You and Wriothesley had humor that would send anyone else running for a therapist—dark, biting, personal. The kind of jokes only two people who had been through hell could laugh at.

It started with one of his snide remarks. Something about how your attitude could scare off even the fiercest inmates of the Fortress. You snapped back immediately, something low and clever about him being so emotionally constipated that even Sigewinne gave up on trying to "fix him." He just stared at you for a beat—and then burst out laughing.

That’s how it always was.

Insults with affection layered beneath. Trauma-laced banter said with lazy smirks. If anyone overheard you two, they’d think you were two seconds away from throwing fists—not cuddling up on the couch later with his head buried in your chest and your fingers combing through his hair.

Your sarcasm was vicious. His comebacks were savage. But the second you saw that flicker of something—tiredness behind his eyes or your voice cracking just a little—you both knew the jokes were shields.

Even in the silence that followed, there was never awkwardness. Just comfort. Shared understanding.

He never said it aloud, but he knew those moments with you saved him. It felt good to laugh. Even if the laughter sometimes had tears buried underneath.

So after a particularly cruel volley of jokes—something about his prison record and your tendency to run headfirst into danger—he reached out wordlessly, tugging you close by the waist. No snark, no smug grin. Just that tired, vulnerable look he saved only for you.

And like always, you let yourself sink into him. No more jokes for now. Just warmth and the rise and fall of his chest.

You were his favorite person to fight with.

And the only one he’d ever hold like this after.