hey y'all

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Dick!” Tim snapped as he nearly banged his chin onto the keyboard in his efforts to evade yet another incoming hair ruffle from his oldest brother. “I am working.” 

“Sorry, Robin.” Dick sure didn’t sound sorry. In fact, he sounded like he had one of those mischievous smirks on his face that always foreshadowed some kind of impending shenanigans. “I know you’re working hard.” 

Tim didn’t believe that was going to be the end of it, but he hmphed and tried to get back to his typing. He was in the middle of working out a particularly tricky line of code in the automated file backup system, which had been bugging out for weeks. This was the first chance he’d had to actually sit down and address it, and he had been hoping to do so uninterrupted. 

“Go talk to Kon and Bart,” Tim suggested. “Or Cassie, if she’ll put up with you.” He chewed on his lower lip and tried to trace the chain of stacked functions back to the initial command. 

His chair creaked as Dick rested his elbows against the back and leaned forward to peer over Tim’s shoulder. “What if I wanna spend some time with my baby brother?” 

“You literally see me all the time.” 

“Heartless, Timmy. Heartless.” 

Tim’s mouth twitched but he bit back his grin. “You can watch, but you have to be quiet. Unless you have an idea that could be useful.” 

Dick lightly smacked the back of his head, making Tim snicker, but he stayed put. “Fine.” 

Surprisingly, the work went faster than Tim had anticipated, even with an older-brother-shaped shadow looming over his shoulder. Dick actually even had a few good pointers – he’d clearly done his share of wrangling this system back in the days when he’d spent more time at the Tower. It was easy for Tim to get lost in the flow of his work, so he had no idea how much time had passed until someone tapped him on the shoulder. 

“Hey, Rob.” 

Kon. 

Tim’s yawn made his jaw pop as he craned his head back towards his teammate. “Hey, what’s up?” 

Kon and Bart were standing a couple paces away, clearly having just finished a round of sparring or conditioning. Dick, of course, was still leaning over the chair at an angle that would’ve caused most other people some lumbar discomfort by now. 

“Food,” Bart said like he was repeating himself, drumming his fingers so fast against his thighs that they blurred. “Gotta refuel.” 

“Go ahead,” Tim replied. He jerked his head at the computer screen. “I’m almost done, and I really wanna finish this tonight.”

“You should eat,” Dick unhelpfully added. “I can work on this while you do.”

That was a tempting offer…but if Tim let him finish the work, then he wouldn’t know what finally ended up fixing the problem, kind of like writing most of a murder mystery then handing the manuscript off for another author to write the reveal. Besides, he’d already put in the bulk of the work. Might as well rip the whole bandaid off. 

“I’m close,” he said. “Really, I’ll catch up to you guys soon.”

Dick tapped him on the head. “Sunk cost fallacy, Squeakers. Get up.”

With a shower of electric sparks, Bart was suddenly right there next to Dick. “Why d’ya call him that?”

Tim went completely, utterly still in his chair like a rabbit who’d felt the gaze of a fox. 

“Did Tim never tell you?” Oh, Dick may have seemed innocent to the untrained ear, but Tim knew better. He fought the urge to slide down the chair and fold himself under the desk. 

“We asked,” Kon said, now also taking a couple steps closer. “But he just brushed it off. There’s gotta be a story there, right?” 

“Is it embarrassing?” Bart asked. He didn’t need to sound so damn eager. 

Okay, Tim could salvage this. Weren’t his teammates supposed to be hungry, anyways? He took a steadying breath, then exhaled it in what was supposed to sound like a tired sigh, leaning all the way back to look up at them. 

“It’s for the way I laughed when I was little,” he admitted. And, since that was technically true, he could feel his face heating up.  

“Aaaawwwwwww!” Bart crooned, and Tim bravely restrained himself from hiding his face behind his hands, or tackling his friend to the floor. 

Dick just chuckled and reached down to ruffle his hair again. “That’s part of it, definitely.” 

Tim scowled at him. “Dick–”

“What’s the other part?” Kon asked, mischief glinting in his grin. “What’d Robbie leave out?” 

“Kon-El Kent, shut up,” Tim hissed. Honestly, he got no respect these days. 

Ignoring him, Dick answered, “Oh, see, he left out the part where it’s still the way he laughs –” He paused for a few seconds so Tim could really contemplate crawling under the desk and barricading himself in with the chair legs, since he knew exactly what was coming. 

“ – When you tickle him.”

Kon and Bart responded in perfect unison. “What?” 

“I swear,” Dick said, and the grin he turned on Tim was blindingly fond. “Here, listen.” 

“No – do not –” Tim tried to protest, but it was too late. Dick’s hands had already shot down to his sides and squeezed, kneading in uneven patterns that instantly made Tim try to slam himself against the chair’s back in his efforts to escape. 

“Dihihick!” he whined as strangled snickers tore out of his throat. “Heyheyhehehey!” 

“What the fuck,” Kon breathed. 

“Oh, we’re not even having real fun yet,” Dick said. He switched from digging into Tim’s sides to scattering individual pokes to his stomach. “He has all kinds of laughs, of course, but the squeaks are his cutest. Don’t know how I would’ve survived the tense times between me ‘n’ Batman without ‘em.”  

The unpredictability coupled with the teasing made Tim jerk and shove his hands over his face to hide. 

“It’s like Christmas came early and twice,” Bart muttered, but Tim was sure that he’d see a gleeful grin from the Speedster if he ever came out of his hiding place again.

“For the good squeaks, you gotta tickle his tummy.” Dick demonstrated that point by making claws out of his hands and shaking them into Tim’s stomach on either side of his navel. 

Tim couldn’t help the flood of squeaking laughter even as he felt his face burn redder than a lobster’s shell. As much as he wanted to save face in front of his friends, he was Dick’s little brother, and he soaked up every second he got of Dick’s undivided attention. Even if it came with tickles. 

Okay, especially when it came with tickles. 

It had been their thing back when Tim was small and new to life as a little brother, part of the bedtime routine that added some consistency into Tim’s uprooted world. The memories of those evenings when Dick would grab him up in a giant hug and wiggle his fingers into Tim’s stomach and ribs as he whisked him off to bed were memories of being safesafesafe. Some instinctive part of his brain had decided to hold onto that knowledge, even when Dick decided to do something like tickle him to death in front of his teammates. 

“See?” Dick was saying. “And  when you –” Suddenly, just the pads of Dick’s fingers were scribbling over the soft giggle spots right next to Tim’s bellybutton, and Tim almost lost his mind. The softer tickles were almost worse because they seemed to settle in his skin like a sunburn, quietly driving him crazy. 

“Tickles,” he gasped out, thunking his head against the chair. “You – you’re – it’snotfair!” 

Surely he was imagining the endeared noises from everyone. Surely. 

“Not fair?” asked Dick, teasing him. “What isn’t fair, Timmy? C’mon, I’m giving you your favorite tickles–”

Tim was about to become the first case of spontaneous human combustion. “Dick!”

“What is going on?” 

A blessedly familiar voice rang out from the other side of the room. Cassie. Her arrival gave Tim enough energy to push down the giggles and shout, 

“Cassie, you gotta–yougottahelpme!” 

In retaliation, Dick blew a raspberry on the back of his neck while digging into the twin giggle spots on his stomach and Tim’s breath left him again in peals of squeaky giggles. 

“He’s ticklish,” Bart was saying. “Insanely so.” 

“Hmm.” Cassie’s footsteps scuffed against the metal flooring as she wandered closer. “It sounds like he’s dying.” When she came into view, she wedged herself between Bart and Dick to lean down over Tim. 

He blinked up at her and tried for an innocent grin, even though he couldn’t stop giggling because Dick was still tickling him. 

“Does Spoiler know?” 

“Oh, of course,” Dick said, with an affected tone of offense. “What kind of brother do you take me for?” 

Cassie grinned sideways at him. “Well, for all I know, Tim gets his ticklishness from you, so. Gotta check on these things, y’know?” 

“Hey, now.” One of Dick’s hands vanished and a second later, Cassie let out a startled giggle and abruptly dropped out of sight as she presumably tried to evade whatever Dick was doing. “Don’t think that Donna hasn’t told me all kinds of things about you, Wonder Girl.”

“He is,” Tim gasped out, then shrieked when Dick clawed into his ribs in retaliation.

“Oh, really.” 

Tim was absolutely mentally bookmarking that one for later. He already knew Bart was ticklish, but they’d kept that secret for each other in a kind of mutually-assured-destruction pact. Now, though…now he just had to figure out Kon. In the name of defending himself, of course. Not to get revenge. 

He wrapped both his hands around the wrist of Dick’s remaining hand and tugged weakly on it. His abdominal muscles were starting to ache from how much he’d been laughing.

The tugging was enough to get Dick’s attention back, and the overwhelming affection in his expression did make Tim want to burrow out of sight, even though he couldn’t actually go anywhere. 

“Yeah, Baby Bird?” 

Tim pulled out his trump card and blinked one more time, letting his face relax into a hazy, giggly grin. “Dee, I’m hu–heek!–hungry!” 

For a second, Dick just stared at him. Then he laughed, letting his head tilt back for a second, and brought both his hands to rest on Tim’s shoulders. “You’re getting good at that.”

“Thanks,” Tim said, still working out a few residual titters as his older brother rubbed his shoulders. “I am, though. Hungry.” 

“And you’re coming up now? You’re taking a break?” Kon asked. “Damn. We’ll have to start using this on you more often.” 

Tim blushed and flipped him off, then let out a startled squeak when Dick scooped him out of the chair and plopped his feet down on the ground. 

“You should,” Dick said to Kon, stepping back and pretending to dust his hands off. “It has a hundred percent success rate of enforcing Robin Break Time.” 

Bruce knew as well as any parent that hearing his name shouted at volume loud by one of his kids would never not send a spike of panic through his chest. It didn’t matter that this particular evening found him seated in one of the armchairs across from his desk, or that he knew, absolutely knew, that his sons were all safe at home in the Manor. Hearing his oldest son screech out “DAD!” had Bruce bolting out of his chair and down the hall before the wave of icy panic fully sunk into the pit of his stomach. 

He needn’t have bothered. It wasn’t a crisis, because of course it wasn’t, but those parental instincts would never die. 

“Hiya, B!” Dick chirped, looking up at Bruce. 

Bruce just stared at him for a moment. “...how?” 

Dick was hanging upside down from the second-floor railing, his legs wound through two of the posts to anchor him as he dangled over the hallway below. Knees…surely weren’t supposed to bend like that. He’d been inverted long enough that his cheeks had a mild tinge of red from the bloodflow to his head. 

This certainly wasn’t the first time Bruce had stumbled across Dick in a position that shouldn’t have been feasible for any human being, and he was well aware that it wouldn’t be the last time, either. At least it wasn’t the chandelier this time – but those might not even hold Dick’s weight, now. 

Dick curled upwards to grab the posts with his hands and gave Bruce a sunny smile. “I’m stuck.” 

Bruce huffed out a light puff of laughter through his nose. He’d been through this one before, many times. “You’re not stuck, chum, you’re bored.” He reached out anyways, leaning down over the railing so Dick could grab his forearm and pull himself up high enough that he had the leverage to slide his legs free. 

“Maybe I was,” Dick said as he pushed himself up and flipped over to the carpet of the upstairs hallway. As usual, his landing was silent. “Tim and Jason are researching some case, Alfred’s busy, and you’re working. What else am I supposed to do?” There was a slight note of disapproval in his tone, even though he was still smiling. 

Ah, right. Bruce squeezed his shoulder, feeling Dick lean slightly into his grip. “I wasn’t working. The whole week off, right?” 

“Oh.” Dick’s grin turned a little sheepish. “Sorry. You were in your study, I just assumed.” 

“It’s a fair enough deduction.” Still gripping his eldest’s shoulder, Bruce jostled him as they walked towards the stairs. “Just reading, this time.” 

“Anything important?” 

“Just fiction.” Bruce hesitated for a moment, then added, “Never more important than you.” He knew he’d made the right call when Dick ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck. As Dick had gotten older – and, perhaps, as he’d seen more and hurt more – he’d grown ever-so-slightly quieter, less open than before. It was a small change; frankly, Bruce was probably the only one who’d noticed, because Dick never let that bleed into his relationships with his brothers. But the movement he’d just made had always been his tell, at least in his interactions with Bruce. 

“But,” Bruce began, trying to inject some levity into his words. “It would be unforgivable to let my son languish in his boredom, so…is there anything you would like to do?” 

“Uh.” Dick chewed on his lower lip for a second, a habit he’d seemed to have picked up from Tim. “Maybe you could spot me on the rings?” 

As if he’d ever needed a spotter. Bruce did recognize, though, that what Dick was really asking for was time. “Of course, chum. Just let me go change.” 

***

Part of Bruce had often wondered if Dick had some yet-undiscovered Meta DNA that allowed him to move with such grace and power whenever he was in the air. The other part of Bruce was busy bursting with pride at the skill, work, and dedication that Dick always displayed whenever he was unleashed on unsuspecting gym equipment. 

Back when Dick was younger, Bruce had decided to outfit the main floor’s exercise room with gymnastics and acrobatic equipment so his kid would have a familiar outlet for the energy that sang through his cells like a live current. He’d kept up with it through the years, occasionally changing out the fixtures as Dick grew, to be sure that everything was still sized appropriately to hold Dick’s weight as he’d started filling out. 

The rings had been one of Dick’s favorites. He could often be found there in the evenings attempting to wring out enough energy to settle down in bed, and still used them whenever he was at the manor. Bruce watched him now from outside the “possibly-getting-kicked-in-the-face” radius, close enough to intervene should Dick require assistance, but far enough that he could see the full range of motion and flexibility that his oldest was capable of executing. 

And it was staggering. 

Dick moved like it was as easy as breathing, each swing and lift flowing into the next, caught up in an elaborate dance with gravity as he worked through a series of conditioning exercises. Once he was warmed up, he switched to combinations of flips and drops that became increasingly complicated, requiring more and more rotations until Bruce couldn’t count them anymore.

He allowed himself to lose track of time. It was easy to get caught up in memories of a younger Dick doing similar things, often staying up there until Bruce climbed up on a footstool to pull him down – or, sometimes, to tickle him until he let go and fell into Bruce’s grasp. 

“Hey, B, catch!” Dick yelled. 

Startled out of his reminiscing, Bruce instinctively stepped forwards to widen his stance as Dick pulled himself up from an iron cross and somersaulted forwards. The weight of his now-grown son punched the air out of Bruce’s lungs for a second, but he still caught him – because, really, what was the point of being able to bench six hundred if he couldn’t also lift his children? 

“Oh my God,” Dick was laughing, head flung backwards. “Sorry, I thought you’d dodge.” 

“I find your lack of faith disturbing,” Bruce replied, a little breathless. “Of course I’d catch you.” Cradling his twenty-five-year-old as if he were a much younger child, Bruce hitched him up into a more secure hold. 

“And here I was, hoping for a crash landing.” 

Bruce rolled his eyes, but allowed himself to smile. “Brat.” There was no heat in his voice, and he adjusted the arm under Dick’s knees so he could reach around and squeeze at his leg. 

The startled yipping noise that Dick made ensured that Bruce kept smiling to himself, turning his gaze to his eldest’s face. It was always good to reaffirm that, no matter how old Dick got, there were some things he wouldn’t be outgrowing anytime soon. 

Dick was staring back at him with a grin that Bruce would call delighted, something like anticipation glittering in his eyes. The sight sent a rush of affection churning through his chest. Dick, unlike his younger brothers, found it easier to accept positive attention and was much more open about seeking it. Maybe this entire detour to the gym was Dick asking, in his more direct if still a tad roundabout way, for some one-on-one time with his dad. 

After all, it wasn’t like Dick hadn’t inserted himself into Tim and Jason’s casework before. He was intentionally leaving them be. 

“Really?” Bruce asked as if he didn’t know full well what the answer would be. Doing that always seemed to aggravate his children into flustered sputters of laughter. “Still?” 

“Maybe,” Dick hedged, a faint blush rising to the high points of his cheekbones. 

“Well,” When Bruce let Dick down, he noted the flash of disappointment in his son’s eyes. “What is it you say to your brothers? Ah, yes, you’ll always be my baby.” 

That made Dick flush even darker and looked away. “B.” 

Chuckling quietly, Bruce ruffled his hair until Dick groaned and shoved his hand away. “Sorry, chum, am I embarrassing you?” 

Dick rolled his eyes but didn’t seem too upset as he knocked his shoulder into Bruce’s. “Horribly.” 

Bruce pulled him into a sideways hug, then kissed the top of his head. “Cocoa?” 

“Only if you make it.”

***

“So, what did you get the boys for Christmas?” Dick asked. He’d been content to follow Bruce from the kitchen to his bedroom, and was now sprawled across the bed, head hanging off of one side. 

Bruce set his mug aside and replaced it with one of the books he’d been working through. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” 

“Hey,” Dick craned his head upwards. “I’m not asking about me. Oh, hey, is that Pădurea Spânzuraților?” 

“It is. You’d mentioned reading it a couple months ago, so I thought I’d pick it up.”

The smile that broke out over Dick’s face was nearly blinding. “Let me know when you finish, I’d love to talk about it with you.” 

“I look forward to it,” Bruce said, absently squeezing Dick’s kneecap in what he’d intended to be a comforting gesture. Dick’s leg kicked out under his grip and his eldest squawked. 

Oh, right. Bruce carefully set the book aside then got to his knees, noting that Dick was already scrambling to pull himself all the way off the bed to escape to the floor. That problem was easily solved by pinning Dick down by his ankles. “Going somewhere, Dick?”  

“Trying to,” Dick called back, the words taught with suppressed laughter. He’d almost made it off the mattress, head and shoulders touching the carpet. Bruce couldn’t see his face, but it was easy enough to imagine his flustered grin and scrunched-up cheeks. 

Bruce hummed as he settled both hands just above Dick’s knees.  “And why would you do that?” 

“Oh, you kno-OHOW!” Dick broke off into a screech when Bruce squeezed, alternating hands until Dick’s laughs turned into loud cackles. Then, keeping one hand on Dick’s kneecap and vibrating his fingers into the sides, he used the other to make light scritches on the underside of his other knee. The contrasting sensations made Dick wheeze and snort as he tried to sit up, his legs twitching like they were trying to detach themselves from the rest of him. 

“Bruhuhuce!” Dick cried through wild laughter. “Not that not that!” The blankets wrinkled as he gripped onto them with white-knuckled fists.

“Not what?” Bruce paused his squeezing hand and let his fingers skitter around to the back of that knee, too. “This?” The backs of Dick’s knees were a time-honored tickle spot that was usually enough to send Dick into helpless peals of laughter.

Dick managed to curl himself upwards enough for Bruce to see him nodding furiously, red-faced and grinning. “It’s–it’s too–” 

“Oh. Does it tickle?” 

“Dad!” 

“Dick!” Bruce copied his son’s tone, which earned him a giggly groan. After a few more seconds he backed off the knees and switched to sporadic, nibbling pinches on Dick’s lower thighs. Dick snorted and spasmed again, flopping back down to dangle onto the floor. 

“You’re – you’re sohoho meheheehEAN!” he sputtered as Bruce squeezed at his hips – not nearly as bad for Dick as they were for Jason, but ticklish enough to make him snort. 

“I’m mean?” Bruce asked, grinning even though Dick couldn’t see him. “I think you’re just ticklish, chum.” 

“Nohoho!” 

Bruce had to laugh along with him. “Are you trying to tell me you aren’t?” Leaning forward, he slid his hands up to wiggle into Dick’s sides, grinning when his eldest shrieked and convulsed. “Because, and I do hate to break it to you, it seems like you are.” Now that he was able to see Dick’s face again, he noticed the relaxed quality of Dick’s smile and laughter even though his eyes were getting slightly watery. 

Hm. It would seem that Dick had needed some dad time, as they used to call it, for a while. Being an adult didn’t mean that he didn’t need – or didn’t want – his father. Bruce, of all people, knew that deeply. Maybe he could set aside a block of time on his weekly calendar for Dick, they could get lunch, or coffee or...or even talk on the phone, just something that wasn't related to their night jobs. Something to think about later.

Meanwhile, Dick had apparently given up on protesting and was making rather weak attempts at removing Bruce’s hands from his sides before they could go any higher. His dark hair scrubbed the carpet, probably turning into a mess of knots. Taking momentary pity, Bruce sat back and tugged Dick upright, pulling him back against his chest. It was easy to manhandle his laughter-weakened child; all of Dick’s finely-honed coordination went sailing out the window whenever he was tickled. No one who saw him flailing around would ever think he was an acrobat – or, for that matter, a highly-trained vigilante. 

Bruce started walking his fingers up Dick’s sides, getting a quieter round of hiccupy-sounding giggles for his troubles, and paused just beneath the soft spot underneath his ribs. Immediately, Dick started squirming around like when he was a little kid. 

“B–” 

“You know,” Bruce said, cutting him off. “I think the very first time I did this, Alfred almost came running with his shotgun.” And he squeezed Dick’s lower ribs, turning his hands upside down so he could vibrate his thumb right beneath them. 

Dick screeched like a banshee on the Irish moors and flung his head back against Bruce’s shoulder, twitching and jerking as he laughed in scream-like cackles. It was a bit of a cheap shot, but Bruce couldn’t bring himself to regret it when his eldest abruptly relaxed against him in wheezy, almost-silent laughter. 

Bruce tilted his head down to speak directly into Dick’s ear, knowing that the days-old stubble on his face would drive Dick crazy when it touched the crook of his neck. “You are, without a doubt–” Sure enough, Dick squeaked – squeaked – then succumbed to a new wave of giggly snorts. “One of the loudest, squirmiest, most ticklish people in the world.” He emphasized each word with alternating pokes to each of Dick’s twin tickle spots. 

“Such a sap,” Dick gasped out, jerking with each poke. “Softie.” 

To retaliate, Bruce shoved his hands up under Dick’s arms, earning a surprised screech that dissolved into breathless giggles. “And that’s your giggle spot. Tell me, Dickie, are your brothers aware of how ticklish you are?” 

Shaking his head, Dick tried to pin his arms down to his sides, but only succeeded in trapping Bruce’s fingers. “Not – not all of it!” 

“Ah. Well,” Bruce extricated his hands to wrap his arms around Dick, holding him tight so his breathing could come down into normal range. Dick let his head thunk back again, eyes closed. “I’m sure they’ll find out soon.” 

“Is that a threat?” Dick asked, cracking one eye open to look at him. 

Bruce rested his chin on his head, which made Dick relax against him even more. “Not necessarily. Tim’s been observant, lately.” 

“Yeah, he and Jason are up to something.” 

“Your reign of terror might be coming to an end.” Bruce patted his knee and Dick flinched in anticipation of tickles that didn’t come. “Good luck.” This time he did squeeze, getting Dick to squeak. 

“Hehey!” 

“Hey, I’m desensitizing you.” Bruce poked and squeezed his knees and thighs as Dick lay there in a heap of yelps and giggles. “Fatherly duties.” 

For several moments, Dick was content to lean against him and laugh, snorting occasionally like when Bruce reached down to squeeze sporadically at his calves, until he finally flailed out and smacked the bedding twice. 

Bruce immediately released him but Dick just flipped onto one side to get into a more comfortable position, bringing one of his knees up to his chin while his other leg sprawled across Bruce’s, leaning his full weight against Bruce. 

One of Bruce’s arms reached up automatically to hold him steady even though the odds of Dick rolling off were slim. His children had been unusually tactile lately – well, maybe not unusually, but certainly more frequently. It wasn’t anything he’d complain about. 

“You’re a very good brother, you know,” he murmured, kissing Dick’s hair. “I’m very proud of you.”

That, more so than any tickling, made Dick’s blush crawl down his neck. It occurred to Bruce that he should probably say that more often. 

“Thanks, B.”

“And you’re the kind of son every father should want,” Bruce continued. He'd been on a roll with the emotions, lately, and figured that he might as well capitalize on the momentum. The winter holidays had always left Dick a little raw, too, and Bruce had the instinctive feeling that it was important to say these things to him. “You’re kind, brilliant, brave–”

“Bruce,” Dick whined, pressing his face into Bruce’s sweater. His blush now covered his face and neck, and was spreading rapidly to his ears. 

“–no, listen, sweetheart. You’ve become an incredible young man, better than I ever was. I never stopped being so unbelievably proud of you, even when we fought. I still am. And I love you.” 

Dick…sniffled. 

Bruce sat up a little to wrap his oldest child in a tight hug. “Oh, Dickie. ” 

“Thanks,” Dick whispered and for a moment he sounded much younger. Then he cleared his throat and slowly dragged the heel of his hand across his eyes. “Work’s been really busy lately. I think I’ve been a little overwhelmed.” 

Pressing another kiss to the top of his hair, Bruce settled back against his headboard, still keeping his arms in a tight circle around Dick. “I know how that goes. If you want to talk about it, I’d be happy to listen.”

“Maybe later,” Dick said wetly. “It’s – It’s a hard case, right now. All hands on deck. Serial…well, you know.”

Bruce’s heart ached for him. “I’m sorry, honey.” 

After several moments of silence, some of the tension that had seeped back into Dick’s posture eased as his shoulders slumped forwards. He shifted around until Bruce saw his bright, reddened eyes blinking up at him. 

“I love you too, Dad.” 

A warm wave of tender affection rolled through Bruce’s thoughts as he squeezed his oldest son a little harder. He didn’t think Dick would fall asleep here, but he needed the quiet and the physical contact to process through his tangled feelings. 

At some point, scuffles and whispers from the hall drew his attention to the doorway, where Tim and Jason were trying to slink back out of sight. 

“You can come in, boys,” he called, a note of dry amusement creeping into his voice. 

Dick pushed himself up on one arm and squinted blearily at them. “Hey, guys.” 

“Are you okay?” Tim asked, fidgeting with the strings of his hoodie. Behind him, Jason placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, which sent a twinge of pride through Bruce. 

“Oh, yeah,” Dick said. He yawned wide enough to make his jaw pop. “Just having dad time.” As soon as the words left his mouth the blush returned, like he hadn't intended on referring to it as that.

“He means getting tickled within an inch of his life,” Bruce clarified, winking at his younger sons. A spark of mischief danced in Jason’s eyes even as he kept a neutral expression. Tim looked intrigued but stayed quiet. 

Dick squawked indignantly. “Bruce!” 

“It’s not like we couldn’t hear, Dickwing,” Jason said. “You’re loud.” 

As Dick made a rude gesture at him in answer, Tim ventured closer to the bed, tugging his lower lip between his teeth. His eyes flicked to Bruce uncertainly, then back to Dick. 

“You can come up.” Bruce gestured to the expansive king-sized mattress, hoping to put his more skittish child at ease. Well, not skittish, exactly. More like...hesitant.  “Plenty of room.” 

Dick nodded his agreement, which instantly convinced Tim to scramble up and fling himself over Dick’s legs, making his older brother groan in half-hearted complaint. 

Bruce heard Tim mumble, “It’s late, we were looking for you.” 

Dick’s eyebrows flicked up and he grinned. “Ah. Jaybird, too?” 

“Fuck no,” Jason hissed. He’d wandered closer but now backpeddled to the door. “I’m goin’ to bed, ‘night B!” 

“Goodnight,” Bruce replied, sending him another wink. Jason’s mouth curled up in a brief smirk before he disappeared down the hall to safety. 

“I just wanted to see if you’d gone out or something,” Tim said quickly. He rolled over to look up at Dick, the added pressure on Bruce’s own legs, seeing as he was at the bottom of the pile, making them tingle with pins and needles. “That’s all.” 

But Dick was already grinning at him in a way that would drive the Cheshire cat into fits of envy. “Whatever you say, Timmy.” 

For a few seconds, neither of them moved, suspended in playful tension. Bruce settled back against his headboard again, more than happy to take the observer role for whatever was about to occur (and he was pretty sure he knew ). Then, suddenly, Dick lunged, trying to knock Tim off and pin him down at the same time. He kneed Bruce in the stomach as he did – “Sorry, B!” – and Tim shrieked in surprise and laughter as he went sprawling across the foot of the bed. 

“Hey! You – Dick!” 

Dick just laughed as he straddled Tim’s thighs, shoving his knees forward to pin his hands down. “Your reflexes need some work, Baby Bird.” 

Tim gave him the disgruntled scowl that Bruce had always found adorable, though he’d never admit it out loud because Tim would probably never recover. 

“Don’t give me that look,” Dick said. "What's goin' on? Not tired? Extra energy?" He struck without buildup or warning, digging his fingers into Tim’s lower stomach before he could answer. Tim shouted, tossing his head back against the bedding, then almost immediately melted into a puddle of squeaky giggles. 

“Dihihick!”  

“You’re literally the cutest, babiest brother ever,” Dick replied. “Except for Jason, I think you guys are tied. The Timmy Tummy Tickles might give you an edge, though…maybe I’ll run an experiment one of these days. B, you can help.” 

Tim’s mortified shriek made Bruce laugh despite his commitment to being an observer, not a participant. He shouldn’t have felt surprised when Dick flashed him a wild grin; being around his brothers always brought out this side of him, no matter what else was going on. His undying love for his siblings never failed to make Bruce's eyes sting if he thought about it too long.

“Jay!” Tim yelled. He’d squeezed his eyes shut. “Help mehehee!” 

Jason’s answer echoed from down the hall. “Sorry, giggle brat, you’re on your own!” 

Bruce also shouldn’t have been surprised when Tim turned his head to give him a desperate, pleading look that was weakened by the bubbly giggles pouring out of him. “B? D-dahad?” 

“Hmm.” Bruce pondered potential courses of action for a couple seconds because, on the one hand, watching his children get along and goof off was always delightful and reassuring. On the other hand, to Bruce’s immeasurable delight, Tim had recently started using Dad with him – it had only taken the better part of a decade, but … well, late was better than never – and Bruce selfishly wanted to encourage it. 

He decided to compromise. Instead of knocking Dick off of Tim, he tweaked one of those spots under Dick’s ribs, making his eldest fold sideways with a startled screech. 

Tim’s eyes lit up. 

Bruce kept making quick, nibbling pinches into both spots, alternating how many and which side at random, until Dick gave up and flopped to the side, slapping the tickling hands away. 

“Ooh, It’s a Christmas miracle,” Tim cheered, still coming off his own giggles.

Dick playfully glared at him. “Oh, I’ll show you a Christmas miracle.” But instead of going after Tim again, he turned to Bruce and threw himself forward, hands outstretched. 

“Nice try, chum,” Bruce grunted with the effort it took to stop Dick in place by putting his palms on his shoulders. 

Though he struggled for a moment, Dick eventually gave up and slumped back down. “Okay, okay, fine.” 

Tim dragged himself up onto his hands and knees and stumbled a few paces forwards before collapsing back down, his face pressed into Bruce’s knee. He grumbled something that sounded like, “So mean to me.” 

Dick heard and laughed quietly as he met Bruce’s gaze, and his smile softened into something almost shy. “Hey, I learned from the best.”  

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

thank you for reading!! my adhd meds made me lock in on this like a heat-seeking guided missile y'all

It freaks him out a bit, if he’s being honest. Lips are different to dicks, or muscles. Hands even. Staring at someone’s lips means you wish to kiss them, and while Ilya’s never had any problem with kissing Shane - craves it, though he tries not to dwell on it too much - he realizes that it’s intimate in a different way.

But Shane’s using him for sex too. He tries to tell himself that. And Ilya knows sex. Ilya knows how to move and how to charm and how to suck and how to bite. Of course Shane’s staring at his lips. Of course he fucking wants him.

The much later, where the rest of it gets discovered, finds them with labels and confessions, and it’s this new ease, which is more terrifying than Ilya’s ready to admit, that has him finally noticing it in between the mundanity of their days at the cottage. And Ilya realizes he’s probably known about it for a lot longer, but has never known how to interpret it. Decided to latch onto what he thought he understood.

“You don’t like eye contact.” It slips out. He doesn’t usually tell Shane how he’s interpreted something. Prefers to ask and let him explain.

Shane shifts where he sits. He doesn’t like being caught out. Ilya knows this. Ilya wants to bite his own tongue off.

“I-” He clears his throat. Ilya wants to jump off a cliff. “I have a few issues with it, sometimes.” He looks up then, right into Ilya’s eyes. “Does that bother you?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “No, not at all.”

“Okay.” He lowers his gaze, first to Ilya’s lips, then averts it completely. Ilya struggles against the instinct to reach for his chin and tip it upward. Has a moment of brief panic that he’s crossed Shane’s boundaries when he’s done it before.

“Do you, uh-” It’s early morning. Nowhere for them to hide. No darkness to make decisions for them. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Their knees are brushing where they sit, cross-legged so that Ilya isn’t too close and can see him better. As long as their knees are touching he decides there’s no reason to panic.

“I don’t really know what I would say about it.” He shrugs, and Ilya tries to see it as something casual rather than something dismissive. Something defensive. “I’ve always had trouble with it. It just-” He looks at him, at his lips and then his eyes. “It takes me a while to be able to look at people. It’s not like it scares me or anything. I don’t know.”

“Is it too vulnerable?”

“Not always. And I mean-” He smiles. It’s not sad. It’s fucking beautiful. “Vulnerability can be good too.”

Ilya nods. And yet he can’t always look at him. And yet he loves him.

“It’s nothing personal, you know.” Shane places a finger to his knee. “I wish I could look at you all day everyday.” He doesn’t blush when he says it. Has found a home within his feelings. Ilya’s glad, though he misses the timidness sometimes.

“You kept looking at my lips,” he says. “I thought you just really wanted me.” He says it with a smirk which doesn’t reach his eyes, he can tell.

But Shane laughs. Shane laughs and squeezes his knee and it makes Ilya pull away on instinct. “No, I definitely really wanted you. When I look at others I will look at their forehead or something.”

“Oh.”

“Does that make you happy?”

“Very.” He leans in, lets Shane close the gap. “I feel bad for not having noticed.”

“I think twenty something years of doing it makes me pretty good at hiding it.” Shane presses his palm into Ilya’s knee. “It-” He cuts himself off. Ilya gives him time. “It kind of made me panic a bit that you noticed it. It’s fine though,” he adds, eyes on Ilya’s. No stopover at his lips. “I think it’s probably a good thing that you know.”

“Oh?” Ilya gently prompts and puts his hand over Shane’s.

“If I’m ever not looking at you, or not fully at you, you won’t think I’m mad or pulling away or anything.”

“You forget I am not the overthinker in this relationship.” He grins when Shane huffs and laughs when his knee is squeezed again. “Hey, is true.”

“You love my overthinking.”

“Yes.”

Shane pulls his gaze downward, and Ilya thinks he’s rebooting or resting again - whatever the reason he does it - only to realize he’s looking at his knee. “You’re ticklish here.”

“I’m not.” He’s not sure why he’s denying it.

“You so are.” Another squeeze, which has Ilya reaching out to push his hand off. “See, right here.” Shane’s so happy about it that he doesn’t have the heart to put up a front. Most importantly, Shane is looking at him, looking him right in the eye, and he doesn’t seem to struggle with it. It seems to be happening with ease.

And who is Ilya to ruin that?

He rubs at the spot. “Ah, maybe a little bit.”

“I didn’t even know that. Where else are you ticklish?”

Shane leans closer, his gaze still on Ilya, and it’s the intimacy of it all, the playfulness and trust which has him rooted to the spot. He will only move when it becomes too ticklish. When squirming won’t be enough to handle it. And Shane will tease him in his own way and maybe Ilya will be embarrassed, but it will be worth it if Shane looks at him with comfort. And with time, Ilya will realize that comfort doesn’t always mean eye contact. That Shane can rest his gaze on his lips, his lap, the wall behind him, and be perfectly at ease because Ilya doesn’t demand something of him.

He will find all of this out. He just has to endure some tickling before they get there.

Shane places his hand on Ilya’s ankle. “Are your feet ticklish?”

Ilya fights the instinct to pull away. “No.”

A grin finds Shane’s lips. It’s almost scary. “I think you’re lying.” He taps a finger, once, twice. “Prove me wrong, I dare you.”

Ilya makes a determined sound. “You know I do not lose dares.”

“I think you’re about to lose this one.”

He couldn’t see his face, but he assumed he had his eyes tightly shut. He could certainly feel his nails digging into his shoulders. If Eddie wanted, he could easily turn the tables. But Eddie didn’t want that. Eddie wanted Steve to torture him for as long as he could stand it before finally pinning him to the couch to pull him apart properly. Eddie had made sure to be a brat all day in order to deserve that.

Steve felt himself smiling. They didn’t really talk about this, but he knew he was doing a good job of reading him. In turn, Eddie would reward him greatly later, once he’d stopped gasping for air.

“This is my favorite scene,” he said, having never seen the movie before, and Eddie nodded with a strangled sound that Steve could make him repeat but didn’t. “This movie’s kinda funny, isn’t it?”

Eddie made another sound, this time sliding down a bit so that Steve had perfect access to the strip of skin showing between his shirt and pants, but he remained at Eddie’s armpits, slowly circling them and knowing Eddie was both cursing and thanking the fact that he was wearing a tank top.

“You’re not laughing, though,” he continued. “Don’t you think it’s funny?”

“N-no-”

“Oh, that simply won’t do. Your sense of humor’s broken. We gotta fix that, don’t we?”

As if having waited for Steve’s permission, Eddie started giggling before he’d even done anything different. His laughter, sweet laughter, ping ponged between giddy and hysteric, occasionally teetering into the incomprehensible sounds Steve adored so much. Steve knew he needed to switch tactics if he wanted Eddie to make sillier noises, but he kind of enjoyed the way his partner remained glued to him and letting him do what he wanted. Once the silly noises started, so would the thrashing, which was lovely in itself, but different. Steve was comfortable where he was lying anyway.

“Oh, now you’re laughing, huh?” he said, grinning as Eddie dug his nails even deeper into his skin. “What’s so funny now?”

Eddie turned his face so that he was pressing it into Steve’s arm. Steve could imagine him biting it when it became too much and steeled himself for that possibility. He still was being pretty gentle, but sometimes that was what sent him over the edge. He kept circling the skin, dragging his nails lightly over it. Ticklish shocks keeping Eddie giggling. Steve’s legs keeping him in place. His arms were held up entirely on their own.

“You’re doing so good,” Steve mumbled, his only acknowledgement of what was actually happening. Eddie’s groan made him laugh.

Bruce cleared his throat. In the cavernous space, the sound echoed. 

He may as well have fired off a pistol with how immediately his children froze, all turning looks with varying degrees of guilt on him. Damian shook himself out of it quickly and went back to typing. 

“It’s been a long night,” Bruce said after several seconds had passed. “Upstairs. Now.” 

The growl in the last word spurred Tim into action; he ducked under Jason’s arm and hastily shucked off his gloves and suit, flinging them in the vague direction of the locker room. Then, in his Underarmour compression gear, he gave Bruce an apologetic nod and hurried towards the stairs. 

Jason eventually followed. Neither of them said anything to Bruce – and hopefully wouldn’t to each other, at least until tomorrow. 

Damian, left on his own, kept typing, but his shoulders hunched up to his ears. 

Bruce waited until the older two were safely out of the cave before speaking. When he did, he kept his voice soft. “Damian.” 

No response, except for the continued clacking of the keyboard. 

Instead of saying his name again, Bruce moved closer to see what it was that had Damian so intent on ignoring him. Surprisingly, it was just a report of Robin’s activities that evening. A routine step in debriefing, but not an urgent one. 

Bruce gently touched one of Damian’s tense shoulders. His son stiffened, then relaxed under his hand. 

“Thank you for your diligence,” he murmured. “I appreciate that you’re willing to get this done right away, but it’s more important to me that you get rest.”

Damian shot him an inscrutable look over his shoulder. “I am not a child, Father. Do not coddle me.” 

Ah, this again. Lately, Damian had been chafing at any insinuation – perceived, or otherwise – that his age entitled him to different treatment than his older brothers. 

“It’s not coddling, honey. It’s part of my job to make sure all of you is taken care of, and that means making sure you’re getting enough sleep.” 

Damian gave the spacebar a particularly hard thwack. “You let Timothy stay up.” 

An old, familiar guilt twisted through Bruce’s ribcage. He squeezed Damian’s shoulder once. “I failed Tim, Damian. In his early days. It wasn’t a healthy situation, and I don’t want that for you – none of us do. If I could keep him locked out of the Cave after midnight now, I’d do it in a heartbeat. These days, he doesn’t pull all-nighters down here for me, he does it in spite of me.” 

A muscle ticked in Damian’s jaw, but his typing slowed. 

“I’ll make you a deal,” Bruce continued, rubbing his thumb into a stubborn knot near the base of Damian’s neck. “Come upstairs and get ready for bed. If, after forty-five minutes, you’re still awake, you can come back down and finish the report.” 

Damian thought over that for a few seconds, his brow furrowing. “Fine.”

As he pushed the chair back and reluctantly stood, Bruce kept his hand right between Damian’s shoulder blades to steer him towards the stairs, just in case his youngest had any ideas of slipping away. Damian’s feet dragged on each step and he stifled a yawn more than once – yeah, he was certainly tired. 

“Come see me when you’ve changed,” Bruce said, bending down to kiss Damian’s hair even though it made his back twinge. 

Damian silently nodded, then shuffled off towards his room. 

Once he was sure Damian had indeed gone to find sleeping clothes rather than slipping into one of his brothers’ rooms, Bruce flicked on a low light in his own bedroom and hastily changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt. He efficiently went through the normal evening ablutions, and was pulling back his bedding when the telltale prickle at the back of his neck told him that Damian had arrived. 

Sure enough, Damian was standing in the doorway, wearing an oversized long sleeve t-shirt that had once belonged to Tim and a pair of dark plaid pajama pants. His feet were bare, but that hadn’t stopped him from moving undetected down the hall. These days, Damian probably wasn’t trying to walk silently on purpose - it was just how he’d been taught to move through the world, quiet and unobservable. 

But, since Bruce wasn’t running a cult of assassins, he wanted Damian to take up space in his home and his life, to catch a creaky floorboard now and then or race down the stairs with his brothers. It was why he’d instructed his youngest to come find him after he’d changed out of Robin’s uniform. 

“Come sit,” Bruce said, swinging his legs up onto the mattress and patting the space next to him. He leaned back against the headboard as Damian slipped into the room and joined him. 

Damian settled beside him, still holding himself up with stiff, formal posture. He went easily enough, though, when Bruce slung an arm around his shoulders and pulled him down against his side. 

“See the clock?” Bruce pointed towards the nightstand. “Forty-five minutes from now, if you’re still awake, we can go back downstairs.” 

The sheets rustled as Damian bent his legs sideways to lean further into Bruce. His deep, searching eyes roamed over Bruce’s expression for a few seconds, then he nodded once.  

After a few quiet moments, any lingering stiffness bled out of Damian’s posture until he was practically melting into Bruce’s t-shirt. Bruce had begun absentmindedly tracing soft patterns up and down Damian’s arm, partially hoping it would relax Damian enough that he’d give in to the sleep that he clearly needed. 

“Is there a reason you need to finish this report tonight?” Bruce asked eventually. 

Damian made a small, displeased noise and stared at his hands, ruthlessly picking at a hangnail. He didn’t say anything, but Bruce had his own suspicions about some of the thoughts that were preoccupying his youngest kid. 

“I don’t need to you be Tim,” he said, still drawing circles up and down Damian’s bicep. “Or Jason, or Dick. Every Robin is different.” 

“Then why do I have different rules?” The question whipped out of Damian and he immediately pressed his lips together like he hadn’t meant it to escape. “Do you not trust me?” 

That question, where his voice wavered ever-so-slightly, made Bruce’s heart ache. While Damian’s start as Robin had been…tumultuous, unideal, he’d worked hard to learn the ‘new rules’, so to speak, of the world he’d been dropped into. Part of that had been working to show Dick and Bruce that he could be trusted with the mission; a bigger part, whether Damian realized or not, was learning how to be a son to a father he’d never known, and a younger brother. It certainly hadn’t been a smooth process, and there were still friction points that burned hot and bright. But Damian had been trying. 

“Oh, Dami.” Bruce combed through Damian’s hair, breaking some of the leftover gel cast with his fingers. “Of course I trust you. That has nothing to do with wanting you upstairs and asleep instead of writing a report.”

Instead of replying, Damian tapped his fingers together. The same furrow from earlier reappeared in his brow. 

“Robin isn’t just a tool,” Bruce said. “He’s a person, too. And you’re not just my sidekick or partner, honey, you’re also my son. Of course there are things I want you to do, like write reports. But none of that is as important as you, taking care of yourself. Sometimes, in the past, I failed to…to make that explicit, to your brothers. It’s important to me to avoid that same mistake with you.”

He let Damian chew on that for a couple minutes. Then, he gently added, “I trust you with my life, Damian. And you can trust me with yours, too – including life outside the mantle.”

Damian’s hands stilled as he contemplated that. 

“I suppose,” he said at last, and his voice sounded thicker than normal. “That I’ll live with that.” 

It was a very Damian response, and Bruce couldn’t help but smile. He kept running his fingers through Damian’s hair, making sure to give him some of the head scritches that always seemed to relax all of his kids like a universal reset. 

“You are cheating,” Damian muttered.

Bruce tried for innocence. “Oh? How so?”

Damian turned a disapproving scowl on him, but it lacked heat. “You are trying to make me tired.”

“And is it succeeding?” 

Damian’s mouth ticked up in a smile and he shook his head, blinking, like he was steeling himself. 

“Oh, well.” Bruce let out a heavy sigh, exaggerated for Damian’s benefit, and ruffled his hair a little more vigorously. “I tried.” 

“Your tactics are probably outdated.” From the glint in Damian’s eye, it looked like he was teasing – or trying to, at least. It was a good effort.

“Perhaps,” Bruce allowed. “Maybe you’d prefer help staying awake, instead.” 

Damian was too inexperienced with the world of playful affection to see the trap coming, so he didn’t dodge in time when Bruce slid the hand in his hair down to his chin and fluttered his fingers against the delicate skin there. 

Damian fought back his laughter like he did everything, with quiet precision and determination. Rather than squirming or thrashing around, he only squeezed his eyes shut and jerked his chin just enough to dodge Bruce's fingers where they fluttered around his jawline. It was a common tactic for hand-to-hand combat; make only necessary movements to save energy. 

Of course, normal close-quarters brawls didn't involve tiny grins and wrinkled noses, both of which made Damian look, dare Bruce even think it, adorable.

“F-father!” Damian ground out when Bruce scrabbled down the side of his neck. “Ce-ceas-cease!”

“Cease?” Bruce repeated back to him, grinning. “I'm helping you stay awake.”

Damian peeled his eyes open enough to glower at him - he looked so much like a disgruntled cat that Bruce had to chuckle, which just made Damian try harder. 

But even though Damian could go blow for blow with the garden statues when it came to throwing up a stony, stoic facade, Bruce was still his father. Of course he knew how to get his own kid to crack. 

“Damian,” he murmured, lilting the syllables in a soft, near-cooing voice. He had to grin when Damian immediately slammed his eyes shut again and tried to scrunch his shoulders all the way up to his ears. “You must be in there somewhere, honey, hm?” 

Bruce punctuated the teasing question by using one of his index fingers to scrabble over the shell of Damian’s ear before tracing a zig-zagging pattern around to his nape. A shudder wracked through Damian’s hunched shoulders as his hands flew up to bat Bruce’s away. He was biting his lip against the wide, ticklish smile that was desperately trying to burst free.

“Father!” 

“Come on.” Bruce added his other pointer finger, using both to make swirling paths across the back of Damian’s neck that managed to avoid the smaller flailing hands. Damian’s shoulders shook with the effort of putting his whole body into hiding the breathless, relentless giggles that always appeared when anyone tickled around that spot. 

But he was close to breaking, he just needed one more little push…

Without warning, Bruce darted his hand down to Damian’s armpit – now exposed as he clamped his hands around the back of his neck to try and shield himself – and dug in. 

Startled, Damian squawked before bursting out into rolling, stuttering laughter. He tried to clamp his elbow back down to his ribs and folded sideways in the process, tilting over to sprawl across Bruce’s legs. 

“There’s the little bat,” Bruce said in that same soft tone, and Damian made sure to slap him on the knee for it between gulps of laughter. “It seems like he’s a teeny bit ticklish, deep –” he wiggled his fingers a little harder under Damian’s arm. “Deep down in there.” 

“N-nohoho!” Damian growled – or, tried to. Growls weren’t supposed to be so giggly. “Stop ta–tahahlking!” He kicked and squirmed, trying to get his knees underneath him, laughing all the while.

“Oh, I can’t do that,” Bruce replied. “It’s my fatherly duty to inform you how sweet you are when you–”

“Shuhut UP!” 

Bruce laughed. He stopped tickling long enough to use both hands to flip Damian onto his back despite his youngest’s sputtering protests. Red-faced, Damian made a good effort at a glare, but his mouth wobbled when Bruce hovered his hands over Damian’s stomach, not quite making contact but wriggling his fingers just close enough to graze his t-shirt. 

“You have…” Bruce glanced at the clock on his nightstand, then back to where Damian was trying not to look like he was fidgeting. “Twenty-three more minutes to stay awake, honey.”

“I can do it,” Damian said quickly, that familiar stubborn wrinkle forming in his brow. “I am perfectly capable of – of – waihait!” 

Bruce had grabbed Damian’s hands with one of his own and started using his free hand to scrabble over Damian’s belly. It wasn’t his most ticklish spot but it got some bubbly laughter and snorts nonetheless.  

And Bruce was tired, but he wasn’t stupid, especially not four kids deep into parenthood. It was evident that Damian wasn’t fighting as hard as he could to escape. Sure, Damian had some ways to go before he’d be able to put up a real challenge to Bruce, especially in this kind of grapple, so it wasn’t like Bruce had been expecting Damian to actually break free. Between training Damian and seeing him brawl with his brothers, though, Bruce had plenty of examples for what it looked like when Damian was really trying to get away from someone heavier and bulkier. 

“Unhand mehehe!” Damian snickered, wriggling under Bruce’s hand like a puppy excited for a belly rub. Obviously Bruce had to oblige him and dug into the center of his stomach, vibrating his fingers as he did. Damian shrieked out another stuttering laugh, giggles spilling out in rolling waves.

“No,” Bruce replied simply, allowing his amusement to show through in a small grin when Damian let out a strangled protest and succumbed to helpless titters. His nose wrinkled even further as he did.

Bruce scrabbled his fingers down over Damian’s sides just to hear him squawk, then reached for one of his knees. Immediately Damian shouted out something that was lost in loud, shrieking laughter when Bruce’s fingers closed around his kneecap. 

Damian was a grade-A kicker, and all of his brothers had learned to steer clear of his legs by now unless he was soundly pinned. While Dick tended to flail around and Jason was more likely to thrash like some kind of spastic crab – then there was Tim, who just lost track of all his limbs and usually ended up in a heap – Damian kicked enough that he’d managed to land a bruising hit on Bruce’s jaw a few weeks ago. The others hadn’t done that…so far.  

But Damian’s leg flew out in a powerful spasm when Bruce squeezed his knee, vibrating the tips of his fingers into either side. 

“Fa-ahahath-er!” he squealed. It was precious. 

“Yes, little one?” Bruce hummed. 

Somehow Damian flushed even darker as he threw his head back, so submerged in ticklish laughter that he couldn’t scrape together a verbal response. His hands balled into the bedding and Bruce’s sweats. Every time he inhaled he made a quiet snorting sound, and Bruce had to physically hold himself back from cooing. 

Bruce used his free hand to worm two fingers into one of the soft spots of leftover baby fat on Damian’s sides, and Damian tried to jackknife back into a sitting position, cackling. A rogue elbow slammed against Bruce’s fingers – ow – but his wince evidently gave Damian the strength to corral his laughter just enough to shoot Bruce a smug look. It warmed Bruce’s heart, but not enough to stop him from seizing one of Damian’s ankles in an iron grip and preparing to retaliate. 

Damian’s smirk melted into panic. His hands flailed out and he tried to flip onto his stomach, but he only made it halfway because Bruce, in a move as good as any kill shot, started skittering his nails in featherlight swirls across the underside of Damian’s knee. Stuck lying partly on his side, Damian wheezed out a single “Nonono–” before high-pitched giggles bubbled over in frantic peals that left him rocking back and forth, pounding his fists against the bedding. 

“That’s the sound I’ve been waiting for,” Bruce said, trying to convey all the warmth that curled inside his chest with his tone. 

“Ple-pleheahease, Baba!” Damian gasped. He looked up at Bruce with watery eyes and a wide, childlike smile full of glee, though he’d never admit it. 

Pretending that the Baba didn’t make his heart squeeze, Bruce winked at him. “Yes, Dami?” 

When Damian went to say something, Bruce switched to rapid skitters back and forth across the delicate spot, still using only his nails. Damian shrieked, more of those giggles tumbling out of his mouth instead of words. 

“Sorry, son, I couldn’t get that.”  

“Dohohon’t!” 

If it were any of his other sons, Bruce would’ve employed the age-old ‘don’t what, honey?’ that, when deployed with the right kind of paternal concern, threw off the kid in question enough that they’d inevitably blink, too tickled-out to think it through, and say ‘tickle me.’ And, well, there would only be one correct thing to do after that. 

But Damian was losing steam quickly, and this wasn’t the time to push his limits. Not when he was clearly overtired and in desperate need of some rest. 

With a squeeze to the captive ankle, Bruce released Damian’s leg and smoothed his hair out of his face again as leftover ticklish feelings kept him in quiet paroxysms of snickers. Damian wrapped his arms around his chest, hugging himself, and tucked his chin down to ride out the residual laughter.

Bruce pushed the blankets back to make room, then slid his arm under Damian’s shoulders and drew him up to nestle against his side, even as he still shivered from occasional ghost tickles.

“Hush, habibi, you’re alright,” Bruce murmured, flattening his palm against Damian’s shoulder and rubbing in smooth, grounding circles. He knew that a less tired Damian would probably resent what he’d perceive as babying, but right now, Damian just groaned into Bruce’s shoulder and didn’t move. 

Once the sporadic shudders stopped, Damian turned his head towards Bruce just enough to reveal one eye. His brow was tilted downwards like he was trying to give Bruce his best Dark Look™. 

“The deal still holds,” Damian muttered, even with drowsiness thickening his voice. 

Bruce glanced at the clock. Nine minutes until the agreed-upon time. Then he turned his attention back towards his youngest kid, who for all his efforts looked more like a grumpy kitten than anything else. 

“Alright, Damian. If you can stay awake for nine more minutes, I’ll let you go back down to the cave.”

Damian’s nod against his shoulder was jerky. 

Maybe it was an underhanded trick, but Bruce started combing his fingers through Damian’s mussed hair in slow, rhythmic movements. He made sure to swirl his nails over his son’s scalp in the same swooping patterns from earlier.

As the moments ticked by, Damian scooted down to rest his head on Bruce’s thigh. Yawning, he fumbled for the sheet and dragged it up to his chin. Then he blinked sleepily up at Bruce.

“Cheat.” He made no effort to rouse himself.

Affection bloomed in Bruce’s chest as he leaned down to kiss the top of his head. “Get some rest, honey. You deserve it.” 

It was a testament to how exhausted Damian was that he simply nuzzled further against Bruce with a long, heavy sigh that left him entirely limp.

“Love you, baby,” Bruce whispered. Every time one of his kids fell asleep on him, it felt like being asked to guard the most precious, fragile jewel in the world. 

Well on his way to knocking out, Damian curled his fist into Bruce’s t-shirt and held tight. “Baba.”

When enough time had passed for Bruce to know that Damian was well and truly asleep, he shifted around to grab his phone from his front pocket. He fired off a short text to inform the others that Damian was sleeping, and was not allowed in the Cave for the next two days. A split second after sending that, he amended the prohibition to include Tim, too. Otherwise, he knew that Tim would just smuggle Damian in anyways. Now that his two youngest sons weren’t at each other’s throats all the time, they’d formed quite the formidable duo, especially when it came to circumventing certain rules like curfew. Bruce had meant what he’d told Damian down in the cave, that he’d lock Tim out too if there was a way to actually do it that Tim wouldn’t find a way around. Tim did indeed have his nighttime work sessions in spite of Bruce’s best efforts, these days. 

As Bruce had predicted, Tim himself appeared in the doorway less than thirty seconds later with the look of someone about to launch into a seventy-three-slide persuasive powerpoint. When he saw Damian, though, his face softened. 

Bruce waved him in, patting the spot beside him on the bed. 

Tim padded over and carefully climbed up, scooting up to sit against the headboard with his knees drawn up to his chest. “Hi.” 

“Hey, sweetheart.” 

Tim’s gaze swept over Damian, assessing. “He’s really tired, huh?”

“He is.” Bruce reached out to push an escaped strand of hair back behind Tim’s ear. “You’re quite alike, you know.” 

Like it usually did in moments of quiet praise, Tim’s face reddened as he tried for an eyeroll even while leaning into Bruce’s touch. He tucked his chin down against his knees. “He's a good little brother.”

Bruce gently nudged him. “I'm sure he's learned from the best.” 

To his delight, Tim’s blush immediately deepened to scarlet and he tried to bury his whole face in his knees. “Thanks.” 

There were a variety of reasons for Tim to be awake this hour, but hopefully he just hadn’t gone to sleep yet. Bruce rubbed his back even as he kept trying to hide. 

“You’re welcome to sleep here, if you want.”

Tim emerged from his burrow long enough to glance at him. “....Maybe I will.” 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

By the time Bruce started to wake up later that morning, his body was still suffused with the heaviness of sleep, so it took longer than normal for the muffled noises nearby to resolve into actual words. After a couple seconds’ lag, he recognized the noises as voices – Damian and Tim, both of whom had ended up in his room the previous night. 

“–That is an asinine opinion, Drake, and you should eat glass and die.”

“We are literally talking about jam flavors.”

“I don’t care.”

“Y’know, you look like a mangy squirrel right now.”

Yeah, Bruce didn’t have it in him to deal with this first thing in the morning. Luckily, there was a tried-and-true method for getting his sons to quiet down rather quickly. 

Without opening his eyes, he freed his arms and, slinging one around each of his sons, dragged them down on top of him. 

“Sssh,” he muttered, then promptly made that command impossible to follow by wiggling his fingers into whatever tickle spots he could reach. He was rewarded with twin noises of dismayed surprise and a veritable symphony of ticklish squeaks and sputters. And, alright, half asleep or not, the racket was sweet enough to give him cavities. 

“B!” Tim wheezed from his left side, clumsily scrabbling at Bruce’s hand on his stomach. “Sorry – ohohohoshit, – ticklesticklestickles–!” 

Evidently he hadn’t been awake that long either if his brain was already crashing into tickle mode after just a few squeezes.

“Baba,” Damian hissed into Bruce’s chest. “We will be quiet! St-stohohohoppit!” 

“Promise!” added Tim, and the word came dangerously close to being a squeak.