Bluebird - Batfam x neglected Jinx!reader
You were a child far too good for the world you were born into. Affectionate, dreamy, always offering love like someone who extends their hands into the dark, hoping someone would hold them back. It never happened.
You were left at the door of Wayne Manor on a cold night, wrapped hastily, like something that needed to be discarded. A single note accompanied you, crumpled, written in anger:
"Here is your daughter, you bastard. Take care of this child who only brought me jinx."
It didnβt take long for the truth to come out: you were Bruce Wayneβs biological daughter, the result of an affair he would rather erase from his own story. He didnβt want you. Gotham was already on his shouldersβtoo many secrets, too many warsβa baby wasnβt part of the plan.
Still, he didnβt abandon you. Not out of love, but out of duty. Gotham wasnβt a safe place for a child alone, and that, for Bruce Wayne, was reason enough. Love never was.
You grew up inside the mansion as a constant reminder of something he couldnβt control. Bruce was distant, silent, absent even when he was present. The one who truly raised you was Alfred. He had been there from the beginningβthrough sleepless nights, scraped knees, and held-back tears. He was the one who put you to bed, who listened to your stories, who made you believe that maybe, just maybe, you were loved.
But Alfred never stopped anything either.
You remember the day you brought Bruce a drawing. It was simple, childish, full of colorβ you, him, the family you so desperately wanted to believe existed. He barely looked at it. When he thought you had left the room, he threw the paper in the trash without hesitation.
Alfred found you crying afterward, kneeling beside the bin, trying to smooth the crumpled paper as if that could fix anything.
Dick Grayson was the first brother you tried to love. And perhaps the one you felt the most pain losing, even though you never truly had him.
How many times did you dress up excitedly to go out with him, only to hear at the door:
β Bluebird, he needs me more than you do. β heβd say, with that smile that was too light. β Damian just joined the family. You understand, right? Youβre so mature.
You didnβt understand. You just wanted your brother. And once again, you were left behind.
Jason never pretended. The disdain came straight through his gaze, heavy, as if you didnβt deserve to share the same air.
Timβ¦ Tim was too polite to be cruel, but distant enough to hurt just the same. You remember when you made coffee for him, carefully, waiting for a βthank you.β He looked at the cup as if it were contaminated and discarded it without a word.
And Damianβ¦ Damian was the worst. He destroyed your stuffed bearsβyour only company during long nightsβand laughed at your crying like it was entertainment. As if your pain was too small to be taken seriously.
Alfred always comforted you. He dried your tears, spoke kind words, hugged you when no one else did. But he never stopped them. He never called Bruce out. He never told the boys that it was unfair. His silence hurt too.
So you decided to try the only way you knew. If they only saw each other through fighting, you would fight.
You spent daysβnightsβin the Batcave, training until your muscles burned, until exhaustion erased any remaining hope. You wanted to be perfect. You wanted to be useful. You wanted to be seen.
You dreamed of the day your father would let you fight beside him.
The mantle of Batwoman was passed to someone else. Someone better. Someone sufficient. You never would be.
Still, you kept trying. You baked cookies, gave gifts, were present whenever they needed. You never stopped begging for attention, even when every attempt only reminded you of a simple, cruel truth:
In the Wayne family, you were always just a mistake no one had the courage to fix.
The mansion was on alert that night. It wasnβt an emergency, but it wasnβt routine either. Bruce had received information about unusual activity around Gotham, and the security systems were running at heightened monitoring. Nothing that required Batman yetβjust surveillance.
And, for some reason, you were included.
β Youβre in charge of the secondary panel, β Bruce said, handing you the task like a silent test.
β Just monitor. Donβt make adjustments without telling me.
You nodded immediately. Your heart raced.
Even if it was small, even if it was technical, it meant something.
The improvised control roomβan extension of the Batcaveβwas busy. Tim analyzed data on one screen. Dick checked equipment. Jason observed everything with that suspicious air of his. Damian leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching your every move.
You sat in front of the panel. The blue lights reflected on the glassβcold, demanding.
Alfred passed behind you and lightly touched your shoulder.
β If youβre unsure, call, β he said softly.
For a few minutes, everything went well.
Until an alert flashed in the corner of the screen. A yellow, unstable warning.
You frowned. The manual Alfred had shown you said it indicated light interferenceβsomething that usually corrected itself. But it wasnβt correcting.
You thought of calling Tim. Thought of calling Alfred. Thought of raising your hand and saying I donβt know.
But the memory of all the times you were left behind weighed heavier.
You touched the panel to recalibrate the signal.
The system responded too quickly. The screens flickered. A short alarm soundedβlouder than it should have. Monitoring dropped for exactly twenty-seven seconds before restarting.
β What was that? β Jason asked, already advancing.
Tim approached the screens, fingers flying over the keyboard.
β Manual drop. Someone forced a recalibration.
The alarm still echoed softly when the system returned.
Twenty-seven seconds of operational silence.
For Bruce Wayne, unacceptable.
β Who did this? β his voice cut through the room, cold, without room for error.
You didnβt wait for them to point.
Bruce turned slowly, as if every movement was calculated.
β The alert wouldnβt stabilize. I thought it was light interference, I just tried to recalibrateβ
β Without authorization, β he interrupted. β Without understanding the system.
β I understood, I justβ I just pressed the wrong button, I didnβt know thatβ
β Exactly β Jason stepped in, with a hard half-smile.
β Bruce, it wasnβt on purpose, the bluebird just..
β It doesnβt matter, β Bruce replied, not taking his eyes off you. β Here, there is no βon purpose.β
Damian stepped closer, voice cutting.
β This is basic. Even I know not to touch what I donβt understand.
β I just wanted to help, β you insisted, voice already failing.
β You always say I donβt belong, so when you give me something, I try to do it rightβ
β And you fail, β Jason finished.
Tim finally turned to you. The look wasnβt cruelβit was analytical.
β The problem isnβt the intention. Itβs the pattern.
β What pattern? β you asked, almost begging.
Damian didnβt hesitate:
β You shut down the system, β he continued.
β Even if for seconds. If someone was watching, you would have delivered the entire mansion.
β Iβm not stupid, β you snapped, your voice breaking for the first time. β I just made a mistake.
β A mistake here kills people.
β Then why did you put me there?
The question hung in the air.
Bruce didnβt answer immediately.
When he did, it was worse.
β Because I needed to see if you were capable.
β And I wasnβt, right?
β It always falls on us to fix it.
Tim shut his laptop too hard.
β You shouldnβt have tried to prove anything.
β I spend my whole life trying to prove something! β you exploded.
β I do everything you ask, I stay quiet, I help, I make mistakes and apologize, and itβs never enough!
The whole room fell silent.
Damian stared at you, without any empathy.
β Maybe because youβre the problem.
The phrase fell like a verdict.
β Everything you touch breaks, β he continued.
β Just like the woman who left you here said. Youβve brought nothing but jinx since day one.
The world seemed to tilt.
β I donβt bring jinxβ you whispered, voice barely there.
β Donβt you? β Damian tilted his head.
β Itβs all you do. She was right.
Before you realized it, tears were streaming down your faceβhot, silent.
You didnβt wipe them away.
You werenβt going to beg anymore.
β If Iβm a jinxβ¦ β you breathed, your chest aching.
β then why did no one ever send me away?
Bruce answered without emotion:
β Because responsibility isnβt disposable.
Not daughter. Not family.
Something inside you died right then.
β I understand, β you said, in a thread of a voice.
β So donβt call me anymore when you need someone or when you need someone to blame.
β No, β you cut him off, firm for the first time β Not now.
You stepped away from the table, each step heavy.
β You didnβt lose anything today. β You looked at all of them. β But I lost the last thing I still tried to believe in.
You left without thinking.
Not to your roomβthat place no longer fit you.
You needed air. Needed to exist outside the mansion for a few minutes without being a walking mistake.
The empty streets cut through your skin, and you didnβt even notice youβd left without a jacket.
The only warmth came from the tears burning your face, falling uncontrollably as you walked without direction.
The laughter came before you saw him.
Sharp. Drawn-out. Familiar enough to any Gotham inhabitant.
β Look what the alley gave me as a presentβ¦ β the voice sang, amused.
β The little princess outside the castle.
When you tried to run, it was already too late.
Sitting in a hard chair, your arms tied behind your body, wrists burning.
The Jokerβs hideout smelled of rust, gunpowder, and old madness.
Your body hurtβthe blows had been calculated, enough to hurt, not to kill.
Your mind⦠that was in pieces.
He walked circles around you, hands behind his back, humming softly.
β Soβ¦ β he said, stopping in front of you, leaning until he was eye-level.
β What was the daughter of Gothamβs richest man doing wandering around alone, crying like the world had ended? Fighting with your boyfriend?
You laughed without humor.
β Boyfriend? β you murmured.β My problems are bigger than that.
He made a theatrical pout.
β Oh. Family drama? I love it.
A henchman approached and whispered something in his ear.
The Joker clicked his tongue, disappointed.
No hero running to save the day.
Two hours since you disappeared.
Two hours since anyone should have shown up.
β He wonβt come, β you said, voice hoarse, too tired to lie.
The Joker arched a painted eyebrow.
β They wonβt come, β you continued, staring at him.
He tilted his head, now curious. Truly interested.
β Oh, sweetieβ¦ β he said, almost gentle.
β Everyone comes when I call. Gotham knows what happens when I get bored.
β He knows. β Your voice failed. β But he wonβt come becauseβ¦ I only bring jinx.
The silence that followed was different.
The Joker didnβt laugh immediately.
He watched you. For real.
The pain on your face. The conviction in your voice.
It wasnβt self-pityβit was something deeper. Something broken.
β Aaaahβ¦ β he murmured. β So thatβs it.
He crouched in front of you, resting his elbows on his knees.
β Jinx, huh? β he repeated, savoring the word β I like that. Bad luck is just another name for chaosβ¦ and chaos is incredibly honest.
You closed your eyes, exhausted.
β If they donβt want meβ¦ then kill me already. Or let me go. Because no oneβs coming.
He laughed loudly this time, clapping once.
β Oh no, no, no! β he said, excited. β That would be wasting a masterpiece!
He came closer, his voice lowering, becoming dangerous.
β If they hate you so muchβ¦ why do you still suffer for them?
β Why do you still beg for crumbs? β he continued. β Why do you keep trying to be good in a family that only uses you as a scapegoat?
He placed a gloved finger under your chin, lifting your face without forceβjust intention.
β You call this a jinx.
β Take that fire burning inside you, β he whispered.β That pain they gave you as a gift. Use it.
He stepped back, spreading his arms as if showing the world.
β Jinx doesnβt destroy the one who carries itβ¦ β he said, with a feverish shine in his eyes.β jinx destroys others.
He looked at you again, wide smile, cruel, seductive.
β Let them bleed for making you believe you were worth nothing.
For the first time that nightβ¦ the idea didnβt sound absurd.
Your disappearance was noticed too late.
At first, nobody questioned it.
You always distanced yourself when the atmosphere became too heavy.
Bruce assumed you were in your room.
Dick thought you needed space.
Tim believed Alfred was with you.
Damian simply didnβt care.
And no one went after you.
When Alfred answered the phone in the Batcave, the premonition came before the voice on the other end.
He didnβt ask questions.
He just listenedβand each word seemed to tear years of composure from him.
When he hung up, his voice came out low. Unrecognizable.
β Sheβ¦ is with the Joker.
The air was sucked out of the cave.
β Damn. βJason ran his hand over his face.β I didnβt like her, butβ¦ not like this. Not with him.
The Batcave turned into chaos.
Suits being put on, engines roaring, systems activating.
There was no room for guilt yetβonly urgency.
Too fast to find anyone alive.
The Jokerβs hideout was already a hell when the bats reached the place.
Flames climbed the walls, devouring concrete, metal, any trace of life.
A captured henchman coughed laughing, his eyes shining with something sick.
β When the bats show up, β he said, spitting soot, the clown orders everything burned.
Bruce advanced first, ignoring the heat, the alerts in the communicator, the screams of βitβs too late.β
Among the charred debris, something caught his attention.
On the floor, half buried in ashes, was a bracelet.
Poorly made. Colorful. Childish.
The bracelet you had made for him.
Yours, however, you never took off your wrist.
The fire licked his cape as he held the object with trembling hands.
This wasnβt just debris.
The understanding came like a physical blow. His last interaction with you had not been a hug. It had been coldness.
Silence turned into sentence.
Bruce Wayne felt something he had never allowed before: grief without a mission, without an immediate enemy, without a way to fix it.
Dick turned his face, unable to look.
β We should have noticed.
Tim stood still, his brain trying to deny while the facts piled up.
β Timeβ¦ the fireβ¦ it wouldnβt have been possible.
Jason clenched his teeth, anger overflowing too late.
β She just wanted to help.
The remorse did not come in tears.
It came as something permanent.
It etched itself into each of them, burning inside with the same violence as the flames around them.
There was no body to bury.
Only the cruel certainty that when you needed themβ¦
And now, for them, you werenβt missing.
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