Chapter Text
The front doors of the manor slammed open with all the subtlety of a thunderclap. Pennyworth’s eyebrows twitched, barely, but years of living with Wayne children had long ago tempered him against dramatics.
“This is absurd,” Damian announced as he stormed across the foyer like a very small, very angry storm cloud. His school bag thudded against the marble floor as he dropped it, unzipping it with the same energy most people reserved for tearing off a bandage.
“Good afternoon, Master Damian,” Alfred greeted smoothly, as though the thirteen-year-old wasn’t glaring at the world like it personally offended him.
“It is not a good afternoon,” Damian shot back, shrugging off his uniform blazer and tossing it onto the nearest chair. Pennyworth silently plucked it back up to hang properly.
Dick poked his head out from the living room doorway, hair messy from what was clearly a failed attempt at fixing it after a nap on the couch. “Why do you sound like you’re about to declare war?”
“Because I am,” Damian huffed. He stomped into the living room and threw himself dramatically onto the armchair, expression locked somewhere between outrage and disgust.
Jason, sprawled on the couch with his boots propped up on the coffee table, raised a brow over the edge of his book. “Who pissed in your lunchbox, kid?”
“An assignment,” Damian snapped. “A book report.” He said the words like they were the ultimate betrayal. “We have been instructed to read a book, an infantile book, for the purpose of… of ‘understanding character growth.’” He actually did air quotes, which meant this was serious.
“...Oh no,” Tim muttered from the corner, where he’d been curled up with his laptop. He didn’t even look up, just smiled into his mug. “Not reading. Anything but that.”
“I read plenty,” Damian shot back immediately, sitting up straight like his pride had been stabbed. “I am not opposed to literature. I am opposed to literature that insults my intelligence.”
Dick flopped into the chair across from him, grinning. “What’s the book?”
Damian scowled. “Charlotte’s Web.”
There was a beat of silence. Then Jason snorted so hard he nearly dropped his book.
Dick pressed his hand to his mouth, fighting laughter, while Tim finally looked up from his laptop, eyes lighting with the kind of quiet joy that came from witnessing good, old-fashioned sibling chaos.
Damian glared at them all like they were traitors. “It is a children’s book about a pig,” he said, voice flat. “And a spider.”
“Technically, it’s a classic,” Tim said, leaning back in his chair.
“Technically,” Jason added, grinning, “it’s about friendship and death, which seems like something you’d be into.”
Damian ignored him. “Why am I forced to write about a sentimental story where farm animals discuss their feelings? This is what they expect of me? I have read the works of Sun Tzu in their original language. I have studied Shakespeare. And now they want me to reflect on the ‘emotional journey of Wilbur the pig.’”
Jason cackled. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”
Dick had the decency to at least try to look sympathetic. “You could… I don’t know, write about the symbolism of mortality? There’s a lot in there.”
Damian turned the full force of his unimpressed stare on him. “Grayson, do you truly expect me to waste an hour of my life dissecting the ‘symbolism’ of a barnyard friendship?”
“Yes,” Dick said cheerfully. “That’s literally what school is. Welcome to the system.”
“Can’t you just pick another book?” Tim asked, knowing full well the answer.
“They have assigned it to the entire class. No substitutions allowed,” Damian recited like it was a war crime.
Jason leaned back, hands behind his head. “So what you’re saying is… you’re stuck with Wilbur.”
“Do not say his name,” Damian growled.
“Wilbur,” Jason repeated with delight.
Damian threw a pillow at his face. Jason caught it one-handed, laughing so hard he wheezed.
Alfred entered then, carrying a tray of tea and biscuits because Alfred always had impeccable comedic timing. “Might I suggest, Master Damian,” he said as he set the tray down, “that you treat the assignment not as an insult, but as an opportunity to demonstrate your… unique perspective.”
Damian frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“I believe,” Alfred said delicately, “that no one else in your class will be writing a literary analysis comparing the pig’s worldview to the strategic failures of ancient generals.”
The corner of Damian’s mouth twitched. “...Hmph.”
Dick leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “There you go. Turn your suffering into an academic beatdown.”
Tim sipped his coffee. “Weaponize the pig.”
Jason threw an arm over the back of the couch, grinning like the devil. “Make Wilbur fear you.”
“Excellent suggestions,” Damian said dryly, but the glint in his eyes was pure, petty determination now. “Very well. If I must endure this, then my paper shall be the best. I will destroy this assignment.”
“You’re talking about a children’s book,” Dick said.
“And I will crush it.”
Damian sat at the long dining table like a surgeon preparing for an operation. His laptop was open, notebook and pen lined up like he was about to perform surgery, and the offending book lay in front of him like a patient to be dissected.
He stared at the cover for a long, quiet moment. Wilbur the pig looked back at him with an expression that was probably supposed to be sweet and innocent.
Jason leaned against the doorframe, munching on an apple, he’d come specifically to witness the carnage. Tim was perched at the far end of the table with his laptop, pretending to work on something else but clearly eavesdropping.
Dick was sprawled on the couch nearby, upside down and useless, but enjoying himself.
Damian opened the book with the force of someone cracking open an ancient tomb. “Chapter One,” he muttered. “‘Before Breakfast.’”
Jason raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Riveting title.”
“I have read autopsy reports with more compelling names,” Damian muttered, and began to read.
Two pages in, his expression had shifted from irritation to outright disgust. Five pages in, he dropped his pen with a clatter and leaned back in his chair like someone who’d been personally wronged.
“This pig is insufferable,” he declared. “He cries because he is going to be killed. Then someone saves him, and what does he do? He behaves like a fool. No awareness of his surroundings, no strategy, no-” he gestured wildly at the page “dignity.”
Tim didn’t even look up. “He’s a pig.”
“That is no excuse,” Damian snapped. “If one is to survive in the world, one must have tactical awareness. Not squeal at the top of one’s lungs like an idiot.”
Jason was wheezing with laughter. “You’re yelling at a fictional pig.”
“I am critiquing his lack of survival instinct,” Damian corrected sharply. He scribbled something in his notebook. “‘Wilbur displays no qualities befitting a protagonist.’”
Dick twisted himself around on the couch. “What about Charlotte?”
“She is tolerable,” Damian admitted grudgingly. “At least she demonstrates planning skills. She manipulates the humans with impressive efficiency. But she associates herself with a pig who cannot even comprehend basic self-preservation.”
Tim’s shoulders shook. “God, I wish your teacher could hear this.”
Jason leaned over his shoulder to peek at the page. Damian smacked his hand away without looking. “Back off, Todd.”
“Whatcha writing?”
“A report,” Damian said, scribbling in sharp, precise handwriting. “‘Chapter One sets the tone for an entire story centered on misplaced sentimentality and the glorification of mediocrity.’”
Jason howled. “Oh my god.”
Dick rolled onto his stomach, grinning into a pillow. “You sound like a movie critic who got forced to review a kid’s cartoon.”
“I am merely being honest,” Damian said, flipping to the next chapter like he was turning over evidence in court. “Chapter Two. ‘Wilbur.’ The fact they named a chapter after him implies he is worthy of the attention. He is not.”
Tim finally looked up, chin resting in his hand. “Are you gonna write anything positive?”
“I said Charlotte was tolerable,” Damian deadpanned.
Jason threw himself into a chair, laughing so hard he nearly fell off. “Kid, you’re gonna get an A on this just because your teacher won’t know what to do with it.”
“Or fail him for emotional trauma,” Tim countered.
Damian ignored them both. He continued reading aloud under his breath, pausing every so often to mutter things like, “Weak moral backbone,” “unrealistic portrayal of farm dynamics,” or “this goose is an imbecile.”
At one point, he slammed his hand down on the table. “Who talks like this?” he demanded. “‘Salutations’?! What pig understands ‘salutations’?!”
“That’s… kind of the point,” Dick said, biting back laughter. “It’s supposed to be whimsical.”
“It’s nonsensical,” Damian snapped. He jotted down another note. “‘Dialogue lacks realism. Target audience clearly possesses limited vocabulary.’”
Jason wheezed into his hand. “Jesus Christ, Damian.”
Two hours later, the notebook was covered in sharp, precise handwriting that read less like a book report and more like a full-blown character assassination. Wilbur had been called “emotionally fragile,” “a liability,” and “an unfit protagonist.” Charlotte was given a reluctant “acceptable strategist,” and the goose had received a paragraph-long rant titled Why Intelligence Is Not Contagious.
Tim peeked at the page. “...This is like if Gordon Ramsay wrote book reports.”
“I am not rewriting it,” Damian said firmly when Dick finally suggested toning it down. “If the school insists on assigning nonsense, then they must face the consequences.”
Jason leaned back, hands behind his head, still grinning like a fool. “I can’t wait for your Parent-Teacher Conference.”
Damian’s scowl was pure defiance. “Wilbur may be weak. But my essay will not be.”
Alfred appeared in the doorway, impeccably timed as always. “I trust the report is going well, Master Damian?”
Jason snorted. Tim nearly fell off his chair. Dick buried his face in a pillow to muffle his laugh.
Damian looked up, dead serious. “I am destroying a pig, Pennyworth.”
And Alfred, bless him, simply nodded like that made perfect sense. “Very good, sir.”
The low sound of the front door shutting signaled Bruce’s return before he even stepped into the living room. Damian, still sitting at the table surrounded by notebooks, loose papers, and one very slandered children’s book, didn’t look up.
Jason, on the other hand, perked up like a cat that just heard the treat bag crinkle.
“Showtime,” he muttered around a mouthful of popcorn.
Bruce walked into the room. The moment he took in the scene, Damian at the table with murder in his eyes, Jason and Steph sitting side by side with a bowl of popcorn like they were watching a movie, Tim typing away at his laptop unfazed, and Dick stretching in the corner while laughing into his sleeve, he paused.
“…What happened,” Bruce said flatly.
“Your son,” Jason began, grinning like the devil, “is currently committing war crimes against a pig.”
Damian didn’t look up. “The pig deserved it.”
Bruce sighed. “I’m not even going to ask.” He loosened his tie and crossed the room, stopping behind Damian’s chair. “What assignment?”
“A book report,” Damian replied, voice heavy with disdain. “On Charlotte’s Web.”
Steph giggled around a handful of popcorn. “And he wrote a thesis on why Wilbur’s an embarrassment to all pigs.”
“I was factual,” Damian snapped.
Jason patted him on the shoulder. “You were brutal.”
“Semantics.”
Bruce reached for the paper. “Let me see.”
Damian hesitated. “You’ll side with the pig.”
“I’ll side with your teacher,” Bruce corrected.
Jason made an ooooh noise, and Steph smacked his arm lightly with the back of her hand.
Damian reluctantly handed the pages over. Bruce adjusted his none existent glasses and began to read.
At first, his expression didn’t move. Typical Batface.
Then his eyebrows furrowed slightly.
Then the corner of his mouth twitched downward like someone was slowly stabbing him with a spork.
“‘Wilbur demonstrates the emotional resilience of wet cardboard,’” Bruce read out loud. “Damian.”
“It’s accurate,” Damian said, dead serious.
“‘The goose represents everything wrong with society’s tolerance for incompetence.’” Bruce lowered the page. “You didn’t analyze the book. You insulted its characters.”
“I critiqued them,” Damian corrected.
“Damian.”
Jason was shaking with laughter now. Steph leaned into him, practically crying from holding it in.
Dick, who’d been doing half-hearted leg stretches in the corner, was clutching his stomach, gasping for air between laugh fits.
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “You can’t hand this in.”
“I will not lie for the sake of some pig,” Damian said, affronted.
“I’m not saying lie,” Bruce said with the patience of someone who had done this a hundred times. “I’m saying, write it in a way your teacher expects. Talk about themes. Tone. Message. Emotional arcs.”
Jason stage-whispered to Steph, “Oh, this is going to be good.”
Bruce pulled a chair closer, sitting beside Damian. “Okay. Start again. Just give me one line the way a teacher wants to hear it.”
Damian exhaled through his nose like an offended dragon. He picked up his pen again and thought for a long moment, then wrote agressively.
“Wilbur represents the naive innocence of youth and the fragility of life.”
Bruce glanced over his shoulder. “…Okay. That’s a good start.”
Damian scowled at the sentence like it personally betrayed him.
Then he added: “which, frankly, is pitiful, because any competent creature would have developed basic survival instincts instead of relying on a spider to fix its problems.”
Jason howled. Steph nearly dropped the popcorn.
“Damian,” Bruce said tiredly.
“What? It’s true.”
“No, this time you have to stop there,” Bruce said. “Just… no commentary.”
Damian grimaced like Bruce had asked him to eat expired tofu. He scribbled out the second half, then tried again.
“Charlotte demonstrates a calculated intelligence that allows her to manipulate her surroundings effectively, serving as a mentor figure to Wilbur.”
Bruce nodded. “Better.”
Then Damian added: “It is a miracle she tolerated his incompetence long enough to help him survive. If I were Charlotte, I would have eaten him.”
Tim snorted loudly from his end of the table, not even trying to hide the fact that he was paying attention anymore. “Please turn that in as-is.”
Jason grabbed another fistful of popcorn. “This is the best project I’ve ever watched.”
“Not a project,” Bruce muttered. “This is me trying to keep him from traumatizing his English teacher.”
Steph elbowed Jason. “Imagine the teacher reading ‘I would have eaten him’ in a deadpan.”
Dick, who had given up on stretches entirely, was lying on the floor now, laughing into the carpet.
Damian glared around the room, betrayed on all fronts. “You’re all fools.”
“True,” Jason said with zero shame.
Bruce leaned closer to the paper. “Damian, try saying something nice. Just once. No insults. No bloodthirsty thoughts.”
Damian’s jaw tensed like Bruce had asked him to hand over his sword. He took a breath, raised his pen, and wrote:
“Wilbur has some redeeming qualities-”
Then he paused. His hand twitched.
“such as his ability to… make friends. Even if those friends have very poor taste.”
Jason fell out of his chair. Steph choked on popcorn. Tim nearly smacked his laptop from laughing. Dick wheezed into the floor.
Bruce closed his eyes for a long, silent moment. “…You’re doing the assignment again tomorrow.”
Damian slammed the pen down. “This is censorship.”
“It’s not censorship,” Bruce said. “It’s English class.”
Damian crossed his arms and scowled at the paper like it had ruined his life. “I refuse to glorify mediocrity.”
Jason, still on the floor, raised his hand. “I will personally pay you to turn it in exactly like this.”
Tim didn’t even look up. “Same.”
Steph nodded solemnly. “I’ll bring snacks for the aftermath.”
Bruce looked like he regretted everything. Damian looked like he was about to declare war. Dick was still laughing too hard to stand.
Please read the author's note at the top if you havent already.