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“How come you couldn’t just do a volcano like Jon?” Bruce groaned. He was scooting sideways like a crab through the piles of equipment Damian had sprawled across the floor.
“Morons make a volcano. Kent is the exception, but he’s doing it because it’s practically a glorified art project.”
“You like art, Dames.” Bruce raised his eyebrows.
“This isn’t supposed to be an art project, it’s a science project. And since you wouldn’t let me use the microscope to sample Batcow’s blood cell counts, I had to resort to something even remotely engaging.”
“That’s animal testing Dames,” Bruce tutted. “You're fundamentally against it. Also an abuse of technology Bruce Wayne has no business having, let alone his son.”
“Please, it’s routine vet work disguised as a project.” He unwrapped a coil of tubing, sorting supplies into specific piles.
Bruce lifted a piece of equipment he knew he bought, but couldn’t remember what it did. He stared puzzledly. “What exactly are you doing then, bud?”
“I’m building a low powered x-ray machine to see the effect of radiation on yeast.”
Bruce stared at him like it had been a joke, but Damian kept sorting, actively looking for something.
“You’re doing what?”
“Relax, Father. It’s completely safe with the proper precautions and isn’t even going to be large enough to hurt a fly.” He turned to face him. “Do we have nuclear shielding somewhere, or should I add that to the list I’m giving Alfred?” His eye squinted halfway the same as Bruce’s when he scrunched his nose.
Bruce gave the question genuine thought. “Shielding, no, but I’ve got a suit you could borrow. It’s probably a little big, but I’ll see about some adjustments– You’re certain this is safe?”
Damian rolled his eyes. “Mrs. Rubens printed a packet of high-level options when I mentioned her pickings were juvenile. It’s on the list.”
“Can’t wait to get that email.” Bruce mumbled under his breath. “Where are these papers?”
Damian somehow made the packet appear from nowhere. He flicked it back at Bruce, without even looking up.
Bruce looked over the assignment options, landing on the page Damian bookmarked. “Tell Alfred anything you need. I know there’s a Geiger counter somewhere in the cave, don’t ask from what, but I’ll have to look.” He folded the paper in two and tucked it beneath Damian’s arm. “And please, only work on it down here. I’d love to avoid radioactive waste in the manor.”
Damian hummed in agreement.
Within the week, a swath of remarkably expensive gadgetry arrived at their doors. The other boys tried to make jokes about Damian building a bomb, but knew in all actuality he didn’t have any of the real ingredients to do so. Bruce could see how eager Damian was for the last piece to arrive, checking the mailbox like a little kid.
Bruce supposed in all practicality, Damian was still a little kid. He was in high school at 12, ready to build his senior-level project, which Bruce noted was rated the highest difficulty out of the packet, likely why Damian picked it.
For all the fear Bruce had over nuclear experimentation, he had a greater sense of pride at Damian's ambition. That was until his ambition seemed too high.
“It’s not fucking working!” Damian kicked over the assemblage of test tubes he had lined up. Glass shattered and sprinkled across the floor of the cave.
“Dames—“ Bruce was trying to be equal parts calm and reprimanding. He bent down to try and consolidate the mess before the yeast solution covered the floor.
“Fuck it, I’ll do the fucking idiot volcano!”
“Hey, hey, Damian. Chum, we can figure it out.” Bruce made peace with the mess before him and turned to face his son.
Damian beat on the power unit. He started as a smack to shift things in place, trying again with a fist, and then his foot. Bruce watched a spark fly from the box, the cord pulling clean from the wall.
“Damian Wayne!” Away went calm. “Stop. Please.” He tugged the boy back from underneath his arms. “Hon.”
Damian glared up at him, eyes red.
Bruce forced him to turn around, the man dropping to his knees. He wriggled from him as Bruce held both his arms together out in front of him. “You’re going to get hurt, love. You can’t play with things like this. I won’t have thirty thousand volts shoot through your sneakers.”
His face twisted with anger, melting his resolve. Damian dug his face into Bruce’s chest and shook with sobs.
“It’s going to be okay.”
He didn’t relent in his shaking. Damian’s breath shuddered beneath his father’s hold. He softened himself to absorb the shock. His voice melted with it. He used one of his hands to cup the back of Damian’s head.
“Baby. I’m here, I’m here.”
“Baba.” It was only a whisper, a rare, but not new, name. His face was burning against the skin of Bruce’s neck. His teeth chattered.
“Baba’s here baby.”
“I can’t do it.” He twisted his fists in the fabric of Bruce’s sweater. He swore he heard him inhale the smell of the fabric, the same reason his clothes vanished and ended up tucked beneath Damian’s pillows.
“Not if it’s broken, you can’t.”
“It didn’t work before I crushed it either.” Damian groaned.
“Dames.” He brushed down his hair with his fingertips.
“It doesn’t fucking matter.”
“Right.” Bruce hummed. “It’s okay baby.”
“‘M not a baby.” He could feel Damian’s brow scrunch even though he couldn’t see it.
“You’re a pain in my butt, that’s what you are.” Bruce chuckled. “Let me help you. Please, honey.”
He leaned back and scowled at Bruce, a single tear tracing his cheek. He ignored it, wishing for Bruce to do the same. Involuntary bodily functions were not something Damian was supposed to fall victim to, so ignoring it was all he had. Bruce brushed it from his skin, rough fingers gentle on his cheek.
Damian tilted his head. “I’m not supposed to get help.”
“Parents are allowed to help kids with their homework, especially if they’re exceeding their grade level four times over.”
Damian pressed his lips in a tight frown.
“C’mon, kiddo.” He helped the boy up. Damian rejected Bruce’s hand and brushed off the shirt he was wearing. “Let me read the instructions. Let me order another power unit so you can run it, at least.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Did they teach quitting in the League of Assassins?"
“Yeah, it was Tuesdays between wound triage and medieval torture methods.”
“Damian Wayne, did you just crack a joke?”
“Humor is a reflection of my mental instability.” He fought a smile.
“You’re funny!” Bruce smacked at his shoulder gently.
Damian blushed, avoiding eye contact with his father. “You may assist me.”
And so they worked. And Bruce stayed up all night after patrol trying to figure out the way the machine actually operated. He built and broke down the pieces so he could understand Damian when he spoke about them.
They worked in relative silence most times, except for the underlying jazz Damian allowed Bruce to play at a low volume. If he was nonchalant enough, Bruce could even catch Damian humming along to the melodies.
Bruce passed him tools, watching the work diligently, like he was rehearsing to take over Damian’s role. The boy fiddled with the machine, checking back to the pages of instructions he’d printed out. There were piles of old books Bruce happened to have and papers he’d downloaded from databases he probably shouldn’t have access to. He reminded himself on numerous occasions how overzealous the labor had been into writing what was essentially a posterboard with infographics, but Damian never operated on the same level as others. And Bruce was remarkably grateful this energy was turned toward his education and not toward methods of tormenting his brothers.
It became quickly clear that all Damian had needed was another attempt, an additional read through of the logistics to ensure his success, but still, Bruce was permitted to share his space. Bruce watched as he finally tested the machine on his first batch of samples. Damian read out the radiation levels from where he sat behind the shielding and turned the power off with a delicate flick.
Bruce sat in silence, staring at him from behind. Damian glanced around the room as if any radiation would be visible, and as the meter showed the baseline, he leapt up in joy.
“It worked! Did you see that? I built a fucking x-ray machine!” He peered over the partition to make sure nothing had come loose.
“Language.” Bruce chastised, but he was beaming from the corner where he’d been watching all the while.
“Someone who just completed a college level experiment at age twelve should be allowed one swear word.” Damian almost looked like the child he claimed to be. His cheeks had gone rosy and a grin snuck its way onto his lips. The boy who always wanted to play it cool was letting the tiniest bit of himself crack.
“Fine, but only if you give me a celebratory hug.” Bruce’s head tilted in a challenge.
Damian’s brow dropped, but he shrugged over to Bruce anyway. Bruce offered once last glance to let him escape before wrapping both his arms around his shoulders. He pressed a kiss down on Damian’s ruffled hair and whispered before the boy jeopardized their moment.
“Proud of you, bud.”
Damian spent the next handful of days conducting his tests, recording all of his data. He typed out the report, which Bruce knew there were two copies of. His peer-review ready copy with citations and expert-level analysis and the condensed version which summarised an element of his project at a level his teacher would still be floored by.
Bruce had read them both. Damian begrudgingly surrendered them, claiming Bruce was a good metric for if “idiot high schoolers could understand it”. They loaded the x-ray machine into Bruce’s car, sans the radioactive bits, and drove to the school.
He dropped Damian off early to set up his presentation and do a walk of the other projects before the fair was open to the public. Damian tried his hardest to play off his excitement, but he had specifically worn the shirt Bruce knew was his favorite, with the cufflinks Bruce had given him for his birthday. Bruce was relieved to see the others in formalwear as well. He hadn’t doubted Damian when he told him it was suggested, but he was nervous how severely the suggestion would be adhered to.
Bruce promised to be back for the afternoon portion, and for now, Damian had set up one station down from Jonathan, in case his volcano went awry, and had plenty to keep him busy for the time being. Jonathan pestered him with questions at first, but quickly became uninterested at the prospect of x-ray anything, a skill he already possessed.
When Damian was convinced everything was finally perfect, his reports side by side in clear-fronted folders, he agreed to walk around with Jonathan. The other projects were simplistic, some of them intriguing, others emptyheaded, but overall, Damian enjoyed looking. The fair was the actual time for them to present their work, and this was possibly the only moment they’d not be glued to the sides of their posterboards.
Jonathan babbled on and on about the light refracting experiment, fiddling with a sample of slime he’d picked up from another project. Damian only half-listened, but his mind was full of active comparison. There was not a shot a project had more technical skill than his, but he was eager to know what the upper-level students had come up with.
Before he knew it the hour of comparison was over, and the main doors of the hall opened. People floated in and rushed to familiar faces, other groups rounding the room in sequence. He spoke to a few people who showed genuine interest, or surprise. Some thought he had made a hypothetical machine, or executed the project while studying with a local college program. One kid even made a comment about him being disqualified, but nothing phased him about not winning a plastic trophy and a hundred dollar scholarship.
Teachers and parents with medical professions gawked at his work. His teacher gave her own interpretation of a glowing review– “I’m never surprised by you anymore, but I am always impressed.” He had grown adults, doctors, comparing his work to projects they were studying in radiology. The flattery warmed his chest, but none of it had stunned him.
He’d been waiting on Bruce for the whole fifteen minutes after the doors opened. He knew it was a window of time for the fair, but the Kents were already glued to Jonathan’s side, not before taking a real, genuine interest in Damian’s project and asking so many follow up questions Damian had no doubt they were reporters.
Clark had especially fluffed his ego, with an inexplicable knowledge of x-ray that Damian ignored. He asked Damian to send a copy of his real paper over when he got home so Clark could annotate and note differences between Superman’s power and the medical technology. He offered to write an article on the no-doubt star of the science fair, but Damian argued that nepotism was already well-engrained in his life.
He’d greeted another passerby who appeared stunned by the quality increase from “What Type of Bread Molds Fastest?” to Damian’s work. He answered the simple questions the boy asked, handing him his paper when he wanted more. He was pleasantly surprised the way he was not viewed either completely in awe or envy.
The shock must have distracted him enough he was caught off guard by a hand clamping on his shoulder.
He spun back to face Jason across from him. He put on his best impression of an intellectual, holding beneath his chin and pushing up imaginary glasses.
“So son, tell me, if there’s a finite amount of radiation one can be exposed to without harm, is there any way to better fine tune equipment to get a read with the absolute minimum waves needed?”
Damian cracked a smile. “That was actually an intelligent question, Todd.”
“I expect an answer.” Jason nodded. Behind him, an entourage of equally well dressed aristocrats fell into line, all desperately investigating the tri-fold poster on a fold out table.
“Really?” Damian couldn’t help the way his eyes lit up. “What are you guys doing–?”
“Yes, Mr. Wayne.” Dick moved to the other side to analyze his graphs he’d coded out. “It could be a real medical advancement to know what causes variation in tolerances, if there could be a way– to say– increase tolerance medically– for people with more frequent exposure.”
Damian blushed. “You don’t have to–”
“Dames, come on. Prove you know what you’re on about.” Tim added. Bruce corralled the boys from behind, ushering them not to block the other displays.
Damian sighed, still smiling despite himself. “The two questions go hand in hand. I read an article studying the threshold for tolerance in different geographical areas, how certain nutrients in diets might affect the way cells reproduce. Some places just generally had less anomalies–”
Damian continued on for what felt like a half hour, his brothers truly interested, and passerbys insistent on proving they could understand too. He presented to the judges a more digestible version than he’d been discussing with his brothers, and pretended not to notice Bruce taking pictures of him from the corner of the room.
He was awarded the highest prize in the fair, given to one project across grades while each level had their own victor. The reward was vindicating, even if the rumblings of Bruce Wayne’s spoiled weird kid echoed through his peers. He could see his brothers tensing as they walked out, his father wrapping a protective arm around his shoulders, but he wasn’t bothered by any of it.
They piled into the car, and drove back home still murmuring about all the idiot projects his family had seen around the room. Damian didn’t have any argument, agreeing with their assessments, but he didn’t add much more. He clutched the synthetic nightmare that was his first prize ribbon and raced it upstairs to his room before dinner.