrating it against her ribs.

“If you wanna say something, unfortunately you’ve gotta say it in English for the stupid monoglot can understand.” I chuckle.

Stratt hiccups, grabbing my hand with a solid grip. “Enohohough!” She struggles to get the word out.

At the signal, I release her, sitting up, with my hands beside my head in a surrender position. I feel a slight burn in my wrist. Stratt points to the same place. “Apologies.” She says, straightening her cardigan.

I look to my arm, and there are two, short, cat-like scratch marks in my arm, apparently where Stratt’s nails had caught me. I shrug.

“No big deal. No worse than a cat scr-AH-! Oof-! Jesus, Eva-!” I cough out as Stratt took my momentary distraction to body slam me to the floor with a hollow thud. I looked up at the woman, frankly terrified.

“Stratt.” She corrected me firmly as she loomed over me, blocking the ceiling light like a storm cloud. My face twisted from pain, to confusion.

“Hang on- you call me Ryland sometimes, why can’t I call you Eva?” I squint at her. Not out of intrigue- my glasses flew off in the fall, and I couldn’t make out any part of her aside from a silhouette.

She doesn’t reply, delivering a sharp jab to my stomach. I gasp and kick a leg out. It’s only now I notice that Stratt has me effectively pinned to the lounge floor, knelt over me like a wolf over fresh kill.

“OKAHAY-! Ok- Stratt it is.” I sputter out.

“This is a very important mission, Dr Grace. It is important that mutual respect and decorum are maintained. That includes titles.”

I scoff. “Don’t give me mission talk right now! I’m on the floor of a bar right now, this isn’t decorum!” I protest. Stratt rolls her eyes - I think, I still can’t really see - and descends a hand to my left side. I shriek, thrashing like a beached fish as her deft, sharp fingers prod and poke at my ribcage.

“AHAHA-! OW- OW-! H-HAHA JEEZ YOUR NAILS ARE SHARP. MMMPH-!” She stops, slapping both hands over my mouth.

“It’s two in the morning, be quieter.” She scolds.

“I can’t help it!” I hiss back once she releases my mouth.

With both her hands over my mouth, she had left my hands unguarded. Now was my chance to gain the upper hand.

In a very uncoordinated move, I launched my arms forward, using the momentum to sit myself up, catching Stratt’s arms before she could once again capture mine. She matches my speed, mirroring my movements.

We had each other by the elbows, pushing one against the other like a reverse tug-of-war. I gritted my teeth as I struggled against her. This lady was strong. I met her gaze, only for a moment, catching a flicker if fire I hadn’t seen from her before. She was enjoying this, damnit! At my expense!

In a split second, Stratt threw my arms to the side, knocking off my center of gravity, and sending me tumbling back to the floor, this time rolled into my stomach. She grabbed my right arm, folding it across my back, and with her free hand, she rakes her claws along my back. Thankfully, the thick yarn of my cardigan dampened most of the feeling, but not enough.

“AUGH-! HahA- OWWW.” I tried to move, but with every twitch, pivot, or lean, my arm bent a little further in the wrong direction.

“Don’t be a baby, Dr Grace.”

Why is Stratt of all people so good at play-fighting?! Does she have brothers? No matter. I endure just about as much as I can, until I feel a cold hand slip down the back of my collar, landing on my neck.

I gasp sharply. “NO. NO. NO NO NO STRATT, PLEASE, I- I’M SORRY.” I plead, my entire body tensing up. I can feel my heart beating against the floor. She seems to pause and consider for a moment, but goes on anyway.

Five, nimble fingers scratch gently along the back of my neck, and I shout. And I mean howl.

“NAHAHAHAHAAA-!! STRAHHATT-! HOLY HELL, STOHOHOP!” My voice breaks as I cackle, legs kicking furiously behind me, as I try to keep my torso still, for fear of dislocating my arm.

She squeezes a few times, just for the hell of it, and I give out. I slam my free hand on the ground much more than three times.

“ALRIHIHIGHT. OKAY. PLEASE, STOP. UNCLE. UHUHUNCLE.” My voice comes out as more of a whine.

“Uncle?” She asks

“IT MEANS STOP. GET OHOHOFF.”

Finally, she lets up. She releases my arm, and unstraddles me, standing up beside me. I curl in on myself, catching my breath for a moment, rubbing the back of my neck, before slowly rolling over, and pushing myself up off the ground.

I plop back down into my barstool, looking at Stratt like a kicked puppy.

“What was that for?! I only tickled you for like a minute!” I complain.

“One minute and thirty-six seconds. I multiplied your time by five.”

“Why?!”

“That’s how I used to play with my brothers. Habit.”

“I knew it. I knew you had sibling. No only child fights like that.” I murmur.

“Thank you.”

“For what-?”

“The distraction. I needed it.”

I smile, despite my exhaustion. “Oh- yeah. Anytime. W-well please don’t- please don’t do that all the time, but I’m happy to be a distraction when you need it.” I offer an awkward thumbs up. “It’s good to loosen up every once in a while. Especially under pressure like this.” I say.

“…But can I please ask that you don’t tell the team about this? I- I mean I doubt they’d make a big deal about it, but I just KNOW ilyukhina would-”Stratt lifts a hand.

“Consider it confidential.”

Stratt smiles softly, nodding. She makes her way behind the bar, gathering out cups, and filling them this time with water. She hands me one.

“Go to sleep, Dr Grace. Hopefully you find it easier to fall asleep now. We have much to do in the morning.” She says to me as I take my cup.

“Yea. I think I will.” I stand up, my cardigan hanging off of one shoulder. Stratt reaches towards my chest, and I flinch sharply, backing into the counter, nearly spilling my water. She pauses, breaking into a stream of quiet hiccupy laughter.

“Relax, Dr.” She turns her hand up, shaking my glasses in front of me, and shoving them into the breast pocket of my shirt. I flush.

“Oh. Right… thank you.” I smile awkwardly, patting the pocket, and starting for the door.

“G’night, Dr Colonel Lieutenant Major Madam Stratt.”

“…What?”

“You said titles were important!”

She rolls her eyes, nodding and waving.

I take a moment to look around me. The train car is empty—a privilege of being with the woman who Is The Government, I guess. Speaking of which, she’s sitting on my right, gazing out the window. I watch her face for a minute as rolling fields pass in our view. She’s not doing any work either, her laptop abandoned on the seats across from us with the neon-colored screensaver spinning across it. 

On my left is Carl. I hadn’t noticed he was sitting next to me. Usually he chooses a seat farther away, but the car is small. Or maybe he just likes us. Heh.

Come to think of it, this whole train ride is rather strange. We have the entire military (yes, all of them) at our disposal with more jets and planes and cars than we could ever use, but we’re sitting on a train for 5 hours just to get to an appointment with an expert. Why the sudden lack of efficiency? It’s not like Stratt. 

I slump in my seat as I ponder this question, sliding down slightly. My sweater bunches, riding up where my back meets the seat and driving my collar up to my chin. I purse my lips, using my precious free will and free time to let my brain be, well, dumb. I don’t notice the amused glance Stratt and Carl exchange over my head. 

After a few minutes of further silence, Carl clears his throat. I glance up at him over my glasses and raise my eyebrows slightly. 

“What… What are you thinking about, Dr. Grace?” Carl asks, thinly-veiled amusement in his voice. 

I shrug, worsening the shirt-bunching-up situation. I glance down slightly to make sure I’m decent—my tummy isn’t exposed, only a hint of my sides and back ribs, so I’m fine. “Nothing,” I reply.

Carl gives me a skeptical look. 

“What? I actually am thinking about nothing,” I reply. 

He smirks slightly at my cheekiness. I see his hand twitch, hesitate, and then something in his eyes hardens into resolve. Before I can process what that means, Carl’s thumb is jabbed into my side where my shirt rode up. 

I let out a very unmanly yelp and sit up straight, yanking my shirt down. I pretend not to hear the choked and muffled noise of amusement from Stratt next to me and I pretend not to see the amused look they share over my head (again). Mercifully, neither of them question my reaction.

“I wasn’t lying,” I say defensively. My voice is slightly high-pitched, dang it. “I was thinking about nothing. Or, how we’re doing nothing right now. Which is weird! Objectively. Y’know. We’re always so…” I gesture vaguely, “busy.”

Stratt finally speaks up. “So you think you’re being underworked, Dr. Grace?” 

There’s something in her tone I can’t place, something in her eyes that I can’t figure out. I think she’s… teasing me? Stratt? Teasing me?

“I- wha- no,” I say, flustered. “N-not necessarily.”

“I’m hearing he’s underworked,” Carl says to Stratt, an air of performance in his voice. 

“Mm, yes, that’s what I’m hearing as well…” Stratt muses. 

“Guys?” I say, chuckling nervously.

“I have just the thing,” Carl says. 

Before I can process what that means, Carl’s big, strong hand is tweaking my side. I squeak and flinch, my body twisting away from his hand until I’m practically in Stratt’s lap. “Carl!” I yelp.

He’s grinning. Motherfluffer. “I didn’t know you were so ticklish, Dr. Grace.”

“I- I’m not,” I deny vehemently. “Y-you just surprised me.” 

“Twice?” Stratt chimes in. I make a very intelligent grumbling noise in reply, covering my reddening face.

Unfortunately this blinds me to the shared look of mischief between Stratt and Carl, who nod once and then start tickling me. In. Earnest.

I absolutely explode with sound, somewhere between a laugh and a surprised squawk. “No- NO! Come ohohohon- GUYS!” Stratt’s nimble fingers worm their way under my sweater and the buttoned shirt underneath, scribbling diligently at my tummy. Carl continues the pinching and tweaking motions up my sides. I’m nearly hysterical. 

“What’s that, Grace?” Stratt muses calmly. “I can’t hear you. You’re going to have to use your words.”

“Noho- NOHOHOHO… Don’t use my ohohown exprehehessions on me!” I squeal. It’s a very masculine, put-together squeal—uh, what do my students say?—Trust.

I try to curl my knees to my chest and armadillo my way out of this one, but Carl puts a stop to that pretty quick by pinning my knees down with his free hand. He also squeezes my knees and thighs a few times, coaxing a few snorts out of me. Stratt actually coos at my reaction, which if I wasn’t being tickled to death I would find shocking.

“No- pleasepleaseplease- ahahahaha… fudge- you’re killing mehehehe!! Please…”

My laughter goes silent when Stratt sticks a finger in my bellybutton and swirls it around. I have a death grip on her wrist, but I can’t find the strength to push her away. My brain isn’t letting me. Traitor. I squeeze my eyes shut so I don’t have to look at the smug grins on their faces.

She stops, though, mercifully. Carl takes the hint and reduces his awful squeezing along my sides. I get about 20 seconds to breathe before Stratt’s hands wander up under my arms for a grand finale. 

“Oh- Christmas Eve!” I yelp. My eyes shoot open and my elbows tighten to my sides, trapping her hands. 

“Oh, I’m stuck,” Stratt says, her bottom lip sticking out slightly in a faux-pout. 

“N-nahano, you’re not stuhuck, just gehehet out-“

“She’s trying,” Carl adds unhelpfully as Stratt wiggles her fingers around in earnest, right into the hollows of my armpits. I’m wheezing. Thank God she’s not doing this under my shirt, or I’d have actually died.

“I think we have a hostage situation,” Stratt remarks, changing technique to scratch her nails lightly up, down, up, down… It’s maddening. Fresh rounds of giggles burst out of me at every motion of her fingers.

“Don’t worry, backup is on the way,” Carl says, bringing his walkie-talkie to his mouth to mime calling for help. It’s not like I receive much help, because then he’s pulling up my shirt and digging one hand, poised like a claw, into my lower belly. 

I’ve always had a slightly soft stomach—no matter how much I work out or ride my bike to work, there’s always a little bit of pudge at the very bottom of my belly under the abs I’d worked hard to maintain. And, of course, Carl abuses this feature. Ruthlessly. His fingers vibrate into the soft skin, making me squeal and my arms loosen to grab at his hands. This action frees Stratt’s hands (where they were never really trapped, let’s be honest). As soon as Stratt is free, they both stop. 

I suck in greedy lungfuls of air. Vaguely, I process that there’s moistness at the corners of my eyes from laughing too hard. I can also vaguely sense that they’re both smiling at me. I tuck my knees to my chest, hide my face, and let out an embarrassed groan. “Ne-never do that again.”

“No promises,” Stratt says. 

“Okay, I’m asking you again—am I expendable? Is that why you’re keeping me around? Because I almost just died—“

“So dramatic,” Stratt murmurs, cutting me off. She’s smiling wider than I’ve ever seen her smile. I stop my flustered rambling, just looking at her smile in awe. I glance the other way to Carl, who’s sporting a similar grin.

I take a moment to look around me. The train car is empty—a privilege of being with the woman who Is The Government, I guess. Speaking of which, she’s sitting on my right, gazing out the window. I watch her face for a minute as rolling fields pass in our view. She’s not doing any work either, her laptop abandoned on the seats across from us with the neon-colored screensaver spinning across it. 

On my left is Carl. I hadn’t noticed he was sitting next to me. Usually he chooses a seat farther away, but the car is small. Or maybe he just likes us. Heh.

Come to think of it, this whole train ride is rather strange. We have the entire military (yes, all of them) at our disposal with more jets and planes and cars than we could ever use, but we’re sitting on a train for 5 hours just to get to an appointment with an expert. Why the sudden lack of efficiency? It’s not like Stratt. 

I slump in my seat as I ponder this question, sliding down slightly. My sweater bunches, riding up where my back meets the seat and driving my collar up to my chin. I purse my lips, using my precious free will and free time to let my brain be, well, dumb. I don’t notice the amused glance Stratt and Carl exchange over my head. 

After a few minutes of further silence, Carl clears his throat. I glance up at him over my glasses and raise my eyebrows slightly. 

“What… What are you thinking about, Dr. Grace?” Carl asks, thinly-veiled amusement in his voice. 

I shrug, worsening the shirt-bunching-up situation. I glance down slightly to make sure I’m decent—my tummy isn’t exposed, only a hint of my sides and back ribs, so I’m fine. “Nothing,” I reply.

Carl gives me a skeptical look. 

“What? I actually am thinking about nothing,” I reply. 

He smirks slightly at my cheekiness. I see his hand twitch, hesitate, and then something in his eyes hardens into resolve. Before I can process what that means, Carl’s thumb is jabbed into my side where my shirt rode up. 

I let out a very unmanly yelp and sit up straight, yanking my shirt down. I pretend not to hear the choked and muffled noise of amusement from Stratt next to me and I pretend not to see the amused look they share over my head (again). Mercifully, neither of them question my reaction.

“I wasn’t lying,” I say defensively. My voice is slightly high-pitched, dang it. “I was thinking about nothing. Or, how we’re doing nothing right now. Which is weird! Objectively. Y’know. We’re always so…” I gesture vaguely, “busy.”

Stratt finally speaks up. “So you think you’re being underworked, Dr. Grace?” 

There’s something in her tone I can’t place, something in her eyes that I can’t figure out. I think she’s… teasing me? Stratt? Teasing me?

“I- wha- no,” I say, flustered. “N-not necessarily.”

“I’m hearing he’s underworked,” Carl says to Stratt, an air of performance in his voice. 

“Mm, yes, that’s what I’m hearing as well…” Stratt muses. 

“Guys?” I say, chuckling nervously.

“I have just the thing,” Carl says. 

Before I can process what that means, Carl’s big, strong hand is tweaking my side. I squeak and flinch, my body twisting away from his hand until I’m practically in Stratt’s lap. “Carl!” I yelp.

He’s grinning. Motherfluffer. “I didn’t know you were so ticklish, Dr. Grace.”

“I- I’m not,” I deny vehemently. “Y-you just surprised me.” 

“Twice?” Stratt chimes in. I make a very intelligent grumbling noise in reply, covering my reddening face.

Unfortunately this blinds me to the shared look of mischief between Stratt and Carl, who nod once and then start tickling me. In. Earnest.

I absolutely explode with sound, somewhere between a laugh and a surprised squawk. “No- NO! Come ohohohon- GUYS!” Stratt’s nimble fingers worm their way under my sweater and the buttoned shirt underneath, scribbling diligently at my tummy. Carl continues the pinching and tweaking motions up my sides. I’m nearly hysterical. 

“What’s that, Grace?” Stratt muses calmly. “I can’t hear you. You’re going to have to use your words.”

“Noho- NOHOHOHO… Don’t use my ohohown exprehehessions on me!” I squeal. It’s a very masculine, put-together squeal—uh, what do my students say?—Trust.

I try to curl my knees to my chest and armadillo my way out of this one, but Carl puts a stop to that pretty quick by pinning my knees down with his free hand. He also squeezes my knees and thighs a few times, coaxing a few snorts out of me. Stratt actually coos at my reaction, which if I wasn’t being tickled to death I would find shocking.

“No- pleasepleaseplease- ahahahaha… fudge- you’re killing mehehehe!! Please…”

My laughter goes silent when Stratt sticks a finger in my bellybutton and swirls it around. I have a death grip on her wrist, but I can’t find the strength to push her away. My brain isn’t letting me. Traitor. I squeeze my eyes shut so I don’t have to look at the smug grins on their faces.

She stops, though, mercifully. Carl takes the hint and reduces his awful squeezing along my sides. I get about 20 seconds to breathe before Stratt’s hands wander up under my arms for a grand finale. 

“Oh- Christmas Eve!” I yelp. My eyes shoot open and my elbows tighten to my sides, trapping her hands. 

“Oh, I’m stuck,” Stratt says, her bottom lip sticking out slightly in a faux-pout. 

“N-nahano, you’re not stuhuck, just gehehet out-“

“She’s trying,” Carl adds unhelpfully as Stratt wiggles her fingers around in earnest, right into the hollows of my armpits. I’m wheezing. Thank God she’s not doing this under my shirt, or I’d have actually died.

“I think we have a hostage situation,” Stratt remarks, changing technique to scratch her nails lightly up, down, up, down… It’s maddening. Fresh rounds of giggles burst out of me at every motion of her fingers.

“Don’t worry, backup is on the way,” Carl says, bringing his walkie-talkie to his mouth to mime calling for help. It’s not like I receive much help, because then he’s pulling up my shirt and digging one hand, poised like a claw, into my lower belly. 

I’ve always had a slightly soft stomach—no matter how much I work out or ride my bike to work, there’s always a little bit of pudge at the very bottom of my belly under the abs I’d worked hard to maintain. And, of course, Carl abuses this feature. Ruthlessly. His fingers vibrate into the soft skin, making me squeal and my arms loosen to grab at his hands. This action frees Stratt’s hands (where they were never really trapped, let’s be honest). As soon as Stratt is free, they both stop. 

I suck in greedy lungfuls of air. Vaguely, I process that there’s moistness at the corners of my eyes from laughing too hard. I can also vaguely sense that they’re both smiling at me. I tuck my knees to my chest, hide my face, and let out an embarrassed groan. “Ne-never do that again.”

“No promises,” Stratt says. 

“Okay, I’m asking you again—am I expendable? Is that why you’re keeping me around? Because I almost just died—“

“So dramatic,” Stratt murmurs, cutting me off. She’s smiling wider than I’ve ever seen her smile. I stop my flustered rambling, just looking at her smile in awe. I glance the other way to Carl, who’s sporting a similar grin.

They’re sparring. Technically, neither of them need the extra training, but lately, Bruce has found himself looking for excuses to spend time with Clark, but has only mustered up the courage to invite him on work-related outings.

He’s still working on the whole vulnerability thing, and showing how much he really cares for Clark isn’t something that comes naturally to him. He can protect him in a battle, tease him about his country-boy charm, and even accept small amounts of physical affection, but for some reason, the words, Do you want to hang out sometime? feel heavy and foreign on his tongue.

So, sparring. That’s the best he can come up with.

And Clark is letting him win.

Logically, Bruce knows that what Clark is saying is true: If Clark used all his might, Bruce would likely end up severely injured. But he could try a little harder than this.

“I can take more than you’re giving,” he says. “You’re just letting me win.”

Clark has that stupid, charming grin on his face that makes Bruce unsure whether he wants to punch him or kiss him. One of those would probably leave him with broken knuckles, though, and the other would require him to talk about his feelings, so instead, he just glares at him.

Without any verbal reply, Clark rushes forward and tries to grab Bruce, and despite being caught off-guard, he dodges it at the last second.

Clark is still smiling as he charges, and it should feel predatory in some way, but instead it just comes across like a golden retriever who’s excited to play.

Bruce puts up a good fight, but even with Clark using half his strength, he’s no match for Superman’s powers. It should wound his ego a little, but he’s accepted a long time ago that he is only human, and his super-human companions will almost always have a leg up on him.

It’s more offensive to his pride when they go easy on him than when they win fair-and-square.

He’s on his back on the mat, panting as Clark holds him down.

“See? That’s more like it,” Bruce says.

Clark has barely broken a sweat. “I didn’t peg you as the type of guy who likes to lose,” he replies. “But you’re just full of surprises, I guess.”

He accentuates his statement with a soft poke to Bruce’s stomach, and his whole body goes rigid at the unexpected touch. It sort of tickles, which is a revelation he would have rather not made. Yes, logically, Bruce knows that most humans are ticklish, but after being trained to withstand literal torture, he sort of thought that particular reaction would have died out.

Apparently, it didn’t.

Clark grins. “Are you ticklish?” he asks.

“Don’t be stupid,” Bruce replies, and then, taking advantage of Clark’s distraction, flips them over so that he’s on top of Clark instead.

Luckily, he’s gotten good at hiding things like this. It’s all mind over matter; don’t react, don’t allow yourself to feel it. Whether it’s the physical ache in his body after a fight, the dull emotional pain when memories haunt him, or in this case, a ridiculous man attempting to tease him, Bruce can school is expressions, push the feelings down.

At least for a little while.

Even if Clark thinks he’s lying, he drops the subject.

***

Bruce isn’t used to being snuck up on.

He’s very in-tune with his senses, and can sense a person coming from rooms away. Years of training in the art of stealth have left him hyper-aware of every sound, every shift of the air.

That is, when they aren’t flying.

Clark has developed this absolutely obnoxious habit of hovering just above the ground, moving so carefully that Bruce can’t detect him as easily as he would a normal, walking person.

He seems to get a great sense of amusement out of taking Bruce off-guard, which should piss him off, but he finds it oddly endearing. He can’t remember the last time someone kept him on his toes like this, or attempted to mess around with him in a genuinely innocent way.

He is standing at the kitchen counter, running on very little sleep, internally cursing himself for his commitment to this double-life and all the trouble it brings. He scans the newspaper for any information of impending doom: Arkham breakouts, supervillain shenanigans…

Then, someone grabs his sides from behind, and he gasps, spinning on his heel, ready to attack whoever is breaking into his house—

Clark Kent is standing behind him, glasses askew on his nose, an expression of amusement slowly melting into one of worry.

“God, you’re such an asshole,” Bruce breathes, leaning back against the counter.

“Are you hurt?” Clark asks, furrowing his brows.

Bruce blinks at him. “No, just having a mild heart attack.”

“When I grabbed you, it seemed like I hurt you,” he says. “I swear, if you’re trying to hide another broken rib from Alfred, I’m tattling on you.”

“My ribs are fine, Clark.”

Clark, to Bruce’s bewilderment, grabs the hem of his t-shirt and lifts it up, searching for signs of bruising. He presses his hand into his ribs, palpating for an injury that doesn’t exist.

And for the second time in one month, Clark Kent is tickling Bruce Wayne, and his brain shuts down, forcing his body to go rigid in an attempt to block it out.

“Clark, I’m fine—“

“You can’t be fighting when you’re injured, Bruce, you’re going to make it so much worse—“

He presses his fingers into the spot between his two uppermost ribs and Bruce flinches, hard, and in an attempt to cover his ass, he blurts out, “Ow, okay, fine, you’re right! I’ll be more careful, just stop groping me.”

Clark pulls away immediately, a kicked-puppy look on his face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“It’s fine, you didn’t know,” he replies, clapping him on the shoulder.

He looks so sad that Bruce almost feels bad for lying to him.

Key word being almost.

***

Bruce can’t remember the last time a person made him feel this way.

His face feels hot, and he’s mortified to realize this means he’s blushing, like some teenage Superman fangirl, and he can’t get the words he wants to say to form in his mouth and leave his lips.

Clark, who was just holding his hand, suddenly drops it. “I’m sorry, Bruce, that was totally inappropriate. If you don’t feel the same way, I completely understand.”

No, wait, that’s not what he’s trying to say at all!

The man he’s had feelings for for the past few months has just confessed to him, and Bruce’s emotional ineptitude has left him entirely speechless, and he’s fucking blowing this.

So, he does the only thing he can think to do, and grabs Clark’s hand again, pulling him in for a kiss.

Clark lets out a surprised little hum before kissing him back, wrapping his arms around his waist.

He tastes like coffee, and Bruce idly wonders if he’s in some drug-induced dream that he’ll inevitably wake up from any minute now, trapped in some psycho scientist’s lair, a lab-rat for a toxin that makes you imagine your greatest fantasy so that you’ll never want to wake up from it.

Sure, he’s a pessimist, sue him.

But when he pulls away from the kiss and opens his eyes, Clark is still there, real and sturdy and so fucking handsome, grinning like a fool.

Bruce smiles too, a real, genuine smile that he can’t seem to fight off of his face.

God, Clark has made him soft.

If it can’t get any more embarrassing, Clark picks him up without warning, and Bruce lets out an unbecoming noise that can only be described as a squeak.

He’s safely deposited onto the nearest hard surface, a table in the Batcave that is miraculously clear of miscellaneous shit, and Clark cages him in there, kissing him again.

Bruce kisses him back, hard, feeling a sense of urgency he has never felt with a partner before, this insatiable desire to be closer to him, to devour him and be devoured in turn.

Clark runs his hands up Bruce’s thighs and squeezes them, and Bruce is horrified when he lets out this breathy laugh against his lips, so caught up in it all that he hadn’t even had a chance to steel himself.

At first, he thinks that Clark doesn’t notice, because he just keeps kissing him.

Then, the next time Bruce needs to come up for air, Clark leans in and whispers, “You’re definitely ticklish.”

Bruce doesn’t even argue this time. “Shut up,” he says, and kisses him again.

They’re too caught up in other activities for Clark to bother testing it out, anyway.

***

 Bruce shivers.

“What’s wrong?” Clark asks, a teasing lilt in his voice.

“You know what’s wrong, asshole,” Bruce hisses.

Clark nuzzles his face into the side of Bruce’s neck, pressing featherlight kisses there, and Bruce sucks in a sharp intake of air, squeezing his eyes shut.

“I really don’t,” Clark replies, his breath hot against Bruce’s skin. “Care to enlighten me?”

If it were any easier to kill Superman, Bruce would have probably done it by now.

He has never felt this sort of embarrassment before, this push-and-pull of Shut up, keeping talking. Stop, but don’t you dare stop. I sort of hate you right now, but I love you.

Clark has a tight grip on him, not enough to hurt, but enough that Bruce certainly isn’t going anywhere either. In that regard, he’s not afraid to use his strength against him.

But he’s being too gentle again, now with a deliberate motive in mind. The soft, barely-there way that his lips, his nose, his fucking breath brush against Bruce’s neck is making him want to crawl out of his skin, because it tickles like hell and he has no idea how to deal with it.

If he really wanted to, he could handle it. He could take a few deep breaths, center himself, try to ignore the feeling and fake his way through.

Why would he ever want to ignore Clark’s touch, even when it’s borderline torturous?

He’ll never admit it, but it’s sort of fun, the way Clark breaks down his walls. Even Alfred has remarked that Bruce seems lighter these days. He smiles more, takes better care of himself. He really has made him soft, but he’s beginning to come to terms with the idea that it might not be such a bad thing.

Clark runs his fingers along the shell of Bruce’s ear, and he whimpers.

“Use your words,” Clark teases.

Bruce breaks. “It fucking tickles, you asshole,” he says, all in one quick breath, before dissolving into laughter he had tried so hard to hold in.

“Oh, why didn’t you just say so? I’ll stop, if it’s bothering you so much.”

And he does stop, and Bruce is trying to catch his breath, and he’s sort of…disappointed that he stopped. But again, he won’t admit it, not even to Clark, because he’s still working on the whole communication thing, and he still feels this odd twist of shame in his gut at the idea of voicing what he wants.

Perhaps the instinct will come to him soon, a skill he can learn like meditation or piano or designing gear. Mind over matter: Tough it out, say the embarrassing thing, even if his voice shakes.

Just not tonight. He’s too tired to have the emotional bandwidth.

So, instead, he says, “Thank God,” and pushes Clark’s smug face away from his neck.

Contrary to what the media constantly loved to write, Bruce was a happy child growing up.

He spent most of his early days with his Mother, roaming the halls and playing with the endless toys he had. When he started going to school, his father would usually pick him up and listen to Bruce talk about his school day.

Alfred was comfortable and familiar with the youngest Wayne member, but his parents rarely had him take care of Bruce. Though they were successful, they always made time for Bruce.

Another thing the media always got wrong about Bruce was how damn talkative he was.

Once he was comfortable with you, he'd talk your ear off about anything that came to his mind. On many afternoons he would follow Alfred around, helping him with whatever task he was doing, and explain whatever he was fixated on at the moment. Though this was sometimes frustrating when quiet was needed, it was also extremely endearing.

One late evening, Alfred was going about his regular tasks around the house, cleaning up dinner and picking up any stray toys Bruce had left out.

"Alfred?" Thomas Wayne's voice called out and he turned to see the eldest Wayne walking down the stairs with a pile of blankets in his arms. "Do you mind tossing these in the dryer for a few minutes for me?"

"Of course, sir." Alfred responds as he takes the blankets and takes them to the laundry room.

He could have guessed what the purpose of this was without asking, but he liked to tease anyway. Bruce was extremely energetic in the evenings, more so than he normally was. The two parents had trouble wearing him out enough to sleep so they'd recently been warming up blankets and cuddling with him to see if that would help quicken the rate he falls asleep.

"Young master Bruce still awake, I presume?" He asks with a hint of a smile

Thomas smiles back as he follows Alfred. "You already know he is." That was true, Alfred could hear his little footsteps from upstairs as he ran around the hardwood floors.

"Have you learned of any way to tamp down his energy in the evenings?" Alfred asks as he tosses the blankets in the dryer to warm them.

"Martha is trying a few things, but all I've got is run him around until he gets tired." Thomas smiles fondly at the thought of his son and Alfred smiles too.

After the blankets are warmed by the dryer, Alfred carries them up to the bedroom, Thomas leading him there. The two men are met with loud, bubbling laughter as soon as they enter the bedroom.

"Good evening, Alfred!" Marth calls from where she's sat on their large king sized bed. She has Bruce laid out next to her in his pajamas, giggling wildly as her fingers wiggle against his sides and belly.

"Good evening, Mrs. Wanye." Alfred says and he holds back a smile as Thomas walks over to where Martha is tickling Bruce.

"I don't know how many times I tell you Alfred to just call me Martha." She smiles as she lets Bruce crawl away from her on the bed.

"And where do you think you're going?" Thomas growls playfully as he pounces on Bruce, his son happily shrieking as Thomas' weight bounces them.

Alfred smiles fondly at the scene in front of him. It was an interesting tactic to tire out a young boy, but it seemed effective. He felt bad that the outside world never really got to see the Wayne family and how they truly act.

"Alfred, h-ahahah-help mehehe!!" Bruce calls out squealing when Thomas rolls him over and presses a raspberry into his belly.

"I'm afraid I can't, Master Bruce." Alfred smiles, playing along with the little game they have going to tire out the boy. "My arms are quite full." He says, gesturing at the warm blankets he holds.

Thomas only lets go of Bruce once he's sure that Bruce was fully tired out, letting his son crawl into his mother's lap. Alfred hands the blankets to Thomas and leaves to let the family relax in peace.

It was memories like that that Alfred liked to look back on fondly whenever times got tougher.

---------------------------------------------------

Of course, things changed ever since the passing of Bruce's parents. Right after it happened was the worst of it all, the grief that over took Bruce and Alfred was immense. No amount of condolences were helpful.

Alfred then went through the legal part of now making himself Bruce's full legal guardian while trying to help Bruce grieve and take care of the young boy, who was still only a kid.

The poor boy didn't even know how to grieve yet, just sad and hurt and angry all at once. He'd cry for hours on end, hiding up in his parents room and in their closet, still full of clothes that smell like them.

The most Alfred could do was try and comfort him and get him to eat, which Bruce refused to do for a week until Alfred begged him.

After that, the nightmares started.

Alfred would come sprinting into Bruce's room when he heard shouting to find Bruce asleep in his bed, shaking in his sleep. At first he thought they were seizures but he quickly learned about the nightmares that plagued Bruce.

Alfred would stay up some nights, too worried about Bruce to be able to sleep. He tried tea (whenever Bruce would actually drink it) and medicine to help try and get him to sleep through the night peacefully, but they never worked.

Alfred woke with a jolt when he heard his door open and sobbing from the entrance. He reached out and flicked on his lamp, softening when he sees Bruce crying hard, walking slowly over to his bed.

"Come here," he whispers, already reaching out for Bruce who melts as soon as Alfred picks him up.

"I s-saw someone." He hiccups through his tears. "In m-my room."

"Lets go take a look." Alfred murmurs, rubbing Bruce's back as he walks to his room.

This also wasn't uncommon now for Bruce to wake up from a nightmare and think a shadow in his room is a person, there to hurt him like they hurt his parents.

Alfred turns on the light and lets Bruce sob into his shoulder as he looks thoroughly through the room.

"There's no one here." He says quietly. "Do you want to try and sleep again? I'll stay right-"

"No!" Bruce cuts him off, sobbing so hard his body shakes. "No, no!" He cries into Alfred's shoulder.

"Okay, okay." Alfred says softly. "It's okay, we don't have to stay here. How about the living room?"

Bruce nods and Alfred takes him downstairs to the living room, doing his best to comfort him. He turns the lights on but at a lower setting and turns a fire on in the fireplace below the television, to warm up the room.

Alfred hums as he sways side to side, rubbing Bruce's back and letting him cry as he grips Alfred's pajamas tight.

He only sits down when Bruce has calmed down enough to talk. "Take deep breaths." Alfred says quietly, instructing by taking a deep breath through his nose and out through his mouth.

Bruce follows along, which does help him to calm down. Now he just looks exhausted, his eyes weary and tears left on his face that Alfred gently wipes away.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Alfred says softly as he brushes Bruce's hair back off his forehead.

Bruce shrugs as he fiddles with the front of Alfred's pajamas. "I don't know."

Alfred hums as he thinks. "How about some warm milk then?" He offers and Bruce nods.

Alfred props Bruce on his hip as he works one handed to heat up some milk in a glass and give it to Bruce, who then drinks it in a few seconds.

"Better?" Alfred asks and Bruce nods again, wiping away any milk on his mouth with his sleeve.

He goes back and sits down on the couch with Bruce, letting him curl up against his chest. It was early morning, way past when either of them should be awake and he knee Bruce needed sleep.

Alfred also knew however that mentioning sleep would cause another bout of tears and that was the last thing either of them needed. He remembered an old trick Martha used to do and hoped that it still worked.

He shifts his hand to go from rubbing Bruce's back to gently tracing the skin, up and down the young boy's back. He trails his fingers up and down to help relax him and feels rewarded when Bruce melts into him.

"Feel good?" Alfred asks softly. Bruce tenses a little but allows himself to relax and nod. "Yeah." He whispers back. "It tickles a little."

Alfred smiles at that. "Does it?" He teases, allowing his hand to stray closer to Bruce's side to hear him giggle. He hoped that Bruce never grew out of being ticklish, though, with how sensitive Bruce was he doubted that he ever would.

"Yehes!" He giggles, arching his back but Alfred follows him, now tracing his fingers from the bottom of his side to the top of his ribs.

"I'm just trying to relax you, I don't know what you're talking about." Alfred replies, feigning innocence.

"Alfred!" Bruce grins and tries to bite down his laughter but fails.

Alfred chuckles at Bruce's giggles and sneaks his other hand to flutter fingers around Bruce's neck and ears, watching as Bruce scrunches up his shoulders.

"Okahahay!" Bruce laughs, his hands too clumsy to try and catch either of Alfred's.

Alfred slowly stops but still continues to trace on Bruce's back, this time just in a soothing way.

It doesn't take long for Bruce to fall back asleep against Alfred's chest, now with a small smile on his face and a fond memory to look back on instead of the usual night terror.

---------------------------------------------------

Sometimes Alfred wondered if he knew the same kid.

Teenage hood was fresh upon Bruce, along with everything that came with it. He was angry and moody, barely talking some days. His nightmares were worse now too, though he wouldn't admit it to Alfred.

That was another thing he had to adapt to with Bruce growing up, was the quiet.

When he was younger, quiet always either meant he was asleep or something was wrong. Now Bruce was mostly quiet now, at least whenever he wasn't angry.

His latest rant of today was about Alfred's parenting.

"I'm not a baby!" He says it like an accusation as he's sat at the dinner table, a scowl on his face as Alfred makes dinner.

"And no one said you were." Alfred says, trying to keep his voice level. "You're a bright young man with a good head on your shoulders."

"Yeah, well, you treat me like one." Bruce grumbles and Alfred shoots him a look but continues.

"However," he adds. "You're also thirteen and still growing and maturing. Just because you're a teenager does not mean you can do whatever you like."

Alfred ignores the eyeroll that Bruce gives him and continues.

"Your teacher told me you were picking fights in class?" Alfred asks.

Bruce scoffs immediately, his tone sharp with irritation. "I didn't pick any fights, my classmate started it."

"But the fact is that you got into a fight?" Alfred raises an eyebrow.

"We just argued and I shoved him and he happened to fall." Bruce says. "He's lucky I didn't knock his teeth out."

"Bruce." Alfred levels the teen with a stern glare. "Why did you even argue in the first place?"

"I answered a question wrong in class and he started whispering to his little friends. I told him if he had something to say then to say it with his chest. He said that money isn't everything and can't buy me an extra braincell." Bruce explains, sneering at the thought.

"So, I told him to put whatever money he had where his mouth was and then he brought up my parents." Bruce mutters. Alfred held back a sigh at that.

Bruce's parents had always (and most likely always will be) a sore spot for Bruce. Alfred had had many talks with the principal over incidenta that were caused by another classmate bringing up Bruce's parents.

"So I shoved him and he shoved me and then when I shoved him again, he tripped backwards and fell." Bruce shrugs.

"Your teacher said he hit his head?" Alfred says.

Bruce shrugs again, but doesn't fail to be smug about his words. "Not my fault none of his friends caught him." Alfred lets out the sigh he'd tried to hold.

"Bruce, you can't act this way." He tries to come at it with a soft approach.

"I'm not just gonna sit back and let some wimp in my class insult me and my family!" Bruce yells.

Alfred could see Bruce's point but the way he went about it wasn't ideal. On one hand, he had a point. Bruce was always going to be touchy about the subject of his family but he needed to teach Bruce to be able to pick his battles, not every battle.

"And I know that," Alfred sighs. "I just need you to think before you act."

"I'll do what I want." Bruce snaps. "You're not my dad."

Bruce seems to look shocked at his own words and regret fills his eyes when Alfred looked surprised and hurt. Alfred rubs his eyes before walking around and sitting in front of Bruce.

"You're right, I'm not your dad." He says, gentle but stern. "But I think we both know that your father would agree with my advice and what I've told you."

"I guess so," Bruce mumbles. "I...I'm sorry I said that."

"It's alright, Bruce." Alfred says. "I just need you to listen sometimes, I'm trying to help you here. Even if you can't see it."

Bruce nods quietly as he keeps his eyes low, ashamed of his own words.

"Sometimes the wisest thing you can do is be silent." Alfred says. "I'll write back to your teacher about it, don't worry on it."

"Okay." Bruce says. "Thanks."

Alfred nods. "Do me a favor though and try to be a little more cheery."

Bruce eyerolls again at that and scowls. "Alfred." He grumbles.

"I remember a young boy who used to laugh at the slightest thing," Alfred says as he rounds the table and gives Bruce a plate of food for dinner.

"Dead parents'll ruin that for you." Bruce says bitterly, ignoring the plate of food in front of him.

"Come on now," Alfred says as he walks back over. "I know you aren't grumpy all the time, I've seen you with your friends."

Bruce shrugs and stays quiet.

This was more difficult than Alfred had expected. Maybe a lighter approach was better.

There was always one thing that could make him cheer up, but Alfred hesitated. He didn't know if it would upset Bruce or cross any boundaries.

"Maybe your friends are more funny than me?" Alfred offers with a small smile and squeezes Bruce's knee as he talks.

Bruce jolts and squirms in his seat, a flush already rising on his cheeks. He pushes Alfred's hand off of his knee but to Alfred's delight, Bruce follows his lead, cracking a sarcastic joke right back.

"Yeah, maybe they are." He smirks up at Alfred. "All your jokes are British old man jokes."

"Old man jokes?" Alfred gasps in mock offense. He moves to stand behind Bruce and reaches out, fluttering fingers into Bruce's neck and against his ears. He smiles when Bruce grins and then breaks into quiet laughter, trying to cover his neck but to no avail.

"I'll have you know, I make the finest jokes for any old man." He says over Bruce's giggles.

"T-They're dumb!" Bruce grins and laughs, both at the tickling and Alfred's offense.

"How dare you!" Alfred growls, his tone entirely playful. His hands move to wiggle finger into Bruce's armpits, the move immediately effective as Bruce's laughter pitches up and gets louder.

"How could you hurt me by saying these things?" Alfred says, pretending to sniffle.

"A-hahah-Alfred!" Bruce calls out, trying to twist away from his hands.

"No, no, it's quite alright, Master Bruce." Alfred says. "I get it, too cool for my old man jokes."

"Quit tihihickling mehe!" He laughs before finally hobbling out of his chair, his arms wrapped around his sides as he grins at Alfred.

He looks much healthier with a smile on his face and the pink flush on his face and neck, contrary to his usually pale skin.

He grows sheepish under Alfred's fond smile and looks down to hide his own smile. "You done tormenting me?"

"I suppose so." Alfred replies and ruffles his already messy hair as he sits back down. "Eat, before your food gets cold."

"Okay, old man." Bruce jokes and finally starts to eat.

Alfred smiles as Bruce finally starts warming back up. Teenage hood is difficult, especially for Bruce, but they were both learning one step at a time.

---------------------------------------------------

Bruce was set to return for his most recent patrol night. It was close to 5 in the morning, but Alfred liked to be awake when Bruce got home. He may be an adult now but he'd always be Alfred's kid.

Alfred didn't think he'd ever get used to seeing Bruce as Batman.

He had known Bruce since he was literally in diapers, he'd been the one to record the video of Bruce first steps and when he said his first words. So seeing Bruce come home every evening roughed up, an assortment of tools in every pocket imaginable, was a little shocking.

Sometimes he still saw the little boy Bruce once was, all full of energy and life. When he'd solve a tough case that had him stumped for a long time, he'd excitedly tell Alfred about it the next morning over his coffee, the same smile (now much more rare to see) lighting up his face as he talked.

The sound of the Bat Mobile's engine bounced off the walls of the cave as Bruce drove it into the parking space for it.

The top of the car lifted and Bruce got out if it gently, already taking off his cowl.

"Good evening, Master Bruce." Alfred says, setting down his tray that carried water, a first aid kid, and some protein snacks he knew Bruce would actually eat. "Or should I say morning?"

Bruce grunted as he leaned against his car and tugged off one of his boots. Alfred could see a shard of glass sticking out of his now exposed foot.

"Oh dear," Alfred murmurs as he walks over and helps Bruce hobble to a chair. "What happened now?"

"This gang broke into one of the storage buildings down by the boat dock." Bruce grunts. "Used an explosive to bust all the windows."

"A shard got through my boot while I was chasing one who'd gotten away." Bruce sighs as he sits down. "I'm gonna need to do more testing on my boots and under armor so it doesn't happen again." He muses outloud.

"Let me clean it first before you go off on another spiel." Alfred says, grabbing one of the first aid kits he'd hidden around the cave and the manor.

Alfred gently take the largest piece out of Bruce's foot before work on getting out any of the smaller ones. "How did you even walk back to the car?" Alfred asks.

"Hobbled my way back." Bruce says. "And used my grappling hook to swing. I had to land one footed though, which was difficult."

Alfred hums as he works, gently flushing out the smaller pieces so he can start to clean the wound. Bruce tenses his foot and half, gripping the chair as Alfred works.

"I will try and make this as pain free as possible." Alfred says, his tone apologetic.

"No, you're fine." Bruce shakes his head. "It just feels weird."

"Weird?" Alfred raises an eyebrow as he takes an antiseptic wipe and gently cleans around the wound and the rest of Bruce's foot.

Bruce holds back but nods as his toes scrunch down as the wipe goes over his foot. "Y-yeah, weird."

"Hm." Alfred hums skeptically, clear amusement in his face.

Bruce groans, covering his face. "Be nice." He mumbles into his hands.

"I always am." Alfred responds. He drags a finger down the side of Bruce's foot, smiling when he flinches. "You make it so easy, though."

"I can't help that it's...sensitive." Bruce drops his hands to scowl at Alfred who hides his smile.

Bruce does a decent job at trying to contain his laughter, his chest humming with yhe effort, but he eventually breaks when the cold antiseptic wipe touches the top of his foot. Quiet chuckles burst from him and he closes his eyes so he doesn't have to look at Alfred's fond smile.

"Take your t-time, Alfred." Bruce says sarcastically as Alfred finishes cleaning the wound.

He scribbles his fingers under Bruce's toes in retaliation and Bruce yelps, pulling back his foot with a frown.

"You never cease to embarrass me still." Bruce mumbles as Alfred wraps around the wound with some bandages, going around his foot and tying it off.

"Some would say it's my duty to." Alfred responds as he cleans up his supplies. "Do try and stay off that foot for at least a day."

"No guarantees." Bruce replies as he rolls his chair over to the large computer and he pauses. "Thank you, Alfred." He murmurs but his tone has layers to it, not just talking about his most recent injury.

Alfred softens and he squeezes Bruce's shoulder with his free hand. "Anytime."

Bruce glances up at his father figure and smiles before growing sheepish, as he always did. Affection was not exactly Bruce's area of expertise, no matter how much Alfred tried to help him with it growing up. Some hurt was too much to try and reopen, at least for now.

So Alfred let Bruce shy away from his gaze but that didn't mean he'd stop looking at the man he considered his son.

---------------------------------------------------

Warm, loud, boyish laughter filled the house, bouncing off the wide halls and high ceilings and filling the usually empty halls with noise.

It was unusual for the house to be loud again, after so many years of it being quiet. But having a young boy in the house again also helped with that.

Dick had recently come to live with them in the past year or so. He had been in a similar case as Bruce when he was at Dick's age. Alfred suspected that was what caused Bruce to make the decision so quickly. He had been shocked at Bruce's decision at first, since Bruce had told him vehemently since he was young that he didn't want kids.

Which had always confused Alfred, because even though Bruce claimed to not want any children (he suspected a fear of being an absent parent or just not enough time for them, but he never pushed Bruce for answers), he loved kids and was fantastic with them too. There were many instances where children would be at a charity event and Bruce always beamed his real smile at being able to talk with them.

He displayed this skill now with Dick, as the two of them sat in the living room (or what Dick liked to call 'The Den'). Dick was laid across Bruce's lap, his head thrown back as he laughed. Dick's shirt was rucked up from squirming and a wide grin accompanied the flush across his face. Bruce grinned down at the young boy as he fingers scuttled across his belly and up to his armpits, finding purchase and wiggling there.

"What's so funny? Huh?" Bruce teased with a rare grin that matched Dick's. "Not so cocky now, are you?"

"Should I ask what's going on?" Alfred said but his tone with full of amusement, as he walks in with folded, warm blankets that were fresh from the dryer. Bruce perks up at the blankets and the familiarity of the memories they brought back and smiles up at Alfred.

"Just teaching a little lesson on being polite." Bruce says playfully and punctuates his words with quick squeezes to Dick's exposed ribs.

"Alfred, sa-hehehey!-save mehee!!" Dick calls out, laughing as he rolls onto his stomach and reaches his hands to out to Alfred. Bruce shifts his hands and goes back to wiggling fingers into Dick's armpits, smiling when he squeals and his arms come back crashing down.

"I'm afraid my arms are quite full, Master Dick." Alfred sighs as if it pains him to not be able to help Dick. Bruce smiles at Alfred's words, the familiarity of it all making Bruce grow fond.

Dick had that way with people as well, when he could simply walk into the room and make everything a little brighter. Alfred had noticed this happen with Bruce the more time he spent with Dick.

"Okay, okahahay!" Dick's laughter turning close to shrieks when Bruce leaned down and planted a raspberry on Dick's neck. "You wihihin, B!"

Bruce grins playfully as he finally lets up and allows Dick to lay across his lap and release any leftover giggles. Alfred tosses on of the warmed blankets over Dick and Bruce, now that Dick was calm down and less squirmy.

Alfred watched as Bruce smiled down at Dick - the fondness in his eyes too strong not to miss - as Dick melts into Bruce, his eyes closing comfortably.

Alfred could only see Bruce now as he was when he was young, except now he only sees his son instead of Thomas'.

"What?" Bruce murmurs when he catches Alfred watching. He shakes his head as he walks around the couch.

"Just allowing myself to be a little nostalgic." Alfred says softly, so he doesn't disturb Dick, and runs a hand through Bruce's hair that was already messy from his shower.

"You getting soft on me, old man?" Bruce jokes and they both pretend not to notice as he leans back into Alfred's touch.

"Haven't I always been?" Alfred murmurs and Bruce hums in reply.

"Guess so." He says as he looks down at Dick and matches Alfred's action by petting Dick's hair gently, brushing it back off of his forehead.

"He's a lot like you." Alfred thinks out loud.

"I know," Bruce huffs with a small smile. "That's what scares me."

Alfred shakes his head. "Nonesense. You were a fine child, you just were a little troubled."

"Yeah, a little." Bruce says sarcastically. Alfred flutters his fingers down to Bruce's ear and Bruce scrunches his neck up with a quiet yelp.

"Are you ever gonna stop doing that?" Bruce huffs but he isn't really irritated.

"Not unless you grow out of it." Alfred responds with a ghost of a smile and Bruce groans.

"I'm not a kid anymore." He says (which Alfred finds mildly amusing, considering he'd been saying that since he was around twelve or thirteen).

"Yet you still act like one?" Alfred teases, glancing down at a dozing Dick.

"Guilty." Bruce grumbles with a smile, also looking down at Dick.

"And anywho," Alfred shrugs, picking up the small mess Dick had made earlier with his crayons (he was a big fan of drawing). "You'll always be my son." He adds.

Bruce looks away, still having difficulties with affection but growing better at it, especially with Dick around now. "Yeah," he agrees quietly.

Alfred smiles at him before leaving Bruce and Dick to have some one on one time. Bruce really had grown so much since when he was young and Alfred knew he'd grow more as he continued through life.

Jean shuddered. Lisa's hands felt warm and soft as they massaged her tense muscles into butter.

"You're so high-strung. It's cute, but it's not all that good for you."

She couldn't help but smile at the remark. This felt nice; nicer than she wanted to admit. Spindly velvet claws tip-toed their way down her neck as graceful as a ballerina, smoothing over her capelet and up and down her shoulder blades, until at last they came to rest, right on the lip of her collarbone.

Those long nails…the light touch sent an embarrassed quiver down her body, and she exhaled quickly through her nose. Half-shy and half-elated, she took Lisa's hand, holding it at bay.

“Heh…hey, watch your hands; that tickles…” she sighed.

Uh-oh. Her eyes reflexively dilated. As soon as the words slipped out, Jean knew she’d made a mistake. Lisa's flirtatious chuckle pricked her ears. She could feel that evil "Wicked Witch of the West" grin staring down at her.

“Oh REALLY?”

“…No. Lisa, don’t.” Her pretty smile, relaxed for the first time all day, twitched conspicuously in the corners. Jean was giggling already, and no finger-wagging authority could hide it.

“Oh, sweetie, you should NOT have told me that.”

The sound of cracking knuckles rang out. Jean tried to hop up, but before she could stand, ten fingers reached down to her waist, held her still in her chair, and skittered all along her belly.

“Mmfff…Mm Hm-Hm! Hmhm! D-hon't do that!" The blonde knight struggled to keep her lips sealed and barricade the soft, sweet sputters with her hand. She didn't hate being tickled, but in public? This was embarrassing!

"You can't giggle in my library, Jean. Rule number 1, seventh edition." Oh, why did Lisa have to tease her so much?

"Hn-Hee! C-come on, cut it out; someone'll seehee us!"

"Then hush."

Those fingers...they were marching like little soldiers all over her torso. They played the drums down her lats, squeezing and plying so gently between every muscle; even her corset couldn’t protect her. She wriggled in her squeaky chair, desperately hoping that the nearby knight (who was in the midst of perusing a book titled The Handmaiden's Swan, and Other Dirty Jokes Overheard in Djafar Tavern) wouldn't meet her gaze. One girl a few tables down did notice the pair, but then quickly turned away with a playful smile. That was the worst part for Jean. Not the tickling...not the jittery nerves inside her tummy...but the possibility that another Mondstater might see this display of affection.

Gossip, you see, was quite the force of nature in this town.

“Ah Hn-Hn! Hn! It t-hickles!”

“Goodness; you’re even more ticklish than I imagined!”

Wait… ‘imagined?’ Had Lisa thought about this before? No, don’t be silly; she wouldn’t, Jean told herself. Why won’t she stop?!

"Hey...you want to see something fun I can do with my detection magic?"

"Lisa, don't you dahahare..." Jean tittered nervously, her snickers dancing on the end of her tongue. Her words resisted, but her tone, her smile, her eyes...those surrendered.

"Hm-Hm...I can find out exactly where you're most ticklish," Lisa purred. "Right........

.....abooouuuuut......."

"D-hon't; dohohon't..." Jean was about to erupt.

Her ribs...the right side, smack in the middle. The lower left side of her smooth tummy…a soft, squeezable handle just above the hipbone.

“….HERE!”

Both spots felt a sharp pinch. Fingertips dug in and wiggled firmly, kneading into those nerve clusters with skill and aggression, sucking Jean's breath right out of her...

...and that was it. She laughed. She laughed, and no matter how she struggled, she couldn’t stop.

But this was no ordinary tickling. Daggers of crackling static burrowed down through her clothes...Electro magic?!....and kissed her tingly skin in all those innumerable secret places that made her want to squeak. She was lighter than air, practically floating. Her hair stood on end, her arms and legs broke out in chilly goosebumps.

"Ahhh Ha-Ha Ha-Ha Ha-Ha! H-Heh-Heh Ha! *gasp* L-hee...Lisaaaa, Ha-Ha Ha! *gasp* Oh my g-hosh!"

“Oh, here’s a weak spot! And another…and another…”

“Ha-Ha Hee!”

Were any students in the library watching? It no longer mattered. Those thoughts were far away now. All that mattered to Jean was how apple-red her cheeks were glowing, the delirious dreamlike warmth she felt, how much Lisa clearly relished touching her this way, how every playful jab made her want to curl into a little ball on her bedroom floor and yet never escape the arms that nestled her...

She descended from her hazy fog, breathing softly, her cheek flat against the cool wood of the desk. The tickling had stopped, leaving behind little teardrops that hung from her eyelashes and ghostly tingles all over her body.

"Hn......*sigh*....Hn-Hn....Lisa....th-hat's nohot funny...Hn-Hn Hn..."

“Now how does that feel?”

Jean’s pulse steadied. Her breath slowed. She hadn’t noticed at first, but to her surprise, she wasn't worn out. On the contrary: every muscle in her body was alive, coursing with a current of renewed vigor, like pure distilled caffeine had been injected into her bloodstream. Electricity made the hair on the back of her neck buzz.

Better than tea. Better than coffee. Better than…Get your mind out of the gutter, Jean; you’re a knight.

“O-oh....Wow, I…I feel so…energetic!” she gasped.

"Hmm, yes, that's my very special 'Electro-Tickle.' Heh-Heh." Lisa wiggled her fingers devilishly in the air. "Gives you a wonderful little jolt of energy, huh? I just love doing it. You know…some people even seem to really enjoy the process..."

Jean stood and snapped her book shut...uncharacteristically hard.

“Yes, well…*cough* thank you very much for bringing this new skill to my attention. I appreciate the help in getting me back to work. Ahem...Now, um, if you'll excuse me..."

"Hey, wait a minute, where are you...?"

Jean was already halfway across the room and at the front desk. The romance novel clunked inconspicuously into the return drawer. She didn't know why it worked, but her sunny disposition was back. That Lisa...she always knew how to get Jean excited to serve her community again. Just for a brief instant, she looked back.

"See you later tonight?"

Lisa smiled. There's the Jean she knew. "Yep. Tonight."

********

***The Next Day***

Knights of Favonius did not seek vengeance. Such dishonorable behavior was beneath the guardian factions of Mondstadt. But there were limits to chivalry, and surely Grand Master Varka would understand. Just this once.

Lisa was somewhere in the library...the witch had been in absentia all morning, but never strayed far from her den. Jean knew that much for sure. She’d catch that lackadaisical librarian shirking chores again and make her pay. It was justice, after all. Up the stairs she traipsed, creeping like a ninja. Nothing out of the ordinary…not at first. A quick scan of the second floor got no results. But then, behind the shelves and against the wall, something caught her eye. There was a small light glowing from beneath a desk…a candle, most likely. Worth investigating.

There, in a quiet back corner, she finally found Lisa, wedged underneath the table and in the midst of a nap, surrounded by a crude box-fort of novels. The witch's head was propped up on a red leather-bound cooking manual. Not much of a pillow. Her chest moved with gentle, placid breaths. Her wide-brimmed hat lay limp on her forehead.

Jean couldn't believe this - sleeping on the floor now? Really? Slacking off was perhaps Lisa's favorite pastime, but this was a whole new level of frivolity. But this time, Jean wasn’t even frustrated. No, it was the perfect opportunity. And even more perfect: a mango-sized lavender pot resting atop the short bookcase nearby, that she herself had left there a few days earlier. Its bouquet of dandelions had only just begun scattering seeds.

Perfect.

She quickly plucked one of the blooming flowers from the dirt and resumed her stealth mission toward Lisa. The lioness crouched low until she was down on all fours, beneath the long desk, eyes level with her prey...still asleep. Her heart was beating fast. Crawling up to the dozing librarian, her left hand closed slowly around Lisa's stilettos, she pulled, and the high heels slid off with a satisfying shuffling sound.

Lisa's feet, like the rest of her, were long and shapely…at least a size 10, her very high arches accentuated by the sheer pearl-grey nylon sheathes they wore. They were pretty, statuesque even, and it made Jean strangely jealous. (She'd always wanted to gift Lisa a really lovely pair of shoes for her birthday, something that her feet would look nice in, perhaps adorned with some petrified Sumeru roses and lacework etching...but never found the right pair, nor the time to custom-craft them.)

Shoving that thought down inside her for the moment, Jean reached out slowly with her fragile flower…quick, make sure she hasn’t stirred…and let its delicate little filaments brush gently against Lisa’s soles.

Tickle tickle tickle.

"DAH; Hnhn-Hnhn Hnhn!!"

At the softest touch of dandelion fuzz, the sorceress snapped awake with a start, and her knees buckled and pulled sharply into her breasts. Her sudden burst of giggles was smooth and husky, like a rich oaky bourbon, melting in Jean’s ears as a drink on the tongue. Jean struggled to grab Lisa’s ankles and hold them still, but the librarian’s big, ticklish feet were already nestled safe underneath her. She sat up, adjusting her honey-cinnamon curls, and giggled some more.

“Good morning to you too, Jeanie…little bit early for that sort of thing, isn’t it?” Her lips flashed a knowing smile.

“*sigh* Lisa, it’s 2:30 in the afternoon.”

Jean then realized that the dandelion was still in her hand, and quickly blew its seeds to freedom out of the side of her mouth. Lisa brushed her hat aside.

"Heheh...Oops. Let's hope nobody came by to return any books today." Immediately she hopped to her feet, making a stop to grab her discarded heels. “What do you need? Anything I can do to help, I’m there.”

Jean almost laughed. It never ceased to amaze her, how quickly her lazy confidant transformed into a buzzing worker bee whenever she was around.

“Good. I don't want to have to write you up again. Now, if you don't mind, there's something I'd like you to do with me, if you aren't too busy with your beauty sleep."

“Oh! Jean, I'm scandalized....I could never forget about our afternoon tea! You woke me up just in time.”

Jean blushed.

“N-no, that’s not it. But...actually, yes, it is about that time, if you're interested. And you do have a list of duties to perform after that. It’s just…well….you see, I’ve got a very full itinerary for the next few days preparing for the festival. And, um…I'm feeling a little bit drained right now, and…”

The Grand Master looked down at her ivory boots. Why couldn’t she get the words out? It wasn’t that embarrassing; it hadn’t been the day prior. But something was holding her back. Was it weird now? Was she making it weird? Her arm reached out into space, grasping for a distraction…any distraction…and began to fiddle with some of the hardcovers on a nearby shelf. That smug smirk of Lisa's was making her nervous.

“…yes? Heheh. Go on, spit it out.”

Whew. Ok. Here it goes.

“I wanted to ask…

…would you please practice that...'Electro-Tickle' technique again?”

For a second, she was worried at what Lisa would think. And then the giggles started.

"I was hoping you'd ask."

********

“Well, I do feel pain, but it’s just not as intense as I assume it is for you. But I can still feel other things, like hot and cold, and…” he trails off, and Bruce swears his cheeks go a little bit pink before he continues, “and pleasure. But things like bullets kind of just feel like being poked really hard, and being electrocuted sort of tickles.”

Bruce can’t help the way a smile tugs at his lips when he hears that. “So, you can survive getting shot in the head, but you’re still ticklish? That seems like an oversight.”

Clark laughs. “I mean, it’s not a threat to one’s well-being to be ticklish.”

Judging by the way Damian had been screaming his head off the other evening because of Dick and Jason’s wiggling fingers, Bruce sort of doubts that, but he doesn’t argue.

Clark is always surprising him. Not just with his powers, but how he stays so normal despite it all. He’s so full of hope, and integrity, and joy. And yet, for some reason, he seems to like Bruce, who oftentimes feels like he is the antithesis of those things—Yes, he does what he does for the greater good, but it comes at such a cost. While he gives Gotham hope, he struggles to find it himself.

It’s cute, the way that Clark is looking at him now, a few curls escaping his hair gel and hanging over his forehead, the way his glasses sit slightly askew on his nose, and how easily the vulnerability comes to him, how he admits something that certainly classifies as a weakness so willingly to Bruce, without a second thought, because he trusts him and…Well, Bruce thinks that Clark enjoys his company, or at least, he hopes so, which is never really something he’s cared about before.

Bruce isn’t good being vulnerable. He has spent all these years learning to close himself off, how to be the strongest, the fastest, the smartest version of himself that he can be, and devoted his time and energy to the betterment of Gotham.

He does feel—grief, for his parents, reverence and adoration for Alfred, love for the kids he has raised, biologically his or not, and he knows that there is still hope inside of him; he wouldn’t be Batman if there wasn’t some sort of hope within him that people were mostly good.

But letting other people in on those feelings is where the struggle comes. He pushes people away, even when he loves them, and he retreats inside himself when that hope is challenged. It’s not a healthy habit, but something he has done out of necessity.

Alfred seems to think that Clark will be a good influence on him.

At first, Bruce scoffs at the idea. But sitting here with him, looking at the gleaming smile across his face, pondering how someone who could easily snap him in two could look so…sweet, Bruce wonders if Alfred has a point.

The subject changes, and Bruce finds himself looser than usual. Talking to Clark is easy, and he’s actually pretty funny, although Bruce doesn’t like to admit it, but the few chuckles that Clark gets out of him are proof enough.

They’re sitting across from each other when Clark puts his hand on top of Bruce’s, not bothering to question how his knuckles got so bruised, and Bruce’s brain momentarily stops working.

He feels suddenly warm, but he doesn’t yank his hand away like his instincts tell him to. He leaves it there, and Clark doesn’t move either. It’s an unspoken gesture, and by the time they finish talking, Bruce realizes they’ve been touching for almost an hour.

How he felt about that situation would have to wait, because he could see the Bat-Signal in the sky, and he had better things to do than sit around and think about how Clark Kent’s lips might taste against his.

Not that that’s what he would be thinking about.

***

Bruce is sitting at the Batcomputer, eyes glued to the screen.

He’s been researching for several hours now, bleeding into the early morning hours. Alfred has tried to coax him to bed twice, but Bruce had just shrugged him off and kept at it.

He feels the air shift as someone enters, and he turns, irritated, expecting to see Alfred with a cup of chamomile tea, or one of the kids, whom he would have to reprimand for being up so late, only to be reprimanded in turn for his hypocrisy.

Instead, he sees Clark, who has graciously not flown into the room, because Bruce told him multiple times how much he hates being snuck up on, and he actually listened and stopped doing it, which is just stupidly polite, like everything Clark does.

“Did Alfred put you up to this?” Bruce asks, skipping a greeting.

There are dark circles under his eyes, and he’s starting to get a headache from looking at the screen for so long. His shoulders ache from the hunched position he’s been in for the past few hours, and he’s sure his breath smells strongly of black coffee.

Clark leans against the desk right beside him, looking down at him with a worried expression. “I could hear your heartbeat, and I knew you were awake. And, judging by how fast it is, you’ve indulged in way too much caffeine to remain awake.”

He sounds like he’s scolding him, which in turn makes Bruce glare at him like a petulant child. He’s Batman, goddammit, he’s doing important work.

“I’m working,” he replies. He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t have to: This is his house, his case, his sleep schedule he’s destroying.

“You look exhausted,” Clark says, and he does really sound worried, in a way that almost makes Bruce feel guilty, except he’s too busy being annoyed to acknowledge it. “You’ve been up late all week.”

“What, are you spying on me or something?”

Clark shrugs. “It’s just habit. I check on Ma and Pa, on Lois…On you. Perks of being a superhero, I always know when you guys are safe.”

It’s so ridiculously endearing.

Bruce is still trying to reconcile with how much he likes Clark, how easy it is to trust and adore him. It makes Bruce feel years younger, like a child who can’t stand to be in the same room as their crush without their cheeks heating. It makes him want to retreat into himself, to metaphorically tug Clark’s pigtails on the playground, to tell him to fuck off and take his country boy charm to some other sad vigilante’s lair and play house with them instead.

But he also really likes having Clark around, too much to push him away. So, he just sighs, rubbing his temples. “Okay, I haven’t been sleeping much. Gordon gave me a good lead on some of Falcone’s men, and I want them behind bars as quickly as possible. What they’ve done…”

Suddenly, Clark’s hand is on his shoulder. “I understand. But you’re no use to Gordon, or Gotham if you’re too tired to throw a punch.”

Bruce exhales, some semblance of a laugh. “Do you even need to sleep?”

“Technically, no,” Clark replies. “I like to, though. It feels good to turn your brain off for a few hours. To relax.”

He squeezes Bruce’s shoulder when he says it, and it feels really good after how tense he’s been, and he melts into the touch before he can think to stop himself.

“Oh, your back must be killing you,” Clark says. “Can I…?”

Bruce should tell him no. It feels weak, accepting this, allowing himself to be taken care of this way. He also really wants to say yes, because Clark will almost certainly beam at him when he does, and that will feel even better than the release of the tension in his back…

He shrugs. “If you insist,” he mutters, because that’s just standoffish enough for him to feel comfortable in the request.

And Clark smiles, just like Bruce knew he would, so eager to help, and steps behind Bruce’s chair, cupping both his shoulders in his big hands, and presses his thumbs into Bruce’s shoulder blades.

He actually has to bite back the pleasured noise that tries to escape him, sinking lower into the chair. He’s carrying years of pain in all his muscles and joints, and he’s gotten good at ignoring the dull ache, but now he’s cursing himself for being too prideful to accept some help before this, because this feels fucking amazing.

It’s a bit of a struggle to keep quiet and still, which he knows he doesn’t have to do, but maintaining that bit of dignity during the massage is the only reason Bruce is still letting it go on.

That is, until Clark reaches up to try and rub his neck, and Bruce noticeably stiffens, and Clark, of course, has to question it. “Is this still okay?” he asks. “If I’m being too rough, let me know.”

No, he’s actually being too gentle, and the soft brush of his fingers against Bruce’s neck makes goosebumps spread over his arms. It tickles, and Bruce is just about to say that he feels much better, thanks, but he opens his mouth just as Clark’s knuckles bump against the back of his ear, and he lets out a sharp intake of breath that makes the Kryptonian pause.

“Are you…?”

“Don’t finish that question,” Bruce replies, trying to sound gruff and intimidating, but it comes out more like a plea than a demand.

He can feel Clark’s grin. “All that training, and you’re still ticklish? Seems like an oversight,” he echoes Bruce’s words from earlier that week, sounding way to pleased with himself.

“I’m starting to feel pretty tired,” Bruce says, trying to turn on that Brucie Wayne charm, but it isn’t very convincing. Clark’s hands are still touching him, and the nervous system he has carefully trained to be number than the average human’s now feels hyper-aware of every little movement.

Clark knows it, too, and Bruce can’t believe he ever thought this man was sweet, because right now, he’s being positively sadistic. “Really? Your heart is pounding right now. Probably from all the coffee,” he teases. “Maybe you need some more help getting your energy out.”

He barely twitches his fingers against the delicate skin of Bruce’s neck, and he quivers.

Bargaining isn’t working, violence won’t solve anything against the literal Superman, and Bruce refuses to plead with him. Running would be an option, but Clark would catch him. He is, for the first time in a long time, stumped on how to get himself out of a tricky situation. It’s not a predicament he’s found himself in since he was a child.

“I hate you,” is the only thing he can think to say.

Clark laughs. “You love me,” he replies before sticking his hands under Bruce’s arms, catching him off guard, which causes him to let out a startled shout before dissolving into laughter.

He barely recognizes the sound coming from his own mouth; it’s been at least a decade since he laughed this hard, if not longer, and he’s shocked to hear how…happy it sounds.

He splutters out a few swear words before not-so-gracefully tumbling out of his chair, and Clark follows him to the floor with a gleeful look on his face.

“Clark, cut it out—”

“If I do, will you go to sleep?”

Normally, the mighty Batman would never submit to easily, but this is fucking embarrassing, and Clark has started zeroing in on a spot on his ribs that makes him want to scream, so he starts nodding, keeping his lips clamped shut to keep his surprisingly high-pitched laughter at bay.

Clark leans down and puts his face right up to Bruce’s ear, which doesn’t feel any less ticklish than the hands on his ribs, and whispers, “If you don’t, I’ll know, and I’ll fly right back here and tickle you twice as bad.”

Bruce’s face turns a shade of red that shouldn’t even be biologically possible, but Clark finally stops, and he sucks in a breath. He does feel much more tired now, and relatively humiliated.

He fall asleep the moment his head hits the pillow, and the last thing he thinks before he’s dead to the world is the smug way Clark had said, You love me, and how true that statement really seemed.

***

“Wait, Bruce, I—”

“We can’t have Superman going into battle sore, now can we?” Bruce asks, surprising even himself with how sickly sweet his voice sounds. He gets a kick out of this, now, teasing Clark back.

He’s rubbing circles into Clark’s lower back, deliberately straying too close to his sides, and he’s pretty impressed with how still Clark manages to stay, just the occasional twitch, but never letting his legs kick or arms swing, knowing the chances of him hurting Bruce would be too high.

“This is supposed to be relaxing, you know,” Bruce says.

“It’s not!” Clark replies, hugging a pillow tightly to his chest. “You’re doing it on purpose!”

Bruce feigns innocence. “Doing what on purpose?”

Clark answers through a new fit of giggles and Bruce squeezes his sides. “Tickling me!”

“It’s not a threat to one’s well-being to be ticklish,” Bruce says. “I mean, you don’t even need to breathe. I can do this for as long as I want.”

He watches the way Clark turns an adorable shade of pink, and takes note of how he doesn’t really argue. He’d only been kidding, but if Clark isn’t going to protest…

It still feels unfamiliar to him, to be like this. He’s gone from stoic and isolated to play-fighting with his boyfriend as a grown-ass man, and he could justify the rare occasions he would act silly with the kids, because they needed to see the cracks in his armor to trust him, and he really does care about them, but Clark has brought out a new side of him that he thought had died with his parents in that alley.

He pushes his hands underneath Clark’s shirt and scratches lightly at his stomach, and the pillow he’d been holding goes flying across the room.

“You’re being mean!”

“And yet, you love me,” Bruce replies.

“I do, but that doesn’t mean you’re not mean,” Clark giggles.

Bruce pauses. The words feel foreign on his tongue, but he says it anyway: “Love you, too.”

Clark leans up to press their lips together, and Bruce kisses him back, before launching another attack on his belly, wincing at the sheer volume of the resulting shriek.

Despite being superhuman, Clark embraces humanity; he eats and sleeps even though he technically doesn’t have to, because he likes it. He can cry, blush, laugh, and he keeps himself still when Bruce tickles him because while he could easily throw him off, he doesn’t want to.

And while Bruce is only human, he’s spent so long trying to deny his nature, training himself to function on less sleep, to endure more pain, to push his feelings deep down and ignore them. This sort of vulnerability, this humanity isn’t normal for him, but he’s starting to find that he likes it more than he thought he would.

He’s starting to feel alive again. He isn’t playing a character, whether it be the invincible symbol of hope that is Batman, or the charming billionaire Bruce Wayne—With Clark, he is just Bruce, and there is no role to play or intense responsibility to shoulder. Living like this feels so much lighter.

A giggle bubbled out of Clark and he twitched away. They stared at each other for a long moment, blinking at each other. Lois raised an eyebrow, and when it was clear she wouldn’t speak, he chuckled nervously.

“Off the record—“ he grinned shyly, shifting his hands on her hips— “I’m a little ticklish. Sorry.”

“Off the record, huh?” Lois’s eyes sparkled in the dim light. She latched back onto his neck like a vampire. He shivered and snickered quietly. It wasn’t…unpleasant.

“Yeah. Can’t let the tabloids hear thahahat.” He leaned away from her wicked teeth.

“No, of course not.” Lois pressed her mouth more intently into his skin, but he should have taken her smile as the warning that it was.

…

“You are blowing this way out of proportion.” Clark shakes his head. He coolly and calmly reaches for the mugs in her cabinets.

“What? That Superman is deathly ticklish?” Lois reaches out to pinch his side. He catches her wrist before she even gets close. She tries to get him with the other hand and he captures that too.

“Deathly is a bit dramatic—“

”Then stop fighting back and let me find out for myself.” Lois leans forward conspiratorially. Clark knows that he’s too far gone for her when his first thought isn’t to flee.

“It’s really…I’m…Lois, it cannot possibly be this entertaining to you,” He chuckles, flabbergasted. She narrows her eyes like a predator. She tries her wrists in his grasp, but quickly gives up.

“So you agree? You’re wildly ticklish and it’s adorable?” Lois’s evil smile shows off the gap in her teeth. Clark tries not to get distracted by it.

“I didn’t say that.” He lifts her up onto the counter by the arm and she lets him, like a ragdoll. He boxes her in, both her hands still easily caught in his. On habit, he rubs circles into her wrists with his thumb.

“I did. It’s cute. You have a nice laugh.” Her eyes rove over his face and she may as well have heat vision, the way he pinkens beneath her gaze.

“Thank you—“ Lois perks up at the almost admission and Clark points sternly at her— “But I’m not. You just…surprised me.”

“You can hear your mother’s heartbeat several states over, but I...surprised you?” Okay, yeah, he hears how that sounds. He has to get ahead of this, though. If Lois tells Jimmy, he will never know peace again.

“Yes. Like this.” He squeezes her sides a few times and she tries to climb up the wall. Lois’s laugh is a beautiful, brash thing, hardly ever quiet and always a little raspy. She shoves at his shoulders—it’s like a fly trying to push bedrock—and a snort slips out. Clark grins wider than he thinks he ever has.

Gosh, he loves her. The immediacy and strength of his fondness is overwhelming, surging in his chest like one of his powered breaths. He lets her go, brushing her hair from either side of her face. Her whole face crinkles beneath the weight of her smile.

“You see how that could be surprising? I was distracted.” He rests his arms on either side of her thighs.

“Yeah, I guess so.” She tips his chin up with her finger, reeling him in with a pull greater than his own. He smiles into it, happy to be coaxed and led by her.

“Mmm, thank you—“ He says between kisses, hardly leaving room for his breath to make the words— “for understanding.”

He leans in, fully capturing her lips with his own. He gravitates towards her with his whole being, the moon lit by her sun, and she pulls him in without hesitation. Her hands slide down his back—

Her hands slip under his shirt, her nails skittering like spiders. Clark shrieks and twists away, but she follows him out of the kitchen with deadly accuracy. He backs up against the arm of the couch and goes fully over. She’s on top of him in seconds, drawn to the plane of his stomach as if it’s where her hands belong. It starts him giggling (embarrassing) and hiccuping (worse), leaving him to disintegrate and pray Perry remembers him fondly.

“You are so cute. How are you real? You’re damn near indestructible but this gets you?” She leans down to pepper featherlight kisses over his neck, laughing all the while. Clark makes a noise so high-pitched that for a moment he worries that Krypto might come crashing through the wall.

“Lois!” He crunches in on himself. His laughter is so far out of the realm of control that he doesn’t even try. She zeroes in on the evil little spot that connects his pecs to his ribs, working it like a button designed specifically for her amusement. His legs jerk up towards his chest, flinging her further forward onto him.

“I’m stuck, Clark. You’ll have to lift your arms for me.” Lois shrugs innocently. Clark narrows his eyes at her. She pouts and flutters her lashes.

Clark slowly, achingly, lifts his arms, a nervous smile twitching over his lips. She pats his sides praisingly and leans down towards him—a kiss would be ample reward for the torment and he’s happy to accept.

“How many times do I have to say that you’re too trusting before you believe me?” Lois shoves her hands under his arms, right into the open target, and Clark jumps five feet into the air. Quite literally, in fact.

“Did you just fly away from me? Holy shit!” Lois cackles. Clark’s face burns bright red.

“It’s not that funny.” He crosses his arms, but hovering at eye level next to her ceiling-mounted planter doesn’t help his image.

“You’re right. What’s funny is you thinking that I can’t get you up there.” Lois pulls out one of those extendable duster things from the broom closet and slides a clean, fluffy pad onto it. He furrows his brow.

“I’m not a spider, Lois,” Clark huffs, but he can’t wrap his head around her game here. She climbs up on the couch, stretches up onto her tiptoes, and swats at him with the duster. He bats it away easily, but she’s persistent, and soon he finds himself drifting into a corner.

She pushes some kind of button on the handle and the thing extends several feet, rocketing the fluffy end right into the crook of his neck. He makes a noise somewhere between a boiling tea kettle and a guitar being smashed, a nonsensical collision of panic and mirth that completely overrides all his good sense. He drops a foot or two before catching himself.

She clumsily attacks now that he’s closer. He fights with everything he has not to snap her duster—money is tight and she just bought it. It still smells new. Lois cackles like some sort of supervillain as she darts back and forth across the couch. If Clark could speak for laughing, he’d ask her how long she’d been planning this. When it comes to Lois’s plans, it’s truly anyone’s guess.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Lois leaps up and grabs his ankle. That’s all the warning he has before there are nails beneath his toes. Clark shrieks and tries to lift his leg, but he lifts her with it and she doesn’t stop.

“A-Alright! Let me breheathe!” He laughs wildly, legs trembling with the effort not to kick.

“You don’t need to breathe.”

“Yeah, but I’d like to!” His voice cracks and Lois finally, blessedly, relents her attack. He lifts her up into his arms and lowers them back to Earth on wobbly legs.

“Gosh, would you stop it?” He laughs and grabs her hands again. He sees her mouth ‘gosh’, ever-teasing, and he magnanimously chooses to ignore it. His mind and nerves are buzzing too much to provoke her again, besides.

“I will personally let this go, but I am telling Jimmy. He has a right to know this…crucial intel. Ethically.” The mock severity of her tone sends a zing of fear through him. Jimmy, who does not know his secret, and whom Clark therefore cannot fly away from. Jimmy, who expects Clark to be as strong as one of his favorite wrestlers at most.

“Nope. You’re not.” He throws her over his shoulder and locks in on her hips, pulling the raspy, bright laughter from her that he’s fallen so helplessly in love with. He tosses her on her bed and crawls after her, tickling mercilessly until she makes a compelling argument for different activities with her mouth.

When he wakes up squealing the next morning—Lois’s hands are ice cold and on his stomach—he better understands the magnitude of mistake that he’s made, but he can’t bring himself to care. He’d happily trade a new and silly weakness for the strength of her love. His dignity is worth pennies beside her smile.

He does rethink this, of course, when Lois casually drops her findings in the break room and Jimmy pounces on him like a feral cat. He catches her eye through mirthful tears and new smudges on his crooked glasses, but his perspective doesn’t shift.

"For the Man of Steel, you really are such a softie." Bruce hummed, leaning against Clark's left shoulder and closing his eyes. Diana let out a soft chuckle from Clark's other side in agreement.

Superman, Batman, and Wonder Woman had just finished a ridiculously busy day - filled with PR conferences, charity work, various patrols, and a few mild interventions on the city streets - so the trio were grateful to finally get a chance to relax together.

"What do you mean softie?" Clark raised an eyebrow. "I'm not soft."

Diana responded before Bruce had the chance to argue. "Not soft, but you're definitely the nicest of us all."

"Too nice." Bruce added with a grin, beginning to feel the irresistible temptation of annoying Clark.

Doing his best not to disturb the comfortable positions of his partners, Clark sat further upright (as if his body position would strengthen his argument). "I can be mean!"

That earnt a proper laugh from Diana. "Please, you don't have a wicked bone in your body."

There was a pause as a smirk settled on Clark's face. "Oh is that right?"

Diana was switched on enough to sense the change in Clark's tone, and tried to swiftly push herself off her human headrest, but Clark was too quick. He grabbed around her waist and tugged her underneath him, before pulling the slightly-sleepy Bruce next to her.

"Huh-?" Bruce yelped as Clark say across both his and Diana's hips.

"I know how I can prove how wicked I can really be." Clark smirked, before clawing into the ribs of the two superheroes under him.

Diana gasped, clenching her mouth shut so Clark wouldn't get the satisfaction of cracking her that easily. Both of her hands worked to pry Clark's five fingers from her side - a task that would normally be easy, but with tickling near enough halved her strength - before concentrating on defending her sensitive spots from the attack.

She had managed to interlock the fingers of one hand with Clark's, while the other gripped his wrist to push him away. While his hand didn't move much, her defense gave her enough respite to remember she had a fellow ally lying next to her.

"Bruce!" She grunted, unable to look anywhere but Clark's threatening fingers. "I've got his hand! Just grab the other!"

But, before she had even finished her sentence, she suddenly registered the bubbly laughter that had filled the room for who knows how long. And, in a moment of poor decision making, she let her eyes and her attention turn to Bruce.

The poor hero was curled up facing away from Diana, giggling his little heart out. There was barely space in his breath for him to beg Clark to let him go (and to be completely honest, based on the genuine joy in his laughter, Diana wasn't sure he even wanted to try).

Before she had the chance to roll her eyes at his uselessness, Clark escaped her (now weakened) grip and latched his thumb into her hip bone behind him.

Diana let out a shriek, her arms switching between trying to grab Clark's hand again and thumping into his upper abdomen.

"BRUHUHUCE!" She spluttered between bouts of laughter. "DO SOHOMETHING!"

"He is doing something." Clark beamed. "He's experiencing how wicked I can be."

Bruce could only cackle in response as Clark managed to worm his fingers into the man's armpit.

"And laughing..." Clark nodded seriously. "That's important too."

"YOHOU'RE UHUSELESS!" Diana elbowed the Batman, letting herself laugh a little more to make sure Bruce knew she was mostly joking.

Clark chuckled. "And...? what am I?"

Diana slapped his leg. "A JEHEHERK!"

She couldn't quite tell, but it sounded like Bruce laughed a little extra at that comment.

"Ow." Clark pouted. "That wasn't quite the response I was looking for..."

Leaving them no time for a witty retort or more helpless laughter (from Diana or Bruce respectively), Clark amped the intensity. Opting to vibrate his claw-shaped hands at an inhuman speed against Diana's stomach and Bruce's exposed back (as the poor guy had been locked in a fetal position since they started).

Bruce screeched, his back arched as far as humanly possible from the offending fingers.

"FIHIHINE YOHOU'RE EHEVIL!" Diana squealed, and at the same time a stream of incoherent begging and pleading burst from Bruce's mouth.

He tried to twist back towards his companions, hands reaching behind himself to try and grab the claw that was driving him insane.

"Mmm..." Clark pondered, still effortlessly destroying the two supers. "Not quite the wording I used."

"WIHIHICKEHED! YOUOHOU'RE WIHICKED JUST LET ME GOHOHO!" She pleaded through cackles as her hands weakly shoved at Clark's.

Bruce had returned to his original position, this time clinging onto Clark's leg as if it were his own sanity.

"Told you." Clark grinned, easily releasing Diana while keeping Bruce underneath him.

Wonder Woman took her moment to sprawl out on the floor and suck in as much oxygen as possible. Her cheeks were still frosted with a rosy glow, aching from the last few minutes of laughter.

Somehow amongst the chaos, Bruce realised Diana was free. As Clark took a little pity on the guy and swapped spots again to target his neck, Bruce took his chance.

"Diahana hehelp mehe!" Bruce gasped between squeaks and high-pitched giggles.

She scoffed playfully. "You never helped me!"

Bruce squealed as Clark went for his ears momentarily. "I cohohouldn't!"

"You could have tried..." She fake-sighed, gazing into the distance. "Besides, you know what you have to do to make him stop, seems to me you don't want him to."

The laughter-induced blush on Bruce's face took on a more pinkish tone of embarrassment, made even worse by Clark leaning down and rubbing his stubble against Bruce's neck.

"Oh, are we having too much fun?" Clark growled right into Bruce's ear, knowing the low vibrations tickled the billionaire more than he'd ever care to admit.

"Clahark plehehease!" Bruce whined, scrunching his head against Superman's. "Just lehet me go!"

"I guess there's no other option at this point, if you're going to refuse that strongly..." Clark sighed, leaning back upright and letting his hands rest on his knees.

Bruce gave him a puzzled look. Did Clark seriously just give in?

The pleading wasn't meant to work that quickly... Bruce thought to himself, too tired to catch the disappointment that was washing over his face.

Clark's tickle attacks never stop that easily...

How was he meant to know it would this time?

….

Clark bops along to the Crabjoy’s mightiest hits, occasionally breaking out in air drums or air guitar when the melody really gets to him. Their music fills him with hope, every time. It reminds him of racing cars down long dirt roads and disappearing into the corn before anyone could get a good look.

“You’re such a dork.” Lois shakes her head fondly.

“It’s good music!” Clark throws his hands up.

“In your dreams, Smallville. They play this at the grocery store. That’s an automatic demerit.” She sticks her tongue out a little as she works.

She wipes a little excess off the edge of Clark’s toe and he flinches a little. The bottle of nail polish tilts onto his foot. Cursing softly, Lois catches the bottle and starts wiping it off of his sole.

Regretfully, Clark squeaks.

“What was that?” Her head snaps up.

“Nothing,” he says, far too quickly, and he can tell by the razor glint in her eye that he has mere seconds to find an out. He racks his brain for something, anything—

“Oh my god. Are you ticklish, Clark?”

Too late.

He opens and closes his mouth a few times. She grins wickedly.

“Alright, well—Lois—“

She scribbles experimentally at his sole and Clark yelps. He slides down on the couch and buries his face in his hands.

“Don’t do that.” She chides, as if she isn’t the cause. “Stop hiding. I like your smile.”

“Gosh, you are so…” He peeks between his fingers. She’s beautiful, is what she is.

“The polish has to dry, Clark. Don’t mess it up.” Lois starts tickling his foot in earnest and Clark muffles a squeal into his hands. She has nails and it’s evil, it’s so evil, and his foot is vibrating with the effort not to move.

She’s a menace, is what she is. He loves her, but golly, she might kill him.

He keels over on the couch and squeezes the life out of a throw pillow, but he leaves his foot there. The polish has to dry. She worked so hard on it. This is fine. He’s Superman. He can handle it.

He gigglesnorts. Lois gasps. He groans.

“Your ankles? Really?” Lois looks like a kid on Christmas morning. Clark doesn’t have air to defend himself, so he just shakes his head.

Lois goes back to his sole and he jumps. The coffee table releases a concerning creak under his foot. Worried about it, he tries to reel in his foot, but Lois starts poking under his toes, what is wrong with her?

“Okayokayokay—“ He says in one giggly rush of breath, desperately gripping her shoulders— “Genuinely, I might kick you.”

Lois gasps, mock offended. Clark rolls his eyes.

“How dare you—“

“Lois—“

“Superman threatening a member of the press? In her own home?” Lois clutches her imaginary pearls. She tries to poke him and he grabs her hands.

“All I’m saying is I don’t want to hurt you. If you tickle me there there is a high chance of that.” He implores her to understand with his eyes.

“So I can tickle you somewhere else and you’ll keep it together?” Lois raises her brow.

“That is not what I said.” Clark feels his face burn hotter than his own lasers.

“That’s exactly what you said.” Lois grins. Clark chews the inside of his cheek for a moment, thinking about it. He can’t hurt her. He can’t. But if she really has to behave like a little goblin…

“Alright, I guess…if you don’t touch my legs I think we’ll be fine.” Clark pinches the bridge of his nose again, more to hide his face than anything.

“My god, you’re so fucking cute. You didn’t actually have to tell me.” Lois blinks at him, the mischievous edge melting from her expression.

“You asked!” He laughs, half out of disbelief. It’s always this game with them. She tells him that he’s too open, too trusting, as if she didn’t hold his heart in her hands from the very first moment they met.

“Okay, well, if you’re offering, I’m taking you up on that.” She climbs on top of him on the couch. He throws his hands up between them in surrender.

“I wouldn’t say I’m offering—“ She shoves her fingers under his shirt and he cuts himself off with a bark of laughter. Her hands are way colder than he expects. He makes a mental note to start sneaking more iron-rich foods into their dinners.

Laughter spills freely from his mouth, no matter how much he fights to stop it. Stem it, at least. There’s no hope for him though, not when the thrill of her touch keeps what meager walls he possesses at bay. He peeks at her and catches a glimpse of a searing smile. His heart soars right into his throat and sticks. She’s so clearly having fun. Tormenting him, sure, but gosh….that smile.

Clark rolls over on his stomach and presses his burning face to the cushions. Seeing her look at him like that…he feels too big for his bones, like a gangly teenager all over again.

“This isn’t very effective, Clark.” She shoves her hands under his arms, seeking his ribs, and he nearly flips them both off the couch.

“T-Thank you for the feedback!” He shrieks. She laughs softly. She has no concept of how close he is to shattering her knuckles with his biceps. He can’t, so he won’t, but he could, so she really has to stop.

He rolls partially over and grabs her wrist. She finds a seam of muscle at his side and then he’s boneless, squinting at her through teary eyes.

“Alright, alright. Don’t die on me.” Lois skates her nails over his back. Goosebumps chase her fingers across his skin. He melts beneath her touch as if snow was the only thing holding him together.

“That’s nice.” He hums, shimmying back towards her. He pillows his head on his arms. She traces the taut lines of his muscles across his back and he shivers.

It was the usual routine.

Joker set off explosives and waited. They weren't near anyone, no. The intention was just to signal his favorite person.

He didn't have to wait long either, as heavy boots thudded behind him, a dark shadow casting over the clown. The knight narrowed his eyes and studied the situation.

Small explosives that had done minor damage. No one was hurt, nothing had been stolen, and Joker had waited for him. This wasn't an attack, this was a call.

"What do you want, Joker?" He asked, his voice low and gruff. This sort of thing had been happening more recently, and he didn't understand it. The clown used to blow up banks and steal diamonds, but now he seemed to just start fights with the Bat for no apparent reason.

Joker clapped his hands, delighted, and excitedly hopped from one foot to the other. "IIII~ just wanted to let you know that I've planted something somewhere in the city."

Batman studied him, confused. The Joker had never been one to harm people. Not leathally anyway. Even so, why was he telling him? "Smoke bomb? Laughing gas?" he questioned. He knew the clown well enough to know he wouldn't kill anyone.

Joker shrugged. "You'll have to find out I supp- OH-" He ducked as a fist came his way without warning. He giggled and backed away from him, ducking and dodging as more and more attacks were thrown his way.

Another punch was thrown at him, so he ducked under it and lunged forward, trying to land his own. He missed, of course, when the Batman sidestepped him, but his knuckles had grazed over his ribs, causing the vigilante to tense and almost seize a little. He covered it up by pushing the Joker forward so he'd fall, and then took off before it could be addressed or even fully registered.

But Joker noticed. Of course he did. And now he had a new, completely different mission.

And unfortunately the water bomb hadn't been found, resulting in the mayor getting soaked during a meeting.

-

It was a new night and a new moon.

The clown stepped back and grinned at his contraption. He had sent Harley home early, wanting this to be perfect.

"Really, go spend your time with Miss Ivy, I have everything taken care of." He had told her.

He looked up at the skylight he had left cracked for his vigilante to enter, and sure enough, there he was, thinking he was being clever by entering through the roof.

He watched as the Bat went to lean on the glass, only for it to tip inward, causing him to fall right down into his trap, where a mass of robotic hands caught him by his arms and legs.

For a dramatic entrance, Joker switched the lights on just then to reveal himself. "Surprise! It's me! I LIED about the hostages! I'm a liar!" he grinned.

Batman groaned in annoyance. "Of course you did. Why?" He demanded, trying to break free of the hands, but they just tightened their grip and held his arms up and his legs out.

The clown just happily circled him. "Well I couldn't help but notice a little quirk the last time we tangoed and danced with each other-"

"Please just say fight."

"- and I've made the most wonderful discovery!"

Before the vigilante could ask what he meant, more hands emerged from the floor, wiggling their fingers. And for the first time ever, the Joker saw Batman actually look nervous.

And of course he was. He didn't fear death, and he didn't fear pain. Those were things he had prepared and trained for a long time ago. But giggling and looking soft or vulnerable in front of an enemy was something he had never even considered.

He didn't beg. He didn't threaten. Instead, he glared down at this goofy little man beaming up at him, as if challenging him to do it. He was bluffing, of course, hoping the Joker would think he wasn't ticklish.

Joker knew better, of course. He acted silly but he was far from dumb. It actually would amaze most people just how smart he was. His mind almost rivaled the Bat's.

So he pressed a button, and two hands came up, swirling a single finger under each arm.

He clenched his jaw and tried his best not to tense up or squirm. He was fairly good at hiding his reactions, and didn't want to give Joker what he wanted.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when he suddenly heard the clown's voice right next to his ear. "So serious, Brucie. You and I both know you're tickle tickle ticklish~"

Startled and caught off guard, Bruce jolted and squirmed a little under the robotic fingers poking and swirling under his arms. "H-How did you-"

"Oh I've known who you were for months now. I just wanted to keep our little game going." Joker laughed, pressing another button.

One hand came up, formed a claw shape with its fingers, and vibrated right into Bruce's tummy, causing him to convulse and snort. He mentally cursed himself for having stopped wearing the extra armor around Joker, thinking he didn't need it anymore. He bit his lip to fight off the smile that so badly wanted to come out.

He hadn't experienced 'the claw' since Alfred used to chase him around for bath time when he was seven.

"Is the Bat-Belly a bad spot~?" Joker teased with a giggle. "How about here? Or here~?"

Two hands scribbled up his sides, and two rapidly squeezed just above his knees. Yet somehow he was still resistant enough to not laugh. He was fully grinning through, eyes squeezed shut, unable to fight it off.

It tickled so bad. All thirty five fingers wiggling, poking, and swirling against his skin. Underarms, belly, sides, and knees.

If he were more dramatic, he'd have called it 'Hell', but it really wasn't the worst thing he's dealt with, and if the Joker wanted to tickle instead hurt, he'd put up with this any day.

He very quickly changed his mind though, when the Joker's own hands slipped into place, kneading his fingers into the crease where his thighs met his hips.

Unable to hold back anymore, he burst into laughter. His laugh was loud, melodic, and gorgeous. It was completely unpracticed, and unfiltered. No 'Batman,' no 'Billionaire, Playboy Wayne,' it was just Bruce.

The Joker looked up at him in awe, drawn to both his laugh and his bright smile. He chuckled and rested his chin on his shoulder, continuing his ticklish attack. "That mask doesn't do much to hide those dimples, Mr. Wayne~" he teased.

Bruce felt his face go hot at the teasing, turning his head away and just hoping his cowl hid the blushing. He bucked and squirmed, twisting from side to side as he laughed frantically. It had been a long time since anyone had tickled him, and even then, it had never been this much.

His hands left his hips alone and instead rose up to softly tickle and stroke under his chin, only making the blushing worse. The knight shook his head, his loud frantic laughter shifting to a rapid stream of giggles, mixed with hiccups.

Hiccups.

The Batman.

There was no way.

Joker ducked under his arm and moved to stand in front of him, moving to tickle his ribs now, instead. He wanted a better view at his uncharacteristically bright smile.

Oh how lucky he was to be the person to not only witness it, but cause it.

Though he could tell Bat-boy was getting a bit too red, so he decided to offer him a way out.

"Forfeit, and say that I win." He said, lightly pressing his fingers into the spaces between his ribs like he was playing an instrument.

Bruce arched and twisted, his giggles kicking back up into laughter. "Whahat!?"

"Just say that I-"

"Yohou wihihin!"

The clown gasped and pulled his hands back, the robotic hands following his lead as Bruce sagged, panting and still giggling as he recovered. He raised his head to see Joker doing some kind of victory dance.

"I win~! I win~! The Batman said that I win~!" He sang as he skipped circles around him like a child.

He stopped after a while and tugged Bruce's cowl off, much to the relief of the vigilante, since he had started to get hot. The cool air hit his pink face and he leaned his head forward, trying to catch his breath.

"Is that all you wanted? Was to... tickle me?" he asked.

Gloved hands cupped his cheeks and lifted his head. "I just wanted to hear you laugh for once. Tickling was just the method. And wow.. what a laugh you have." He grinned. If this were a cartoon, he'd probably have had stars in his eyes.

Bruce didn't pull away, actually not really minding the cool fabric of the gloves against his face. He sighed. "Please let me down. And never speak of this to anyone."

"What about Harley?"

"Especially not Harley, you know she can't keep a secret. She's gonna tell Ivy." He said, nearly shuddering at the thought of Ivy using her vines on him. He knew she'd be more ruthless than Joker had been.

The clown pouted before pressing a button and releasing Bruce from the hands, having to step in and steady him before he fell. He grinned up at him. "Same time next week?"

Bruce looked down at him with a raised brow. "Sure. But next time I'm wearing my armor, and you can be the one getting tickled." he said sarcastically.