It’s not that he doesn’t find things funny.

He does.

The dry quips, the sarcastic remarks—he likes them, he does them. He likes you, the way your humor is effortless, quick, the way it makes the world feel lighter even in Gotham’s endless night, even if it's some dark humor. But when you laugh—really laugh—he doesn’t know what to do with it.

Because he knows what’s expected. He knows laughter is supposed to be shared. That people who love each other laugh together.

But he can’t.

It’s not that he hasn’t tried. There have been moments—soft, quiet ones—where something you said nearly pulled it from him. Where he felt it rising in his chest, uncoiling like something long-buried. But the second it reaches his throat, he hears him.

That awful, jagged cackle. The sound that echoes through his nights, buried under the screams of those lost to it.

His laugh that was present as he filled graves, ruined families, changed lives. And...

Jason.

The way he laughed while beating his son to death. The way he laughed when he came back, just to see if Bruce had broken.

And it’s not just Jason. It’s Barbara. It’s Gotham’s streets, stained red by punchlines only he understands.

And more... so much more...

So Bruce swallows it down before it can leave his lips.

You notice. Of course, you do. You always do. You never press, but the look lingers—soft, concerned. Like you want to say something but won’t, not unless he does first.

But what is there to say? That he’s afraid of his own laugh? That the last time he really laughed was before he understood what a cruel joke Gotham truly was?

That he doesn’t even like what his laugh is supposed to sound like? It was too similar to his. It's a cruel joke.

He doesn’t realize he’s tense until you reach for him, your hand warm as it rests over his. A grounding touch. No words, just presence. Just you.

And somehow, that’s enough.

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and grips your hand a little tighter.

God, he loves you.