I keep imagining Bruce & Clark chatting over an official business call and then Tim wanders in wanting to spend time with Bruce and Bruce decides it's the perfect time to give him tickles and then Kon wanders in to see Clark because he heard screaming and laughter and Clark doesn't want to be outdone and he just grabs Kon and oh no now they're both screaming and laughing and neither of them can escape their dads' arms
not me dropping everything to write a short fic about this fhdksjhf anon what have you done /j
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a/n: this isn't the other lee!Kon wip, this is what my brain impulsively thew up in the last hour.
lee!Tim Drake, lee!Kon Kent // ler!Bruce Wayne, ler!Clark Kent
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Interrupted
Bruce hadn’t wanted to do an interview on his day off, but Clark had called in a favor and Tim was home recovering from the flu, so it wasn’t like Bruce had anything better to do. He’d stayed home the entire duration of Tim’s illness just in case some unexpected complication arose – not, of course, because he didn’t trust Alfred. Bruce just didn’t trust Tim’s rather antagonistic relationship with Murphy’s Law.
At least the subject of the interview was good. Bruce – Jason, really – was funding a new technical school that was going to open in Crime Alley. It had all been Jason’s idea and he’d presented the plan to Bruce with a portfolio and everything. He’d also been wracked with nerves, as if Bruce was going to tell him no.
Truthfully, Bruce had feared that he was going to cry instead.
Luckily, that hadn’t come up in the questions Clark had asked so far during their Zoom meeting.
The study door scraped across the carpet as someone shouldered it open. Light footsteps shuffled across the carpet until Tim poked his head in, blinking owlishly at Bruce. He still looked a little pale, but at least he was upright.
“Hey, Tim,” Bruce said, gesturing for Clark to hold on a minute. “Are you feeling okay, sweetheart?”
It seemed to take a couple seconds for the question to register, but eventually Tim gave a rather jerky nod and inched a little further into the study.
“Wanted to see you,” he murmured, muffling a yawn with the back of his hand. “Can’t sl’p.”
“You can always come see me,” Bruce replied. “I’m on a work call with Clark, but you can stay as long as you want.”
With another nod, Tim stepped all the way past the door and went to make himself comfortable. He’d probably plop down in one of the overstuffed armchairs near the fireplace, where he usually camped out whenever he was keeping Bruce company in the study. Privately, Bruce was thrilled that TIm had come to hang out, even if he was under the weather. It was always wonderful to have him in the office, even if they were working on completely different projects. Tim’s quiet company and occasional witty, biting remarks were some of the highlights of Bruce’s professional life.
“We can reschedule if you need,” Clark offered, his voice crackling in Bruce’s earpiece. “Kon’s here today, too. I get it.”
Bruce glanced back at the monitor and shook his head. “No, today is still fine, Tim’s home recovering from a nasty bout of the flu. He should be–”
Just then, Tim crawled into his lap like a cat. Bruce froze.
Clark, the bastard, started laughing.
As Bruce wrapped one of his arms around Tim’s back to help him balance while Tim arranged himself comfortably, he noticed two key details. The first was that Tim smelled strongly of artificial cherry, and the only medicine in the house with that particular cloying scent was the cough syrup with codeine. Alfred must have given him some to help with the hacking cough that, despite Tim’s insistence to the contrary, couldn’t have been comfortable. Being dosed up with cough syrup probably explained the second detail, which was that the blanket Tim held wrapped around himself was not a blanket after all. It was Batman’s cape.
Bruce rubbed a corner of the cape between his fingers, just to be sure. Maybe all the ribbing from Clark and Diana about how he was turning into a giant softmallow for his kids had something to it after all. “How did you get a hold of this?”
With a sleepy hum, Tim just pressed closer and nuzzled his (cold, runny) nose against Bruce’s neck. “I have ways.”
Chuckling, Bruce pressed a kiss to the top of his kid’s rumpled, snarly hair. Ways, indeed. He shifted Tim’s weight to wheel the chair back within a reasonable distance of his computer. In the video call window, Clark grinned like the cat who’d gotten the canary, the cream, and a million dollars to boot.
“Not a word,” Bruce warned even though he knew it was a moot point.
Clark raised his eyebrows, suddenly guileless. “Did you hear me say anything?”
Deciding not to even acknowledge that, Bruce simply continued onwards. “He’s sleeping off some cough syrup.”
“Are you good to continue the interview, then?”
“Sure.” Maybe having Tim’s warm, solid weight in his arms would make the whole thing a little more bearable.
They finished the interview, Clark asking appropriately leading questions as Bruce did his best to wax eloquent about the merits of the new technical school and its accompanying program. It was hard not to get distracted when Tim started snoring, most likely from his lingering congestion. Gently adjusting the angle of Tim’s head seemed to help, though, even though his brow furrowed into a pout when Bruce tried to let go of him.
“That should be good,” Clark said at last. Onscreen, he set down his pencil and pushed the notepad away from him. “Thanks for taking the time, B.”
“Always,” Bruce replied. Though tired, he cracked a more genuine smile and nodded down at Tim. “Thanks for your patience.”
Clark’s eyes twinkled as he grinned and reached forwards to adjust the angle of his own camera. The view into his own office wobbled upwards, then tilted down to show the ancient loveseat that was crammed up against the wall beside the door. That couch had been purloined from the Planet’s old breakroom when they’d moved offices. It was Clark’s one act of rebellion against upper management.
Now, the cushions were barely visible because Connor Kent was sprawled across them. He was tall enough that, even with his head laying on the armrest, his feet hung off the opposite end. Like Tim, he was asleep. Unlike Tim, he was drooling.
“Like I said,” Clark said from out of view. “I get it.”
As the view swooped again while Clark replaced his laptop, Tim shifted around and yawned, bringing one of his hands up to rub his eyes.
“You’re in the study,” Bruce said to him.
“Hnn.”
Clark sucked in a breath. “Aw, he speaks Bat-grunt. That’s adorable.”
“Shut up,” Bruce told him.
Meanwhile, Tim blinked rapidly as he grasped his bearings, then sat up and stretched his arms over his head, seeming much more alert. Suddenly he stiffened and tried to whirl around, but almost pitched over onto the carpet.
“Easy there, sweetheart,” Bruce murmured. He tightened his grip on Tim’s waist and kept him from toppling sideways.
“I interrupted your meeting,” Tim hissed, looking up at him with wild eyes. “By climbing on you and falling asleep.”
Bruce brushed a strand of hair out of his kid’s face. “It was sweet.”
“It’s embarrassing!”
Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce saw someone else slide into frame beside Clark. He turned off his wireless headset so that Tim could hear Kon, who'd woken up and was now leaning over Clark’s shoulder.
“For what it’s worth,” Clark offered. “It was sweet.”
All that did was make Tim groan and hide his face against Bruce’s collarbone with a sworn promise to never come out ever again.
“How ya feelin, Rob?” Kon asked with a smirk that was audible in his voice.
Still not emerging from his burrow, Tim twisted one of his arms behind him to make an obscene gesture at his friend. It took a surprising amount of resolve for Bruce to refrain from rolling his eyes, but instead he pinched Tim’s side.
“Language.”
Startled, Tim squeaked, but he glowered up at Bruce with a dark blush staining his face. “I didn’t say anything!”
“Gestures count. That’s always been Alfred’s rule.”
Tim muttered something unintelligible and probably unflattering, then resumed his best approximation of what Dick usually called “burrowing gremlin behavior.” Now, that wouldn’t do.
“No hiding,” Bruce said. He poked Tim a little higher up in-between his lower ribs. “Don’t you want to talk to Kon?”
Kon evidently knew what Bruce was trying to do – good lad – and perked up, saying, “Yeah, Tim, talk to me!”
“Noooo,” Tim replied as best he could while squirming as Bruce brought his other hand up to tease at his other set of ribs. “Uncle Clahahark, ma–make him stohohop!”
Whatever Clark said in reply got drowned out when Bruce leaned forward to give Tim a sudden flurry of ticklish nibbles and raspberries around his neck and chin, earning Bruce a loud squeak and frantic, high-pitched laughter for his exertions. That tactic had a hundred-percent success rate on each of his sons, especially at times like this when Bruce hadn’t shaved in a couple days.
“Careful, sweetheart,” Bruce teased, abandoning his hold on Tim’s ribs to dig into his stomach. “You’ve got an awfully ticklish belly here, who knows when the tickle monster might get hungry.”
Tim shrieked when Bruce kept letting his hands crawl up and down Tim’s ribs in teasing skitters too. Wriggling rather ferociously, Tim managed to slide down a couple inches until his feet were flat against the carpet, but it didn’t seem like his legs were up to the task of standing.
Blushing a brilliant shade of scarlet, Tim just threw back his head and giggled helplessly Bruce poked, prodded, and wheedled his fingers into every ticklish nook and cranny he could find.
“Hey,” Kon said. Since Tim was in no shape to look at the monitor, Bruce did instead. Leaning forward, palms planted on the desktop, Connor continued, “I can’t understand him, Bruce, and he’s supposed to be talking to me. Please, I’m so bored. Clark’s old and annoying and – oh fuck, waitwaitIDIDN’TMEHEHEAN IT!”
All Bruce could see were Clark’s hands coming into view as they squeezed at Kon’s sides and worked upwards under his arms. When Kon snorted through his laughter and collapsed, his knees folding like wet paper, Clark stood behind him, brow tilted in a manner that promised both affection and mischief.
“He’s too ticklish to be out here saying things like that,” Clark said. He had to raise his voice over the sound of Kon’s stuttering, wild laughter.
That sounded like Bruce’s own kids, and he nodded in sympathy. “Gotta keep them on their toes.”
“Sure do,” Clark agreed. He ducked out of sight and did something that made Kon screech out waves of panicked laughter, kicking his feet out in desperate attempts to alleviate some of the ticklish feelings.
Since Tim had been sick and was still healing, Bruce wasn’t going to take this little game too much further. Sending him into a fit of coughs that just irritated his lungs more would hardly be productive, and would rain down Alfred’s legendary disapproval. Even as a grown adult and feared vigilante, there were some things Bruce would still avoid at all possible costs.
As Tim’s giggles pitched up when Bruce scratched over the twin spots beside his navel, Bruce leaned down to speak directly into his ear even though the vibrations from his voice would probably send Tim into another squeaking fit.
“I always want you here,” he said softly. “Work meetings or otherwise. Crawling up to sit with me or crouching on top of my bookshelf like a gargoyle. Sick or healthy.You never need to be embarrassed about coming to find me, Timmy.”
“Yeah,” Tim squeaked out. “I – I knohohohohow, I prahahamise!” His eyes scrunched shut as he shook his head like he was trying to shake off the inevitable ticklish feelings.
Bruce gave him one more raspberry into the crook of his neck. Just for fun. And because the way Tim’s laughter bubbled out of him tugged at Bruce’s heart.
“Okay,” he said. In the next couple minutes, he slowed the speed of his tickling until he was resting his palms on Tim’s stomach and Tim was busy catching his breath between residual fits of snickers.
Meanwhile, onscreen, Kon was laughing himself silly while Clark had him trapped in a backwards hug and was tickling up and down his flanks in unpredictable movements that kept startling Kon into snorting. This was the first time Bruce had seen the younger Kryptonian laugh like that, all wild and unrestrained. It was clear that, as much as Kon complained, he looked up to Clark immensely.
And Clark, in return, was getting more confident with his role in Kon’s life. They were good for each other.
“Oh.” Tim shifted forwards, squinting at the screen. “Good. Clark, don’t listen, he’s enjoying himself.”
“Alright,” Bruce reached out to end the call as Kon shouted something that sounded like a giggle-mangled death threat. “Don’t torment him, it isn’t nice.”
As Tim settled back against him, he gave Bruce a tired, happy smile. “I’m just stating facts, Bruce.”
this is not any of the projects i'm supposed to be working on lol, but the second that @lockedopus posted these mer art pieces my brain immediately locked on to the Bruce & Dick one and i couldn't stop or help myself lol
mind you, this is unedited and was written on my phone over the course of multiple days but almost always when I was about to fall asleep or just waking up, so dont judge it too harshly sdjfkhsdf
but, enjoy!!!!
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Fandom: Batfamily (no specific source material/continuity)
Ship(s): Gen!!! Platonic!! Familial!! No batcest here
Characters (lee/ler): Lee!Dick & Ler!Bruce
Word Count: 1300 words
Summary: Dick doesn't care what Bruce says, he was absolutely cheating at stealth training.
[ao3 link]
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Dick rocketed through the reef, buffeting the coral with currents from his tail. He’d always been strong, he needed the speed and control when he performed with his parents, but that wouldn’t be enough to save him from his pursuer. He was at a size disadvantage here, and even his speed couldn’t match the power and stamina behind a predator of that size. Stealth had never been Dick’s strong suit, especially with the bright, eye-catching colors of his juvenile scales, but that’s where the reef came in.
The turns were tight, the pathways cramped, but that’s where Dick’s small size did provide an advantage. Get the eyes off him, then find a proper place to hide. Just like he’d been taught. After winding through several nooks and crevices, Dick finally slowed to a stop in a little alcove bracketed by corals of vibrant reds and oranges. The red and yellow of his tail would blend nicely, here — the green, not so much. He’d just have to hope it looked like algae at a distance, a simple part of the ecosystem from any hunters swimming above. His gills fluttered down the column of his neck, but he forced his breathing steady. Moments later, a black blur shot past his hiding place. Dick resisted the urge to flinch away or duck down; the movement would only catch a hunter’s eye and give him away.
Heart pounding, Dick counted the seconds. Every little movement set him on edge, from the idle sway of nearby seaweed to fish darting past. Eventually, his coiled muscles started to relax. Was he successful? Did he evade his pursuer? The black scales would’ve starkly stood out in such a colorful reef, and he hadn’t felt the subtle currents of something large moving through the water in several minutes. Slowly, Dick started creeping out of his hiding spot, making sure to check above him. The coast was clear, but only for now. All he had to do was get back to the pod’s cavern and—
Large hands snapped around Dick’s waist, digging in before he could even react. A shriek tore from his throat, making room for his heart to settle there instead. He thrashed his tail, wrenched at the arms of his captor, but to no avail. Even as the fingers kept probing, the hands reeled him back against a broad chest. Startled speechless with no chance to brace himself, Dick was helpless to succumb to his laughter. His captor’s chest rumbled with its own fond chuckle.
“Caught you, little fishie,” Bruce hummed.
Dick chittered in protest, but before he could remind Bruce that he was not a guppy, thank you very much, Bruce’s fingers launched upward and buried themselves in his armpits. Dick’s laughter jumped again, interspersed with screechy yelps. His gills flapped against his neck as they tried to keep up.
“Now, where did you go wrong, chum?”
Dick shook his head, turning to look at Bruce over his shoulder. “I didn’t! You’re just a cheat!”
“Oh? And how would I do that? I can’t sniff you out Dickie, I’m not a shark.”
“I dunno! You just— did!”
Bruce hummed, pausing his attack. Dick sagged in his arms, twitching as the idle currents of the water jostled him against Bruce’s still fingers. He couldn’t help the nervous chitters that escaped him, nor the flush that crawled up his face as Bruce’s mouth ticked up into a smirk from the sound.
“You know what? You may be right.”
Dick twisted around even more, narrowing his eyes up at Bruce. He knew Bruce had to have cheated! He’d been hidden so well. There was no way—
“Let’s see.” Bruce hauled Dick up even closer, tucking his nose close to Dick’s neck. He took a long sniff.
Oh. Oh, no.
“You’re onto something there, chum. Looks like I can sniff things out like a shark — but you know what I smell instead of blood?”
Dick bit his lip, squirming in Bruce’s arms. “What?”
Bruce inched his face closer and murmured, “Ticklish little fish.” He gave a menacing growl, fully burying his face in the crook of Dick’s neck. “And I’m hungry.”
Dick squealed as Bruce nuzzled in. Bruce’s growling vibrated into the sensitive skin of Dick’s neck, even as his stubble caught on the seams of his now-sealed gills with every movement. When he brought his sharp teeth into the mix, nipping at the skin as if he were eating Dick and making ridiculous “om-nom-nom” noises, Dick was lost. His giggles were frantic and squeaky and panicked, and he was dizzy with how giddy and bubbly he felt. While his neck wasn’t one of his worst spots, Bruce’s proximity and teasing never failed to make him feel like he was buzzing out of his own skin. It was like it made everything nelse feel more ticklish.
Which was a problem when Bruce brought his hands back into the mix, skittering and squeezing up and down Dick’s sides. He rocketed into belly laughter, tugging at Bruce’s wrists and trying to force Bruce out of his neck with his head and shoulder. When none of that worked, he resorted to beating his tail backwards against Bruce’s own.
“Oh, really? You sure you wanna do that?”
Dick threw his tail back particularly hard, just to be a menace.
Bruce hummed into his neck, drawing out one last squeal, before Dick was suddenly released and the world went spinning. He yelped, trying to get his bearings. Before he could, he felt Bruce’s hands lock on to the base of his tail, just above his fins.
Dick sucked in a giddy breath. “Bruce, wait!”
Bruce did not wait. He squeezed up and down the muscles beneath Dick’s scales with one hand, using the other to keep his grip. Dick burst into cackles, twisting up his tail to try and dislodge Bruce or pull his hands away or something. In response, Bruce started swimming backwards. Not quickly, but enough that the drag of water pulled Dick taut and kept him stuck there, since all his laughter and squirming had left him feeling like his muscles were made of jellyfish.
He snorted when Bruce squeezed at the lower half of his tail, snickering and wiggling as much as he could. The upper half of his tail, though? Dick thought he might lose his mind. His scales provided no protection, the ticklish sparks digging so deep that it felt as though his entire nervous system was lighting up with them. He couldn’t speak or bargain or free himself, all Dick could do was laugh himself silly while Bruce the Tickle-Shark tickled all the giggles out of him.
He’d never say it to Bruce’s face, but this was his favorite part of training.
Eventually, Dick’s laughter went silent, and Bruce had mercy. He stopped swimming and hauled Dick up into his arms, chuckling as Dick hiccuped out residual giggles and giddy chitters. After a few minutes, Dick heaved a sigh and snuggled deeper into Bruce’s hold, clicking at him with contentment. Bruce clicked back.
“Back with me, chum?”
“Mhm.” Dick nodded, stretching out his tail and back as best he could without shifting out of Bruce’s arms.
“Alright. Same rules as before: stealth, speed, and agility to get back to the cave, don’t let me catch you. This time, don’t only look up before trying to sneak away. You have a five second headstart.”
Dick gaped up at Bruce. He raised an eyebrow, a corner of his mouth twitching like he was hiding a smile. “Five, four—“
Dick shot out of Bruce’s arms and back into the coral reef, his giggles back with a vengeance. With the giddy swoop to his stomach and the silly grin he couldn’t fight down, Dick figured he wouldn’t win this time either.
Tim's smaller stature compared to the rest of his family results in him being carried a lot, it also results in them messing with him just for the fun of it
Word Count: 6, 714
Warnings: No Warnings
This is a SFW tickle fic, if you don’t like that then don’t read :)
Tim is not small. He’s just lean.
Despite his gained muscle and protein-rich diet provided by Alfred, his body refuses to relinquish its need to be the human embodiment of Bambi. It didn’t used to be a problem when he was younger - being a smaller build allowed him to trail Batman and Robin easily and photograph them without being spotted. Now, however, he’s cursing his genetics for how they’ve forsaken him within Wayne Manor. Resigning to the routine of being manhandled and tackled by several family members was not on Tim’s bingo card when he forced Bruce to make him Robin. As a result, he’s constantly reminded of his stature by the walking tanks that are his family members.
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It begins with a motorcycle engine revving up the driveway.
Then the door bangs open without a knock.
Then a voice hollering through the foyer, “TIMOTHY JACKSON DRAKE-WAYNE!”
Now, Tim is running for his fucking life.
Granted, it all sounds rather intimidating, like some kind of abusive family member coming home. This, however, is just Tim being the only person at the manor when the raging typhoon known as Dick Grayson comes home from Bludhaven and needs his hug quota filled.
Tim skids across Alfred’s newly waxed floors, praying he isn’t leaving scuff marks as he bolts up a stairway. Unfortunately, Dick is right behind him.
“Timmy~!” He’s cooing, a manic grin on his face as he uses banisters and lighting fixtures to catch up to the teenager.
“Go back to Blud!” Tim yells over his shoulder, a cackle in his voice. He vaults over a table and books it into the next room.
“But I missed my baby brother!”
“Well, he didn’t miss you!”
Dick gasps in mock offence. “Liar!”
Tim is lying; he’s one thousand percent lying, but telling Dick will only boost his ego, and he has a big enough one already. So instead, he just sticks his tongue out over his shoulder and keeps running. The chase only lasts as long as Tim’s legs do, and while they are gangly as all hell, Dick has more stamina and experience in hunting down wily targets.
It isn’t long before arms encircle Tim’s middle, and he’s swept right off his feet with a gasp of laughter. He’s being held hostage in the air by a bear hug from Dick who looks far too pleased with himself. Tim’s panting for air, a blinding grin on his face as he tips his head back and bonks it against the top of his brother’s.
“Hi.” He greets, able to feel Dick’s rapid heartbeat from how close he’s pressed to the older boy’s chest. Good. Tim feels vindicated he isn’t alone in being out of breath from that chase. He made it further than the last time Dick visited, a whole five minutes instead of three.
“Heya, Baby Bird,” Dick returns the grin, squeezing Tim against him a little tighter before loosening again. He’s not putting him down, though, not yet. Dick hasn’t visited in almost a month; he needs this. “You’ve gotten faster.”
Tim lets himself go boneless in the embrace, trying not to feel too miffed that, despite his height, Dick can still hold him off a good few centimeters off the floor. “And you’re still cheating,” he shoots back.
“Cheating?” Dick sends him a confused look, then it quickly morphs into one of exasperated fondness. “Bruce replaced the lights again; they’re strong enough to support body weight. So, naturally, they’re allowed in the game again.”
“Bull,” Tim snorts, knowing full well that it isn’t. He’d actually been the one to tell Bruce to reinforce the lights again knowing how bummed out Dick got when he couldn’t fulfil his acrobatic impulses on ageing furniture. Forget the gym in the manor, chandeliers are where the challenge is at.
Dick’s eyes narrow as his lips twist into a smug little smirk. He’s looking at Tim far too closely, and the boy suddenly has a thought. Did Bruce tell him it was me?
“You know what, Timmy,” He says. “I heard an interesting little tidbit that the lights weren’t reinforced due to rust or the manor getting old; it was actually your idea.”
Shit. Bruce did. Dick was going to be insufferable about this, wasn’t he?
Tim meets his eye and smirks. “You’ll never prove it.”
He acts fast. With Dick’s arms around his middle, Tim bends his torso over and manages to grab the older boy around his ankle. He yanks his weight back up and brings the leg with him, delighting in Dick’s surprised shout. The older vigilante is forced to release the boy, twisting himself to break his fall in a dramatic tumble. Tim shoots off again, a Robin-esque cackle pulling from his throat as he barrels down the hallway once more.
“Oh, you’re gonna get it, Timmy!” Dick’s footfalls fly right after him, but his voice is nothing but proud. Tim tries not to let that get to his head.
But the prior chase did use a lot of his stamina, and that hug attack was barely considered a break. He makes it down the same flight of stairs he’d run up before, through two corridors, and then skids into the kitchen. Dick barrels in before Tim can get out the adjacent door, effectively cornering him by pacing the opposite side of the marble island.
“What’s the plan here, Baby Bird?” Dick’s eyes have a wicked gleam, delighted that Tim is dragging their game out. Usually, it only lasts until Dick catches the kid; this was the first time Tim had broken the hold - and in a way Dick had taught him, no less!
Tim is puffing, cheeks flushed, and hair mussed as he shifts his weight from left to right, his brain firing off plans, but none of them will work. He’s boxed himself in with a lion. “Why would I tell you?” he snips anyway.
“‘Cause I’m curious about your move.”
He doesn't have one, that’s the problem. Judging by the glint in Dick’s eyes, he knows it too. Dick hums, narrowing his gaze. “Lemme take the initiative then.” And then jumps across the counter.
Tim screams, banking a hard right and skidding around the island. “Cheating!” He yells, stumbling over his feet and cursing his clumsiness when he gets giddy. He runs into one of the many lounges and tries to reach the door that’ll lead out to the garden, only for a weight to slam into his back and take him to the ground.
Dick is fast, contorting himself to ensnare Tim into another hug; the dreaded, patented ‘Octopus Hug’, and Tim knows he’s completely fucked. Though he tries to escape anyway. Dick lets him get his energy out, squirming and straining against his body weight and even attempting to bite Dick once, before he eventually gives up and slumps back. Defeated.
“What is it with you guys and biting?” Dick asks with an amused snort. “Jason did it fresh off the streets, Damian does it when he gets grumpy, and now you too?”
Tim tips his head back to grin at Dick. “I only bite Jason. …Actually, I once bit Riddler cause he wouldn’t stop waving his dumbass staff at me while monologuing, and to be fair, he’d kidnapped me. I think he deserved it."
Dick ruffles his hair. “Atta boy.”
Tim pretends he doesn't preen under the affection or praise, but the small, fond huff that leaves his big brother tells him he’s failed miserably. Dick kisses the top of his head while Tim is still leaning back. Definitely, definitely failed.
“Gross,” Tim sniffs to save face, shaking his hair as if to rid it of cooties.
Dick gasps, overdramatic and wounded. Tim is rolling his eyes before the guy even starts monologuing, going on about betrayal and ‘little brothers will never fail to pierce this poor heart.’ He snaps his teeth at Dick’s arm where it’s crossed over his chest, and snickers when the man wrenches it back with a yelp.
“Oi!”
“Sorry, should’ve corrected that earlier statement, I don’t just bite Jason and Riddler, I also bite anyone annoying enough to monolOGUH! HEHEHehey!” Tim’s smug words are swallowed up by a frenzied fit of cackles, body twisting to evade the fingers suddenly clawing at his stomach.
“No, go on, Timmy, I’m listening,” Dick hums. “Something about biting people who never deserve it?”
“Yohohou sohoho deseheherve ihihit!” Tim squeaks back.
“Oh, do I now?”
Dick sneaks his fingertips under Tim’s shirt, softening his clawing till it's just the tips of his nails ghosting the boy’s belly with gentle skitters. Tim squeals and shoves the side of his face into Dick’s chest, trying to stomp one of his feet or free an arm to smack away those pesky fingers. He’s stuck firm, though, resigned to a fate of wheezing and squeaking in laughter.
Dick marvels at how strong Tim is actually getting, having to put effort into keeping the teenager down despite the tickling wreaking havoc on his nerves. A few months ago, Tim wouldn’t even be able to swing an arm, way too unfamiliar with tickling as a form of play after spending a lonely childhood on his own. Dick and Bruce made sure to introduce it to him when he lived at the manor full-time. It was a precious sight seeing Tim curl up on the floor and laugh till he was red in the face, unsure of how to defend himself from such a silly threat. Now, Dick was struggling to keep him pinned, and he couldn’t be prouder.
“You broke the earlier hold- well done by the way, so surely you should be able to get out of this one too, right?” He encourages, shifting his ghosting fingers along Tim’s hip and up his side.
Tim shakes his head rapidly, squeezing his eyes shut against the sensations crawling over his skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake. It was like a caterpillar trailing up his side, straight for-
“DIHIHICK!” Tim shrieks, hands flapping from where they’re pinned to try and fend Dick off, while also twisting to escape. Neither pays him much dividends at all. The caterpillar fingers have found Tim’s ribs and still wouldn’t increase pressure, trailing over the sensitive bones and slipping into the grooves in between.
Dick snorts. “Were you saying my name or insulting me?”
“BOHOHOTH!”
“That tracks.”
Tim squirms and tries to kick one last time, then just becomes dead weight, shoving his face into his hand and muffling the high-pitched giggles tumbling out of him abundantly. Huh. Maybe he wasn’t breaking the octopus hold today afterall. That’s alright, Dick would keep practicing with the kid till he got it.
“Are you hiding from me?” Dick leans close to his ear to growl, gleeful when Tim cringes away from his breath and giggles harder. “I’m not going anywhere, Baby Bird.”
“Y-Yohohou’re leheheaving ohon Mondahahay!” Tim gasps out, shoving the side of his head against his shoulder to block Dick from teasing the sensitive skin.
Dick hums. “I suppose I’d better make the most of the time here then, huh?”
He blows a fat raspberry on the newly exposed side of Tim’s neck while drilling his fingers into the top ribs. The scream Tim let out was horror-cinema worthy.
______
Tim blinks hard, staring up at the light-polluted sky with not a single star in sight. Funny, just a minute ago, he was up there, swinging through the buildings with Batman. Now, though, the stretches of the alleyway loom over him, dark windows providing no insight into where the hell he is. Tim squints harder at the sky, fumbling with his thoughts that are currently the equivalent of silk ribbons. He’s not in excruciating pain, a good sign thus far. Nothing actually hurts at all, if anything he just feels like he’s on a shit ton of morphine; floaty and at ease, right at home on the ,cold asphalt of a random Gotham alley.
“Red Robin!”
Heavy boots hit the ground nearby, and suddenly, Batman is crouched in his line of sight. The small pull on his eyeholes, while minimal to anyone who doesn't know Batman’s tells, is his equivalent of freaking out.
“Hey, B,” Tim greets breezily in an attempt to calm him, blinking a bit harder to clear the weird blurriness from his eyes. He grins, a bit sheepish. “I think I slipped.”
It seems to do the trick; Bruce looks less panicked, though still worried. “Ivy hit you with pollen. You managed to get to ground before passing out.”
Huh, well, that explains the sudden alleyway awakening. “Whoops.”
Tim is greeted by a flat stare. The Batman equivalent of a resting bitch face. “Are you injured anywhere?” He asks.
“Just my pride.” Tim blinks. He blinks again. He blinks a third time just for fun. Weird, he’d never felt this floaty with Ivy’s concoctions before. “...What kind of pollen was I hit with?”
Bruce pauses in reaching into his belt pockets, looking down at Tim carefully. “I didn’t see the flower,” he says. “What did it look like?”
Tim lifts his arms up - and holy jelly-limbs, Batman, was that an odd experience - and holds them a good few feet apart. “Yay big,” he slurs eloquently. “Kinda pink and purple, little bit of blue…” Suddenly, he swings an arm to grab Bruce’s bicep. His eyes are wide behind his mask as a realisation hits him. “It was a bisexual flower, B.”
Bruce is quiet for a long moment. His expression is neutral, but Tim has long since learned Wayne-Family mannerisms and knows that the man is dismayed. “...Symptoms.” He eventually says, a demand, not a request.
Ah, he didn’t know the flower. This was a new pollen.
Tim thinks for a moment, cataloguing himself. “Floaty.” That was afterall his most prominent thought when he woke up, so he may as well say it. “No pain. Kinda nice, actually.”
Bruce’s shoulders come down a touch at that. One less hallucinogenic nightmare plant in Gotham is always good. “A non-lethal deterrent, then. Possibly for younger civilians to incapacitate them.”
Tim snaps his fingers and points in Bruce’s general direction. “Mmm, yep, that’s the one.” He agrees, his arms falling back to his sides finally.
He stares up at the sky again as Bruce rustles nearby, trying to scrape together his thoughts in light of this new pollen. They’d need to report on it tonight anyway, so it pays to stay on top of things. As Tim stews, words slip from his mouth in a stream of consciousness. “It was a bisexual plant… maybe that’s why it targeted me. Though with that logic, you definitely should’ve gotten targeted too. Or maybe it’s an age thing if it really is for younger civilians. I’m not saying you’re old, but if the intended target-”
Hands slip under Tim, and suddenly he’s lifting into the air. He squawks, grabbing blindly for a moment before finding Bruce’s cape and hanging on for dear life. An odd cascade of tingles shoots down his back from replacing cold asphalt with human warmth, as if his veins have popping candy intermingled through them. He can’t help but nestle a bit closer, suddenly very aware of the small shivers that have been wracking his body.
Bruce is speaking as he adjusts Tim in his arms. “We’re going back to the cave. We need to make sure this isn’t going to get worse, you’re delirious enough as is.”
Tim tunes the man out as he registers, albeit a bit belatedly, that Bruce is bridal carrying him as if he weighs nothing. He stares up at Bruce and has to resist hiding in his hands at how fucking embarrassed he suddenly feels. Drugged or not, there’s something about your dad being able to hold you at seventeen, like you’re still a baby, that’s a bit mortifying.
“I can walk,” he grumbles, twisting his shoulders in an attempt to leave the comfortable warmth.
“Say Worcestershire, and I’ll let you down,” was Bruce’s immediate rebuttal.
Tim’s eyes narrow to slits behind his mask. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, his thoughts muddled, and his neurons barely firing. “...Fuck you.” He mumbles, for lack of a better response. His brain is way too sluggish to even attempt that word, and Bruce damn knows it too. “That’s bullying.”
Bruce’s lip twitches, not dignifying his kid with a reply as he shifts through shadows back towards the Batmobile. Oh, they’re moving, Tim didn’t even realise it. The gentle rocking of Bruce’s arms was making his brain even less coherent. One thing that stood out, though, was that they had just fought Ivy. Bruce had to be exhausted. After all, he’d managed to catch the villainess before finding Tim in that alley. Tim put it together from the dead plants he could see lining the streets, and the distant flashing lights of an Arkham van and GPD cars. Bruce managed to do it on his own while Tim went ahead and got himself hit with a new funky pollen, and was now pulling Tim’s weight again by carrying him.
Tim refused to be more of a burden than he was tonight. Bruce shouldn’t have to lug him around. “B.” Tim twists more, and Bruce tightens his grip in response, fingers digging into Tim’s ribs.
It feels like an electric shock straight to his nervous system. Tim gasps out a staggered yelp and tries to curl into a ball, something bubbly and erratic building in his chest which causes him to shake in Bruce’s arms.
“Red?” Bruce has stopped dead in his tracks, staring down at Tim with thinly veiled worry. “What’s wrong? Symptoms, now.”
Tim shakes his head, still tightly wound up in the man’s grip as he tries to calm down. The press of fingertips into his ribs would’ve normally warranted a wince, and maybe a squeak if he hadn’t been anticipating it. However, Bruce had only poked into the grooves, and Tim is struggling to rein in the frantic giggles gathering in his chest. Fizzing energy buzzed over the bones initially, but it’s lingering there, despite Bruce’s fingers not moving. As he shakes in Bruce’s arms, the man grows more and more concerned, watching his kid tremble and hiss out small, measured breaths.
The pollen wasn’t a non-lethal deterrent; it wasn’t low-priority, Tim wasn’t okay, and they needed to get back to the manor now. “Hang on, Red.” Bruce takes off at a jog and tightens his hold again to keep the boy from slipping.
A loud, startled giggle breaks through Gotham’s cool air and forces Bruce to a halt, staring down at his arms because that came from Tim. Tim, who is pressing a hand to his mouth and squirming in Bruce’s arms, the other hand batting at the fingers that are pressed against his ribs again.
“Behehehe- B, dohohon’t,” Tim whines, tightly coiled against his chest in an attempt to lean away from those digits. It doesn't help. After the initial squeeze, the tingling in his ribs has only doubled, and once again, lingers there. Bruce isn’t even trying to tickle him; the pollen simply takes the contact and keeps it stored within the bones, as if maintaining the memory of sensation. Tim kicks a leg out of Bruce’s hold as a way to cope with the consistent buzzing through his ribcage. “Behehehe!”
Bruce is thoroughly baffled. Is this a Joker and Ivy team-up? A new botanical concoction using Joker Gas? The flower had seemed like an air defusal type, it would make sense for the two to mix-
“Stohohop- poking.” Tim gasps, cutting through Bruce’s frantic musings. “Ihihit’s mahaking ihit wohorse!”
As his brain puts it together, Bruce feels his shoulders unwind - not fully, but enough to let him breathe a bit easier. Ticklish. That’s what’s going on with his kid. A small smile ghosts over Bruce’s face. “Symptoms,” he says, walking back to the Batmobile despite there being a snickering teenager in his arms.
Fuck, now?! Tim wants to demand, but his breath is currently being used to deploy an army of badly concealed giggles, his one gloved hand making a poor shield from the entourage. He shifts in place in Bruce’s arms and forces his mind into ‘Red Robin’ mode, hoping that talking might distract him from the tickling. “Neherves are hypersensitihihive, any tohohouch is h-held in plahahace within the bohohody. Kinda cold, buhut human cohohontact is helping.”
“I didn’t realise you were cold.” Bruce’s hand rubs along his side, like he usually does when one of his kids is cold on a stakeout. Only now…
“Dahahamnit, B!” Both of Tim’s hands shoot down to stop the fingers brushing over his flank that’s sending spider-like tickles crawling over the nerves. His free leg kicks again, attempting to redirect some of the kinetic energy curling around his torso, only for Bruce’s hand to grab the limb in a secure hold again. “Wait, dON’T- shihihihihit!”
Tim fully crumples into Bruce’s arms as both hands come up to clamp over his face, guffaws muffled behind his palms. Bruce’s fingers had pressed into Tim’s kneecap, and while it isn’t a direly ticklish spot most of the time, it seems this pollen really dials things up a margin.
“BRUhu- Bahahatmahahan!” Tim quickly redirects his words, rubbing his boots together to shake off the newly introduced buzzing in his knee.
“The more you keep squirming, the more I have to readjust, Red.” Bruce speaks in his usual cadence of Batman, it’s only cause Tim knows him that he can hear the underlying amusement. And the worst part is, he’s right. Every flinch and wriggle Tim makes to evade the ticklish sensations has Bruce shifting his fingers to secure the boy again. The tingles are now permanent residents in his ribs, knees, and sides, much to the boy’s dismay.
“Ihihi cahan’t hehelp ihihit!” Tim whines, boyish laughter squeaking a pitch higher as Bruce’s fingers ‘accidentally’ shift closer to his upper ribs. Tim’s hands fling from his mouth to slap at the offending digits. “BEHEHEhehehehe!”
Bruce really has to tamp down his smile at the sound. He shushes Tim gently, flattening his fingers so there’s no chance of them wriggling against the boy’s dialed-up nerves. “Alright, alright. Try to calm down a bit, Red. You’re almost the same colour as your suit.”
It sounds so clinical in the Batman voice, like Bruce isn’t making his kid giggle himself mad. Though the instruction is sound, he really doesn't want to attract too much attention to the pair of them with his volume. Especially if there’s anyone who thinks they might take a swing, he isn’t sure he’d be any use in a fight like this. Hell, his brain is barely thinking past; it tickles.
He clamps his hands back over his mouth, feeling the heat of his face past his gloves, to his embarrassment. He curls against Bruce’s chest and tries not to squirm too much at the ticklish sparks that are slowly leaving his system, his laughter softening from a stream of giggles to breathy chuckles.
When they finally get the Batmobile, the shocks have subsided. Bruce eases Tim out of his arms and opens the door for the kid, letting him topple into the passenger seat and coil into a ball. He heads around the car and climbs in too, firing up the engine and charting out the fastest course for home. After flipping the heaters on for Tim, he buzzes the coms.
“Alfred.”
“Master Bruce?”
“Set up decontamination, as well as the chemical and toxin kits.”
“What’s happened?”
“Tim got hit with a new pollen; we need to make an antidote and monitor it. Non-lethal, but still could pose an issue in the field… for some.”
Tim curls tighter into his ball and flips Bruce off with a muffled grumble. Bruce does him a service by not prodding him in response. “It seems to induce a form of hyperesthesia, and also takes on side effects we’ve seen from Cuddle Pollen. Some heated blankets might be beneficial.”
“Very well then, I shall expect you two shortly. Do look after him, Master Bruce.”
The coms beep as the line is disconnected, and Bruce focuses on the drive. Somewhat. “No other symptoms beyond what we’ve seen tonight?”
Tim lifts his head a margin to see if he’s joking, then sighs. “No, same as before, just a bit fatigued now.”
“Hm, strange. I wonder what might’ve caused that.”
Tim glares dryly at him. It takes all of Bruce’s training not to crack into a smirk. “You’re wounding my pride further.” Tim grunts, though it’s clear he’s trying to save face from his flustered state. “It’s dying, Bruce. You broke your own rule and killed it.”
Bruce hums. Tim knows that hum. He hears it when Bruce watches the boys squabble over video games, or when they're forced to come up with unique insults to avoid paying the swear jar toll because Alfred is within hearing range. He smacks Bruce’s shoulder, not caring that the man is driving, his pride needed to be defended. If they die in a car crash, so be it. “Stop finding this funny. I’m a victim here.”
“Of course. I’m sorry, Chum.”
Tim groans and buries his face in his knees. “No, you’re not.”
The pads of Bruce’s fingers brush softly against the skin on the back of Tim’s neck, making the boy squeak and press against the door of the car as he giggles madly. He glares at Bruce, though there’s no heat, just the shy embarrassment of a teenage boy.
There’s another hum, this one is somehow fonder. It makes Tim’s ears burn pinker. “No, I’m really not.”
______
Screw Mr Freeze. Screw Winter in Gotham. And screw Bruce’s OCD paranoia for documenting every bit of new technology invented by wackjobs.
Jason’s tired, cold, and irritated beyond belief. He desperately wants to just crash into his bed and sleep for three days straight. Not one villain could give him the courtesy of forcing him into a coma tonight. It would’ve saved him the extra post-mission work.
Stomping up the stairs of the Batcave, he flexes his stiff fingers that feel impossibly colder after his motorcycle ride. Of all the times to forget his gloves, and he does it on an evening where Mr Freeze is galavanting around Gotham like it’s his own personal winter wonderland. Typical. He finally reaches the top of the stairs and barely suppresses an annoyed groan. Tim is hunched over the keys of the Batcomputer and typing at a staggering speed. Undoubtedly, he’s invested in his own case and hopped up on enough Zesti that he could climb the walls without a grapple assisting him.
Briefly, Jason considers asking Tim if he could make up tonight’s report in exchange for more of that ghastly drink. Then he imagines Alfred kicking his ass if the man ever caught wind of Jason being an enabler.
…Best not hop into a second grave early.
“Oi, Replacement.” Jason kicks a wheel of the chair and smirks when Tim glowers darkly at him - as if that restored his dignity after initially squeaking in surprise.
“What?” he grunts.
“Wow, someone’s grouchy tonight.”
Tim's glare somehow gets drier, his shoulders bunching together as he turns back to the computer. “I'm working, Jason.” He growls, clearly attempting to tune the older boy out and dive back into his own files.
“You don’t say, I didn’t even notice.” Jason leans on the back of the chair and briefly glances at the screen, scanning the names and numbers spanning across it in a blurred wall of text. Jesus. Whatever it was, it was algebra to Jason’s exhausted brain. He really needed to get his shit done and go to bed. “I need the computer.”
His hand lands on Tim's shoulder, going to jostle him - hopefully out of the chair - only Tim wrenches away and claps a palm over his neck where Jason’s fingers had marginally brushed. “Dude, you're fucking freezing,” he hisses, rubbing the offended area despite the touch only lasting a split second.
“Yeah, no shit.” Jason snarks right back. “I've been riding through Gotham at eighty k's an hour after fighting the winter version of Megamind’s Minion.”
Tim gestures to the stairwell leading up to the manor. “Go warm up then. I don't need your Frosty-The-Snowman-ass hands on me.”
An idea flickers in the back of the older boy’s mind. Despite the exhaustion, the subtle aches, and overall annoyance, he decides to indulge in some shenanigans. As a treat. “Better give me the computer then if you don’t want my wintery ass around.”
“I’m not done-”
Jason's hands are glued to Tim’s neck in an instant. The boy yelps shrilly in surprise, fingers shooting up to latch onto the iceblocks stuck on his skin.
“Shit, shit, shit- Jason! Get the fuck off of me!” Tim yells out, trying to curl away from the gentlest chokehold he's ever been put in.
Hearing Tim’s voice sound panicked, but not afraid, allows Jason to let out a small breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He didn’t think about the possibility that Tim might react badly to his neck being touched due to their history. That concern pulled to the front of his mind only after he’d clamped his fingers on skin, giving him a split-second jolt of dread. It seems Tim is more concerned about catching frostbite than the threat of strangulation, though.
He quickly shakes off his lingering nerves and doubles down. “What? Do you want me to die of hypothermia, Timbit? How selfish.” Jason wriggles his fingers a little just to be annoying, and delights in Tim's high-pitched, aborted sound and slide down the chair to evade him. “See? You're even trying to run away- C'mere, you little shit.”
Jason manages to reach down in time to stop Tim from making it to the floor, his hands slipping up the oversized hoodie to grab around his bare middle. Tim shrieks.
“NO! Nonononono- get outta there!” Tim wails, his expression cracking into a wide grin despite how much he’s struggling to escape.
“Oh, you're very warm. I think I might stay here, you don't mind, do you?” Jason's grin is evident in his voice. Then, to put the final nail in the coffin, he scratches blunt, ice-cold nails across Tim’s abdomen.
“JaAHA- JAHAHASON!”
Jason isn’t sure if Tim's volume is because he really is that fucking ticklish, or a reaction to the cold temperament of his fingers. Probably both. To his surprise, his frustration is noticeably slipping away. Funny what messing with younger siblings could do. “Gotta say, I’m getting nice and toasty. I might make a habit of this. Whaddaya say, Timmy?”
“FUHUHUCK YOHOHOU!”
Tim is kicking and squirming in Jason’s grasp, shoving at the arms keeping him pinned in place, and unable to roll the chair away with how his brother is leaning against the back of it. Seriously, damn his genetics. He’s strong, but his brother is essentially a titan in comparison. He’s well and truly trapped in this hug, gasping with laughter and squirming due to Jason’s fucking ice-cold hands.
“Can I use the computer now?” Jason asks sweetly, crawling icecube-like fingers up Tim’s ribs and sending a flurry of goosebumps across the skin.
“YEHEHES! YEHES- FUHUCKING-” Tim’s heels are scuffing against the floor in such a frenzy, Jason’s surprised he hasn’t begun digging a hole. “JUHUHUST STOHOHOP!”
Jason gives a particularly mean tweak to the pair of upper ribs and then lets go, marvelling at how Tim’s girly shriek echoes through the cave like he’s a victim of murder. Tim’s arms wrap around his midsection tightly, trying to rub some robbed warmth back into his skin as giggles pepper through his gasps for air. Jason notices he’s gotten feeling back into his fingers and has to repress a snort. Unconventional method, sure, but he couldn’t argue with the results.
“Alright, go on. Get.” He grabs the boy around his ribs- over the hoodie this time, he’s not a complete dick - and lifts him out of the chair. His smile broadens into a smirk when the boy squeals and tries to curl in on himself, clearly anticipating another attack. Jason simply tosses him to the side, though he does make sure he lands on his feet, before he plops down into the upholstery, now cleared of his brother. “I got work to do. Go be a normal teenager and scroll TikTok, or something, I’ll be done in half an hour.”
Tim curses his name and mutters something about, “Dick’s been a bad influence, this is bullshit”, as he walks away. Jason really can’t suppress his snort this time.
______
Mornings in the manor are a sleepy affair. Well, unless Dick is visiting, of course.
Tim leans against the countertop, sipping at his coffee between yawns and conversing with Alfred. Occasionally, he passes necessary utensils or ingredients to the butler whose preparing lamb shanks in the slowcooker. Tim had requested them last night, and while he may not be allowed to cook anything, it wasn’t going to stop him from being helpful. Especially considering it was his idea in the first place.
Soft, socked footfalls allude to their youngest of the family, and sure enough, Damian stalks into the kitchen with mussed hair and a scowl. Tim has to hide his smile in his mug. It was like seeing a kitten awoken from a nap. And while he and Damian have been making significant progress, Dick is still the only one who could make such a comparison and avoid being stabbed.
“The garlic powder, if you would, Master Tim?” Alfred holds out an expectant hand.
Tim sets down his mug and leans an elbow on the counter behind him so he can twist to reach the spice rack without leaving his spot. Plucking the requested item out, he’s just turning back when hands clamp around Tim’s waist and hoist him up, eliciting a startled yip. Then just as quickly, he’s set down again.
Tim is gripping the garlic powder and the counter edge for dear life, wide eyes staring down at the culprit.
Damian takes out a knife and fork from the drawer Tim was just standing in front of. “Good morning, Pennyworth.” He mutters, still blinking sleepily, and shuts the drawer. “Drake, close your mouth before a fly decides to use your tonsils for a perch.”
Tim’s brain finally kicks back in, indignation making him splutter. “You could’ve just asked me to move.” His voice cracks halfway through, slightly mortified that Damian had lifted him so effortlessly.
Damian glances up and cocks an eyebrow. “It was faster to simply move you.” He prods Tim once in the stomach, causing a stifled grunt and a slap to his fingers. Damian sends a small glance to Alfred. “He needs more carbs.” With that, he shuffles over to his plate and takes it with him to the dining room. Not looking back once.
Tim stares after him, having half a mind to give chase and make the kid regret being born, when there’s a sudden tweak to his hip. He jolts, barely holding back a cuss, or worse, a snort.
His attacker merely raises a brow. “The garlic powder, Master Tim?” He holds out his hand, and Tim shoves it into his open palm, avoiding the man’s gaze.
“You’re as bad as he is. You could’ve just asked,” he grumbles, rubbing his hip and eyeing the man warily now.
“Indeed,” Alfred agrees, pouring in the required amount. “But I worried I’d lose my sous chef if you went after him; I needed to prevent a possible murder in this house.”
Well, he wasn’t wrong. So Tim leans against the counter again, cradling his mug once more, and tries not to seem as flustered as he feels. Damian is getting stronger; that really didn’t bode well for the future of their sibling antics. If he ends up being taller than Tim, like everyone else in this family… Tim might just have to go on his long-overdue villain arc.
Alfred suddenly hums, his perceptive eyes glancing to the teen. “Although he is right. I think adding more carbs might be more beneficial,” he muses lightly. “Or he might beat you in a spar quicker than you want him to.”
Tim is desperately ignoring the embarrassed flush crawling up his neck and shoves his face into his coffee mug. “F’cking genetics,” he grumbles, praying Damian doesn't bring this interaction up to Bruce or anyone else, for that matter.
He should’ve been more worried about Alfred. That man is a total gossip.
______
Tim yawns as he stumbles into his bedroom. His eyes are burning from staring at a screen for two days, his body is exhausted after completing a mission that very night and his social battery is at an all-out low. He’d written up his report, almost fell asleep in the showers, and then wished whomever he passed on his way to his bedroom a very incoherent “G’night.”
He falls into his bed, letting out a groan as his body aches in protest at being on something soft. He gives it a second, then practically melts into the covers, eyelashes fluttering and desperate to close for the foreseeable future, only…
Tim pushes his eyes open and spots what caught his attention initially. It’s a photo frame on his bedside table, one he doesn't recognize at all. Clumsily, he reaches out and snags the edge of it, dragging it over to him. His breath suddenly catches in his throat as he registers the contents.
It’s a photo of him and his brothers. Damian is on Dick’s shoulders, smiling widely and actually looking his age instead of a trained assassin. Dick is caught mid-laugh, one hand outstretched to Jason and the other supporting Damian’s leg. Jason has his arms over his head, grinning playfully and looking like he’s about to throw something. Tim. It’s Tim, ensnared in Jason’s grip, a finger pointed at his older brother, while the other hangs onto one of his wrists for dear life, a full-blown cackle stretching his face into the most genuine smile Tim had ever seen photographed of himself.
Tim’s birthday.
Two days ago, Bruce offered to take the four of them to any location Tim wanted, and he had asked to go to the zoo. It was partially for Damian’s benefit, as they’d busted an animal trafficking ring that week and the kid had been distraught about the animals. The majority of them were returned to their rightful homes around the world, but some had been caught too young and were too sheltered to be released. The Gotham Zoo had taken them, along with a healthy donation from the Wayne Foundation, to integrate them smoothly.
The other reason they went was that Tim wanted to do something so painstakingly normal. He loved the mundane days, the ones where the world wasn’t ending, and his family wasn’t risking their lives trying to save it. It was meant to be a day of the Waynes going out like any other family, and simply enjoying themselves for once. Bruce, being the overzealous man he is, rented the entire zoo just for them to enjoy that day. Not wanting to have to rein themselves in or put on a facade for the public to gush over. No, it was just meant to be a day for them, and that’s exactly what it turned out to be.
The photo clutched in Tim’s hands was taken when Damian suggested to Bruce that the lions should have a bit more enrichment. Jason, ever the problem solver, hefted Tim up to throw him over the side of the platform overlooking the lion exhibit. Bruce had done nothing to stop them as Jason mimed tossing Tim over. Damian approved and verbally encouraged it, while Dick half-heartedly tried to get Jason to put their brother down through bouts of laughter.
Tim has to blink as his eyes burn with an entirely new reason. He’s just read what’s inscribed in the corner of the photograph in black ink;
Happy Birthday, Tim.
No matter how old you get, you’ll never outgrow being held.
With love,
Your family ♡
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.
Jason stares at the screen, desperately willing himself to focus on the movie and find a happy place in it. A happy place far, far away from here, where he could be rewatching his favorite film alone in the comfort of his own apartment. With a blanket and Alfred’s cookies, preferably.
He is not in his own apartment.
Wayne family movie night. Why exactly had he agreed to Wayne family movie night?
A bout of insanity. Jason considers fratricide for the sixth time within the last four hours as popcorn gets tossed across the living room, Titus’ delighted barking louder than the television. It’s made worse by the man of the house tucked awkwardly between him and the sofa end, Dick on his other side, and Jason huddled much more closely to the latter for obvious, unspoken reasons. He’d meant to sit on the floor so Damian could take his proper “blood son” seat next to Bruce, but Titus had refused to leave the armchair and so he’d relocated. Cass and Steph shared the other armchair, Tim and Duke draped on the floor, a bowl of already half-spilt popcorn between them.
Everyone’s talking, simultaneously as caught up in their own conversations as they are chucking popcorn in wide arcs into each other’s mouths. Jason knows it’s fine, the norm when it comes to movie nights, at least the few he’d bothered to come by before this one. It’s less about the movie and more about the tradition, the bonding of a fractured family taking a few hours’ time to reintroduce themselves to each other, finding safety in the cracks. He gets it, really. He even kind of likes it most days, though he’d rather be put back into the grave again than say it out loud.
But it was his turn to pick the film, and they’re finally about two minutes from the first meeting of Darcy and Elizabeth, and he’d really love it if everyone would just shut up for all of five minutes so he can rewatch the scene he had memorized since he was thirteen.
His knee bounces in irritation, just hard enough to shake the couch and subsequently, Dick. His brother shoots him an apologetic look at the noise to which Jason glares hard enough he hopes the sofa bursts into flames. It doesn’t, but it would have been cool.
“I can tell them to be quiet,” Dick says.
“With this family? You’d be better off shipping them to the circus.”
A smile crosses Dick’s face. “They’re even louder than a circus. I’d know.”
“You’re louder than a circus,” Jason rolls his eyes, but he takes the attempt at comfort for what it is, shifting in his seat enough to be pressed closer to Dick. He’s got his feet tucked against Dick’s leg, knee digging into his shoulder, but Dick doesn’t even seem to care. He probably likes it, the way he swings one arm around his legs like a weird half hug for his lower body.
It’s not horrible.
Something unreadable crosses Dick’s face before he squeezes Jason’s knee. It’s probably another attempt at comfort, but his thumb drags a little too quickly in the movement and Jason yelps. The room quiets.
Fuck.
His knee pulls inwards, flushing before he even meets the sudden mischievous twinkle in Dick’s eye. Some part of him, twelve and completely caught unawares, wants to curl up in a ball and hide. The other, nineteen and ruling the East side of Gotham, thinks about strategic retreat and desperately does not try to remember all the times running led to him being caught and curled up anyway. He inches backwards, aware of the press of decorative throw pillows at his side and the sudden attention of everyone in a room, a sheep caught before a pack of wolves.
“Little wing,” Dick coos. His hand follows Jason’s leg, sliding down to his ankle. It’s probably meant to be a comforting weight if not for how Dick’s grin widens to flash teeth. “I didn’t know you were still—”
“I’m not.” He must run or hide. There are a hundred rooms in this manor, but he’s up against Bats. There’s a hundred more miles on the manor grounds, but he’s up against the Bats. Jason squirms further back against the sofa, scooting awkwardly upwards when he hits a hard surface. It takes a minute to realize the hard surface is Bruce, and that by the time he realizes it he’s already halfway on his dad’s lap, leaning into a warm chest. While everyone else’s gaze has turned predatory, calculating, the weight of Bruce’s stare on his head doesn’t ring as dangerously as the others. He risks a glance backwards.
Bruce smiles down at him. It’s a perfect dad smile, small and fond, and Jason’s mind races because it’s the exact same smile Bruce used to have when ruffling his hair on ice cream trips on rooftops overseeing Gotham. It is also, unfortunately, the same smile Bruce had after driving him to mirthful tears in “post-patrol injury checks” that he’s nearly certain were just an excuse to torment him. He’s never really known how to respond when Bruce directs the full force of that smile on him.
Evidently, he still doesn’t.
Run or hide. Sheep or wolf.
“B,” Jason says. His voice tremors the slightest bit. “B, tell him I’m not.”
Bruce’s hands steady him, one on his shoulder, the other bracing his thigh. The one on his shoulder squeezes, comforting. Jason swallows.
“Jaylad,” Bruce starts. His smile doesn’t waver. Sheep, his mind begs. Sheep, hide, sheep! “Tell him you’re not what?”
A wolf in sheep’s clothing. Fucking hell.
Jason’s already throwing himself to the side before Bruce finishes the question, but the arm on his shoulder tugs him back too easily. He yelps, entirely unrelated to the squeeze of Bruce’s hand, and then Dick’s hands are pushing him down, trying to straddle his thighs.
“Fuck off!” Jason shouts, squirming enough to free his right hand. He throws a punch to Dick’s face and misses by a meter when Bruce’s hand jumps up to dig into his armpit. The noise that escapes him is embarrassing and he shoves a little desperately at Bruce’s hands when his voice grows high and squeaky with every tweak of fingers on squishy, sensitive flesh. “Wait, wait, Dickhead, don’t!”
“Don’t what?” Dick asks, and he’s not even trying to hide the sappiness of his smile anymore. Jason gets a faceful of the whole smiley Grayson experience, all soft and big brotherly, and he’d maybe appreciate it more if it didn’t also come with Dick lightly drumming his fingers over his stomach. One gets too close to his navel and Jason flinches, feeling his mouth grow into a grin against his permission.
“Go on, Jay,” Bruce says. He’s got Jason pinned easily, one arm tucked under his knee and the other caught in his hand slowly being moved into the same trap. He swallows as Bruce leans over, coaxing. “Answer your brother.”
He’d rather die, thanks.
Jason bites his lip, looking back at Dick but meets Steph’s eyes instead. Everyone’s eyes are on him, the movie completely forgotten though it drones on, enraptured instead by this new, humiliating entertainment. His face burns when his eyes slide over Cass’ knowing eyes, Tim’s scheming one, flashing back to just two hours ago when he’d pinned Tim down over a stupid argument on the mats and left his little brother in ticklish tears. He’d only made it this far with his secret safe because no one even bothered to assume the one guy tall and heavy enough to challenge Batman could possibly be ticklish. He’d managed to artfully escape Dick every time he was in the mood, sacrificing Duke or Damian or one of the other little bats instead to so-called big brotherly duties. Bruce didn’t even try, too awkward about pushing boundaries and then bulldozing through them anyway, leaving them in a cycle that was accommodated with more screaming matches than light-hearted play fights.
The agreement to movie night, to put on Jason’s favorite film, apparently meant more than he realized.
“Don’t touch me.” He tries to snap, failing when Dick ghosts over his hip and he chokes on his words. “Dickface, don’t you dare. Don’t you—!”
His teeth click as Bruce’s hands move again, pinching along his ribs as Dick’s rises to tease his waist. There’s mercy in their movements in that it’s not his worst spots, yet not at all because it’s a warning that they intend to draw this torment out.
“Aw, Jay,” Dick teases, almost fond, before digging his fingers in a little harder to be the rotten menace Jason always insisted he was, Nightwing’s golden reputation be damned. He chokes like a dying fish. “What’s wrong? You’re not watching the movie anymore?”
“No one’s w-watching.” The stutter is too obvious and he can tell from the way matching fondness seeps into Bruce’s expression that he’s smiling, even as heat continues to crawl up his cheeks. “You’re both distrahahacting me!”
Steph’s whisper is too loud. “Oh my god, he giggles.”
Death. Death for himself and every single person in this room, sans Titus.
A litany of curses swim in his head when Bruce manages to wrangle both his hands and Dick dives for his exposed armpits like a heathen. Jason clenches his jaw shut for all of three seconds before breaking into giddy laughter, twisting to either side in a pitiful attempt to escape Dick’s evil fingers.
“I can’t believe this. Chat, is this real?” Tim’s voice floats over, vaguely awed, vaguely vindictive. Jason would’ve liked to snap at him if it weren’t for Dick, the bastard, dancing his hands back down to his ribs and then back up again around his shoulders. He settles for flipping him off with a trapped hand.
“Fuhahahack off!”
“Wow, real rude for someone so ticklish.”
It’s somehow worse hearing Tim call him that, of all people. Fifteen minutes ago, he would’ve pulled Tim to the floor midway through his sentence and made a spectacle of his little brother. Hell—he could’ve easily pulled Steph and Dick in to help him at minimum. Of course, fifteen minutes ago he wasn’t screeching with laughter in front of his entire family.
“Oh chat, you have no idea how real this is. Jason used to shriek so loudly,” Dick teases, tossing his head back with a wink. From the barely disguised wide-eyed awe on everyone’s faces, it’s evident that of all routes they expected movie night to go that this didn’t make it to any of their contingencies. It would be hilarious if literally anyone else was in Jason’s position. “It looks like he still does, don’t you, little wing?”
Jason’s jaws snap, trying in vain to bite Dick’s hands off, even as Dick only huffs when he scratches alongside Jason’s upper back to obliterate the last of his reputation. He jolts at the sudden attack on (one of many of) his weak spot, voice jumping an octave when he shrieks just like Dick predicted.
“D-Dihihick! Dick, wahahahait!”
“Aw, Jay, of course.” Dick croons sweetly and if that doesn’t set alarm bells off in Jason’s head nothing would. He squirms back on instinct even though all it does is make Dick’s fingers dig in harder to his back, swerving fruitlessly to burrow himself in Bruce’s hold. “I’ll wait… for you tell me where you want me to tickle you next.”
“What?”
“Ooh, evil.”
“Shuhuhut up in thehehee peanut gallery!”
He’s going to have to kill someone for this. He’s got to be as red as his helmet by now; he was always obvious as a kid, giggly and red-faced from maybe two minutes of Dick’s big-brotherly nonsense, and the reality of him being in the same position now years later made something in him flutter obnoxiously. It doesn’t help that Bruce is not so subtly looming over, eyes soft in that gushy dad way, and all Jason wants to do is bury his face into the folds of his sweater to avoid shrinking under the warmth of that gaze.
“Don’t be mean to your siblings,” Bruce says. He shifts Jason’s weakened wrists to one grip, his now freed hand crawling down teasingly as it flutters around Jason’s ears and neck to make him giggle uncontrollably. Between Bruce’s slow, almost gentle tease and Dick’s pinpoint accurate clawing against his shoulders, he’s got basically no defenses. At best, Jason manages to kick out his feet, jostling absolutely no one into giving him mercy.
“I—I’m—thehehey’re the ones beheheing meahahahen to me!”
There’s a chorus of chuckles at him around the room and Jason burrows himself against Bruce’s sweater instinctively. The coo that follows is definitely Dick and Bruce’s hand pauses just long enough to brush out the sweaty hair from his face, forcing Jason to blink up through blurry eyes.
Bruce is still smiling at him. For absolutely no reason at all, Jason’s heart flips.
“Well, kiddo? What are you feeling?”
“Yeah, Jay,” Dick interrupts, “where’d you want us to tickle you again?”
Fuck, they’re so evil. Forget Batman and Nightwing, allies of the Justice League—as far as Jason’s aware, they should’ve been thrown in with the Legion of Doom since he was twelve.
His skin crawls with anticipation as Jason squeezes his eyes shut to avoid catching anyone’s gazes in the room. “Just get it over with already!”
“I thought you wanted us to wait?” Dick mock gasps, drumming his fingers back around to his sides. Jason bucks against him, trying and failing to remove him, and Dick barks out a laugh. “You gotta make up your mind buddy, or I’ll just have to stay here forever. Unless that’s what you wanted?”
Yeah, no thanks. Between feeling his mind melt away via giggles or shrieking laughter, it didn’t feel like he had a choice either way. The thought of calling for help passed as quickly as it came; knowing these people, the only “help” he’d be getting would be more hands on him.
“I cahahan’t—you—youhuhEHE B NAHAHA!”
Jason jolts with a scream as Bruce scribbles his fingers downwards suddenly, darting between his spine and the small of his back. It’s like every single nerve along his spine has been suddenly jumpstarted into being so stupidly fucking ticklish; the sensation is made worse at the unbidden memory of his dad doing almost this exact move in this very couch years ago. He can’t possibly get any redder than he already is and yet Jason swears on his life that his face burns even brighter as he shakes his head. “JUST DO IT!”
Dick hums. “Do what?”
“I FUCKING HAHATEHEE YOU!”
“And I love you.” Dick smooches his cheek despite his glare. It’s not very effective through watery tears and he knows it from Dick’s peachy smile as he retreats, scotting further back on Jason’s legs for better leverage. Bruce stills, placing his hand on Jason’s waist. “But that doesn’t help clarify what you want me to do…?”
God, they’re really going to do this. Just sit here and torment him in front of Gotham’s best so-called heroes when all he did was sign up for some peaceful, torment-free movie night bonding.
Jason takes in hasty gulps of air while he still can. He’s certain he looks ridiculous, red-faced with wet eyes and a childish grin stretched across his face, but he doesn’t try to flee even though no one’s holding onto him anymore. His self-preservation instincts must have been successfully tickled out of him because all he really wants to do, all he does, is roll his head back to peer up at Bruce with his best puppy eyes. “Dad, please.”
Instead of answering with words, four hands make their way to his hips. It’s absolutely evil, and awful, and he’s certain his mind blanks for a moment before shrill, shrieking laughter leaves him breathless. Jason jolts to life as he thrashes, freed hands pushing frantically at the fingers determined to destroy him, and he manages to tuck his head down and make a semi-curled defensive position that really doesn’t hide him at all. Dick laughs overhead, one hand crawling from his hip to scribble over his exposed back, and Jason whines through his laughter at the dual sensations.
He can’t even remember the last time he’d been ticked like this. When he was a kid, for sure, but when? Usually it was just the one or the other, and if it was both Bruce never let Dick torment him for too long before scooping up both his kids, one on each hand, and heading off either to the cave or to bed. He’d never paid much attention to the specifics, not when he was busy laughing his head off, and even now he struggles to note whose hand is where considering he’s a little busy trying to melt into a puddle.
“N-Nahaha moooreehHEHE!”
“What’s that? More?”
Maybe if he curled up tight enough, he could find a mini pocket dimension to hide in. As-is, Jason settles for batting at the hands still tormenting him. He can hardly think, mind a haze of tingling sensation, and he hardly even notices how Dick moves from straddling his thighs to lying on his side allowing Jason to settle into his side, completely curled up. When he was younger, they used to tease him and call him—
“Is that my favorite pillbug? I think it is!”
God. He buries his face into his hands, consciousness emerging warily as his shrieks peter off into hiccupping giggles when the hands still on him slow to a gentle drumming. It’s one set of hands instead of two now, and he blinks tears out of his eyes when a hand ruffles his hair, nudging into it instinctively. He can hear cooing on the other side of the room.
“Think he’s had enough, chum.”
“Aw, but he’s so cute like this!”
“Am not.” Jason manages a feeble defense. He feels exhausted, like he ran a marathon and fought killer croc one-handed at the same time. Bruce’s hand, steady as it sorts out the tangles in his hair, is unfairly soothing as the last of his laughter leaves him.
“Yes, you are.” Jason blinks as Cass emerges from the sofa’s side, cold water pressed against his face. Jason blinks his eyes (when did he close them?) up at her, shooting Dick a warning glare before taking it and draining half the refreshing glass. She steadies it with one hand, taking it away with a self-satisfied smile. “Very cute.”
He’d flip her off if it were anyone else. Her smile grows wider, and he lets her get away with her own ruffle of his hair. He must look like more of a mess than he imagined because she only seems to get happier with the action.
“How very childish,” Damian scoffs, like he hasn’t been staring the entire time, just as enraptured as the rest of the flock. “I can only wonder how Todd manages to become more pathetic by day.”
“Didn’t Dick get you literally yesterday.”
“Cease and desist your existence, Drake.”
Tim throws his hands up in resignation as Duke giggles, high-fiving Damian in gleeful recognition of their unofficial gaslight-gatekeep-girlboss-Tim agenda. Steph, always brilliant and unafraid to cross boundaries, waltzes up to where Jason’s still sprawled against Bruce’s shoulder to poke him in the cheek. “Still alive, dead robin? Or do we have to bury you and wait six to twelve months again?”
“Shut up, dead robin.” He groans, awareness of the room coming back to him steadily as he manages to pick himself warily up from the comfort of Bruce’s sweater. Now that he’s no longer being tormented or made the spectacle of their night entertainment, nothing’s stopping him from leaving. Jason could just pack up, declare them all menaces, and waltz out the front door.
He sits himself upwards properly where Dick’s soft smile meets him, nudging his shoulder playfully. If he focuses, he can pinpoint a memory of five years ago, the first-time hearing what he’d yet to know would become his favorite film through a billionaire’s sound system. Back before he’d become comfortable enough to ask Bruce to replay it, and then again, and then pulling Dick with him to the living room and begging him to stay just the night. He’d even convinced Alfred to join them, and the night had been filled with Greer Garson’s Elizabeth and the lazy snoring of the people he’d come to love.
He wants to hear it again.
Jason resigns himself to being swaddled between the two for the rest of the night. Through lazy eyes, he sighs and sinks back into Bruce’s arms. “Rewind until the ball. And everyone—pay attention this time.”
“Sir yes sir!” Steph chirps before retreating to her perch with Cass. They rearrange themselves, rewinding back to the peace of the night before Jason became their personal entertainment, chatter softer than before but just as intimate. Comfortable. Someone presses play, and the opening music fills the room. Someone is still talking over it. He finds he doesn’t mind as much as before. Funny, how that works.
His eyes flutter despite themselves, tired and content and warm. The hand that’s been carding through his hair pauses to nudge his cheek. “Go to sleep, Jaylad.”
“They haven’t danced yet.”
Bruce’s lip touches his forehead. Unfair. “We can watch it again next week.”
They can. They did, before. They could bring the whole extended batfamily here, Kate and Luke and Batcow, and introduce them to the glory that is proper adaptations. He thinks he says something in response, blurry and meek. Whatever it is, Bruce’s body rumbles with fond laughter, and the last thing he remembers before sleep claims him is Bruce saying something vaguely like home.
damian wayne little brother baby of the family isms. mild hurt comfort, I think I sort of lost the plot at some point but I’ve been working on this for so long and really just wanted it done. ૮꒰っ˕‹̥̥̥ ꒱ა
it’s mostly just mindless fluff and more of my headcanons put to words hbshs this was also not spellchecked very well if at all so um. HNG
I hope you enjoy it. <:)
“Find a place to sit.” Damian stepped back from his place practically riding Jason’s heels. It is the only thing that keeps an older man such as yourself moving at an acceptable pace, Todd.
The kitchen, 20 minutes earlier.
“What could you have possibly done to make Grayson scream like that.”
He was just laughing, but it was also Dick, so sure. Screaming.
“I bumped my head twice in a row, and he laughs at stupid shit, tasteless slapstick.”
“No I dohohon’t! That’s Tim!”
“Two things can be true at once. Todd, you are bleeding.”
“Come with me.”
“…”
Dick’s sudden silence. Oh, that was satisfying.
“Jay, I—“
“No, no. It’s okay, you’re a terrible person, we all understand.”
“Jason!”
“We’re delighted to finally have you. Everyone’s been waiting for a long time, actually. You had a good run, Dickie.”
If it was up to Jason, Dick would never be able to escape this. And as of right now, it did seem like it was up to him. He was the one with the tarnished ego and fucked up head.
The medbay, present.
“Sir, yes sir.” Jason mumbled, seating himself on a cot.
“I am going to try and clean this up so that I know what I am looking at. If it hurts, say something.” Damian was going through the motions. But Jason had no idea where all of this was coming from.
“So… are you just a doctor now? Did Alfie finally come to terms with the fact that he’s sick of our shit and retired?”
“He is teaching me first aid. It… is the least that I can do.” Jason didn’t realize he’d been staring until Damian snapped at him.
“A bat is going to crawl down your throat and make a nest if you keep gaping like a moron. I cannot tend to a wound on the back of your head with you facing me. Turn.”
Jason had to hand it to him, he was growing to be damn scary in his teenage years. Bruce? Jason could deal with. But Talia? She was a whole other story, and Damian had her eyes.
Damian’s remarkable personal growth wasn’t lost on him either. It all just hit him one day. He would tease, and Damian wouldn’t immediately go to draw his katana. Maybe they’d picked on him a little too much back then, but he was a cute kid, and it was funny watching him constantly agonize over proving to them that he was anything but. He was very grown up.
He could act as grown up as he damn well pleased, but he would always be their youngest. Jason knew he and Dick used to never leave Tim alone. They had their fun, and in return, they all had a couple serious attempts made on their lives. No harm, no foul.
There was a quiet sense of maturity about Damian that he never had before. It became especially clear a little over a year ago when Bruce enrolled him in public high school. Jason could be wrong, Damian would definitely tell him he was, but he thought it was one of the better parenting decisions Bruce had made in quite some time. Did Damian need to go to high school to get book smart? No, absolutely not. But shit, if it didn’t set him straight.
He was quieter, less abrasive. Civilians weren’t as afraid of him. He knew how to behave around young children. And apparently he was learning first aid of all things. Jason would be lying if he said he wasn’t extremely proud of his little brother. His baby brother, by casual definition, he guessed. But that felt too cheesy—
“As I suspected, there is nothing to worry about. Wounds on the head bleed profusely. That’s all this is.”
Jason went to stand up.
“You have the survival instincts of a neanderthal. Sit.”
Well then. Jason sat his ass right back down. Damian made quick work of the small puncture in his head, the one he couldn’t even see.
“You’re a real drill sergeant, Dami.” He mused, unsure of whether or not Damian would hear him. If he did, there was also a good chance that he would simply be ignored.
“Tt. Do not kid yourself. You look like Alfred The Cat when I scratch behind his ears, Todd.”
Jason’s head snapped back. What the hell was that supposed to mean?? Damian’s fingers pressed against his temples.
“For Rao’s sake, turn around!” The force with which Jason was swung back into place was almost dizzying.
Jason scoffed. “You can’t just say something like that and expect me not to demand an answer.”
“My hands are in your hair because of the nature of your injury. People seem to like it when you touch their hair. It is unlike you to be tactile in that way. That is all I was implying.” That explanation was too literal for the very obviously playful remark. Jason couldn’t tell if this was Damian just being difficult, as per usual, or if he was playing damage control.
“I am finished. Don’t… do not leave yet. I have been meaning to speak with you.”
“Can I turn around now?”
“Yes, wiseass. You may turn around.” Jason bit back a chuckle.
“So? What is it?” Jason’s jokingly dickish hackles began to fall when he got a good look at Damian. He was nervous. He kept fidgeting, picking at the sleeves of his jacket. This jacket, he wore it all the time now. It was like some sort of safety blanket. If not for Alfred’s various domestic skills, ergo removing stains, sewing, and mending, it would have been wrecked by now.
When Damian wasn’t picking, he was wiping down his sweaty palms on whatever he could get his hands on nearby that would still appear subtle. His face was hot, not in the good, “just a little shy,” way. He did not look well.
“Damian, what?” Jason carefully pressed, guiding him to sit down.
“I have been observing you. And I think that we are the same. Everyone… engages each other physically in some way. Outside of training. Everyone but us.”
“We do not touch. I will not claim that I know all of your reasons. It is… personal. But I have no one else to address this with. Cain was an assassin, but she… her and I, we are not the same. She regretted what she did before the victim’s body could so much as go cold.”
“I was remorseless until father taught me that I had to be. Do… do you feel it too? Nothing can take back what you have done. You are a dangerous, cruel individual. Even if you are not, what could you have possibly done to have earned being taken into someone’s arms? After everything?”
It wasn’t often that someone said something that left Jason at a loss for words. Of course he felt it. What kind of question was that? He wouldn’t wish it on anyone. It felt so wrong. His kid brother? Damian? He didn’t think Damian cared. A cynical part of him thought that he was blindly doing whatever he thought would make Bruce most happy.
But Jason was wrong. Just like him, Damian’s past actions followed him to the present and tainted his view of his future. Just like his big brother, just like his father, Damian punished himself every single day.
“I… know what you mean.” Outstanding. They should just give Jason his Nobel peace prize already.
“It feels like everyone is just standing around and waiting for you to start hurting people again.”
“I keep bumping my head on shit because I came back to Gotham tripled in size. My center of balance is totally out of wack, I never got used to it, I feel like a total dumbass. And it feels like a waste to not fight. There’s literally no other reason for anyone to ever need to be this goddamn BIG.”
Jason cleared his throat. “Long story short, yeah, I dunno… I guess I get it, I’m scary. Even if they aren’t scared of me, I’m scared of myself. I think they should be scared of me.”
“I find it difficult to believe that your current build was a sabotage that could be directly correlated to the Lazarus Pit, but I will forward your grievances to the shadows.”
Jason huffed. “Oh, you got jokes, kid?”
Damian tutted.
“Todd, I have a proposal for you.”
The Fashion District, one week later.
It really was a week ago now, wasn’t it? A week, and neither of them have been able to hold true to the parameters of Damian’s “proposal.”
He suggested that, since he and Jason already are outliers in the family when it comes to being all touchy feely, they should ally themselves, and begin a desensitization process. Damian obviously wasn’t that upfront, Jason had to fill in a lot of blanks where the kid was too prideful or, quite the opposite, embarrassed to say what he meant.
There had been a lot of lingering, awkward stares. Jason didn’t know how Damian felt. He didn’t know if he was having second thoughts or what. He doubted that Damian cared about sparing his feelings, if he wanted out, he would have said so already. But, alas, he’d said nothing, and teenagers are extraordinarily stupid, even if you were one of a kind like Damian was. Get well soon, baby bat.
Today was different, to some extent. It was one of those days where the Wayne Family went out and pretended to be normal during the day rather than the Bat Family going out and striking fear into the hearts of anyone who so much as loitered at night.
They’d gone to the Fashion District. There were a few places where everyone would be in agreement about eating there, the Gotham Art and History Center, and boutiques. A lot of boutiques. They could window shop (point things out and make fun of each other for how ridiculous someone would hypothetically look in the overpriced garment).
He and Damian were dragging behind. Damian kept asking to pet people’s dogs, and sticking with him gave Jason an excuse to get away from the noise.
“You have over two hundred fifty pounds of dog at home. Let’s go.” Damian’s safety jacket was very convenient because it meant Jason always had a sturdy chunk of fabric to scruff the kid by. Damian huffed and tore away once steady on his feet, but didn’t fuss otherwise.
They continued walking, remaining a few paces behind. Damian kept brushing his hand. Thinking it was an accident, Jason would time the swinging of his arms to avoid any further awkwardness. It continued happening, and he was having to come up with some pretty creative reasons to explain away it somehow not being intentional on Damian’s part.
“Is there any particular reason you keep fondling my hand?”
Damian did not look the slightest bit amused. That sucked, Jason thought he was hilarious.
“It is not… fondling.”
“Still doesn’t answer my question.” Jason was sure that Damian just broke his personal, “amount of times fumbled before a sentence,” record.
“I just— I am trying to hold your hand, okay?? If you are forfeiting our agreement, you should have already spoken with me!” Damian expected Jason to duck out. Just like Jason had been expecting him to. It was a good thing it was Dick and Damian Dynamic Duo, not Jason and Damian. They would have crashed and burned in a partnership. And it wasn’t very catchy with their names.
Jason got a much harsher pang in his chest than he was used to when he got a better look at Damian’s expression. He was frustrated, but more than anything, he looked vulnerable, humiliated.
“I wasn’t going to duck out if you weren’t. I’m not afraid to hold your hand. That’s… that’s some pussy shit, so you shouldn’t be afraid either.”
“Okay, well… try to keep up with me, or I’ll have to start dragging you by the hair instead.”
Jason grinned. There was the Damian they all know and love.
* * *
Dick had seen and interpreted the look Jason gave him when they were going to leave Damian home alone. He didn’t like it, he didn’t think they should. It wasn’t like they were purposefully leaving him out. He, Bruce, and Jason had to go undercover. Damian wouldn’t have cared. Nudity didn’t bother him, after more than a decade of combat training and now his interest in medicine, a body was just a body. Regardless, they didn’t feel the most comfortable taking the baby of the family to the Iceberg Lounge, at a time when they knew it would be full of working girls and adult dancers.
So, Damian had to stay home. Tim was working late, Cass was at the Clocktower with Babs. Damian wasn’t entirely alone, Alfred was almost always home, but he might as well have been with the amount of time he spent all by himself in that sprawling, dark home with only the butler and family pets for company.
Dick thought that was one of Bruce’s biggest regrets with Damian, just how alone he felt. It killed him because Damian wouldn’t complain, he wouldn’t ask for Bruce’s time. He didn’t resent him for it, at least not in a way that showed very often. It was one of the very few things he went on to internalize after being hurt. He idolized Bruce, they all used to, some maybe still do. He could only believe that it reflected on himself.
Nobody questioned Dick when he went home early. He didn’t know what Jason was so worried about, if something was bothering Damian, Dick thought that he would have already realized. Maybe he just needed a friend, he already knew it wouldn’t be the first time.
It wasn’t difficult to catch a taxi at this hour. He was dropped off at what would be a roughly fifteen minute walk to the manor. He didn’t trip the manor's security systems when he crawled into the yard. He was Dick Grayson. The sunroom had, foolishly, been left unlocked. He let himself in and knocked on the remaining glass door between himself and the den. Could be a nice surprise.
Damian perked up and spotted him, but didn’t move to let him in. He awkwardly glanced down. Ah. Cat on the lap. Coming up behind his Robin, lo and behold, cat on the lap. Dick smiled. Alfred was all limbs, rolled onto his back, all blissed out-like. He was purring real loud. Damian was the only one who Alfred let rub his belly.
Damian turned off the television, he’d been watching whatever random films were playing on the late night movie station. He stared.
“Gosh, don’t get too excited to see me.” Dick teased, setting his hands on Damian’s shoulders and offering a tentative massage. He was surprised when Damian allowed it, he got very jittery about his back. You never got to walk behind him, you had to be in front or to his side.
“You never let me do this. You sore?”
Damian shrugged. Dick gave the back of his head a funny look. He would hop over the sofa to sit, expel some energy, but he didn’t want to scare Alfred away with the impact. He dragged his feet making his way around the perimeter to sit like a normal person.
He eyed Damian.
“What?”
“Something’s bothering you.” If Dick only asked, Damian would never tell him the truth. This was a shot in the dark, but at least he had a chance.
Damian tensed in a way that told him he was right, his cat stroking hand slowed for a moment. Alfred’s eyes opened for a moment to look up at his obvious favorite.
“I… am having a difficult week.” Damian stated, resuming his belly rubbing to keep the feline happy. He was rewarded with a delighted little “mrr,” noise, and a biiiggg stretch.
“You don’t sound like you wanna talk about it.” Dick gave a small smile.
“I don’t.” Damian confirmed.
He let the dust settle for a minute or two, but was going to keep bugging their little prince. He really did seem lonely.
“He’s so cute…” Dick nodded to Alfred. Talking about the cat was usually a pretty solid bet when it came to Damian.
Damian nodded.
“I can’t tell if he likes me or not, he only ever cuddles up to you, B, and Timmy.”
“You are loud. Cats don’t like loud.”
Dick’s expression shifted to something challenging. Taking a breath in to defend himself, he did find that his immediate instinct was to playfully raise his voice. He momentarily tensed, but thought he may have seen Damian smile.
“You’re loud too sometimes… when we make you mad.” Dick mumbled.
Damian sat tall, prim. “I am not American. My baseline starts at a significantly lower volume.”
“Oh, don’t you start that with me!”
Alfred mewed, leapt from Damian’s lap, and scurried down the hall. Dick stared miserably.
“I’m… more of a dog person anyway.” He leaned back with crossed arms.
“Tt. Evidently.”
Dick leered at his brother. Little shit didn’t get to smirk at him like that, who did he think he was?
“Jerk.” Dick prodded around Damian’s torso with two fingers, hoping against hope. He groaned and tossed himself back against the sofa when Damian only twitched, and wrangled his hands away with ease.
“You’re really gonna make me pull out all the stops?” He threatened.
There was an encouraging err of caution to Damian that hadn’t been there before.
“Tt… You have none, Grayson.” He had to be bluffing.
“Sure I do! I have dirt on everyone.”
Damian gave him a weird look.
“I would argue that there are a plethora of significantly dirtier secrets that you could uncover other than whether or not I am still ticklish.”
“And you already know that I am not…” He didn’t trip over that word, the one that raised the hair on the necks of their other siblings. So, Damian was tough, but Dick was annoying. He was incredibly annoying.
Dick hummed. “It’s a real pity. You used to be, it was the sweetest thing.”
“I was a child.”
“You sure were.”
There was a moment of silence and Damian staring at him awkwardly.
“…Right.” He went to stand. Dick yanked him back by the arm.
“Please, please, no need to be coy.” He sounded so much like one of Bruce’s pompous business partners.
“Don’t you wanna hangout with me?” He added helpfully.
Damian might have meant to speak, but the words got lost in a hissing sound when Dick tossed him onto his front across the sofa.
“Sheesh. Mee-ow.” He made a hissing noise of his own, giggling when Damian’s ears changed color. He loomed overhead, but refrained from holding Damian down, not just yet. It didn’t matter how old he got, these sorts of things needed to begin on his terms because it wasn’t looking like he would ever be able to fully grasp how the family goofed off with each other.
They were far from normal, but they weren’t the League of Assassins either. It wasn’t all work and no play. Damian just couldn’t wrap his head around it, but he’d indulge you if you got lucky.
“I’m about to blow your mind, watch this.” Dick’s whisper was obnoxious. That was more normal for him than whispering for its intended purpose: speaking softly.
He had a theory, and a knack for harassing the people he loves. One obscure little spot, he just knew in his brotherly heart, and from watching Damian closely for what was probably way too long. It wasn’t his fault that getting this grumpy kid to laugh was an entire mission just on its own.
Dick skittered his fingers near where Damian’s ribs met his back, a little to the right and up, and there it was.
He winced, hard. His shoulders attempted to curl in at either side. It was strange because if you actually went for his armpits, Damian didn’t laugh, but apparently the suggestion of it on his back was what did him in. He pawed desperately at the cushions as he tried to push himself up, but every time his stomach lurched as he held back laughter, he’d fall.
Dick skittered his fingers up Damian’s spine, relishing in the prominent shiver it earned him, “Is your mind totally blown?” He beamed. Damian let out a strangled screech and threw back an elbow that his brother dodged.
“Aww…” He collapsed down against Damian, laughing at the loud puffing noise the boy couldn’t hide.
“Am I squishing you?” Dick asked stupidly after a moment of quiet.
“Yes.” Damian seethed. Resting his chin on his shoulder, Dick saw a twitch in Damian’s lips.
“Mm. Bummer.” He hummed. Damian groaned. When Dick blew on his ear, it was only to bug him. It shouldn’t have surprised him when Damian yipped and jolted in place. By now, Dick knew all of those little ways in which he took after Bruce, and why else would Batman’s cowl be so full coverage if not to protect his ticklish ears?
That just may have been the stupidest thought he’d ever thunked.
“I do not understand why you’re so… clingy.” Damian muttered. He was losing the energy to maintain his temper, and hoped that Dick would let that slide. He wouldn’t.
“You’re my Robin, and you aren’t fully grown yet. I’ve gotta, like… sit on you to keep you warm.”
“Tt… If that is not the most ridiculous thing I have ever had the displeasure of hearing—“
“Think fast, baby bat.” The raspberry Dick blew against his neck was cut shorter than what was typical of him. Up until this point, he was too hesitant to try it with Damian at all.
His little brother cried out in laughter, writhing frantically. For someone who didn’t appear to be very ticklish, he may have reacted more strongly than Tim or Jason would, and that was saying something.
“What the hell was that!” Damian was hard at work trying to force his voice into the cadence of a snarl. He spoke in a disgruntled whine.
“A raspberry? I do it to the others all the time, you know?” Dick nestled back in. He would be snuggling this prickly little brat while he had him prisoner.
“I don’t recall.” Damian muttered. Dick stared for a moment. He really meant that.
“At a certain point, it becomes background noise… all the yelling and laughter.”
Something twinged in Dick again. From the beginning, he pushed Damian out of his comfort zone. But never too far. He thought that was the way Damian wanted it, and he didn’t have a timeline for when all of his touchy-feely proclivities would become okay.
“Are you feeling a little left out?” Dick may have not fully thought that one through. Damian didn’t respond with genuine frustration, he got all puffy and pouty. He never stopped resembling a little kitten to Dick, the way he’d hiss, try to make himself seem bigger, and bristle.
“Your stupid games don’t matter to me.” You could almost believe it.
“You mean it?”
“I’ve grown tolerant of you doing what satiates you. Within reason.” Damian grumbled.
“So is that a no?”
“We’re kind of going in circles here, huh?” Dick smiled innocently.
Damian didn’t answer.
“Fine, then. I hope you know that you’ve created a monster, Dami.”
He whined out another peal of laughter and dug his fingers into the couch cushions when Dick blew a longer lasting raspberry against his neck.
He knew he had to say it. He didn’t really want to, but he had to. “A… a tickle mons—“
“If you dare to finish that sentence, I will sever your vocal chords while you sleep.” He stopped laughing real quick. From the first floor, you could often hear the sound of their motorbikes when they pulled back into the cave. Bruce and Jason were home.
Dick was promptly shoved off as Damian sat up with ease. “Father is home. Stop embarrassing me.” He never lost his dry tone of voice.
“When did you get so strong?” Dick continued to fawn over him anyway.
“Goodnight, Richard.”
Dick bit his lip and grinned. He knew he was pushing it by this point. Just one more thing.
“No way, you gotta say, ‘I love you’ first!” He rebuked. Damian peered over his shoulder at the secret bookshelf down the hall, just another front door for the Batfamily, then turned to look back at Dick with tired eyes.
Needless to say, when Bruce and Jason reached the first floor, he gave them a show.
* * *
“B, that’s disgusting.”
Bruce continued stirring his coffee. Black with one packet of artificial sweetener.
“Don’t ignore me!” Dick kicked at his shin.
“I once saw you eat your cereal with vanilla coffee creamer. I thought that was pretty disgusting, but I never said anything to you about it.” Bruce murmured. Dick could interpret his mumbling almost as well as Alfred.
“Well… yeah, you’re our dad, you have to be nice to us.”
“It’s hilarious how being called ‘dad,’ still makes you all shy after all these years.” He gave a sly nudge.
Bruce noncommittally hummed along with Dick’s banter, nursing his disgusting coffee.
“Stop walking away when I’m talking to you!” He grabbed onto the back of Bruce’s shirt to keep up.
“I’m still listening, Dick.” Partially. His attention was divided between his eldest, and the other three boys. Jason, Tim, and Damian had huddled up together on the couch with the morning paper. They were tag teaming a game of sudoku.
Dick followed his gaze and huffed, settling into comfortable silence with a closed mouth smile.
“That doesn’t make any sense.” Tim gestured furiously at the paper.
“Your face doesn’t make any sense.” Jason snarked.
“Your mom didn’t think so…” The retort was entirely absent minded as he continued to examine the puzzle.
“She’s dead.” Jason and Damian spoke in unison. They loved an opportunity to antagonize Tim.
“…Ah. Whoops.”
He took the pen from the coffee table, ripped the paper away from Jason, and began to solve the puzzle by himself. Jason turned to Damian in helpless exasperation.
“He’s so bitchy in the mornings…”
“Tt. You would have never figured it out anyway.”
“Who’s side are you on!” He snapped and they began to wrestle.
“The winning side, always.” The cherubic smile on Damian’s face was simultaneously grating. Jason quickly found leverage in their wrestling and squished Damian’s cheeks between his large hand. That was probably just about Dick’s favorite thing in the world, so he hurried forward with a cackle to peer over the back of the sofa.
Damian’s growling and snarling was growing louder. Bruce was inching closer, ready to break it up, when Jason yelled and tumbled off to the side. Damian exhaled sharply through his nose and dusted himself off, Jason was staring up at him from his awkward pile on the carpet, startled.
Tim glanced up.
“Uh… what happened?” He looked like he knew. Nobody answered, Jason and Damian were engaged in a tense standoff, Bruce was waiting for something to go wrong. Dick was doing the same thing for very different reasons.
The middle child coughed and slunk off down the hallway, it was too early for this. Bruce couldn’t agree more.
When Jason let a fraction of his guard down and stood, Damian pounced. Bruce liked to imagine that his pupils dilated and his shoulders shimmied eagerly before he did so.
He was latched onto his brother’s back like the scarab clung to its host. Jason squirmed, but for whatever reason, he was especially susceptible to these kinds of attacks. Cass liked to jump on him all the time just to be affectionate, Tim usually followed up the moment he finally managed to shake her off to aggravate Jason further.
It could have been his bulk, maybe he was afraid of hurting his smaller siblings. This happened so often because they knew he could support their weight, Jason’s resolve also could have just been wavering.
“G… Get OFF—! gHK— no, no, nohoho!” He stumbled around the den, led by his back arching every which way. You would think Jason had something in his shirt, it was cartoonish.
Bruce let a small smile grace his features. He glanced at Dick, knowing that he had to be overjoyed by this display. It was unlike Damian to tickle, and while it wasn’t exactly unlike Jason to put up with it, Bruce would expect him to be a bit more hesitant or shy because of how standoffish the both of them were.
“You get ‘im, baby bat!” Dick crowed, pumping his fist.
Jason had already been laughing because he was nervous, but when Damian’s hands snuck under his jacket, he folded in half instantaneously with a high pitched, goofy sort of giggle. Dick knelt down nearby, spectating like a sports announcer. The other two’s game had moved to the floor now, Damian clung on tight, big spoon style. Not that he even began to measure up to Jason in size.
When Alfred rounded the corner, Jason slammed a hand against the ground. It was hard to tell if he thought he could reach the butler, or just wanted to grab his attention. Alfred folded his hands in front of him and glanced down.
“In high spirits this morning, I see.”
Jason’s breathless babbling was incoherent to everyone but Alfred. He hummed.
“You don’t think it’s a good thing he’s willing to play with you like this, Master Jason? Is it not indicative of closeness and trust?”
“Torture?” Alfred’s tone was almost playful.
Bruce took in his son’s embarrassed, albeit tolerant and joyful expression. Tragically, he knew what “tortured,” looked like on a person’s face. He wouldn’t call this torture.
“You gotta get ‘im right in the heart!” Dick jabbed around his own ribs and chest, eventually collapsing like he’d been fatally wounded. He popped right back up.
“Like that.” He said with a smile.
“Fucker!” Jason spat, moving to sit himself up. His arms wobbled and fell out from underneath him when Damian wiggled one set of fingers into his ribs, the rest of the fight left his body when the younger’s other hand joined the equation. He assumed one of the many variations of his usual defensive position; one arm wrapped protectively around Jason’s torso, the other tangled in his hair to hide his face and muffle his laughter.
He’d already seen it on Jason, but turning to the baby of their family, there was a ghost of a smile on his face. He was having fun, they both were, and it made Bruce’s throat momentarily swell with emotion.
A familiar high pitched squeal pierced the den.
“That means he’s done, it’s like when the oven beeps.” Dick started to scoot closer, pointing a finger at Jason.
“Or the sound an explosive makes before it detonates.” Bruce didn’t think either of them even saw her pass, but Cass came through at some point and provided her own commentary. Damian released his grip once he heard his sister, lifting his head curiously.
“Literally why??” Jason was already getting all flustered, tugging his jacket against himself tightly in case anyone else got any funny ideas.
Damian crossed his arms, only looking a little proud of himself. “Our bet.”
Jason threw his head back and groaned, but that didn’t clarify anything for anyone else in the room.
“Your bet?”
Damian suddenly looked hesitant. He cautiously glanced over his shoulder. He’d stopped putting so much effort into styling his hair, especially if he was at home. It fell into his eyes in a way that was so quintessentially teenager. Bruce tilted his head. He didn’t doubt there were some things Damian would rather talk with one of his siblings about rather than his father, that was normal. He didn’t press, averting his gaze.
That didn’t mean he missed how Damian deflated in relief.
“I am almost amused. A weakness like this is a bit… frivolous for a crimelord, no?”
“Well… I’m not a crimelord anymore.” Jason sat himself up, roughly adjusting his jacket in the way that always made the collar effortlessly pop.
Damian snickered. “Semantics.”
“I’ll give you something to laugh about you little shit. You’re gonna wanna start sleeping with one eye open, because I swear I—“
“You already make me laugh. I’m not ticklish, Todd.” His “Oh, how quaint,” voice was making a guest appearance.
“What the fuck do you mean you’re not ticklish! You’re younger than me!”
Dick grinned. He knew better by now, but Jason didn’t. He didn’t pay as close attention, he didn’t try to tickle anyone very often at all, even if he always swore he’d have his revenge.
“I said the same thing. It’s awful, isn’t it?” He sighed, loosely throwing his arms over Jason’s shoulders and resting his head where he found space.
Damian sat tall.
“It’s… whatever. It’s stupid. He just caught me off guard.”
Dick hummed a little too sympathetically. Jason shoved him away with and left in a huff, probably to go find Alfred and try to convince him into facilitating his decompression baking.
The phone was ringing, Bruce could tell it was coming from his study. He set a hand on Damian’s head as he passed. “What have I said about lying, Dami?”
He didn’t expect Damian to react so strongly to his teasing. He whipped his head around, already a deep shade of red. Bruce grinned and ruffled his hair up before pushing his head back down. It was going to be hard to go back to being all business after all of that.
* * *
The Batfamily was in agreement that Damian had been feeling down for some time now. Bruce could have told you the main reason why before it even began to make itself known, but he’d been trying to be a bit more respectful of his loved ones’ privacy. This flaw had been pointed out to him enough by now to resign to the fact that maybe the bad did outweigh good.
He would like to say that he did well with subtlety. He was a detective, he was Batman, he kept life threatening secrets.
But when it came down to it, subtlety was something else. When Bruce offered to spend the day with Damian, just the two of them, just because it was a nice thing to do, he was met with skepticism that his son didn’t even bother to hide.
Ow, but fine. Fair enough.
That trust and closeness had to be earned. He didn’t like to think about how absent he’d been, but it was the truth, and the only way to remedy that was presence. He knew how much he cared, he loved Damian to death. Damian must not have. That wasn’t going to work.
“You had to lead a team recently.”
Damian grunted, continuing to scratch away at his sketch pad. He wasn’t super big on movies, TV shows, games, none of it. The ones he did like he always said that Bruce was, “too old to understand.” It had been hard to figure out what exactly they could do together that was entirely separate from their work, a spar wasn’t going to cut it.
Bruce ended up sitting with Damian in his bedroom, as still as he could so that he could create a live portrait.
“And… if I’m not mistaken, you had to work with Superboy on that mission, correct?”
Damian went still. Bruce knew that this would bother him, and he knew what the second generation Justice League would be getting up to before the kids did. So, he’d decided in advance that this conversation was going to be an option. He didn’t know what Damian would think.
It was obvious he grieved. He missed Jonathan, they were close. But with the gap in maturity that caused their falling out to begin with, he didn’t think that being friends again was an option. Superboy was just the one that got away.
When Damian hesitantly nodded, it felt vulnerable.
“Are… you okay?” Bruce followed up, voice hushed.
“It is out of my control.” That didn’t seem like it was everything he had to say.
“I wasn’t alone before because I could still spend time with him when you and the others were always busy…”
“That isn’t the case anymore. I… realize I am not the easiest person to be around, but—“ Coming from Damian, that was exceptionally honest. It felt brave. It wasn’t going to fly either way.
“None of us make it easy, oftentimes that isn’t what loving someone is. Even if that were a problem, it wouldn’t change what I’m about to ask you. Do you need people around more often? Do you need us?”
Damian shrugged.
“It’s okay if you do. It’s more than okay, just say the word.”
He was staring at his lap.
“Yes…”
Bruce gave a small smile and nodded. “We’ll be here.”
“You’ve been reaching out more recently. I’m proud of you. I think Jason has been enjoying your time together, he gets lonely too.”
“You weren’t supposed to know about that.” Damian grumbled.
“I’m your dad. I know everything.”
Someone who didn’t know Damian like he did may think that he wasn’t saying all that he should, but Damian didn’t want an apology or some kind of self pitying declaration, he wanted honest time.
Whether or not the bats had it, they would make time. As much as he needed.
* * *
Bruce was peering over his boy’s shoulder. Damian drew him maybe ten years younger. He’d take it.
“That’s amazing, I don’t know how you do it.”
He squirmed under the praise. “I just do.”
Briefly running his fingertips up the back of Damian’s neck to tangle in his hair, he shivered. He shot Bruce a dirty look. The Batman undeniably looked ridiculous trying to play dumb, but did so anyway.
Damian kept staring him down.
“Yes?” Bruce prompted, amused.
He huffed something to himself in Arabic, rolling his shoulders and sitting up straighter. Bruce raised an eyebrow.
“Yes?” Damian sassed.
“Get over here already.” Crowding Damian into the corner of the window alcove where he’d been sitting, he sporadically fluttered his fingers around to anywhere he could reach, whether he expected it to be ticklish or not.
For whatever reason, where Damian would normally bask in his alleged lack of sensitivity and the devastation it brought to his older siblings, he tittered and sunk down against the wall.
“It’s just like I told you, I’m magic. I can do anything.” One hand found the small of Damian’s back while the other explored the front of his torso aimlessly.
His son’s breathy giggle was, of course, still the slightest bit condescending. “This is a sickening waste of such a gift.”
“Is it?” Bruce squished up Damian’s face in his hand in a similar manner to Jason the other day, he handled the boy more gently. His next words spoke for themselves, “such a pretty smile.”
As pretty as it was, he could feel Damian overheating under his fingertips. With a last affectionate tickle under his chin, Bruce released him.
“I’m going to desecrate your portrait…” As much as that didn’t feel like a threat right now in all of Damian’s uncharacteristic smiley-ness, Bruce didn’t doubt he would. He hesitated before snagging the sketch pad. He knew it was private, but Damian was still in a playful enough mood to go along with him.
“Absolutely not.” He held the drawing up high. Instead of bouncing around beneath him and getting all grabby like most of his children would, Damian immediately deferred to actual combat strategies.
“I’m not fighting you right now.” Setting his portrait down onto the bed behind him with reverence, he swept Damian up in his arms instead, pressing a flurry of kisses to his cheek.
“…You disgust me.” Bruce chose to be merciful and not comment on how he was all but melting. They both knew how Damian really felt. He dangled there as Bruce idly swayed them from side to side, resting his chin on Damian’s head.
“I love you, Dami.” He crooned, staring down expectantly. The honorary family cat shifted in his arms.
“Mmphff…”
Bruce spoke fluent Robin in a variety of dialects by this point in his life. That was close enough.
bruce and dick centric whump with a side of tickling. lee!dick, brief switch!dick with his siblings.
briefing: a visit from the whisperer and an ambiguous promise thrusts the batfamily into a state of disarray. they don’t know what to do without the guiding light of their golden boy.
ꄗꗃ
• • • = perspective change
:. = narrative/time jump
[ ] = implies another language in dialogue
Dick honestly couldn’t even tell you what he’d been talking about when an ear drum crushing, “SHUT UP.” reverberated from behind The Red Hood’s helmet. It rang in his ears for a hot second, carrying through the cavernous expanse of the Batcave.
Yikes. Jason was not happy. His voice modulator almost made that convincing! But his train of thought was coming back to him, and this was super important. He swore, none of them had unclenched their jaws since they started getting ready for patrol, and they were basically clocked out now.
“Yeah, but, like… why do we get old? If we’re all just big clusters of cells, and our cells are constantly dying and getting replaced with new ones, why aren’t we just always new and young? Does that mean cells get old too? That’s dumb, they don’t live that long, and then they get replaced anyway. Are all the cells in kahoots and they send out their senior cells over the course of our lives to sabotage us—“
“Dick. Please. It hurts.” Bruce mumbled, removing his cowl to massage the bridge of his nose.
“I’m just saying! Theoretically, we should live forever.”
“No one is going to entertain your convoluted narrative about cell turnover, Grayson.”
Tim shifted up ever so slightly from his hunched position with his laptop. “…I mean—“
“You do not count.”
Tim’s posture returned to its slumped state, office chair rolling back into his little corner facing the wall.
“If that was how it worked, don’t you think we would have figured it out by now?” Bruce decided to be charitable. Dick knew that his point was a little ridiculous, but he didn’t like the quiet much better than being told how annoying he was.
“Well, what if I’m the first one?” Dick set a hand on his chest, putting on his best winning smile.
Dick heard a tired snort from Tim’s corner, “Sure, and I’m Doctor Fate.”
“Don’t make me come over there, Timothy.”
“Alright, alright… I guess my next thought is a podcast. You ever put on a podcast?” Tim probably had a solution somewhere in that big brain of his. Dick didn’t want to have to learn another solution. This was his solution, and in the long run, he knew it didn’t only benefit him.
“But that’s boring.” Dick drawled, draping himself across the countertop where a good chunk of that night’s strike force was working. He grinned when Bruce spared him an amused huff.
“I don’t know what you want us to tell you.”
“‘Oh my goodness gracious, Dick, you’re a genius! How could I have been so blind?? Aging is a man made concept and the illusion of time is actively working against the human race as we know it! We must bring your groundbreaking discovery to public attention ASAP!’”
“One small step for man, a giant leap for mankind—!”
“Get off the counter, chum.”
Dick whined and rolled onto the floor. Some things never change.
:.
Dick had been occupying himself by hand-walking laps around the perimeter of the Batcave when a loud enough crash to be his entire family startling sent him toppling forwards.
Popping up behind them and surveying the situation, he saw this.
“Jesus christ… he just started swinging??” Tim threw his hands out incredulously towards Damian. Their youngest had the decency to look a little awkward about the whole thing.
“I felt something by my ear. It… was too large to be an insect.”
“Then maybe it was a bat? They’re rumored to go after hair, and we’ve got plenty of them in here.” Tim offered.
Damian shrugged, glaring down at his kneepads.
Dick was finding the beginnings of a sigh when Damian started to thrash around again. His shoulders scrunched up to his neck as he threw himself around every which way.
“It’s in my hood!” Both amused and vaguely concerned glances were exchanged.
It didn’t take long for the cave for fall into a state of chaos as two camps formed; Jason and Tim were freaking out alongside Damian, trying to fish the mystery creature out of his hood. Dick and Bruce worked to prevent any major casualties.
From the corner of his eye, Dick caught a soft, pink glow emanating from inside Damian’s sleeve. Moments later, their culprit shimmied out from the enclosed space.
“Kehehe… did I scare you?”
“What the fuck is that, talking cotton candy?” Needing to get a better look at the little thing, Jason ripped off his helmet. He turned to Dick. “Did you take Zatanna to the carnival or something? I thought she dumped you.”
“You’re not funny.”
Jason bit back a smile. He rolled his shoulders, schooling his expression. “Seriously though, what is that.”
“I am… The Whisperer!” The Whisperer did a little somersault.
“Huh?” Jason crowed.
“The—“
“You’re gonna have to speak up.”
“The Whisperer, Todd. The name is quite intuitive, really, but you like the sound of your own voice far too much.”
Jason didn’t have a comeback for that. Damian had uncharacteristically protective instincts when it came to small, cute, vulnerable looking things. And this… Whisperer was very cute. Soft and squishy, big ol’ eyes, no larger than a game controller. The fact that she was pink sealed the deal.
“…D’aww. Well, what brings you to the Batcave, Whisperer?” Dick leaned over Damian’s shoulder, now also wanting a better look.
Another cute twirl. “Anywhere in the world, if there is a call for silence, you have opened the door for me, so to speak. Kehehe… I can grant you a wish!”
Tim rubbed his eyes. “What’s the catch?”
“Well, um… it really is just a wish. One. I can grant one wish. Quiet is my specialty, I can bring a little bit of quiet to your busy lives.”
To everyone else, that probably did sound a little nice. Dick felt targeted.
“However… I cannot grant just anyone’s wish. They must have some tie to the magical realm.”
“However, however! I would not come here just to feed you false hope.” The Whisperer perched herself on Damian’s shoulder.
“Here you have the inheritor of the Demon’s Head. Grandson of Ra’s Al Ghul.”
Damian bristled. Bruce stepped in first. “He isn’t very involved with that side of his family. I have near full custody with the caveat that his mother is arguably one of the most powerful women in the Northern Hemisphere.”
“Oh… I see. Regardless, he holds more spiritual power than the average person.” Damian actually looked a little flattered, “But I don’t want to get involved in your, um. Personal family affairs.”
Bruce smirked. “That’s quite alright, Whisperer.”
“Does that mean you’ve made your decision?”
The group exchanged glances. Dick had been juggling his escrima sticks. Spiritual power, Demon’s Heads, wishes, not really his thing. He cocked his head.
“I don’t think—“ Tim began.
“Sold. We can’t ever seem to catch a break.” Jason, running on an hour and a half of sleep, three Tylenol, and a cereal bar, cut him off.
“Wow, omigosh! Yaaay! I promise you won’t regret this. Alright, lemme just-“
The Whisperer did a final spin before taking off into Damian’s hood again. There was a brief, pale pink flashbang that took over the cave. The overwhelming glow came from Damian himself, seemingly compensating The Whisperer for her services in his alleged spiritual power.
By the time their eyes had adjusted, the little pink spirit was gone, leaving them with one resounding message tingling in their ears.
Enjoy the silence.
• • •
Bruce surveyed the room;
Damian had his same idea, fingers already twitching for his sword. Tim was shuddering and rubbing the funny feeling from his ears. Jason was picking at a loose thread on his jacket, brow twitching warily.
“That was a horrible idea, you know.” Barbara’s voice picked up through the Batcomputer, the buffering interface for her Oracle program briefly taking over the screen before it was just her, coming live from the Clocktower to scold them.
“It doesn’t really seem like anything has changed.” Jason mumbled.
“I know you, Jason. If you had any reason to believe you aren’t in the wrong, you’d speak up.” She snipped.
“Turn around.” That was an order. Normally, Bruce would feel a little threatened. But this felt different somehow.
They turned. Behind them, Dick was pawing frantically at his throat, lips moving a mile a minute. But there was no sound coming out. Lord have mercy, this was not happening.
Bruce watched the heat crawl up Jason’s neck in real time, his arms slowly uncrossing as he was readying himself to flee the scene any moment now.
He glanced thankfully up at the monitor Barbara had taken over. She wouldn’t look at him.
“Everyone out.”
Bruce held firm to Dick’s wrist. “You stay.”
In the mere seconds that Bruce had turned away from the video call, Cassandra’s looming shadow had appeared behind Barbara.
“His voice… it’s like The Little Mermaid.” Her little face… she looked so sad.
Bruce helplessly nodded his head. Barbara ended the video call.
:.
Bruce swiveled his chair to look at Dick, clearing his throat. His eldest raised an eyebrow. He couldn’t start the conversation this time. Physically couldn’t. Bruce felt fortunate that, at the very least,
1) Dick was an expressive person, he emoted with his face.
2) Bruce knew how to translate even his tiniest micro-expressions.
“Jason didn’t mean anything by it.” He quietly began. Bruce saw Dick scoff, but he didn’t hear it. Bruce sighed to himself.
“We’ll get you all fixed up, okay? If Zatanna would be too weird for you, I’ll have Zatara come ‘round.”
Silence.
This was already unbearable. Dick was staring over the top of Bruce’s head, lips pressed into a thin line. He wanted to be read as angry, but he was more hurt than anything. Bruce knew that specific expression all too well by now.
“Chum…” Bruce was hopeful when Dick began to look down. He deflated when he read from Dick’s expression, a challenge:
Until we can get this fixed, see how long you’ll survive without me.
:.
Bruce didn’t think he had the right to be upset when Dick was unequivocally correct on his end of their unofficial bet. Not having his voice, their voice of reason, even if it sometimes went on silly tangents, it was a nightmare.
Bruce had known for a long time that Dick was their rock, but this had solidified it more than ever, and despite the fact that they hadn’t exchanged a single word, he was learning a lot about his boy. As it stood, they took him for granted. Dick wasn’t truly dumb or silly or any of the various adjectives you’d use to describe his little rants. He was performing for them. That’s just Dick Grayson.
Behind every little thing they groaned about, there was the intentionality on his part. Dick wore a lot of different hats, and the one they’d taken away just so happened to be the one he’d used for years to keep their family unit from deteriorating.
It was possible that Dick had been doing this for so long he didn’t even have to think about it anymore, but deteriorate they did. Faster than you could say, “Holy smokes, Batman!”
Damian and Tim were irritable. They missed Dick, despite the fact that he was still physically there. The blame fell onto Jason, who already felt terrible, but just couldn’t put it into words. He’d stopped spending any time at the manor, and was avoiding their usual patrol routes.
If anyone was at fault, it was The Whisperer. But she wasn’t here, and Bruce had failed to teach Damian and Tim how to channel their frustration in less destructive ways.
Following that, when Robin numbers three and five witnessed how awful Bruce’s handling could be without Dick’s guidance as needed, they weren’t taking him as seriously.
Barbara was breathing down his neck about the whole situation as well, fiercely protective of not only Dick, but Cassandra, who was very worried about him.
Dick was important, many would call him the best of them. But up until now, they evidently hadn’t ever fully realized just how much they leaned on him.
They floundered like that for six hellish days until Zatara found his way to the manor, Zatanna in tow. They wanted to be sure they had enough hands on deck to fix this. Bruce hadn’t known it was that serious.
It was sobering, to say the least.
:.
“Uoy esaeler ew!”
“Did it work? Testing, testing, 1, 2, 3–“
“YES! YEEESSS!”
It was a weight off all their shoulders when Dick’s euphoric shouting and cackling began to echo all throughout the high ceiling of the main family room.
“Thank you! God, I could kiss you!” Zatanna and Zatara both looked equally disturbed by that notion.
“…Nevermind!”
“Let’s keep it professional.” Zatara diverted.
“Don’t be a stranger, Boy Wonder.” Zatanna gave him a smile and friendly wave.
“Emoh su ekat.”
The magicians were gone, and Bruce had finally bore witness to Dick’s late stage metahuman ability in action. He’d heard rumors, but never seen it for himself. Dick really could stay on good terms with all of his exes.
“Well, that was thoroughly embarrassing.”
Bruce blinked, focusing his gaze on Dick again. He was strangely lax, considering what they’d unintentionally put him through.
“I mean… she seemed fine with you.”
“What? No! You! This past week has been embarrassing for you.” Dick was laughing, but they all knew they needed to brace themselves. Bruce stared knowingly.
Cassandra, who had been lurking nearby and likely perceiving that this didn’t apply to her, wasted no time in wrapping herself around Dick’s middle. She was right. Shocker. He reciprocated the embrace with one arm, rubbing her shoulder.
Bruce hadn’t seen Jason look so intimidated by Dick since the time he’d gotten himself shot, stuck on bed rest, and was unable to escape an uncomfortable conversation they’d been needing to have.
“Honestly, I don’t have as much to say to you as you think I do.” Dick decided to be merciful, getting Jason out of the way first.
“Do you actually find me annoying?”
“I mean… yeah, sometimes—“
“Allow me to rephrase that. Do find me annoying enough to want to basically turn the volume down on me for an unspecified, potentially permanent amount of time?”
Jason sensed that he probably shouldn’t mess this up. He straightened his posture. “I… no, not really. You have some good things to say too. It’s been really hard, and you’ve still been here. You just… y’know, you couldn’t say your good things.”
“You definitely proved something.”
“All I needed to hear—“
“It’s not, though… seriously, I feel like shit. Honest, if I had known what that little pink thing would do, I woulda’ never…”
“I’m sorry.” Jason sounded so small. That was all it took for Dick to just melt.
Bruce understood. He forgave Jason for a lot of things Batman wasn’t supposed to be able to justify because of that tone. As weak to it as they were, Jason couldn’t replicate and weaponize it even if he wanted to. It always came straight from the heart. That was what made it special.
“You’re alright, Little Wing. You held it together.”
Jason nodded along, picking at the callouses on his hands.
“And how about you two, huh? Have a little integrity. I’m not your dad. You answer to Batman. You stop doing that, and that’s when you find yourself in a wrist brace, genius.” Dick threw a hand out towards Tim. Tim, who hadn’t looked away from the clock since this whole verbal execution in town square began.
Damian looked entertained for a moment.
“For my sake, maybe don’t let any more little pink things abuse your magical demon powers to onset curses.”
“And just… listen to your father, Damian. You are a minor, and under legal obligation to at least sort of do that.”
He was swiftly humbled.
It was Bruce’s turn now. He wasn’t sure if his plan of action was the right way to go about this. Maybe Dick had a lot to say to him, and he needed to face the music. But that was how it always was. He’d been a very passive force in his son’s life for a long time.
A part of him wanted so badly for Dick to stop letting these things roll right off his back, but none of them practiced healthy coping mechanisms. He couldn’t condemn Dick for it, that wouldn’t do anything. He had to let his son know he cared without it having to be a lecture, something where someone would have to intervene and say for Bruce, “He only does it because he cares.”
Cassandra eyed Bruce as he came closer. He felt very exposed as her gaze landed on him and softened. Having gotten her cuddle fix, she scampered upstairs.
“Incoming.” Was the only warning Bruce gave before wrapping Dick up in his arms.
• • •
Dick froze in place. God, when was the last time Bruce hugged him like this? When he came out of the Timestream a couple years ago?
Hard as Bruce tried, they couldn’t seem to slot together right anymore. Not like when Dick was a kid, anyway.
“B, cmon, you didn’t miss me that bad—“ He uncomfortably chuckled.
“I did.” The embrace didn’t waver. Dick remained paralyzed, suffocating on words left unsaid.
“I don’t want you to think for even a second that we want you to make yourself smaller for us. I hope you’ve never felt that way to begin with. This was… a massive oversight. We need you, Dick. All of you.”
Dick almost laughed. Sure, thanks, dad. You’re about a decade late, but thanks. Dick found that, at the end of the day, it didn’t matter how far they strayed or strained, how hard they pushed or pulled, Bruce would always be his dad. And Dick would always love him as such. Bruce had a good heart. It wouldn’t lead them too far off the beaten path.
Dick held on tighter for a few moments. He had a choice right now. He could continue to resent Bruce for his past negligence, or he could start to open up to him again because he was trying to make up for it.
Dick wasn’t a kid anymore. Things weren’t the same anymore. But maybe that was a good thing for right now, it also meant that Bruce had been given time to mature in this own right.
He allowed his body to relax, head slumping forward against Bruce’s shoulder. His chest fluttered and burned, feeling like it was catching up after years worth of holding his breath.
“There you go. That’s it...” Dick didn’t know when that soothing whisper started coming to Bruce so naturally, but he honestly could do to start hearing more of it at his ripe twenty seven years of age. And that meant putting a little more faith in ol’ batdad.
:.
Dick finally took a step back. “Alright… totally. All of me, all the time. No pressure or anything.” He played up his breathlessness.
“You know that’s not what I meant.” Bruce pulled back as well, but not before experimentally fluttering his fingers over Dick’s ribs in subtle retaliation.
Dick stared for a moment before he let a smile take over his features. He didn’t expect Bruce to fall back into dad mode that quickly. “I’m not ticklish anymore, you know.”
Bruce hummed. “You used to be.”
“Well, I also used to be eight years old. Times change, I guess—“
“For the record, he is lying. Pennyworth had to take his measurements so that Lucius Fox could install our latest upgrades on his Nightwing suit correctly.”
“I was certain he was going to asphyxiate, Father. It was deeply troubling.”
Dick huffed out a laugh. “Okay, well, for the record, I was a little nervous. People laugh when they’re nervous all the time.”
Damian tutted.
Little brother solidarity was something else. Jason, Tim, and Damian could hardly ever agree on anything. But right now, they were all thinking the same thing. They were bloodthirsty.
Dick smiled, shaking his head. How sweet. How quaint. “Whatever you’re planning, don’t.” He fell back elegantly into what was a pretty typical position for him. Stretchy back bend overtop of the couch.
What wasn’t typical was Jason, Tim, and Damian immediately closing in on him. Bruce was curiously sauntering over as well.
“WH— you can’t be serious!” He struggled halfheartedly against his brothers as they tried to coordinate the tickle attack. Maybe he’d let them have this one, at least for a little bit. He wasn’t that ticklish anyway. It was a huge power move, if you really think about it.
:.
“I don’t think we’ve ever gotten this far.” Jason mused, holding one arm. Damian had to sit on the other to keep it still. Dick was still upside down, but they’d lowered his upper body closer to the floor. He was silently observing, already a bit tickled by just how seriously they were treating this.
“You’d better not ruin it for everyone, Timmy. You have to avenge us.”
“With how much he victimizes me, I could probably get to about 20% of my own avenging and have already compensated for you both.”
“I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration, baby bird.” Dick knew his shit eating grin wasn’t convincing anyone.
“I think it’s not.” Tim plopped down above him on the sofa.
Dick let himself twitch and smile as Tim played the anticipation game. “I’m beginning to think you just don’t know how to tickle.”
“Be quiet.” Tim muttered, brow furrowed. He was so concentrated.
“You’re really gonna say that to me after everything I just went through with The Whisperer?”
Tim’s eyelid twitched.
“Guys, I don’t know if I’m strong enough for this. He’s… so obnoxious.”
“You’re overthinking it.” Jason rubbed at his face like he was exasperated, but Dick knew it was to hide his smile.
“Me? Overthink? Why, Jason, you can’t be serious—“
“Who’s obnoxious?”
Tim’s lips sealed shut. Jason couldn’t stop himself from laughing that time. Now having a point to prove, his hands converged on Dick’s lower tummy, fingers wiggling tentatively.
“Coochie coo…”
“Just because that works on you doesn’t mean it’s going to work on me.”
“I’m making it work! Be patient!” Further incentivized, Tim gained a little confidence, squeezing all the way up and down either side of Dick’s torso.
Dick giggled, rolling around with the little wiggle room he had. He occasionally gave an especially strong tug at his arms to startle Jason and Damian.
Tim’s expression continued to droop as he went on. He threw his head back towards the ceiling. “He’s clearly enjoying this, which means he’s not learning anything.”
“As adorable as your dedication to this is, there’s no overarching moral dilemma here. You just don’t know when to quit.” Dick wormed his hand out from underneath Damian, “You really thought you could pin down a contortionist?”
He pinched and prodded at the anywhere he could reach on Damian’s lower body until the boy couldn’t keep him down anymore. He was now hiding behind the couch like a disgruntled cat, grumbling something about how he wasn’t an, “official contortionist.”
After some finagling with his three free limbs, Dick entrapped Tim under a throw blanket, roughing him up a bit. Two down, one more to go.
Jason let go of Dick’s other arm when they made eye contact, so he had both to wrap around his torso.
“No. Don’t touch me, you sicko.”
Dick was able to fake Jason out a few more times than he expected, earning a generous amount of breathy, anticipatory laughter.
“See? I didn’t even have to touch you.” He said a little too sweetly.
Before anything else could slip out the side of his teeth, he was yanked forwards by the ankle. Dick didn’t have to look to know who that was, and that he was totally screwed. Bruce’s fingertips skittered along his socked foot with gentle, familiar precision.
And just like that, he was a third grader being taken apart on the training mats again.
• • •
“GH-! What are you doing?? I’m too old for this, B!”
Bruce shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. Dick couldn’t seriously think he was ever going to be ducking out of this anytime soon on the basis of age. More specifically, maturity? Yeah, no. He still walked around on his hands and insisted that skipping was faster jogging, just like when he was Robin.
“Right…” Bruce put on a very skeptical tone.
“So much for not being ticklish.“
When Dick covered one foot with the other, Bruce gave him a breather before sporadically spidering all up and down his legs. The ensuing kicking and squealing was how he remembered it. Fortunately, his dodging and redirecting was no worse for wear either.
“The best part is, I don’t have a score to settle with you. You’re just so fun to tickle.”
“I’m not! Please— I’m NNNAHAHA—“ Dick all but screamed when Bruce’s mostly closed hands found delicate undersides of his knees, again, just barely grazing.
Bruce grinned, wincing and letting his hands fall back. Even if his other boys wouldn’t think that was nearly enough retribution, that was their battle to wage now. They had the ammunition they needed, just had to try to not get kicked in the teeth.
“I know Dick-Unsigned-Modeling-Contract-Grayson didn’t just scream like a banshee.” Jason mumbled to a very wide eyed Tim.
Bruce offered Dick, in all his giggly delirium, an arm up. “You’re noisy, is what you are.”
His laughter briefly raised in volume and pitch again as Bruce lifted Dick up to toss him right back onto the couch. He was soon joined by Damian crawling up to join him. Perhaps to make sure he wasn’t, “asphyxiating.”
Damian eyed Bruce cautiously. His lips were moving, and normally, Bruce could lip read English. This was alluding him. Damian was likely speaking Arabic.
