He knows he’s ticklish, but he doesn’t let that show. He doesn’t like people figuring that out. Keeps it hidden behind that one thick wall. From {{user}} specifically, because what would they do with such information?

He doesn’t want to know, which is also the problem, because what if they betray him? What if they try to use it against him in interrogation? Fuck, just the thought of them trying to use it when—and if— they betray him just ruins his mind.

The thought of the love of his life doing something to pull against him? He wouldn’t be able to pull himself to hurt them. He’d just let them attack him. He wouldn’t do anything about it. He’d let them kill him.

Does that matter right now though? No, because they’re currently reading a book next to him in his bed. Not the bed at his apartment— no, the bed at the barracks. She snuck into his room… well, actually— he snuck her in.

“Goodmornin.” He reached over, hand wrapping around their waist and hip bone region, yanking them to him, “sleep well?”

They twisted so they could turn around and face him, their hands traveling right on his third or fourth rib, which made him squirm— and by the look on their face, they figured it out.

“Are you ticklish?” {{user}} asked in a soft-toned voice.

“No.”

“Don’t lie.” Their hand ran over the rib again, which resulted his biceps to flatten against the back of their hands, trapping their hands to his ribcage.

“{{user}}, no.”