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Damian Wayne had never understood why people made such a big deal out of turning eighteen.
For him, age had always been just a number. He’d survived assassins, monsters, Gotham’s entire rogues gallery, and the occasional Wayne Gala—surely the legal drinking age wasn’t the milestone everyone made it out to be.
Still… when he woke up that morning, something felt different.
He was officially an adult.
Talia had sent a cold but politely-worded message. Bruce had given him an entire lecture about boundaries, responsibility, and “just because you can doesn’t mean you should.” Dick had hugged him so hard his ribs cracked a little. Barbara made him a cupcake. Cass gave him a rare smile. Duke fist-bumped him. Jason handed him a suspiciously heavy box that Damian swore smelled like gun oil. And Tim—
Well, Tim was late, naturally.
Tim was always late. It was honestly part of his brand.
The entire Batfamily had gathered in one of the Wayne penthouse lounges that Bruce only used for “family events,” which was code for special occasions where everyone needed to be contained and monitored like dangerous zoo animals.
Dick was in charge of decorations, which meant it looked like an explosion of blue and gold confetti had claimed the room as its territory. Jason had set up the sound system. Cass and Duke were raiding the dessert table. Bruce was lecturing Alfred about something Alfred definitely did not care to hear. And Damian… Damian was standing there trying not to look like he cared.
Then Tim finally burst in—breathless, hair messy, holding a gift bag like it was a hostage.
“Sorry! Sorry, there was traffic and a rogue AI and—”
“Save your excuses, Drake,” Damian said, arms crossed. “You’re late.”
Tim grinned. “Yeah, but you love me anyway.”
“I do not—”
“Let him finish opening gifts first, boys,” Dick said before they devolved into their usual bickering. “Then we’ll start the food. Then, after we eat, Bruce will give Damian one—1!—alcoholic drink.”
Bruce sighed, already exhausted. “Dick, please.”
“NO,” Damian cut in before Dick could continue. “I am eighteen now. I am not a helpless child. I am perfectly capable of handling alcohol in moderation.”
One Hour Later
“THIS BOTTLE IS A LIE,” Damian declared dramatically.
Tim snorted into his cup. Jason laughed so hard he nearly fell off the couch.
Bruce buried his face in his hands.
Dick whispered, “Oh no.”
Because Damian—Damian Wayne, heir to the League of Assassins, the boy who once tried to murder half the room—was drunk. Very, very drunk. Messy-haired, flushed-face, emotional-drunk.
Cass held up three fingers.
“How many?” she asked.
Damian squinted. “...Seven.”
Jason choked. “Bro, you can’t even SEE straight—”
“I am entirely in control of my senses,” Damian declared, pointing a wobbly finger at him. “And you— you are a menace who smells like gunpowder and poor decisions.”
“Okay, that’s fair,” Jason admitted.
Tim set his cup down, eyes sparkling with way too much amusement. “Who gave him more alcohol?”
Everyone pointed at Jason.
Jason pointed at Tim.
Tim pointed at Dick.
Dick pointed at the ceiling.
Alfred walked in with a deadpan look only decades of Wayne nonsense could produce.
“I specifically said no hard liquor for Master Damian.”
Jason raised both hands. “Technically, tequila isn’t hard liquor if he drinks it fast enough.”
Damian perked up. “YES. Correct. Tequila is… a suggestion. A whisper on the wind.”
Bruce thumped his head on the nearest wall.
Tim slid over to Damian and poked his shoulder. “Hey, demon brat. Feeling good?”
Damian turned to him with an expression Tim had never seen on him—soft, glassy, honest.
“Drake,” he whispered, “I have things to say.”
Tim blinked. “Oh? Like what?”
Damian dramatically placed his hand on Tim’s shoulder, leaning in way too close.
“Many things,” he said, with the solemn tone of someone about to confess his deepest secrets. “About all of you. Especially you.”
Tim froze.
Dick’s eyes widened.
Jason mouthed “this is gonna be GOOD.”
Duke started recording.
Cass already had popcorn.
Bruce whispered to Alfred, “Stop him—”
Alfred whispered back, “Absolutely not.”
Damian took a deep breath, swayed a little, then pointed at Dick.
“You first, Grayson.”
Dick pointed at himself. “Me?”
“Yes, you. My eldest brother. My sunshine sibling. My—” Damian wobbled, searching for the word. “My annoyingly perfect affection-devouring golden retriever.”
Dick gasped dramatically. “Awww!”
“Do not ‘aww’ me,” Damian grumbled. “You are infuriating. You hug too much. You meddle too much. You wake me up with pancakes when I want silence. You drag me into family movie nights when I want solitude. And you insist on calling me baby brother when I am no longer a child.”
Dick’s smile softened. “Okay… but what do you really think?”
Damian blinked slowly, cheeks pink.
“I think… you saved me,” he said quietly. “From myself. From the League. From… everything. I think you are one of the reasons I am alive to turn eighteen.”
The room went silent.
Dick’s eyes glistened.
Then Damian swayed again and pointed at Jason.
“And YOU— the feral one— you are next.”
Dick was the first to react.
“Okay, wow—” Dick blinked. “I think that was… honest? Maybe too honest.”
Jason let out a low whistle. “Kid’s got bite even when he’s plastered.”
Damian ignored them, chin wobbling imperceptibly. He stared at the glowing surface of the kitchen island like it offended him.
Tim, still stunned from the “still better than you” compliment/insult, laughed nervously.
“H-hey, Damian, you okay?”
Damian slumped forward, forehead hitting the countertop with a dull thud.
“NO,” he muttered, voice muffled. “I am eighteen. I am a man. I am strong. I am capable. And yet—” He lifted his head dramatically, glaring at all of them with glassy green eyes.
“—I am surrounded by idiots.”
Jason burst out laughing. “He's gone. He’s gone, Grayson. We broke the demon spawn.”
Damian pointed dramatically at Jason. “YOU. You are the worst influence.”
“Hey,” Jason said, holding a hand to his chest in mock offense, “I’m a delight.”
“You taught me how to hotwire a police cruiser.”
“You asked!” Jason protested.
Bruce’s eyebrows rose slowly. “A police cruiser?”
Jason coughed. “Hypothetically.”
Damian swayed on the stool, then jabbed a finger again in Jason’s direction.
“But… you are also—” His expression softened.
“…the one who taught me how to throw a proper punch when Father wasn’t looking.”
Jason froze.
The room quieted.
Damian continued, voice low and slurred but sincere:
“You were the first to treat me like I wasn’t a monster. You told me I could be angry and still be good.” He hiccuped softly.
“Even when I yelled at you. Even when I said cruel things. You… stayed.”
Jason’s face twitched—not mocking, not smug. Just… surprised. Deeply, quietly touched.
“…I stayed because I know what it’s like to be angry and alone,” Jason said softly, almost too soft for anyone but Bruce to catch.
Damian blinked rapidly, as if struggling to keep tears from forming.
But then—he swung again.
“BUT YOU STILL EAT MY CEREAL AND LIE ABOUT IT.”
Jason threw his hands up. “I—okay, that part’s true.”
Dick stifled a laugh behind his hand.
Bruce rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Tim, water.”
“On it,” Tim said, snatching a glass and filling it.
Damian squinted suspiciously as Tim approached.
“You… you’re too nice,” Damian slurred. “It’s suspicious.”
Tim raised an eyebrow. “Suspicious?”
“You make coffee for everyone in the morning. You replace Stephanie’s broken gadgets. You fix Father’s reports when he won’t admit he typed them wrong. You help at the clinic on weekends. You never stop working.”
Tim blinked, trying to process if this was praise or some kind of Damian-style insult.
Damian’s voice softened to something small and quiet:
“You take care of us even when you are exhausted. Even when no one asks.”
He looked away, swallowing hard.
“I… notice. I always notice.”
Tim froze.
Dick’s eyes widened. Even Jason’s smirk faded.
Damian’s head drooped, and he whispered:
“You are… better than I expected. Better than I ever admitted.”
Silence.
Tim felt warmth rush to his face—half embarrassment, half emotion.
“Damian… that means a lot. Really.”
Damian glared suddenly, as if offended by his own sincerity.
“Do not make this sentimental. I am dangerous.”
“Sure, buddy,” Jason said. “Terrifying.”
Damian groaned loudly and slumped sideways onto Tim’s shoulder without warning.
Tim stiffened completely. “Uh—Dick? Little help?”
“No,” Damian muttered into Tim’s hoodie. “This is your punishment.”
“For what??”
“For existing.”
Tim choked. “Okay, yeah, he’s drunk.”
“But…” Damian murmured quietly, eyes closing,
“…out of everyone… you understand me the most.”
Tim’s heart dropped into his stomach.
“…Me?” Tim whispered.
Damian didn’t lift his head.
“You know what it’s like to be underestimated. To be told you don’t belong. To work three times harder than anyone just to be seen.”
Tim’s breath caught.
Dick’s expression softened into something sad and proud all at once.
Bruce stared at his youngest blood son with that rare expression—the one he never used words for: love, grief, pride, understanding mixed with guilt.
Damian wasn’t done.
“You are my rival,” he whispered. “My competition. My annoyance.”
Tim opened his mouth to protest, but—
“…and my brother.”
Tim froze.
Jason’s smirk fell away entirely.
Dick covered his mouth, eyes shining.
Bruce exhaled—long, quiet, aching.
Tim placed a shaky hand on Damian’s shoulder.
“I’m your brother,” he said, voice cracking just slightly,
“and you’re mine.”
Damian mumbled something unintelligible and leaned harder on him.
Jason sniffed. “Okay, this is too emotional. Somebody punch something.”
Dick elbowed him.
But Damian wasn’t done.
He pushed himself upright suddenly, wobbling, grabbing Tim’s hoodie strings for balance.
“And ANOTHER THING—” he declared loudly.
Tim turned green. “Oh no—”
“TIM,” Damian said with the gravity of a dying king,
“you are… you are…”
He squinted.
“…really… really pretty.”
Tim nearly died.
Jason howled.
Dick doubled over laughing.
Bruce choked on his own breath.
Tim turned the color of a tomato.
“DAMIAN—!!”
Damian blinked blearily.
“You are symmetrical. It’s annoying.”
Tim buried his face in his hands.
“Please,” he muttered, “someone knock him out.”
But no one did.
Because they were all too busy laughing, smiling, or trying not to cry.
And Damian—
drunk, messy, unfiltered Damian.