#dc tickling

Jason swatted Dick away as he tried to wrap an arm around his shoulders. “Like I’m ready to go fu— freaking home already.” 

Alfred glanced over his shoulder with a Look. At first, Jason assumed it was from the near-swear, but then Alfred opened his mouth. “I’m afraid you won’t be leaving just yet, lad.”

“Wha—Alfred!”

“We’ll review your symptoms tomorrow, to ensure they haven’t become more severe.”

“So what if my helmet broke? It did its job! You can’t keep me here!”

Dick, having chosen to casually lean against the foot of his bed, snorted. There was no humor in the sound. “Jason, the thing practically shattered while it was still on your head. You have ten stitches on your forehead alone. I’m with Alfie on this one.”

“Thank you, Master Dick. Master Jason, you are quite lucky it is only the concussion and a few stitched wounds. Had your leg been broken as we had worried, you would not be leaving this Manor for the foreseeable future.”

And thank fucking god for that. Being forced to stay up in the Manor for weeks on end? Jason could handle a few hours here and there, finally relenting to invites for family dinners or Sunday brunches within the past few months, but if he was trapped there for days at a time, Jason was sure blood would spill. And certainly not his own.

Jason fumed, but decided it was wiser to stay silent now. A disappointed or testy Alfred could be soul-crushing, and he’d dealt with enough bullshit emotions for one night. Alfred nodded decidedly at his silence.

“Go get some rest, Master Dick. Master Jason, sleep well.”

Jason sighed, long and loud. “Yeah, you too, Alfie.”

Despite the warning tone in Alfred’s instructions, Dick didn’t follow him to the exit. Instead, he decided to push his luck again, approaching the head of the bed. Jason should’ve kicked him when he had the chance, but damn, despite not being broken, his leg sure was fucking sore.

“You doing okay?” He asked, his tone so gentle that Jason could physically feel his hackles raising. “Really?”

“Fucking fine, Dickhead. Get the fuck out of here and let me sleep.”

Dick huffed, an uncomfortable mix of amusement and bitterness that Jason refused to squirm at, and nodded. “Alright, Jay. I’ll let you rest.”

And then, because god forbid the asshole stop playing jovial big brother for even a second, Dick darted in close with a mischievous smile. Jason tried to fight him off, whatever his game was, but somehow Dick managed to dodge around his arms and into his personal bubble. Chapped lips connected with his hairline, carefully away from his stitches and bruising, startling Jason into stillness for a split second. By the time he went to fight again, Dick was already backing out of his space, jogging for the stairs.

“Sweet dreams, Little Wing!”

“Fuck you!”

Dick’s laughter echoed off the stone long after he was gone. Between that and the weirdly gooey feeling in his chest, it took a long time for Jason to finally sleep.

*     *     *     *     *

The next day was no better. Jason woke up feeling like death warmed over; his head pounding, his stitches itching, and every muscle in his body aching from the previous night’s abuse. Bitterly, he wished he could blame the medbay cot for some of it, but Bruce spared no expense on his setup, and the thing was unfortunately pretty comfortable.

Alfred, despite having checked his symptoms upon waking up and tending to his needs since then (god, had he missed Alfred’s cooking. A meal or two a month only satisfied his cravings so much), refused to release him until at least the late afternoon. After a series of complaints, Alfred told Jason he was lucky that he wasn’t being kept for a full 24 hours of observation, and that quickly shut him up.

Still, there was only so much he could do to entertain himself while stuck in the medbay. He did some stretches for his sore muscles, careful of the second set of stitches in his side lest he risk Alfred’s wrath. He snacked on whatever Alfred brought him, even after his hunger was satiated, just to beat back the boredom. He even asked Alfred to bring him down a few book options, and even though they were to his taste, he struggled to read around the headache squeezing at his skull.

Okay, fine. Maybe the concussion was a little beyond mild — but if Jason wasn’t throwing up and seeing stars, he didn’t care. He was fit for the field.

Eventually, Dick and the twerp made their way downstairs. Dick tried to check on him, dragging the mouthy little bird with him, but Jason was quick to chase them out. Just because he was stuck here did not mean he was going to play happy little family. Thankfully they got the message — though not without an eyeroll from Tim and a kicked-puppy pout from Dick — and headed off to the training mats. If Jason eventually wandered out to watch them train, it was just to stretch his legs. Alfred only said he had to stay at the Cave (or Manor, but Jason was still avoiding Bruce as much as possible), not in the medbay itself. He was bored and his legs were stiff – he absolutely was not looking to spend time with those chucklefucks that called themselves his brothers.

While neither of them were going easy on the other, it was clear to Jason that his spar was more play than work. Dancing around each other, hopping out of grasps, taunting and teasing (which, granted, was a trait embedded in any Robin, even in work mode, but still) – they were just toying with each other, winding each other up. And then Dick lunged, quick and graceful as a panther, a move more intent than any Jason had seen so far. Things were livening up. Jason stood a little straighter, ready to see where this would go.

And then Tim started screaming.

Jason started for the mats before he even processed what was happening, every nerve on high alert at the noise. He’d fought the kid on several occasions and never heard that sound. He’d rescued the brat from torture and never heard him scream like that before. What in the fuck had happened for Tim to throw all that stoicism out the window?

A shrill cackle stopped Jason in his tracks. Dick hadn’t even bothered to pin the kid, just wrapped his noodly limbs around him like an octopus as he dug his fingers into every inch of ticklish torso he could reach. Tim was spitting and cursing and writhing through his laughter, and though Jason saw at least three different ways he could escape Dick’s hold, Tim didn’t take any of them. Even being tomato red and wheezing, Jason didn’t think he’d ever seen Tim alight with so much joy. And, honestly? Despite how humiliating it no doubt was, Jason couldn’t exactly blame him. 

A lifetime ago, Jason was the one writhing beneath those hands. He and Dick had a rocky start, and a rough relationship overall, but even Jason couldn’t keep lying to himself that things were all bad. They had their good moments; train-hopping, ice cream hangouts, a meager handful of patrols together. 

And Dick absolutely taking Jason to pieces on those very training mats. Or in the theater room. Or the family room, one of their bedrooms, trapped in the car — really anywhere Dick thought he could get away with it.

Jason hadn’t reached for those memories since he’d gotten back. Everything from before often felt so bitter and tainted, bruised and aching, so he tended to leave well enough alone. He wasn’t that scrawny little kid anymore after all, beaming bright and spouting bullshit about how “Robin is magic!” He’d never be that kid again, so what was the point of dwelling on it? His so-called family already had that handled for him.

Even still, a feeling bubbled up in Jason’s chest. It wasn’t warm and melty, like whatever Dick had left him with last night. It was oozing and sticky and sharp, like an open wound congealed in blood. Jason huffed a sharp breath through his nose and turned tail, settling himself back in the medbay. He roughly snatched up one of the books, flipping it open and trying to focus on it around Tim’s howling. He spent most of the time staring blankly at the first page, fighting off the memories trying to creep up on him. He was so lost in his own head that he almost missed when the laughter finally stopped echoing off the Cave walls. He cursed under his breath, flipped about a quarter of the way through the book, and pretended to be lost in the novel. 

“Good book, Little Wing?”

“Sure,” Jason grumbled, skimming the random page he opened. It seemed vaguely familiar — he must’ve read it when he was a kid.

“Dick and I were gonna raid the secret junk food stash,” Tim piped up. “If you wanna come.”

Alfred totally knew about that, nothing stayed secret from him. Still, it was remarkable that he’d let them pretend for this long. Jason remembered the days where he helped Dick, and even Bruce, stock the stash behind Alfred’s back. But as much as Jason could really go for some chalky Donettes or double-stuf Oreos, that nasty fucking feeling in his chest did not leave him much room for brotherly bonding.

“I’m good,” Jason said, tone snappy. “Alfred’ll be down soon to give me the all-clear. Knock yourselves out.”

“Jay, are you sure?”

“I said, I’m good.”

Dick raised his hands in surrender, backing out of the medbay with a bitter smile and dragging Tim with him. He heard them muttering to each other as they made for the stairs.

“What’s his problem?”

“He’s got a concussion, kiddo. Can’t blame him for being grumpy.”

“I’ve seen him get shot and be less grumpy than that.”

Dick’s sigh followed them out of the Cave, bleeding into Jason’s own sigh as he let the book fall onto the bed next to him. Jesus Christ. What was wrong with him?

*     *     *     *     *

After the concussion incident, Jason turned back to his good friend avoidance. Unfortunately, it was a tactic that could only work for so long. With word of Red Hood’s new penchant for antiheroism spreading, he could only get himself so far these days. Usually, he could fend for himself – he had Bat and League training, after all – but sometimes he had to swallow his pride and call in backup. Hence why he was crouched on an old warehouse catwalk with Nightwing and Robin, of all people.

The up-and-coming drug lord he was after this time was no joke. He was clearly bringing power in from somewhere else, probably an out-of-towner thinking he could make easy moves in such a crime-ridden city. He’d even outright taunted the Red Hood, bragging around the Alley about his impending takeover. Hood would’ve had a bullet through his head weeks ago, but unfortunately, the asshole had the skill to back up his bravado

Hood had only caved when the first bodies showed up, done in by whatever the shithead had laced the drugs with.

The second he got wind of this meeting, he’d reached out to Nightwing for backup. Most stakeouts Hood would handle on his own, whether he was getting help with the case or not, but this time he wasn’t taking any risks. He even bit his tongue on any snide comments when Nightwing showed up with Robin, insisting that three sets of eyes were better than two.

Of course, that only mattered if the fuckers actually showed up.

Three hours in without a sign of movement and Hood was ready to admit he’d been played. Whatever Drug-Fucker was doing that night, he’d wanted Hood out of the way, and he’d gotten more than he’d bargained with half the Bats detained at the same time. Hood wasn’t looking forward to the news that came in tomorrow, haunted by visions of bodies in the streets even as Nightwing and Robin practically dragged him from the warehouse. Still, he made sure his pity party was over by the time they reached a nearby BatBurger.

“I’m getting my fries jokerized,” Robin said as they settled on the roof, trying to decide their order, “and I don’t care what you have to say about it.”

Hood shrugged, unlatching his helmet. “It’s the only decent way to eat them.”

Nightwing looked at both of them like they were insane. 

“You can’t give me that look,” Hood said. “I’ve seen you eat your cereal with orange juice before.”

“I was eighteen! You can’t still hold that against me!”

Robin cocked his head to the side, his domino wrinkling with the furrow in his brow. “What’s wrong with orange juice?”

Hood shook his head. “Not drinking it, little bird. He full-on drenched his Wheatie-O’s in orange juice.”

The kid’s face quickly twisted in horror as he turned back to Nightwing. “That’s disgusting.”

“Okay, one, they were not Wheatie-O’s, those sound disgusting. Two, I was a teenager–”

“So? I’m a teenager now.”

“And you have more Zesti in your body than blood, you don’t count.”

“He’s got you there, kid.”

“Hey, I’m on your side!”

“You’re right. It’s a perfectly respectable amount of Zesti, I’m sure.”

Nightwing flicked Hood on the forehead. “Look– my questionable teenage diet has nothing to do with the fact that you two want fries named after a murderous psychopath–”

Robin tilted his head to the side – not exactly beating back the bird allegations there. “Doesn’t it though? I mean, orange juice cereal soup kind of makes you a psychopath too–”

“That’s it!”

Hood’s chuckling at the ridiculous argument was quickly drowned out by the shrieky giggles of a far-too-ticklish mini-vigilante. Nightwing was a flurry of quick jabs and wiggling fingers, digging into all the less-armored areas of Robin’s uniform he could reach – places that required mobility that didn’t allow for bulk, like knees and elbows and armpits. Robin squirmed like a feral alleycat, almost slipping off the edge of the roof if not for Nightwing’s quick reflexes.

That sick, slimy feeling returned to Jason’s chest, and Jason couldn’t help but poke at it with a metaphorical stick. It certainly wasn’t jealousy — no, he remembered the cloying, bitter tang of jealousy well, and this oozing stickiness didn’t quite fit the bill. Plus, why would he be jealous in the first place? It was pretty fucking funny to watch the newest Robin squirm around and squeak like a ferret shoved into a plastic tub of dry pasta.

… He really needed to tell Dick to stop sending him TikToks.

Whatever the itching in his chest, though, it was fucking obnoxious. Not even the muffled cheeps from the little bird could pull him out of it, as hilarious as watching the kid try to muffle his laughter was. It was a pretty useless endeavor, from what Hood remembered; Nightwing had gotten him like that once or twice, the few times they’d patrolled together before his world exploded (literally). Batman armored up the Robin suit more and more with each model, but there was no stopping the soft spots around joints for mobility — especially for a kid meant to be so flippy. He learned to never underestimate how ticklish knees and armpits and even fucking elbows could be when they were the only things accessible.

“Hood, help!” Robin called out, stupidly reaching an arm in his direction. Nightwing took swift advantage.

Hood scoffed, polishing an invisible smudge off his helmet. “You’re on your own, kid.” 

It came out a lot more sullen than he intended. The play fight paused next to him, an awkward silence filling the space instead. Nightwing cleared his throat.

“I guess I’ll go order for you little rebels. I’ll be right back.”

He flipped off the roof before they could say anything. So much for emotional intelligence. Robin fiddled with his gloves for a moment as Hood finally set aside his helmet, then piped up.

“It’s not your fault.”

Hood’s head snapped toward him. “What?”

“The stakeout. It’s not your fault, he tricked you.”

The back of Hood’s throat itched with the desire to snark back, tell the kid that he didn’t know shit about Hood, to quit making assumptions… But it was the perfect out. Plus, it wasn’t like the kid was totally off base, just tugging at the wrong sulky string.

“Supposed to be better than that — who knows what the asshole was actually up to tonight.”

Robin shrugged. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it sucks and there’s definitely gonna be consequences, but like — even Batman gets tricked sometimes.”

Hood went to rub at his eyes, only to stop short when he made contact with his domino mask. “Kid–”

“Plus, you weren’t the only one who missed it. Nightwing and I looked over the entire case file you sent over – twice – and missed it, too. Even Oracle went over it and didn’t catch it.”

“He’s good.”

“So? We’re better.”

Ah, the classic Robin confidence. Hood remembered it well. “What would you suggest then, smartass?”

He got a classic feral grin in return – almost the spitting image of Nightwing’s when he was in the traffic light colors. 

Alright, maybe Hood would hear the kid out.

*     *     *     *     *

The living room window slid open with a quiet hiss. Jason woke instantly, hand already reaching for the gun tucked underneath his pillows. He tossed off the threadbare sheets, rolling silently to his feet even as he heard the window hiss a second time. He hadn’t heard the intruder land – they were either smart, trained, or both. He lowered his center of gravity and slipped through his bedroom door, readying his gun as he steadied his breath, and–

“Little Wing? I know you’re home!”

Jason instantly lowered the gun, flicking the safety back on, and rose to his full height, just in time for Dick to saunter into view of the hallway.

“Goddammit, Dick. I almost shot you.”

Dick gave him a lopsided grin. “Aww, come on, Jay! You could never shoot me.”

“I literally have.”

Dick just shrugged, turning back to the living room and flopping onto the couch.

“Sure,” Jason scoffed, “make yourself at home.”

“Thanks! I think I will.”

Jason heaved a sigh and set his gun on the counter separating the living room and kitchen. “Seriously, man. What are you doing here? Aside from interrupting my evening nap.”

Dick shrugged again. “I was in the neighborhood, thought I’d stop in.”

“Yeah, cut the shit. No one just happens to be in Crime Alley.”

“Alright, alright, fine. I wanted to hang out with my baby brother, is that so wrong?”

“Well, you’re in the wrong place for that. Timmy-boy should be back at the Manor, shouldn’t he? Or are Mommy and Daddy Dearest back in town? Maybe check the Drake property.”

“He’s with his team, actually.” Dick rolled his eyes. “And I can have more than one baby brother, you know.”

Jason glanced around the room, making a show of peeking into the dark corners of the apartment. “I dunno, man. I’m not seeing any babies here.”

“Jay, come on.”

“You first.”

Dick pursed his lips, crossed his arms. They had a brief stare-off, but Dick relented faster than he expected, slumping into the lumpy old couch with a sigh.

“I wanted to check on you.”

Jason wrinkled his nose, his shoulders raising. “Why?”

“You just – you seemed sort of off last night, at the BatBurger.”

Jason scoffed, slipping into the kitchen proper. Doing something with his hands meant he didn’t have to look at Dick and his manipulative ass. “My stakeout went to shit, what do you want with me?”

Thankfully, Dick stayed on the couch. “You and Tim were joking around before you shut down.”

“Maybe it didn’t hit me right away.”

“And before that? You’ve been avoiding us since your concussion.”

Water. That was something to do with his hands. Jason grabbed a glass from the cupboard and debated for a moment whether he should fill it from the tap. Then again, if he intentionally poisoned himself with shitty Gotham water to escape this conversation, Dick would know immediately that he was right. He sighed, going for the jug in the fridge.

“I’ve been busy.”

“And before that? When you were acting weird?”

Jason turned toward him, looking at him like he was insane. “I had a concussion. What are you trying to get at here, Dick?”

Dick shrugged – god, Jason was getting sick of that – and leaned back into the couch. “You tell me.”

“You’re as paranoid as Bruce is.”

Dick hefted himself up from the couch, making his way toward Jason and leaning on the counter with crossed arms. The kitchen island was the only thing separating them.

“Your shoulders are squared and tensed, like you’re preparing for a blow–”

“Don’t.”

“–You’re trying to look busy, so you don’t have to look at me. You’re putting up literal walls between us, using the physical barriers of the counter and even your glass of water–”

“Dick, seriously. I’m warning you.”

“–You’ve got that tension around your eyes, that scrunch in your eyebrows, that happens when you’re upset about something–” 

“Fucking, stop! Just shut up!”

“Pretend you’re mad all you want, Jay. That look means you’re upset. Not mad, not angry or pissed off or full of fucking rage like you love to pretend you always are. Something’s bothering you – I don’t understand why it has to be like pulling teeth just to get you to admit it! Let alone talk about it, god forbid.”

“Jesus Christ, Dick! Can’t you mind your own business for once in your life? You’re not my keeper!”

“I’m not trying to control you, Jason! I’m just trying to help–”

“By studying me like– like a fucking bug under a microscope? Like one of the fucking Rogues?”

Dick took a deep breath, pushing himself up onto his palms and hanging his head. His hair flopped down around his face. “You’re right. I’m sorry, you’re right. I shouldn’t have… analyzed you like that.”

Jason took a shuddering breath, setting aside his glass and leaning his own palms on the counter.

“I was worried about you. That doesn’t mean I should start treating you like a case. Acting like Bruce.”

Jason was silent for a few moments, their unsteady breathing becoming the only sound filling the apartment. He closed his eyes. “It’s hard to turn off.”

Dick ran a hand through his hair, letting out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, it really is. Let me tell you, man, romantic partners? They really hate it when you pull that.”

Jason huffed. “Duly noted.”

Another stretch of silence. The sound of their breathing, slowing evening out. A thread of sirens blew past on the street below.

“... So?”

Jason slumped over, elbows on the counter as he ground the heels of his palms into his eyes until he saw stars. “Fuck, man, I don’t even know.”

Dick stayed silent, doing that obnoxious thing where he let Jason work through it on his own.

“I just, feel weird.”

“Weird how?”

Jason rubbed at his chest. “It’s sticky and oozing and uncomfortable.”

Dick stood up straight. “All the time?”

Jason shook his head.

“When?”

Jason pursed his lips. What was he even supposed to tell Dick? Oh, often when you’re giving the kid attention and not me – but it’s not jealousy, I promise! Yeah, Dick would believe that. Instead he took a page out of Dick’s book. He shrugged.

“Okay.” And Jason had no idea when Dick shifted, but suddenly he was halfway around the island, moving slowly like Jason was some kind of cornered animal. “It happened when you had the concussion and were stuck in the Cave. It happened again last night. Did it happen at all between then?”

Jason shrugged again.

Admittedly, yes, it had. He’d had way too much time to himself during his concussion, too much time to think and lose himself to memories – and it wasn’t like he immediately escaped his own mind once he got back in the field. Sometimes the feeling was caused by memories of Bruce (though those came with the bite of bitterness and anger) or Alfred, but it was mostly from his memories with Dick, few as they were. With the state of Bruce and Dick’s relationship when Jason was a snot-nosed little brat like Tim, Dick hadn’t been around often. They’d had a pretty rocky start, too – though not as rough as his and Tim’s vigilant equivalent of a fistfight behind the Waffle House at 3 a.m. Still, after Dick got his head out of his ass, he’d tried his best. The best an exhausted eighteen year old could after being replaced, and Jason couldn’t help but clutch onto those memories. 

Days where Dick would pick Jason up from school on his motorcycle and they’d go out for ice cream. Weekends when Bruce was on League missions or W.E. trips and Dick would come by and actually stay – movie nights, meals, training, anything they wanted to do (within reason – per Alfred, of course). Patrols, even when Dick and Bruce were barely talking, where Jason got to flit off with his predecessor and truly learn how to be Robin – things Batman couldn’t teach him, things only Dick knew. Goofing around like brothers, tussling and play-arguing and (though Jason would never admit fondness for the memories under pain of death) getting the shit tickled out of him.

There weren’t as many as Jason wished he had. And that was the problem.

“You know,” Dick started, and they’d been silent for so long that Jason almost jumped when he spoke, “this safehouse is pretty shit.”

The comment was such a non-sequiter that Jason actually sputtered a laugh. “It’s not an apartment, Dickhead. It’s a place to shower and crash before diving out and doing it again the next night.”

“I actually still keep some safehouses here in Gotham, just in case. Not Bat ones, my own. They’re pretty cushy.”

“What are you getting at?”

Dick gave him that innocent, puppy-eyed look. “Movie night? Batman-free?”

“And, what, skip patrol?”

Dick patted the counter with his palm before pushing off it and moving towards the door. “Timmy’s plan needs some time to set in motion – not much we can do about your guy tonight. Batman and the Birds of Prey should have the basic crime handled, I think.” He glanced over his shoulder. “You coming?”

Jason glanced around his pitiful safehouse, barely containing the bare essentials.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, palming his phone and following Dick out.

He ducked his head to hide his grin when Dick let out a whoop of victory.

*     *     *     *     *

Alright, fine. Maybe Dick was onto something with Jason’s safehouse being a piece of shit. Full up on greasy takeout with some mindless action movie on the TV, Jason was all but melted into the remarkably non-lumpy couch cushions. He wasn’t necessarily sleepy, but he could feel his eyes drooping with lazy contentment. Through his haze, he could hear Dick let out a quiet huff of a laugh right before a set of toes jabbed into his thigh.

“Someone’s comfortable.”

Jason shoved at Dick’s feet “Fuck off, man,” he said, though there was no heat in his voice. “You’ll ruin it.”

Dick laughed again, twisting his legs away from Jason’s swatting to poke at his legs again. “Come on, you can’t sleep yet! Movie night!”

“I’m not sleeping,” he groaned. “Quit kicking.”

Dick didn’t listen. In fact, he got even worse. Jason’s lax torso shook with the force of the constant prodding, mismatch-socked toes digging into his thigh and ribs and arm. He had fully slumped down the couch to reach, but even as stretched out as he was, he was too nimble for Jason to catch — especially when Jason’s limbs were still weighed down by drowsiness.

Well, two could play at that game — and Jason was taller and bulkier. He had this shit in the bag.

Jason swung his own legs up onto the couch, sitting with his back against the armrest. Dick’s eyes lit up with that mischievous twinkle of his, immediately engaging in this weird leg-war without giving Jason a moment to adjust. He didn’t even know what they were doing — just that he needed to be the one victorious and out-obnoxious Dick. Before too long, it turned into a fight over who could keep their legs on the inside, closest to the back of the couch — coveted for its defensibility. Jason was certain he was going to wake up with shins covered in bruises the next morning, but it didn’t matter. It still couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. Especially not when he finally got his legs tucked up against the back of the couch. 

“Take that, Dickface!” He crowed, and promptly used his new leverage to fully kick Dick off the couch.

“Ow, hey! You’re such a sore winner!”

Jason grinned at him over the edge of the couch, his chest lighting up at the playful scowl on Dick’s face. Somewhere, deep inside where he hadn’t even known he’d locked it away, some small fragment of the boy he’d once been was practically singing with joy. Maybe not every piece of that kid was lost.

“Shut up, you big baby,” he said. “That didn’t even hurt.”

Dick flipped him the bird. “I’ll show you hurt!”

He snatched up Jason by the ankles, yanking and managing to tug Jason about a foot down the couch. Jason yelped and reached up and behind himself to grab at the arm of the couch. When Dick just pulled harder, Jason started trying to kick him off.

“Such a cheater!” Dick said.

“Literally how in the fuck am I even cheating?”

“Come on, let go!”

Jason held on tighter. He tried to pull himself higher back onto the couch, but despite having the upper hand when it came to brute strength, Dick had the better leverage. They just got stuck in some fucked-up game of tug-of-war, Jason being the rope.

Dick suddenly started scratching at the bottom of his socked foot with his fingers. Despite what his initial, instinctive flinch suggested, Jason actually didn’t feel much of the sensation. He was more grateful than ever that he refused Steph’s constant invites to get pedicures with her and Dick (and sometimes Tim, when she forced him) – those were his callouses and dead skin, thank you very much, and they clearly left him well-armored.

“Come on,” Dick whined. “You used to be ticklish here!”

“Tough shit, Dickface. Some of us grow out of that.”

Dick narrowed his eyes and a thrill went down Jason’s spine. Then, like he had fucking telepathy or some shit, Dick grinned. Big and evil and full of big-brother-malice, the likes of which Jason hadn’t seen directed at himself in so many years.

“You’re such a shit liar.”

“I’m a fucking phenomenal liar, thank you very— Dick!”

Dick wasted no time in launching himself back onto the couch, fully on top of Jason, hands aiming for his torso. Jason barely managed to catch him by the wrists, grunting at the impact even as he tried to twist Dick’s arms to the side at a weird enough angle that he’d be forced to follow and fall off the couch. Unfortunately, Dick was made of overcooked noodles and silly string, so he could easily contort his body with Jason’s manipulations. Jason did the next best thing he could think of: he rolled them off the couch, fighting to land on top. If he could get Dick pinned under him, that was it, he would be safe. Hell, he might even be able to get revenge for all the tickle attacks from when he was a kid.

Dick laughed as they fell. “Nice try, Jay!”

They landed on the carpet with a loud thud, probably about to win the award for World’s Worst Upstairs Neighbors, and Jason was instantly confronted with the next fault in his plan.

Noodles and fucking silly string.

As much as Jason scrambled for the upper hand, twisting and shoving and grappling, Dick was too slippery. His years of experience, both in the circus and in the suit, outpaced Jason’s brute strength at every turn. No matter how Jason tried to pin him, Dick managed to slither out of his grip like a greased eel, laughing like a motherfucker all the while. It was almost like he was playing with Jason — which he confirmed when he twisted in some complicated, incomprehensible maneuver and pinned Jason on his stomach, wrists pressed into the carpet on either side of his head.

“Get your fat ass off of me!”

“My ass is a perfectly normal size, thank you very much!”

“Tell that to Twitter!” 

Dick tutted. “You’re only making this worse for yourself, baby brother.”

Jason glared at Dick over his shoulder. “Who are you calling a fucking baby, asshole?” 

“Overcompensating with swearing doesn’t make you not my baby brother, Jay.”

“Fuck you!”

“Alright, alright!” Dick laughed, settling himself more firmly over Jason’s thighs. “I’ll put you out of your misery.”

Jason’s wrists were freed, but before he could do anything about it, there were fingers prodding up under his arms, searching around his upper ribs and the soft spots in his armpits. He yelped, pinning his arms down against his sides in a classically futile defense, and prayed to any deity with their ears open that the Lazarus Pit fixed whatever part of his brain that made him completely useless when he was tickled.

“See! A liar!”

Jason grit his teeth, trying not to smile at the experimental prodding. “Cut it out, Dick!”

“No, no — see, I think you deserve this. You’ve been getting off way too easy since you got back. I mean, when’s the last time I even tickled the absolute snot out of you?”

Jason growled, ducking his head as his struggles continued to try and hide the heat gathering in his cheeks.

“Exactly! And see, I could just go right for your hips, quick and ruthless as the Red Hood himself, but where would the fun in that be?”

A wobbly grin started to form despite Jason’s best efforts. “I’ll make sure your death is slow.”

“So you can spend more time with me? Aww, Jay! That’s so sweet!”

Suddenly, the poking and prodding fingers wrapped around Jason’s upper ribs, some stretching up into his armpit. Then, they started pulsing. Jason’s nerves lit up like a fucking Christmas tree, the sensation shockingly nostalgic and starkly unfamiliar all at once. He wheezed once into the carpet, failing to hold back his laughter anymore, and cracked into low, raspy chuckles.

“Liar.” Dick said again, smug as hell.

Jason didn’t dare try to reply. He could feel the higher-pitched laughter filling his chest, and it was all he could do to keep the noises escaping him low and rough. If he tried to talk, he had no doubt he’d lose his grip on that control. 

Except — Dick’s hands started moving. The pulsing turned into wiggly squeezes as Dick’s hands started making their way down his ribs and sides. A giddy sort of panic filled Jason’s chest. Dick just said going right for his hips was too easy, but was that a fakeout? He started squirming even more, trying to wriggle his way out from under Dick’s weight.

“Ge-get away!” 

Dick laughed. “Why? Do my hands right here—“ he tazed his fingers into the meat of Jason’s sides, just above the hypersensitivity of his hips “—make you nervous?” 

Growling through laughter was a bit of a moot point, Jason quickly found out. It was all wavering and jittery and stuttering. Dick only cooed at him even more, the absolute asshole.

“Don’t worry, baby bro — I’ll save the best for last.”

The hands vanished from his sides, letting Jason gasp in a full breath, before materializing around his nape and ears. Jason squeaked — fucking squeaked, goddamnit — and nearly slammed his forehead against the ground as he flinched away. The fingers gave a particularly devastating scratch at the curves of his neck and shoulders for that.

“Careful!” Dick didn’t even have the decency to sound sorry. “Knocking yourself out just delays the tickles — and then they build up and up and up, and they’ll be even worse when they finally catch you again!”

“That doesn’t—“ dammit, there was the high-pitched, warbling voice, “doesn’t even make any sense!”

He sniggered into the carpet, shaking his head as he tried to dodge the finger tips and nails wreaking havoc on his skin, and if he got rug burn on his face, Dick was going to pay. His shoulders shrugged and shimmied around like some kind of deranged turtle tearing it up on the dance floor, and Jason couldn’t even dedicate the brain cells he needed to be properly embarrassed about that. Every cylinder was too busy firing on it tickles, it tickles, it tickles!! Well, all except the one sneaky little cylinder betraying Jason’s hard-earned image, giddy and happy and full of mushy-little-brother feelings that he didn’t want to touch with a fifteen foot pole.

For a split second, Dick’s fingers jumped down and wiggled at the edges of his shoulderblades before returning to his neck. Jason jolted like he’d been electrocuted, his shriek so ear-piercing that it hurt even his own hearing. Fuck — did that always tickle that bad? Dick cackled above him. 

“Careful, Little Wing! Those shoulders keep dancing and my fingers just might be tempted to join them.”

Oh, fuck no. No way. If that’s just how a quick tickle felt, his entire body lighting up with the sparks of it, there was no way that was happening again. And that was just his back! If Dick got to his hips? It was game over for Jason. His pride (and his vocal cords) would never recover. As much as that small little part of him was having fun, had made it so maybe he wasn’t trying to get away as best as he could, it was time Jason called it quits. He had a reputation to maintain, even if Dick had already shredded half of it to ribbons.

As unbearable as the tickles around his neck and ears were, it was far from being one of Jason’s worst spots. That meant, although he had to fight hard for those dregs of composure, he still had some control over his faculties. All he needed to do was to throw Dick off, and once the tingly tickles stopped, he could whip his metaphorical mask back on and be all surly and pissed and keep Dick from doing it again.

No matter how much this stupid torment felt like coming home.

Slow and trembling, Jason was able to get his arms braced against the floor. Still chuckling endlessly and swallowing back the giggles that wanted to burst forth, Jason counted to three in his head before finally pushing off the ground, his forearms grounded as his torso lifted.

“Oh — thanks, Jason!” Dick’s hands darted into the space between the floor and his body. “I was wondering how I was gonna get in there!”

The second Dick’s fingers touched down on his stomach, pinching and kneading and scratching and really just doing all of the most evil things possible to his nerves, Jason was a goner. The ticklish shock sent Jason right back to the ground, only pressing Dick’s hands deeper into his muscles. Though Jason’s initial squawk was in his usual deep register, the laughter that jumped out of him was nowhere close. It wasn’t giggles, thank fucking god, but the bright, bubbly laughter being forced out of him might’ve been just as bad.

“You— asshole!”

“Aww, listen to you! Did I find a good tickle spot?”

Fuck Dick, he knew that — and he knew rubbing it in only made it worse, too. The urge to curl up in a protective ball was all-consuming, but with Dick pinning him on his stomach, his legs could only scrabble uselessly at the floor as they tried to draw up to his chest. Jason’s arms, at the very least, still had freedom of movement. He glued his elbows to his sides while his forearms tucked up under his chest, his hands curled into fists. That bright, boyish laughter continued to tumble from his lips, and not even shoving his face into the carpet could muffle it.

“You always had the cutest reaction to tummy tickles, huh? I mean, Timmy does too, so you guys are tied now, but still! Maybe it’s just a baby brother thing.”

Dropping Tim’s ticklish secrets wouldn’t save Dick from getting murdered later, but Jason definitely tucked that one into the back of his mind. Well, he tried to. Hoped he did. It was kind of hard to think around the tickles and Dick’s teasing.

“You sound just like you did when you were a kiddie, though! All cute and bubbly and bright – I didn’t even know your voice could go this high anymore.”

Yeah, neither did Jason. “Shut the fuck up!”

Dick chuckled. “Really, Jay? Have you been reduced to nothing but curse words and posturing anger already? We need to get your tolerance back up!”

Oh god, Dick was going to do this again? His chest did that mortifyingly melty, gooey thing again and Jason shoved his face further into the carpet. He’d undoubtedly been pink since Dick had started, had probably blushed darker when his laughter turned all bubbly and borderline fucking sweet, but now? Jason could feel the heat flush down his neck and up into his ears – even the back of his neck burned. Based on the way he cooed above Jason, Dick had definitely noticed.

“Don’t worry – I’ll make sure you get plenty of tickles going forward. We have so many missed tickles to make up for, too! Say, when are you free next?”

“Never!”

Dick blew a sudden raspberry on the back of his neck. Jason squeaked and giggled and hunched his shoulders, drumming his feet against the carpet. 

“Don’t be a brat. I can always just break into your safehouses, Tickle Monster style.”

Motherfucker. Jason hadn’t thought about that in years – not even on his trips during memory lane the past weeks. Sometimes, on Dick’s rare Manor visits, he’d come by without letting anyone know and hide himself away. Usually, it was an area Jason frequented, like the library or den or even kitchen. Hallways weren’t off-limits, either. Hell, he even hid in Bruce’s study once, when the old man had already been downstairs. And then, when Jason would pass through the space, he’d get a surprise tickle attack from none other than Dick Grayson. He’d learned to check the front hall upon arriving home eventually, looking for Dick’s jacket or shoes or keys, but knowing the dumbass was there and avoiding his attacks were two very different things. It had led to some absolutely legendary chases through the Manor, though. Even if Alfred nearly had their hides for it a few times.

“Try it,” Jason hissed, miserably failing to sound as threatening as he wanted to. Laughing like a little kid tended to do that.

“Challenge accepted, JayJay.”

“Stop fucking babying me, you– NO!”

Jason was given absolutely no warning as Dick’s hands shot from his stomach down to his hips. He all but screamed before going limp against the floor, cackling madly. A thumb to the divot of his hip was bad enough, but being pinned face down meant Dick had four whole fingers to dig into the spot. 

“I think we oughta ease you back into the swing of things, huh Lil’ Wing? Figured I’d give you your grand finale now, before you got too tuckered out.”

“Dickie, no no nonono!”

Dick’s weight shifted, but he didn’t lift himself from Jason’s body. His voice was mortifyingly fond and thick when he spoke next. “Wanna know something, baby brother?” He leaned down again, putting his voice right next to Jason’s ear. “I missed spending time and playing around with you, too. You could’ve just asked.”

Jason scrubbed his head against the floor, only giving a fraction of his attention to trying not to rug burn himself. The rest of his mind was all warm fuzzies and ticklish screams.

Dick’s voice turned playful again, though the fondness remained. “I guess this is more fun though, huh?  Good thing you invited me over to do it again and again and again!”

“Dick– Dick, please!”

Jason can’t remember the last time he begged from tickles. Even as a kid, he was stubborn as all hell, but – the fondness, the emotions, the teasing dialing everything up to eleven? It was a lot. Jason’s pride would have to take the hit this time. Thankfully, Dick immediately drew his hands away and reseated himself next to Jason on the floor. Jason curled up his protective little ball, knees tucked up toward his chest and arms wrapped around them. It was more difficult than the last time he’d done it, his new bulk and musculature getting in the way, but he hadn’t lost all of his Robin-hood flexibility.

Dick snorted softly. “You always were a little pillbug.”

“Sh’dd’p.”

Dick chuckled again. His hand landed on Jason’s back, but even palm-flat, Jason instinctively flinched and yipped. Another laugh, and Dick’s hand was removed. Despite the assumption of tickles, Jason had to hold back a whine from the loss of contact.

“Alright, alright, sorry. Too ticklish, I know.”

Dick’s hand reappeared in his hair instead, dragging through the tangled curls, slow and steady. Jason hummed, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

“Just take some time to recover. Then we’ll get back to the movie, all cuddled up on the couch now that you can’t pretend that you’re a big grump anymore, and you’ll get some good sleep. All snug as a bug in a rug.”

“Not a lil’ kid.”

“I know, Jason. But you’ll always be my little brother.”

Contrary to what the media constantly loved to write, Bruce was a happy child growing up.

He spent most of his early days with his Mother, roaming the halls and playing with the endless toys he had. When he started going to school, his father would usually pick him up and listen to Bruce talk about his school day.

Alfred was comfortable and familiar with the youngest Wayne member, but his parents rarely had him take care of Bruce. Though they were successful, they always made time for Bruce.

Another thing the media always got wrong about Bruce was how damn talkative he was.

Once he was comfortable with you, he'd talk your ear off about anything that came to his mind. On many afternoons he would follow Alfred around, helping him with whatever task he was doing, and explain whatever he was fixated on at the moment. Though this was sometimes frustrating when quiet was needed, it was also extremely endearing.

One late evening, Alfred was going about his regular tasks around the house, cleaning up dinner and picking up any stray toys Bruce had left out.

"Alfred?" Thomas Wayne's voice called out and he turned to see the eldest Wayne walking down the stairs with a pile of blankets in his arms. "Do you mind tossing these in the dryer for a few minutes for me?"

"Of course, sir." Alfred responds as he takes the blankets and takes them to the laundry room.

He could have guessed what the purpose of this was without asking, but he liked to tease anyway. Bruce was extremely energetic in the evenings, more so than he normally was. The two parents had trouble wearing him out enough to sleep so they'd recently been warming up blankets and cuddling with him to see if that would help quicken the rate he falls asleep.

"Young master Bruce still awake, I presume?" He asks with a hint of a smile

Thomas smiles back as he follows Alfred. "You already know he is." That was true, Alfred could hear his little footsteps from upstairs as he ran around the hardwood floors.

"Have you learned of any way to tamp down his energy in the evenings?" Alfred asks as he tosses the blankets in the dryer to warm them.

"Martha is trying a few things, but all I've got is run him around until he gets tired." Thomas smiles fondly at the thought of his son and Alfred smiles too.

After the blankets are warmed by the dryer, Alfred carries them up to the bedroom, Thomas leading him there. The two men are met with loud, bubbling laughter as soon as they enter the bedroom.

"Good evening, Alfred!" Marth calls from where she's sat on their large king sized bed. She has Bruce laid out next to her in his pajamas, giggling wildly as her fingers wiggle against his sides and belly.

"Good evening, Mrs. Wanye." Alfred says and he holds back a smile as Thomas walks over to where Martha is tickling Bruce.

"I don't know how many times I tell you Alfred to just call me Martha." She smiles as she lets Bruce crawl away from her on the bed.

"And where do you think you're going?" Thomas growls playfully as he pounces on Bruce, his son happily shrieking as Thomas' weight bounces them.

Alfred smiles fondly at the scene in front of him. It was an interesting tactic to tire out a young boy, but it seemed effective. He felt bad that the outside world never really got to see the Wayne family and how they truly act.

"Alfred, h-ahahah-help mehehe!!" Bruce calls out squealing when Thomas rolls him over and presses a raspberry into his belly.

"I'm afraid I can't, Master Bruce." Alfred smiles, playing along with the little game they have going to tire out the boy. "My arms are quite full." He says, gesturing at the warm blankets he holds.

Thomas only lets go of Bruce once he's sure that Bruce was fully tired out, letting his son crawl into his mother's lap. Alfred hands the blankets to Thomas and leaves to let the family relax in peace.

It was memories like that that Alfred liked to look back on fondly whenever times got tougher.

---------------------------------------------------

Of course, things changed ever since the passing of Bruce's parents. Right after it happened was the worst of it all, the grief that over took Bruce and Alfred was immense. No amount of condolences were helpful.

Alfred then went through the legal part of now making himself Bruce's full legal guardian while trying to help Bruce grieve and take care of the young boy, who was still only a kid.

The poor boy didn't even know how to grieve yet, just sad and hurt and angry all at once. He'd cry for hours on end, hiding up in his parents room and in their closet, still full of clothes that smell like them.

The most Alfred could do was try and comfort him and get him to eat, which Bruce refused to do for a week until Alfred begged him.

After that, the nightmares started.

Alfred would come sprinting into Bruce's room when he heard shouting to find Bruce asleep in his bed, shaking in his sleep. At first he thought they were seizures but he quickly learned about the nightmares that plagued Bruce.

Alfred would stay up some nights, too worried about Bruce to be able to sleep. He tried tea (whenever Bruce would actually drink it) and medicine to help try and get him to sleep through the night peacefully, but they never worked.

Alfred woke with a jolt when he heard his door open and sobbing from the entrance. He reached out and flicked on his lamp, softening when he sees Bruce crying hard, walking slowly over to his bed.

"Come here," he whispers, already reaching out for Bruce who melts as soon as Alfred picks him up.

"I s-saw someone." He hiccups through his tears. "In m-my room."

"Lets go take a look." Alfred murmurs, rubbing Bruce's back as he walks to his room.

This also wasn't uncommon now for Bruce to wake up from a nightmare and think a shadow in his room is a person, there to hurt him like they hurt his parents.

Alfred turns on the light and lets Bruce sob into his shoulder as he looks thoroughly through the room.

"There's no one here." He says quietly. "Do you want to try and sleep again? I'll stay right-"

"No!" Bruce cuts him off, sobbing so hard his body shakes. "No, no!" He cries into Alfred's shoulder.

"Okay, okay." Alfred says softly. "It's okay, we don't have to stay here. How about the living room?"

Bruce nods and Alfred takes him downstairs to the living room, doing his best to comfort him. He turns the lights on but at a lower setting and turns a fire on in the fireplace below the television, to warm up the room.

Alfred hums as he sways side to side, rubbing Bruce's back and letting him cry as he grips Alfred's pajamas tight.

He only sits down when Bruce has calmed down enough to talk. "Take deep breaths." Alfred says quietly, instructing by taking a deep breath through his nose and out through his mouth.

Bruce follows along, which does help him to calm down. Now he just looks exhausted, his eyes weary and tears left on his face that Alfred gently wipes away.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Alfred says softly as he brushes Bruce's hair back off his forehead.

Bruce shrugs as he fiddles with the front of Alfred's pajamas. "I don't know."

Alfred hums as he thinks. "How about some warm milk then?" He offers and Bruce nods.

Alfred props Bruce on his hip as he works one handed to heat up some milk in a glass and give it to Bruce, who then drinks it in a few seconds.

"Better?" Alfred asks and Bruce nods again, wiping away any milk on his mouth with his sleeve.

He goes back and sits down on the couch with Bruce, letting him curl up against his chest. It was early morning, way past when either of them should be awake and he knee Bruce needed sleep.

Alfred also knew however that mentioning sleep would cause another bout of tears and that was the last thing either of them needed. He remembered an old trick Martha used to do and hoped that it still worked.

He shifts his hand to go from rubbing Bruce's back to gently tracing the skin, up and down the young boy's back. He trails his fingers up and down to help relax him and feels rewarded when Bruce melts into him.

"Feel good?" Alfred asks softly. Bruce tenses a little but allows himself to relax and nod. "Yeah." He whispers back. "It tickles a little."

Alfred smiles at that. "Does it?" He teases, allowing his hand to stray closer to Bruce's side to hear him giggle. He hoped that Bruce never grew out of being ticklish, though, with how sensitive Bruce was he doubted that he ever would.

"Yehes!" He giggles, arching his back but Alfred follows him, now tracing his fingers from the bottom of his side to the top of his ribs.

"I'm just trying to relax you, I don't know what you're talking about." Alfred replies, feigning innocence.

"Alfred!" Bruce grins and tries to bite down his laughter but fails.

Alfred chuckles at Bruce's giggles and sneaks his other hand to flutter fingers around Bruce's neck and ears, watching as Bruce scrunches up his shoulders.

"Okahahay!" Bruce laughs, his hands too clumsy to try and catch either of Alfred's.

Alfred slowly stops but still continues to trace on Bruce's back, this time just in a soothing way.

It doesn't take long for Bruce to fall back asleep against Alfred's chest, now with a small smile on his face and a fond memory to look back on instead of the usual night terror.

---------------------------------------------------

Sometimes Alfred wondered if he knew the same kid.

Teenage hood was fresh upon Bruce, along with everything that came with it. He was angry and moody, barely talking some days. His nightmares were worse now too, though he wouldn't admit it to Alfred.

That was another thing he had to adapt to with Bruce growing up, was the quiet.

When he was younger, quiet always either meant he was asleep or something was wrong. Now Bruce was mostly quiet now, at least whenever he wasn't angry.

His latest rant of today was about Alfred's parenting.

"I'm not a baby!" He says it like an accusation as he's sat at the dinner table, a scowl on his face as Alfred makes dinner.

"And no one said you were." Alfred says, trying to keep his voice level. "You're a bright young man with a good head on your shoulders."

"Yeah, well, you treat me like one." Bruce grumbles and Alfred shoots him a look but continues.

"However," he adds. "You're also thirteen and still growing and maturing. Just because you're a teenager does not mean you can do whatever you like."

Alfred ignores the eyeroll that Bruce gives him and continues.

"Your teacher told me you were picking fights in class?" Alfred asks.

Bruce scoffs immediately, his tone sharp with irritation. "I didn't pick any fights, my classmate started it."

"But the fact is that you got into a fight?" Alfred raises an eyebrow.

"We just argued and I shoved him and he happened to fall." Bruce says. "He's lucky I didn't knock his teeth out."

"Bruce." Alfred levels the teen with a stern glare. "Why did you even argue in the first place?"

"I answered a question wrong in class and he started whispering to his little friends. I told him if he had something to say then to say it with his chest. He said that money isn't everything and can't buy me an extra braincell." Bruce explains, sneering at the thought.

"So, I told him to put whatever money he had where his mouth was and then he brought up my parents." Bruce mutters. Alfred held back a sigh at that.

Bruce's parents had always (and most likely always will be) a sore spot for Bruce. Alfred had had many talks with the principal over incidenta that were caused by another classmate bringing up Bruce's parents.

"So I shoved him and he shoved me and then when I shoved him again, he tripped backwards and fell." Bruce shrugs.

"Your teacher said he hit his head?" Alfred says.

Bruce shrugs again, but doesn't fail to be smug about his words. "Not my fault none of his friends caught him." Alfred lets out the sigh he'd tried to hold.

"Bruce, you can't act this way." He tries to come at it with a soft approach.

"I'm not just gonna sit back and let some wimp in my class insult me and my family!" Bruce yells.

Alfred could see Bruce's point but the way he went about it wasn't ideal. On one hand, he had a point. Bruce was always going to be touchy about the subject of his family but he needed to teach Bruce to be able to pick his battles, not every battle.

"And I know that," Alfred sighs. "I just need you to think before you act."

"I'll do what I want." Bruce snaps. "You're not my dad."

Bruce seems to look shocked at his own words and regret fills his eyes when Alfred looked surprised and hurt. Alfred rubs his eyes before walking around and sitting in front of Bruce.

"You're right, I'm not your dad." He says, gentle but stern. "But I think we both know that your father would agree with my advice and what I've told you."

"I guess so," Bruce mumbles. "I...I'm sorry I said that."

"It's alright, Bruce." Alfred says. "I just need you to listen sometimes, I'm trying to help you here. Even if you can't see it."

Bruce nods quietly as he keeps his eyes low, ashamed of his own words.

"Sometimes the wisest thing you can do is be silent." Alfred says. "I'll write back to your teacher about it, don't worry on it."

"Okay." Bruce says. "Thanks."

Alfred nods. "Do me a favor though and try to be a little more cheery."

Bruce eyerolls again at that and scowls. "Alfred." He grumbles.

"I remember a young boy who used to laugh at the slightest thing," Alfred says as he rounds the table and gives Bruce a plate of food for dinner.

"Dead parents'll ruin that for you." Bruce says bitterly, ignoring the plate of food in front of him.

"Come on now," Alfred says as he walks back over. "I know you aren't grumpy all the time, I've seen you with your friends."

Bruce shrugs and stays quiet.

This was more difficult than Alfred had expected. Maybe a lighter approach was better.

There was always one thing that could make him cheer up, but Alfred hesitated. He didn't know if it would upset Bruce or cross any boundaries.

"Maybe your friends are more funny than me?" Alfred offers with a small smile and squeezes Bruce's knee as he talks.

Bruce jolts and squirms in his seat, a flush already rising on his cheeks. He pushes Alfred's hand off of his knee but to Alfred's delight, Bruce follows his lead, cracking a sarcastic joke right back.

"Yeah, maybe they are." He smirks up at Alfred. "All your jokes are British old man jokes."

"Old man jokes?" Alfred gasps in mock offense. He moves to stand behind Bruce and reaches out, fluttering fingers into Bruce's neck and against his ears. He smiles when Bruce grins and then breaks into quiet laughter, trying to cover his neck but to no avail.

"I'll have you know, I make the finest jokes for any old man." He says over Bruce's giggles.

"T-They're dumb!" Bruce grins and laughs, both at the tickling and Alfred's offense.

"How dare you!" Alfred growls, his tone entirely playful. His hands move to wiggle finger into Bruce's armpits, the move immediately effective as Bruce's laughter pitches up and gets louder.

"How could you hurt me by saying these things?" Alfred says, pretending to sniffle.

"A-hahah-Alfred!" Bruce calls out, trying to twist away from his hands.

"No, no, it's quite alright, Master Bruce." Alfred says. "I get it, too cool for my old man jokes."

"Quit tihihickling mehe!" He laughs before finally hobbling out of his chair, his arms wrapped around his sides as he grins at Alfred.

He looks much healthier with a smile on his face and the pink flush on his face and neck, contrary to his usually pale skin.

He grows sheepish under Alfred's fond smile and looks down to hide his own smile. "You done tormenting me?"

"I suppose so." Alfred replies and ruffles his already messy hair as he sits back down. "Eat, before your food gets cold."

"Okay, old man." Bruce jokes and finally starts to eat.

Alfred smiles as Bruce finally starts warming back up. Teenage hood is difficult, especially for Bruce, but they were both learning one step at a time.

---------------------------------------------------

Bruce was set to return for his most recent patrol night. It was close to 5 in the morning, but Alfred liked to be awake when Bruce got home. He may be an adult now but he'd always be Alfred's kid.

Alfred didn't think he'd ever get used to seeing Bruce as Batman.

He had known Bruce since he was literally in diapers, he'd been the one to record the video of Bruce first steps and when he said his first words. So seeing Bruce come home every evening roughed up, an assortment of tools in every pocket imaginable, was a little shocking.

Sometimes he still saw the little boy Bruce once was, all full of energy and life. When he'd solve a tough case that had him stumped for a long time, he'd excitedly tell Alfred about it the next morning over his coffee, the same smile (now much more rare to see) lighting up his face as he talked.

The sound of the Bat Mobile's engine bounced off the walls of the cave as Bruce drove it into the parking space for it.

The top of the car lifted and Bruce got out if it gently, already taking off his cowl.

"Good evening, Master Bruce." Alfred says, setting down his tray that carried water, a first aid kid, and some protein snacks he knew Bruce would actually eat. "Or should I say morning?"

Bruce grunted as he leaned against his car and tugged off one of his boots. Alfred could see a shard of glass sticking out of his now exposed foot.

"Oh dear," Alfred murmurs as he walks over and helps Bruce hobble to a chair. "What happened now?"

"This gang broke into one of the storage buildings down by the boat dock." Bruce grunts. "Used an explosive to bust all the windows."

"A shard got through my boot while I was chasing one who'd gotten away." Bruce sighs as he sits down. "I'm gonna need to do more testing on my boots and under armor so it doesn't happen again." He muses outloud.

"Let me clean it first before you go off on another spiel." Alfred says, grabbing one of the first aid kits he'd hidden around the cave and the manor.

Alfred gently take the largest piece out of Bruce's foot before work on getting out any of the smaller ones. "How did you even walk back to the car?" Alfred asks.

"Hobbled my way back." Bruce says. "And used my grappling hook to swing. I had to land one footed though, which was difficult."

Alfred hums as he works, gently flushing out the smaller pieces so he can start to clean the wound. Bruce tenses his foot and half, gripping the chair as Alfred works.

"I will try and make this as pain free as possible." Alfred says, his tone apologetic.

"No, you're fine." Bruce shakes his head. "It just feels weird."

"Weird?" Alfred raises an eyebrow as he takes an antiseptic wipe and gently cleans around the wound and the rest of Bruce's foot.

Bruce holds back but nods as his toes scrunch down as the wipe goes over his foot. "Y-yeah, weird."

"Hm." Alfred hums skeptically, clear amusement in his face.

Bruce groans, covering his face. "Be nice." He mumbles into his hands.

"I always am." Alfred responds. He drags a finger down the side of Bruce's foot, smiling when he flinches. "You make it so easy, though."

"I can't help that it's...sensitive." Bruce drops his hands to scowl at Alfred who hides his smile.

Bruce does a decent job at trying to contain his laughter, his chest humming with yhe effort, but he eventually breaks when the cold antiseptic wipe touches the top of his foot. Quiet chuckles burst from him and he closes his eyes so he doesn't have to look at Alfred's fond smile.

"Take your t-time, Alfred." Bruce says sarcastically as Alfred finishes cleaning the wound.

He scribbles his fingers under Bruce's toes in retaliation and Bruce yelps, pulling back his foot with a frown.

"You never cease to embarrass me still." Bruce mumbles as Alfred wraps around the wound with some bandages, going around his foot and tying it off.

"Some would say it's my duty to." Alfred responds as he cleans up his supplies. "Do try and stay off that foot for at least a day."

"No guarantees." Bruce replies as he rolls his chair over to the large computer and he pauses. "Thank you, Alfred." He murmurs but his tone has layers to it, not just talking about his most recent injury.

Alfred softens and he squeezes Bruce's shoulder with his free hand. "Anytime."

Bruce glances up at his father figure and smiles before growing sheepish, as he always did. Affection was not exactly Bruce's area of expertise, no matter how much Alfred tried to help him with it growing up. Some hurt was too much to try and reopen, at least for now.

So Alfred let Bruce shy away from his gaze but that didn't mean he'd stop looking at the man he considered his son.

---------------------------------------------------

Warm, loud, boyish laughter filled the house, bouncing off the wide halls and high ceilings and filling the usually empty halls with noise.

It was unusual for the house to be loud again, after so many years of it being quiet. But having a young boy in the house again also helped with that.

Dick had recently come to live with them in the past year or so. He had been in a similar case as Bruce when he was at Dick's age. Alfred suspected that was what caused Bruce to make the decision so quickly. He had been shocked at Bruce's decision at first, since Bruce had told him vehemently since he was young that he didn't want kids.

Which had always confused Alfred, because even though Bruce claimed to not want any children (he suspected a fear of being an absent parent or just not enough time for them, but he never pushed Bruce for answers), he loved kids and was fantastic with them too. There were many instances where children would be at a charity event and Bruce always beamed his real smile at being able to talk with them.

He displayed this skill now with Dick, as the two of them sat in the living room (or what Dick liked to call 'The Den'). Dick was laid across Bruce's lap, his head thrown back as he laughed. Dick's shirt was rucked up from squirming and a wide grin accompanied the flush across his face. Bruce grinned down at the young boy as he fingers scuttled across his belly and up to his armpits, finding purchase and wiggling there.

"What's so funny? Huh?" Bruce teased with a rare grin that matched Dick's. "Not so cocky now, are you?"

"Should I ask what's going on?" Alfred said but his tone with full of amusement, as he walks in with folded, warm blankets that were fresh from the dryer. Bruce perks up at the blankets and the familiarity of the memories they brought back and smiles up at Alfred.

"Just teaching a little lesson on being polite." Bruce says playfully and punctuates his words with quick squeezes to Dick's exposed ribs.

"Alfred, sa-hehehey!-save mehee!!" Dick calls out, laughing as he rolls onto his stomach and reaches his hands to out to Alfred. Bruce shifts his hands and goes back to wiggling fingers into Dick's armpits, smiling when he squeals and his arms come back crashing down.

"I'm afraid my arms are quite full, Master Dick." Alfred sighs as if it pains him to not be able to help Dick. Bruce smiles at Alfred's words, the familiarity of it all making Bruce grow fond.

Dick had that way with people as well, when he could simply walk into the room and make everything a little brighter. Alfred had noticed this happen with Bruce the more time he spent with Dick.

"Okay, okahahay!" Dick's laughter turning close to shrieks when Bruce leaned down and planted a raspberry on Dick's neck. "You wihihin, B!"

Bruce grins playfully as he finally lets up and allows Dick to lay across his lap and release any leftover giggles. Alfred tosses on of the warmed blankets over Dick and Bruce, now that Dick was calm down and less squirmy.

Alfred watched as Bruce smiled down at Dick - the fondness in his eyes too strong not to miss - as Dick melts into Bruce, his eyes closing comfortably.

Alfred could only see Bruce now as he was when he was young, except now he only sees his son instead of Thomas'.

"What?" Bruce murmurs when he catches Alfred watching. He shakes his head as he walks around the couch.

"Just allowing myself to be a little nostalgic." Alfred says softly, so he doesn't disturb Dick, and runs a hand through Bruce's hair that was already messy from his shower.

"You getting soft on me, old man?" Bruce jokes and they both pretend not to notice as he leans back into Alfred's touch.

"Haven't I always been?" Alfred murmurs and Bruce hums in reply.

"Guess so." He says as he looks down at Dick and matches Alfred's action by petting Dick's hair gently, brushing it back off of his forehead.

"He's a lot like you." Alfred thinks out loud.

"I know," Bruce huffs with a small smile. "That's what scares me."

Alfred shakes his head. "Nonesense. You were a fine child, you just were a little troubled."

"Yeah, a little." Bruce says sarcastically. Alfred flutters his fingers down to Bruce's ear and Bruce scrunches his neck up with a quiet yelp.

"Are you ever gonna stop doing that?" Bruce huffs but he isn't really irritated.

"Not unless you grow out of it." Alfred responds with a ghost of a smile and Bruce groans.

"I'm not a kid anymore." He says (which Alfred finds mildly amusing, considering he'd been saying that since he was around twelve or thirteen).

"Yet you still act like one?" Alfred teases, glancing down at a dozing Dick.

"Guilty." Bruce grumbles with a smile, also looking down at Dick.

"And anywho," Alfred shrugs, picking up the small mess Dick had made earlier with his crayons (he was a big fan of drawing). "You'll always be my son." He adds.

Bruce looks away, still having difficulties with affection but growing better at it, especially with Dick around now. "Yeah," he agrees quietly.

Alfred smiles at him before leaving Bruce and Dick to have some one on one time. Bruce really had grown so much since when he was young and Alfred knew he'd grow more as he continued through life.

"Uhm, kiddo, when you said you were gonna be mad at me forever, did you really mean it?" Clark chuckled nervously.

And judging by your back turned to him, your arms crossed, and your nose in the air, yeah, a little bit.

To make a long story and an even longer day short, you were not having the best of days. You woke up grumpy and kept that attitude all day, and even the resident little whisperer, Clark, couldn't seem to get you out of your funk.

And, at the height of your grumpiness, which was caused by Clark saying it probably wasn't the best idea to eat Poptarts for dinner since that was all you had been eating. For every meal. All day. You decided to give him the silent treatment, completely ignoring him and your favorite cartoon that he put on.

"I'm sorry that I didn't give you what you wanted, bug." Clark began, trying to get back into your good graces for what felt like the millionth time today. "I understand that you like to eat Poptarts. But I've already let you have three packages today. Three whole ones! Kinda sounds like a lot, don't you think?" He asked, figuring you wouldn't respond, and he was right, so he just decided to continue on.

"I don't want you to get sick from eating all that sugary pastry, and I also want to make sure you get proper nutrients. It's a part of my job as your dada. And I like doing a good job of things. Don't you?"

If you, or if you didn't, like doing a good job of things, Clark would never know, as you didn't answer that either.

He sighed. This was hopeless. He didn't want you to go to bed angry, but by the looks of it, that was fixing to happen.

Unless...

A little smirk found its way onto Clark's face, one that you would know screamed trouble if you actually looked at him.

"Okay. Fine. You don't have to talk to Dada. He won't make you. But... if you won't talk to him. You're gonna have to talk to his evil twin brother." When your Dada's voice drops to that silly, growly, mock evil voice, you know exactly what's coming, so even in your stubborn, silent, temper tantrum, you just had to give him a side eye.

"Yehehah, you know the one." Clark laughed out, barely able to keep up the goofy voice because he was too busy giggling, and he hadn't even done anything yet!

"Yohou're gohonna havta talk toho the one, the ohonly, TICKLE MONSTER!" Dada let out a big playful growl, scooping you up and settling you into his lap, instantly getting to work on wiggling his fingers gently into your sides.

Who wouldda thunk it? Getting tickles really makes you think about the latter instead of being all grumpy.

You squealed and giggled out for your caregiver, hoping the hero would come to your rescue in your time of need, but nope! You were only met with the laughs of the monster in his place.

"Sohohorey, Y/N, but Dada isn't here anhymore! Thehere's only tickle monster! Ahand tickle monster wants to pay yohour little tummy a visit!" Clark, or, my apologies, tickle monster, used one of his ridiculously large hands to scribble over the belly before him.

The happy shrieks and giggles that left you made the so-called monster smile until his cheeks hurt, to put it lightly. I guess a monster doesn't have to be all that scary to be a monster, huh?

"Grrr! Yes! The tihickle monster feheheeds on yohour laughter! I just need to eat it all up! Nomnomnomnom!" The monster took its eating very seriously as he started to eat your cheeks! (Or maybe just nuzzle into them and pretend to eat them, I dunno, you pick)

While he was busy with his feast, those ridiculously big hands that I was talking about earlier wormed their way under your arms, finding your pits to be a nice resting place despite giggly protests you barely meant.

Tickle monster pulled away from your cheek and stopped wiggling his fingers into your armpits, giving you a little break.

"Golly, even after all of that, I'm still just starving!" The tickle monster gasped, joking distress in his tone. "I'm going to need way more giggles if I ever wanna get full! What should I do to get more giggles...? Hmmm..." The monster struck a thinking pose for you (but let's be honest a move like that is all Clark) until his eyes lit up. You could practically see the cartoon light bulb go off over his head.

"Eurica! I know just the trick!" And with a small giddy giggle, he laid back on the couch, you held up in his arms above his head. He admired the silly sight for a bit before you were quickly brought back down. And your tummy, the poor thing, in the area surrounding a certain button on your tummy, was attacked by raspberries.

It was giggle mania in that living room I tell ya.

Clark nuzzled his face into your belly between raspberries, so you better hope he shaved, and his fingers found their way skittering up and down your ribs as a little treat. A treat more so for Clark. So that's just great.

But, before you could get overwhelmed with all the tickly feelings, Clark stopped, gently bringing you down to lay on his chest as he tried to recover from his own laughing fit as well.

"Okay, ohokay... tickle mohohonster has had more then enohough. Dahada is bahack on thehe scene... and hohow does dada's tihiny fehehel nohow?" Clark softly rubbed your back, patiently awaiting an answer, happy to find out you were feeling cheered up.

"Reheheally? Wow! Guess I better use the tickle monster more often!" Clark joked, rolling over onto his side, your back against his chest as he held you close, his thumbs starting to rub comforting circles on your sides, him barely even noticing he was doing it. It was nice.

"Now c'mon, let's settle down." He murmured, resting his cheek on top of your head, curling up his large body to fit more comfortably on the couch. "Our shows on."

You could feel his face move from where it was perched. He was definitely cheesing like a dork, but hey, so were you.

And right about now, your favorite cartoon actually didn't seem so bad.

The first thing Cass noticed was the distinct fresh-coffee-mixed-with-body-spray smell. Which suggested that someone had been there. Recently.

She'd picked this particular safehouse because it was supposed to be empty. Sequestered in the Bowery between a shuttered pawn shop and an all-night laundry service. Close enough to the usual patrol routes for when Oracle called, but far enough from the Cave that she could breathe without Bruce's concerned hovering or Dick's well-meaning check-ins.

After six months in Hong Kong—six months following Batman's carefully worded suggestion that she needed "more perspective" and "distance from Gotham's influence"—Cass had thought coming home would feel… easier. Instead, the city pressed against her like an old coat whose shoulders no longer fit her frame. It made her think that Bruce had been right to send her overseas. That maybe she didn't really belong here anymore…

Trying to shake the thought from her mind, Cass stepped further into the apartment. The sign of the 24-hour diner across the street cut through the windowpanes, casting the sparse furnishings in a soft, crimson glow. But through the red haze, Cass noticed the unmistakable signs of life. A dog-eared paperback left open on the threadbare couch. A chipped white mug on the kitchen counter with tendrils of steam rising from it. A dufflebag shoved in the far corner, fully unzipped and overflowing with clothes.

"Well, I'll be damned. Look what the Bat dragged in."

Cass spun toward the voice, eyes fixing on the familiar silhouette of Jason Todd as he emerged from the shadows. He was dressed in a maroon-colored t-shirt and dark grey sweatpants. His arms were folded over his chest, and he wore the sort of smirk Cass had come to associate with amusement and trouble. The white streak of his hair caught the red glow of the outdoor diner sign like a warning.

"Jason." Cass relaxed (albeit fractionally), though her stance remained alert. With his presence now out in the open, the scents that always clung to him—gun metal and old leather—were mixing with the overall staleness of their surroundings. "Didn't know you were using this place."

"Didn't know you were back in town." His eyes swept over her, taking in the rips in her uniform and the exhaustion she couldn't hide quite as well as she tried to. "Bruce finally let you come home from exile?"

Exile. The word hit harder than Cass expected. She felt her jaw tighten on its own accord. "Wasn't exile."

"Sure it wasn't." Jason's voice carried that familiar bite of someone who knew exactly what it felt like to be on the outskirts of Bruce Wayne's tightly constructed inner circle. "Hong Kong just happened to need Batgirl when things got complicated here, right?"

Cass felt something twist in her chest. It wasn't anger, but rather, a deep, dull ache that she couldn't name. The same twinge that had burned under her heart when she'd stepped onto Bruce's private jet. The one that continued simmering beneath the surface across the full width of the Pacific Ocean.

The silence stretched between them, interrupted only by the endless clanking of the radiator and the persistent drumbeat of rain against the windows. Before she finally croaked out a reply.

"Don't."

"Hit a nerve?" Jason's eyebrows rose and he shifted his weight, folding his arms more tightly across his chest. "What was it this time? Too much violence? Not enough control? Or did you just remind him too much of—"

"Stop." Cass's voice cut through his words like a knife. She could read the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched—Jason was clearly hurting too. Lashing out only because it was easier than admitting his own vulnerability. "You're angry at him. Not me."

Jason's smirk faltered, and in the neon light, Cass caught an unadulterated rawness flash across his expression. Until he forcibly clamped it down into something more self-contained. "Maybe. But that doesn't make me wrong."

She wanted to argue. Wanted to defend Bruce's decision. But the words stuck in her throat. Because Jason wasn't wrong. The "suggestion" to work with their Hong Kong contacts had come right after she'd gotten too close to a case involving child trafficking. Right after she'd effectively crippled a trafficker's legs by breaking them in three places, instead of simply incapacitating him. Right after Bruce had given her that look—the one that said he was wondering if she was becoming too much like what she used to be.

"Six months," she said quietly, more to herself than to Jason. "Still don't know if I'm supposed to be grateful or…"

"Pissed off?" Jason supplied, his voice losing some of its edge. "Yeah, I know that feeling."

His admission hung between them like a confession. Cass had no choice but to turn away from Jason's discerning gaze and move toward the kitchen. If only to have something to do with her hands. There was no real thirst for the lukewarm coffee left in the old-fashioned percolator.

"Why are you here?" Cass asked, pouring herself a cup and taking a sip. She grimaced at the bitter taste, frowning when she realized there was not a sugar cube in sight. "This your regular brooding spot, or are you avoiding the Cave too?"

Jason snorted, but there was less venom in it now. "Who says I'm brooding? Maybe I just like the ambiance." He gestured vaguely at the peeling wallpaper and the diner's neon light, casting everything in crime-scene red. "Very atmospheric for reading."

Despite everything, Cass felt her lips twitch. "What are you reading?"

"Jane Austen." The admission came out defensive, and with a proud jut of the chin. Like he was daring her to make fun of him.

She blinked, recalling Austen's work from her adolescent English lessons with Alfred. "… Really?"

"What? I have layers." Jason pushed off from the wall, stalking over to retrieve his hardback book from the couch. "Pride and Prejudice. Figured if I'm going to be stuck in a safehouse avoiding family drama, might as well get some culture."

The mental image of Jason Todd, brown leather jacket and all, reading about drawing room manners and social propriety was so incongruous that Cass felt a genuine smile tug at her mouth for the first time since she'd left Hong Kong. "How far are you?"

"Darcy just insulted Elizabeth at the dance." Jason flopped onto the couch, the action making him look younger than his mere twenty-four years. More boyish. "Guy's a real piece of work."

"He gets better if I remember right." Cass found herself drifting closer, drawn by the unexpected normalcy of literary discussion. Even if she wasn't much of a reader herself, it distinctly reminded her of home. "Think you'll like him by the end."

"Mmmm... Doubt it. Don't have much patience for rich bastards who think they're better than everyone else." Jason's voice was pointed, but his body language had relaxed, his long legs unfurled in a way that took up most of the available couch space.

"Move over," Cass muttered, nudging his boot with her knee.

"Make me." The challenge was practically second nature, but there was something almost playful about it. A brief impression of the younger, more impish Jason that Cass had heard stories about from Bruce and Dick. Before things had gotten so complicated.

Cass studied his sprawled form, noting how he was deliberately taking up as much space as possible. After six months of overtly formal training sessions and sparring etiquette lessons in Hong Kong, Jason's casual defiance felt… refreshing. Fraternal, even.

"Fine."

Before Jason could react, Cass set her coffee mug down and moved with the fluid grace of someone who'd been raised to read every bodily tell and micro-expression. She feinted left, then swept his legs off the couch in one smooth motion.

"Hey!" Jason rolled with the momentum, ending in a crouch with his hands raised. "I was comfortable."

"Was." Cass settled into a fighting stance, feeling some of the tension from earlier begin to uncoil. "Now you're not."

Jason smirked as he assessed her form. "Oh, you want to dance? Been a while since I sparred with someone who might actually be a challenge."

They moved carefully at first, testing each other's reflexes. Cass possessed a fluidity from training with some of the best fighters in Hong Kong and performing classical ballet routines in her free time. Jason, on the other hand, relied more on brutality than finesse. Even when sparring with other members of the Bat family.

Within minutes, she had him on the defensive, her strikes coming faster than he could counter.

"Okay, okay," Jason panted, barely dodging a kick that would have taken his legs out from under him. "I forgot how stupidly good you are at this."

Cass pushed the envelope, driving him back toward the couch. "You're getting slow, Todd."

"Am not." But his protest was breathless, and she could see him reassessing his approach. Instead of backing down, Jason shifted tactics, using his size and reach to try and close the distance between them.

He caught her next strike on his forearm, absorbing the impact with a low grunt. Then he immediately tried to grapple her into a hold.

But Cass was already moving, slipping out of his grip like a fish out of water. She twisted and landed a solid hit to his sternum that made him stumble backwards.

"Still slow," she said, not even breathing hard.

The muscle of Jason's jaw ticked. "Lucky shot."

This time he came at her with more aggression, throwing combinations that would have overwhelmed most opponents. Cass registered every punch before he threw it, allowing her body to move on instinct. She deflected, redirected, and countered with a precision that made Jason's techniques look almost clumsy by comparison.

"Interesting," she taunted lightly, ducking under a wild swing and then playfully tapping him on the shoulder as she passed. "Thought Red Hood was supposed to be dangerous."

"I am dangerous," Jason growled, spinning to face her again. Sweat was starting to bead on his forehead, and there was a familiar stubborn set to his shoulders that Cass recognized from the few training sessions they'd shared at the Cave. The sort of tension that arose right before he stopped holding back and tried to beat the absolute crap out of Dick. "Just warming up."

He tried a different approach, mixing in some of the dirty tricks he'd learned on the streets—an elbow aimed at her temple, a knee toward her ribs, a heel to the lateral side of her knee. But every move was telegraphed to someone who could read body language as avidly as Jason read books. Cass flowed around his attacks, occasionally letting him think he had an opening before reversing his momentum and sending him stumbling backwards.

At the twenty-minute mark, Jason was breathing hard and nursing what was probably going to be a nasty bruise on his shoulder.

Cass had barely broken a sweat.

"You know what?" Jason said, bracing himself against the back of the couch after she'd swept his legs again. "I officially hate your stupid-perfect fighting skills."

"Not perfect," Cass replied, but she was smiling now, feeling more like herself than she had in months. "Just better than yours."

Jason's eye twitched. "Rematch."

"Same result."

"Best two out of three."

"Jason." She watched him push himself off the couch, noting the way he was starting to favor his left side. "Take a break. You're getting tired."

"What I'm getting is warmed up."

But his next attack was sloppier, driven more by frustration than strategy. Cass sidestepped easily, once again allowing Jason's own momentum to send him stumbling. This time, he tottered into the kitchen space, only narrowly missing a counter to the shoulder.

"That's four takedowns," Cass said, starting to feel a little sorry for him. "Maybe we should—"

"No." Jason wiped sweat from his forehead, his breathing labored as he focused on regaining his bearings. "I know I can get you. I just need to… think…"

His eyes narrowed. He took a moment to catch his breath and studied her more carefully. Cass felt a flicker of unease as she noted a shift in his expression. His frustration gave way to something more calculating in nature. As if he'd been fully prepared to fold his hand, only to remember that he had an ace stashed up his sleeve.

"… Think about what?" Cass asked cautiously.

Jason's grin was suddenly sharp and predatory. "Just... something Dick mentioned in the Cave a while back. Right before you left for Hong Kong, actually." He straightened up to his full height and began stretching his neck, his fatigue seeming to fade as whatever memory he'd dredged up took hold of his resolve. "He was talking to Tim about training methods, and he said something kinda interesting about you…"

Cass felt her stomach drop. Dick had a tendency to share observations about all of them when he thought it might be helpful for team dynamics. Most of the time, it was harmless—tips about fighting styles or preferred patrol routes. Allergies and favorite ice cream flavors. But sometimes…

"What did he say?" she asked, though she was already starting to back away, noting the transition in Jason's posture.

"Oh, y'know... something about the untouchable Batgirl having one tiny little weakness." Jason's voice had taken on a tone that could only mean trouble, equally playful and dangerous. The very sound of it set off Cass's internal alarm bells. "Something about you being absolutely, hopelessly…"

He lunged forward, but this time he wasn't aiming for a proper strike or grapple. Instead, his hands went straight for her sides.

"…ticklish."

The word hit Cass like a physical blow, and for a split second, she froze. But in that moment of horrified recognition, Jason's hands connected with her ribcage.

The effect was immediate and, arguably, devastating to her reputation. All of her unshakable control, her flawless reading of body language, her ability to predict and counter every single attack—it all crumbled the instant Jason's fingers made contact.

A startled laugh burst from Cass's lips, and she jerked back so violently, she nearly tripped over her own two feet.

"No!" The word came out in a panicked rush as Cass tried to twist away, but Jason was intent on striking while the iron was hot. His hands followed her movement, fingers dancing along her sides with the kind of precision he'd never quite managed in actual combat.

"Oh, this is so much better than sparring," Jason said, his voice full of vindictive glee. "Look at you—where's all that badass grace now?"

Cass tried to grab his wrists, but her coordination was gone. Every time his fingers found a particularly sensitive spot, her body would jerk involuntarily, disrupting any counter-attack she tried to mount. She'd spent years training her body to respond with deadly precision to any threat, but for some unfathomable reason she had yet to figure out, tickling wasn't a threat that Cass's nervous system knew how to handle.

"J-Jason, stop!" she gasped between helpless giggles, trying to back away, only to find herself pressed against the wall. "Thi-is-is isn't—isn't fair!"

"Fair?" Jason flashed a devilish grin as he trapped her against the wall, his fingers now targeting the spaces between her ribs with pinpoint precision. "You just spent twenty minutes making me look like an amateur, and you want to talk about fair?"

Cass tried to slide along the wall to escape, but Jason easily kept pace with her, his hands never leaving her torso. Years of fighting dirty on the streets had taught him to be opportunistic, and he was absolutely ruthless now that he'd found her weakness.

"You know what the best part is?" Jason said conversationally, as if he wasn't currently reducing the most feared hand-to-hand combatant in Gotham into a puddle of giggles. "Dick said you tried to play it off like it wasn't a big deal when he figured it out. Something about 'minor sensitivity' and 'not tactically relevant.'"

"Di-i-ick is—d-dead!" Cass managed to gasp out, her back arching as Jason's fingers found a spot just below her ribs that made her see stars.

"Oh, I don't think so. I think Dick is getting a very nice thank-you gift for this intel." Jason's voice was pure evil and satisfaction. "Maybe I'll tell him exactly how 'minor' this sensitivity actually is."

The threat made Cass redouble her efforts to escape, but it was useless. Every time she tried to grab his hands or push him away, he'd just switch to a different spot—her sides, her stomach, a surprisingly sensitive curve just above her hip bones that made her laugh so hard she couldn't breathe.

"This is chea-ea-ea-eatinggg!" Cass protested, her voice pitching higher than usual as she continued dissolving into helpless giggles.

"No, this is strategy," Jason corrected smugly. "You're just mad because someone found a way to overpower perfect little Cassie."

"I'm nnn-o-ot li-i-ittle!" The indignant protest slipped out before she could stop it, and Jason's grin somehow got even wider.

"Aww, look at that. Getting defensive while you're being tickled to death. That's adorable."

Cass made a sound of pure, frustrated outrage, but it was completely undermined by the fact that she was giggling too hard to be properly threatening. It didn't help that Jason was absolutely merciless, keeping up his assault while maintaining a steady stream of commentary that was designed to make her even more flustered.

"You know what I'm going to tell everyone when I get back to the Cave?" he said, his fingers now exploring the flat expanse of her stomach. "That the great Cassandra Cain, terror of Gotham's underworld, can be completely defeated by a little bit of—"

"Do-o-on't you da-a-a-are!" Cass yelled, her voice cracking on the last word.

"Don't I dare what?" Jason asked with mock innocence, but his eyes had that predatory gleam that meant he was about to make things so much worse. "Don't tell everyone that you're ticklish? Or don't do… this?"

Having been paying very close attention to Cass's reactions, his hands stretched out toward her sides, fingers pressing into the soft-padded muscle just above her hip bones.

Cass's entire world exploded into sensation.

"NO! Not there!" The words came out in a desperate rush before she completely lost the ability to form coherent sentences. Her knees buckled, and she would have slid down the wall if Jason hadn't been pinning her there with his attack.

"This is the spot, isn't it?" Jason's voice was absolutely delighted as he watched her dissolve into hysterical laughter. "Dick definitely didn't mention this part. Look at you—you can't even stand up!"

Cass was beyond words now, her laughter high and helpless as tears started building behind her eyes. She weakly batted at his hands, but her coordination was nonexistent by now. Every time his fingers dug into that particular spot, it sent shockwaves through her entire nervous system, until all she could think was flight instead of fight.

"Ja-a-asss-on, ple-e-ease!" she finally managed to gasp out between bouts of hysterical giggling. "I can't—I can't breathe!"

"That's what you get for making me look like an idiot for the last twenty minutes," Jason said, but there was something almost fond in his voice now, the vindictive edge softening. "Maybe next time you'll go easy on your poor, defenseless brother."

"Not—" Cass tried to protest, but Jason began squeezing at her inner obliques and she collapsed into helpless peals of laughter, her legs giving out completely.

"Not what? Not your brother? Not defenseless?" Jason's grin was downright impish as he followed her down the wall, keeping up his torturous assault. "You might be right on that last part. I'm feeling pretty powerful right now."

As if to prove his point, his fingers curved into claws, digging mercilessly into the soft spots where Cass's obliques met her core. The sensation was ridiculously overwhelming—every squeeze sent bolts of ticklish electricity through her entire torso, making her arch and writhe helplessly against the wall.

Cass shrieked, her voice cracking as she dissolved into completely incoherent laughter. She couldn't even form words anymore, just helpless gasps and squeaks between bouts of hysterical giggling. Her hands flailed weakly, trying to grab his wrists, but every time his fingers dug in again, her entire body would spasm, and she'd lose what little sense of bearings she had left.

"Oh, this is perfect," Jason chuckled, and the sound of his own laughter mixing with hers made the whole situation even more overwhelming. "I should record it for blackmail material."

"No!" The word came out as more of a squeak, and Jason's chuckle got deeper.

"No? But I think I've earned some compensation for the ass-kicking you just gave me." His fingers paused their assault just long enough for Cass to catch her breath. "So here's what's going to happen. First, you're going to admit that I won this fight."

"That's not—" Cass started to protest, but Jason's fingers immediately started lobster-clawing into the firmer muscle of her obliques again. She collapsed back into helpless laughter. "Nnnnhg!"

"Wrong answer!" Jason said cheerfully. "Let's try again. Say 'Jason won.'"

"Noooo!" Cass gasped out, though her defiance was somewhat undermined by the fact that she was still giggling uncontrollably.

"Oh, you're going to be stubborn about this?" Jason's voice took on that dangerous, playful tone again. "That's fine. I've got all night."

His fingers resumed their merciless assault on her obliques, alternating between quick, fluttering touches and deeper, claw-like digs that made her entire body convulse with laughter.

Cass was completely overwhelmed, tears trickling down her face as she dissolved into the kind of helpless, breathless giggling that made her stomach ache.

"Come on, Cass," Jason said, his own chuckles mixing with her laughter. "Just say it. Two little words: 'Jason won.' Maybe not fair, but I definitely won."

"I—I ca-a-an't—" Cass could barely get the words out between gasps. Her legs had given out a while ago, and she was only somewhat upright because Jason had her pinned against the wall. "Please!"

"Please what?" He paused again to let her catch her breath, his hands lingering threateningly at either side of her waist. "Please keep tickling you? Please never stop? Because I'm getting mixed signals here."

"Please stop!" she managed to gasp out, though she was still giggling helplessly. "I give u-u-u-up!"

"Ah, but that's not what I asked for." Jason's grinned wickedly. "I want to hear you say it properly. 'Jason won.'"

Cass looked at him through blurry eyes, seeing the glint in his eyes that meant he wasn't going to let this go. Part of her wanted to keep fighting on sheer principle, but another part—the part that was still gasping for breath and utterly exhausted—just wanted this torture to end.

"Fine!" she finally gasped out, causing her brother to pause in his assault. "Jason... Jason won. You won, okay? You beat me."

"With what method?" Jason prompted, his fingers resting all too lightly against her still-tingling muscles.

"With—with tickling…" The admission came out in a rush, and Cass felt her face burning with embarrassment.

Jason's grin was absolutely triumphant. "There we go! Was that so hard?" He finally, mercifully, pulled his hands away from her sides, sitting back on his heels with a satisfied expression.

Cass slumped against the wall, still catching her breath and wiping the tracks from her cheeks. Her entire torso felt tingly and oversensitive, and she kept letting out little residual giggles that made Jason's smile widen.

"Worst..." she said when she could finally speak properly, "... brother ever..."

"Hey, all's fair in love and war," Jason replied, but his voice had long-since lost that vindictive edge. Now he just looked entirely too pleased with himself, like a cat who'd finally caught a wild canary. "Besides, you needed to be taken down a peg or two. Those flawless sparring techniques were getting to your head."

"I don't have flawless techniques," Cass protested weakly, though she was still smiling despite herself. "You just proved that."

"Oh, your techniques are flawless," Jason said, settling down beside her against the wall. "Your weaknesses, on the other hand, are hilarious." He paused, studying her face with that calculating look again. "It's fun, though. I don't think I've ever seen you laugh that hard, like... ever."

The observation made Cass shift uncomfortably. "I laugh."

"No, you smile. Sometimes chuckle. But actual, helpless, can't-breathe laughing? Never seen you do that before." Jason's voice had gone softer, more thoughtful. "When's the last time you let yourself be that… unclenched?"

The question hit closer to home than Cass wanted to admit. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt safe enough to be completely vulnerable, to let her guard down so completely that she couldn't defend herself even if she wanted to. Even in Hong Kong, surrounded by allies, she'd always been ready to fight, always been aware of potential threats.

"I don't know," she admitted quietly.

Jason was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was uncharacteristically gentle. "For what it's worth, I think Bruce was an idiot for sending you away."

Cass looked at him in surprise. "But you don't even know why he—"

"Doesn't matter." Jason's cut-in. "You belong here. In Gotham. With the rest of us. Even if you do kick all our asses on a regular basis." He paused, then added with a smirk, "Well, usually."

Despite everything, a warmth spread through Cass's chest, smoothing out whatever it was that'd been burning behind her heart since her deployment to Hong Kong. "You really think so?"

"I know so." Jason leaned his shoulders back against the wall, looking more at ease than she'd seen him all night. "Besides, who else is going to keep us humble? Tim's too busy, Dick's too nice, Damian's too short, and Bruce… well, he's Bruce fucking Wayne."

"And you?"

"Me? I'm exceptional." Jason's smirk turned into a shameless grin. "Especially at finding creative ways to win fights against impossibly skilled opponents."

Cass groaned and buried her face in her hands. "Let it go, Jay."

"Oh, absolutely not. This is going in the family vault of embarrassing stories, right next to the time Tim got stuck in a ventilation shaft and when Dick accidentally called B 'Dad' during a Justice League meeting."

"You wouldn't."

"I would, and I will." Jason's eyes were full of evil glee, made more nefarious by the red glow of the diner light. "In fact, I'm thinking of making it my new party trick. 'Wanna see me defeat the world's most dangerous assassin with my bare hands?'"

"Jason!" Cass reached out to shove him, but he easily caught her wrists.

"Ah, ah, ah," he tutted with a warning waggle of his eyebrows. "We both know how this ends."

The threat made her freeze, resulting in Jason's low-pitched laughter filling the small safehouse. There was something warmer in it now, something that felt more like a steady assurance in a way that Bruce's concern and Dick's gentle check-ins hadn't quite managed.

Cass soaked the sound in and settled back against the wall with a small smile. "Maybe being back here isn't so hard after all."

"Even if it means dealing with me?" Jason grinned, gently nudging her in the ribs with his elbow.

Cass smiled wider and returned the gesture, an easygoing nature taking hold as she conceded. "Even if it means dealing with you."