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; 

“Yeah, well.” Jason slid his mug away from the counter’s edge and pushed off, crossing the distance between him and Tim in two short strides. He drew himself up to his full height and loomed over his baby brother. “There are many ways to teach you a lesson, birdie. If you think I’ve forgotten that, you’re incredibly. Mistaken.” 

Tim widened his eyes and dropped the unopened bag of popcorn to the floor. It hit the tiles with a crinkle, and Jason used one of his feet to (carefully) kick it to the side. “Hold up, Jay, we can talk about this–” His oh no Jason’s going to kill me face would have been pretty convincing, except it was hard for Tim to hide the glint in his eyes that meant I’m about to be a little shit and you can’t stop me. “We can be reasonable – just because your zombie brain has holes in it, –”

Before he could finish the insult, Jason grabbed his hips and slung Tim over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry, to a flurry of squeaking protests. He tuned out his brother’s sputtering and pretending-he-hadn’t-been-asking-for-this as he marched them both to the den. 

Tim was still spluttering out a bunch of half-baked insults even while Jason dropped him onto the carpet and flopped down over his legs, effectively pinning Tim’s lower half to the floor.

Once Jason wrestled Tim’s arms above his head, he hovered his free hand over Tim’s left side and wiggled his fingers. Tim squirmed and looked away, biting his lower lip. 

“What’s with the wiggles?” Jason asked. “Surely you aren’t scared, Timbit.” 

“Not scared,” Tim gritted out. His mouth twitched as he actively fought not to smile. Stubborn kid.

“Oh?” Jason dragged his hand up closer to Tim’s ribs, still not actually touching him. “You sure about that? I mean, I'm not even touching you and you’re still all squirmy.” 

Tim tossed his head from side to side as Jason’s fingers fluttered in the air around his chin and neck. “Jason!” 

“Anything you wanna share?” 

“You’re an asshole!”

Jason grinned. “And you’re supposed to be a baby bird, but all I’m seeing is a wriggly worm.” Christ, he was starting to sound like Dickhead. Maybe older brother sappiness was a contagious disease. 

When Tim opened his mouth to retort, Jason struck by darting his hand in and scritching around the shell of one of Tim’s ears and down the side of his neck, occasionally tickling under his chin, too. Whatever Tim was going to say vanished in a snort that quickly dissolved amongst a flood of tittering snickers. 

“I’m naha–nahahat!” Tim managed to get the words out as he tried to clamp that side of his head against his shoulder. 

“Oh yeah?” Jason just switched sides. This time, he also skittered his fingers down across Tim’s collarbones, a ticklish spot that drew some – if he were a mushy sap like Dick, he’d call them cute – snorts out of his little brother. “You seem awfully certain.” 

By now, Tim was blushing a vibrant shade of crimson. He’d squeezed his eyes shut against the teasing and tried to shrug his shoulders up to knock Jason’s hand away. 

“Maybe you need a new nickname,” Jason mused aloud. “I’ll have to think about that.”

He leaned in to give Tim a raspberry right in the crook between his neck and shoulder, and that finally pushed Tim over the edge into full-on squeaking laughter. 

“Jahase!” 

“Yeah, I’m right here, don’t worry.” Jason backed off so he could tap one of Tim’s elbows. “See, for Dickwing, this is one of the spots that sends him into orbit.” He made featherlight scribbles against the soft spot on Tim’s inner arm, just above his armpit. Tim squealed but didn’t seem to be too ticklish there, surprisingly. “One time, B had me hold Dick’s arms up while he just tickled those spots for, like, ten minutes. Thought Dick was gonna pass out.” 

Tim yanked on his arms, a big dopey grin scrunching up on his face, but he still didn’t open his eyes. That was an easy fix, though. 

With no warning or lead up, Jason dove his tickling hand into Tim’s armpit, and Tim screeched. His eyes flew open as he cackled, jolting his upper body side to side until he was practically vibrating. 

“There he is,” Jason grinned. He wasn’t sure Tim could even hear through all that laughing. “Gotta hand it to ya, Timmers, you don’t seem scared.”  

“Shut up!” Tim wheezed, throwing his head back. “You’re sohohoho meahean!” 

“Aw, you don’t mean that.” Jason poked his index finger into that deadly spot right where Tim’s upper ribs met the bottom of his armpit. A full-on shriek burst out of his little brother as Tim spasmed, his back arching up in a desperate attempt to escape Jason’s finger. “See? You’re laughing too much to be mad at me.” 

It’s not like Jason was even tickling him that much, it was just a poke. Well, okay, it was a vibrating poke. And maybe more than one in uneven intervals to keep the kid on his metaphorical toes, but still. There were ticklish people, and then there was whatever happened with Timbit. 

But, eventually, Tim would need to breathe, so…

Jason left that soft spot alone in favor of venturing further down Tim’s ribcage, tripping his fingers along each rib and dipping into the spaces between them. Tim sucked down gulps of air in between desperately ticklish squeaks and snickers, but it seemed like he was too tired to keep squirming. 

So, Jason experimented. What method would make his little bother–brother– cackle, or snort, or just shriek? He tried all sorts of different ways, like clawing his fingers in between Tim’s ribs and vibrating them – which made Tim’s laughter go silent for a few moments – or fluttering the tips of his fingers against the ridges of his ribcage like they were piano keys. That last method drew screeching cackles and incoherent sputtering out of Tim until the kid gave up on going anywhere and flopped back down to the carpet. 

“Alright,” Jason said. He glanced up at Tim’s face and the cold lump of exhaustion in his chest melted a little when he saw the dazed, loopy smile on his baby brother’s face. It was probably a good time to check in, offer him an out. “Nervous, Timberlina? Scared?” 

Tim just shook his head, too busy breathing to summon up the energy for repartee. 

Jason definitely wasn’t smiling as he pinched at Tim’s other side, working short squeezes up and down that set of ribs. “Your funeral, kid.” 

Tim let out a giggly whine. “Jay!” 

“You know the magic words.” Jason dug into Tim’s bottom ribs. He made sure his fingers stretched around his brother’s side so they could press and squeeze at the backs of his ribs, which always made Tim squeak and cackle. 

“Nehehever!” Tim cried as he succumbed to waves of laughter. “Not – not scary!” 

Jason was delighted – secretly, of course – that Tim had dug his heels into their little game. It was always fun to help his younger brother cut loose, whether that meant sneaking off to show him what shooting a real rocket launcher was like or tickling him to tears in the Manor. He’d never intentionally hurt Tim – never again – and these quieter moments, when it was just the two of them, gave him the chance to add some extra softness into his little brother’s life. 

“We’ll see,” he muttered with a sharp pinch to Tim’s lowest rib. Tim flinched with a surprised cackle. 

Jason readjusted his grip on Tim’s wrists. He momentarily let them go, predicting (accurately) that Tim wouldn’t bother trying to pull his tickle-weakened arms down. This was usually the point where Tim’s strength was less trained vigilante and more newborn kitten. As Tim caught his breath again – good, because he’d need it – Jason shoved his t-shirt up to his ribs and grabbed one of Tim’s wrists in each hand, pinning them out to his sides. 

“Hey!” Tim squeaked. He’d managed to lift his head off the carpet to see what Jason was planning. “You – you can’t–” 

“I can, Baby Bird,” Jason replied with his best shit-eating smirk. “And I’m gonna.” He leaned down again and blew a raspberry right in the middle of Tim’s stomach. 

Tim’s head thunked back to the floor as a second, louder squeak tore out of him, followed by a flood of high-pitched giggles. “Nohotfaihair!” 

Actually, Jason thought it was very fair. He did it again, on the same spot, even though Tim was desperately trying to suck in his stomach. He was rewarded with another pile of giggles. 

Jason paused for a moment to wait while Tim’s giggles died down again. Then, he said, “You have two options, Timmers. You can surrender and admit that you have good reasons to worry about what I can do to you. Or, you can giggle your way to raspberry-induced delirium. What’s your choice?” 

Tim thought it over for all of three seconds before he leaned up enough to lock eyes with Jason. “I’m not worried about you, ya big softie.” 

“So be it,” Jason replied. Then he ducked to give Tim a raspberry on one of the unbearably ticklish spots next to his belly button. He shook his head a bit so his stubble would drag against the surrounding skin, and Tim’s panicked giggles pitched higher as he did. Jason repeated the move on the other side, which sent Tim into a fit of helpless laughter as he practically jumped out of his own skin. 

“Noho,” he gasped. “Jay,Jay–Jase!”  

“What’s up, Timmy?” asked Jason. “Surely you aren’t about to tell me that you’ve got a ticklish tummy, I think I’ve figured that out.” And, okay, that was way squishier, softer teasing than he usually went for. But it was worth whatever older brother street cred he’d lost when Tim scrunched his face up even more and made a strangled squeak in protest. A teenager-shaped gremlin shouldn’t be so cute, it was unfair. 

Despite being well on his way to blushing redder than a fire hydrant, Tim heaved in a deep breath and said, “I – maybe, mahaybe you’re scary. Sometimes.” 

“Aww, c’mon, kid, a few raspberries and you’re already folding? I didn’t even get the chance to–” Jason let go of his wrists and propped himself up to poke at the leftover baby fat around Tim’s stomach. More of those adorable giggles tumbled out of Tim as he smacked his newly-freed hands over his face. His legs tried to twitch and jerk around, but Jason’s bulk kept them firmly pinned to the floor. 

“Alright, talk to me, Timmers,” Jason said, quickly tasering his fingers into Tim’s sides before going back to poking random patterns over his stomach. “What’s on your mind?” 

Tim parted his fingers so he could peer out between them at Jason. “Tickles,” he managed to get out, even though hysterical giggles made his voice wobble. “Tickles so bad!” 

And whatever that warm fuzzy feeling in Jason’s chest was, it made him stretch upwards to bump his forehead against Tim’s. His baby brother stared back at him with watery blue eyes and a gigantic, helpless grin. 

“I can tell,” he murmured, switching from pokes to spidering both hands all over Tim’s stomach. “All the squeaking and giggling kinda gives it away, Timbit.” But soon enough, he let up, and rolled over so Tim could flip onto his stomach and hide while he came down from all that laughing. 

Jason wasn’t expecting Tim to latch onto him and flop against his chest, burying his tickle-flushed face in Jason’s shoulder. 

Jason blinked, melted, and wrapped one of his arms around Tim’s back. Since there was no one else around, he dropped a quick kiss onto the top of Tim’s head. “Sure, giggle brat, I’ll be your pillow. Thanks for asking.” 

Tim just nuzzled further against him. “You weren’t gonna say no.”