★Jamie★

Bruce tells him to see how the office staff in the building are doing, framing it as an employee satisfaction check. After a raised eyebrow from his son, he sighs and tells him to go try to make a friend. Damian begrudgingly goes off and while the rest of the staff are doing their jobs, he sees you watching a baby animal compilation of the animal that your cubicle is themed around. He stands over your shoulder and watches the show until you notice him and yelp.

You were terrified. One of the boss's sons was right there, the one with the reputation for the worst temper, and you were absolutely positive that you'd be fired. You wince and prepare to be thoroughly berated.

Instead, Damian began rattling off facts about the species of animal, native habitat, and the animal's natural behaviors. You politely nodded along and after a while, began telling him facts as well and showed him a live stream of a zoo enclosure with the animal inside. Damian nodded approvingly before leaving.

Bruce had to stay late for a meeting about a week later. He expected to come home to an argument or to his children studying. What he didn't expect was to come home to Damian with one of his employees gagged and chained up on the couch in the main living room. Damian was happily petting the top of your head and had tucked a plushie of your favorite animal under your arm earlier in an attempt to make you feel more comfortable. He had also put a sweater with the animal's face on it over your shirt, telling you how cold Gotham could be, then turned on the massive TV to the live stream that you had shown him. You looked, understandably, very upset about your situation as you sat silently on the couch.

"Father, Drake and Grayson have proven to be inadequate companions. I have taken initiative and made sure that I have found an acceptable one. They enjoy tea and animal facts. They will be staying with us for the foreseeable future." Damian stated bluntly, not even bothering to look up at Bruce as he continued to pet the top of your head.

"Damian, you can't just kidnap someone--" Bruce attempts before being cut off.

I'm gonna to talk about some serious topics, so beware: mentions of harassment, and assault.

How your life was before getting this job? Simply, you work in a office, you were a secretary of one of the people that run that place. It was simply just be organized.

Your boss is going to have a appointment at 04:35 pm, after that a reunion, and after that hes free.

So are you.

And he knows that.

Fractured Wings

Part one- 𝑃𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑡𝑤𝑜 (𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑟𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒)

The social worker arrived with a police officer. You'd been sitting at the kitchen table trying to read a library book—one of your few escapes—when the knock came. Loud, official. Different from the usual sounds of the building.

Your mother had been passed out on the couch, same clothes she'd worn for three days, empty bottles forming a glass garden around her.

You'd opened the door, blinking up at the two strangers.

"Is your mother home?" the woman had asked. She wore a gray suit and had kind eyes that made you suspicious immediately.

You'd nodded, stepping back.

What followed was a blur. Voices rising, your mother stumbling awake, yelling, the police officer's calm but firm tone. Words like "custody" and "paternity test" and "Bruce Wayne" floated through the chaos.

That last name made your mother laugh, harsh and bitter. "Finally figured it out, did he? Took him long enough."

You didn't understand. You stood in the corner of your closet-room, arms wrapped around yourself, trying to be invisible as always.

The social worker—Ms. Chen, she'd said her name was—had knelt down to your eye level.

"Sweetheart, you're going to come with me for a little while, okay? We're going to make sure you're safe."

Safe. Another one of those words that didn't mean anything in your experience.

The next few days existed in fragments. A hospital where doctors examined you with furrowed brows and gentle hands that made you flinch. Someone taking photographs of your scars, your too-thin body, the fading bruises. Questions you didn't know how to answer because you didn't understand what they were really asking.

"Does your mother hit you?"

Sometimes. When you deserved it.

"Are you hungry often?"

Everyone got hungry.

"Who takes care of you?"

You took care of you.

Their faces had grown more concerned with each answer, but you didn't understand why.

Then came the test. A woman in scrubs had swabbed the inside of your cheek, placed the sample in a tube. "Just routine," she'd said with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

Ms. Chen had taken you to a foster home temporarily. The house was clean, warm, overwhelming. The foster mother, Mrs. Palmer, had shown you to a room—a real room with a bed and a dresser and a window with actual curtains.

"You can put your things here," she'd said.

You had no things. Just the clothes you'd been wearing.

Mrs. Palmer's smile had faltered. "Well, we'll get you some things tomorrow. Are you hungry? I made dinner."

Dinner. Actual dinner. Chicken and vegetables and mashed potatoes and bread. You'd stared at the plate in front of you, at the portions that seemed enormous, and eaten slowly, carefully, waiting for someone to snatch it away or tell you it wasn't really for you.

No one did.

For three weeks, you existed in this strange limbo. Mrs. Palmer was patient, gentle, but you didn't trust it. You waited for the other shoe to drop, for the real rules to be revealed, for the pain you knew had to be coming.

It never came. Which somehow made it worse. You didn't understand this place, these people, this version of life.

And then Ms. Chen had sat you down with an expression that tried to be reassuring.

"We have some news," she'd said. "The paternity test came back. Do you know who Bruce Wayne is?"

You'd shaken your head. The name was familiar from your mother's drunken rants, from whispers you hadn't understood.

"He's a very important man in Gotham City. Very wealthy. And..." she'd paused, choosing her words carefully. "He's your biological father."

The words meant nothing at first. Father. You knew the word, but it held no meaning for you. It was like being told you were made of stardust or descended from ancient kings—interesting perhaps, but irrelevant to the reality of your life.

"He wants to meet you," Ms. Chen had continued. "He didn't know about you before, but now that he does, he wants you to come live with him. With your family."

Family. Another meaningless word.

But you'd nodded, because nodding was safe, agreeing was safer than protesting. Adults made decisions, and you endured them. That was how the world worked.

The day you'd met Bruce Wayne, Ms. Chen had dressed you in new clothes—jeans that actually fit, a sweater that was soft and clean, shoes without holes. You'd stared at yourself in the mirror and barely recognized the child looking back.

The car ride to Wayne Manor had been long. You'd pressed your face against the window, watching Gotham's rough neighborhoods gradually transform into suburbs, then into rolling hills and estates hidden behind gates and walls.

Wayne Manor had appeared like something from a dream—or a movie, not that you'd seen many. Massive stone walls, towers, windows that seemed to go on forever. The driveway alone was longer than your entire street had been.

Your stomach had twisted with anxiety. This was wrong. Places like this weren't for people like you.

Ms. Chen had squeezed your shoulder. "It's going to be okay. This is your home now."

Home. You'd had a home. It had been terrible, but at least you'd understood it.

The door had opened before you'd reached it—a tall man in a suit, older, with gray hair and a kind but formal face.

"Miss," he'd said with a slight bow. "Welcome to Wayne Manor. I am Alfred Pennyworth."

You'd stared at him, mute.

Inside, the manor was even more overwhelming. Marble floors, a staircase that split in two directions, chandeliers, artwork, space—so much space you couldn't comprehend it. Your entire apartment could have fit in the entryway.

And then he'd appeared. Bruce Wayne. Tall, dark-haired, handsome in a way that seemed almost unreal. He'd descended the stairs with measured steps, his expression carefully neutral.

"Hello," he'd said, stopping a few feet away. "You must be..."

He'd trailed off, and you'd realized he didn't even know your name. Your mother had probably never told him. Maybe she hadn't known who to tell.

Ms. Chen had filled the silence. "This is—"

But you'd found your voice, small and rough from disuse. You'd told him your name.

Bruce had nodded slowly. "It's... nice to meet you. I'm... I'm your father."

The word sounded strange in his mouth, uncertain.

"I know this must be overwhelming," he'd continued, and you could see he was uncomfortable, searching for the right words. "But you're safe now. Things are going to be different. Better."

Better. Different. They kept using these words.

You'd wanted to believe them. Some small part of you, the part that hadn't been completely crushed by ten years of neglect and abuse, had desperately wanted to believe that yes, here, now, finally, things would be better.

Ms. Chen had gone through paperwork with Bruce in another room, voices too low to hear. Alfred had shown you around the manor, pointing out rooms and wings and facilities that seemed impossible. A library, a gym, a pool, kitchens—plural—rooms for purposes you couldn't even name.

"This will be your room," Alfred had said finally, opening a door to reveal a space larger than your entire apartment had been. A massive bed with a canopy, a desk, bookshelves, a window seat overlooking gardens that stretched beyond seeing.

"My... room?" you'd whispered.

"Yes, Miss. Your father thought you might like this one, though if you'd prefer a different room, we can certainly arrange that."

You'd stepped inside slowly, afraid to touch anything. Everything was clean, pristine, beautiful. You didn't belong here. You were dirty on the inside in ways soap couldn't reach. You'd contaminate this place.

"I'll leave you to settle in," Alfred had said gently. "Dinner will be at seven. I'll come fetch you."

And then you'd been alone in this enormous room, in this impossible house, and the reality had crashed over you.

You'd been told this would be better. They'd said things would change.

You'd tried so hard to believe it.

The first night, you'd barely slept. The bed was too soft, the room too quiet, the darkness too complete without the familiar sounds of the city, the neighbors, the violence that had punctuated your nights. You'd ended up curling on the floor beside the bed, the hardness more familiar, more comfortable in its discomfort.

When Alfred had knocked at 6:30 AM, you'd scrambled back onto the bed, not wanting to be caught doing something wrong.

"Good morning, Miss. Breakfast will be ready shortly."

Breakfast. Every day. The concept was foreign.

You'd found your way to the dining room—after getting lost twice in the endless hallways—to find a table that could seat twenty with only a few places set. Bruce sat at the head, reading a newspaper. A boy around your age sat to his right, dark-haired with blue eyes that were sharp, assessing. An older teenager sat across from him, talking about something called "patrol" while Bruce gave distracted responses.

They'd all looked up when you'd entered.

"There you are," Bruce had said, the cheerfulness forced. "Everyone, this is... this is my daughter."

He'd stumbled over the words again. Daughter. As if testing them out.

"This is Dick," he'd gestured to the teenager, "and Damian," the boy your age.

Dick had smiled, warm and welcoming. "Hey! It's nice to meet you. Welcome to the family."

Damian had stared at you with barely concealed disdain. "Another one. Father, this is becoming ridiculous."

"Damian," Bruce's voice had carried a warning.

"I'm merely stating facts. How many children do you intend to collect?"

You'd stood frozen in the doorway, not understanding the dynamic, only sensing the tension.

"Sit down," Bruce had said to you, gentler. "Alfred makes excellent pancakes."

You'd sat in the indicated chair, hands in your lap, staring at the empty plate in front of you. When Alfred had brought food, you'd waited, watching to see what the others did first. You'd learned long ago not to take food without permission.

"You can eat," Dick had said, noticing your hesitation. "It's okay."

You'd picked up your fork with careful fingers and taken the smallest bite possible.

That had set the pattern for the first few days. You'd moved through the manor like a ghost, trying to take up as little space as possible, speaking only when directly addressed, waiting for the rules to become clear.

But the rules never did become clear, because there seemed to be different rules for different people, and none of them applied to you.

Dick would come and go, friendly but distant, clearly more interested in his own life than a suddenly appearing sister. He'd smile when he saw you, ask how you were doing in that casual way that expected "fine" as an answer, and then he'd be gone—out with friends, on patrol (whatever that meant), busy with things that didn't include you.

Damian made his feelings clear from the start. You were an inconvenience, an intruder, someone who didn't belong. He'd make cutting remarks about your manners (you'd used the wrong fork at dinner), your ignorance (you didn't know what half the items in the house were for), your very existence.

"At least I was raised with proper training," he'd sneered one morning when you'd confused a salad fork with a dessert fork. "You eat like a street urchin."

You hadn't known how to respond. In your old life, you would have made yourself smaller, disappeared. Here, you'd just stared at your plate and continued eating, using your hands when the utensils confused you too much.

Bruce was... absent. Not physically always, but mentally, emotionally. He'd be at the table for meals, in his office working, occasionally asking how you were settling in with that same uncomfortable tone, as if checking items off a list. "Do you have everything you need? Is your room comfortable? Alfred will take you shopping for clothes."

He never asked the questions that mattered. He never noticed that you barely spoke, that you flinched at sudden movements, that you hoarded food in your room because you didn't trust that meals would keep coming.

You'd thought, in those early days, that maybe you needed to prove yourself. Maybe if you were good enough, quiet enough, helpful enough, they'd see you. They'd care.

So you'd tried.

You'd cleaned your room obsessively, made your bed with military precision, kept everything exactly in its place. You'd offered to help Alfred with chores, following him around the manor like a shadow until he'd gently told you that you didn't need to work, that you should "enjoy being a child."

You didn't know how to do that. Being a child had never been an option before.

You'd tried to engage with Damian, asking about his interests, hoping to find common ground. He'd responded with insults and dismissal. Once, you'd tried to join him in the garden where he was feeding his pets—exotic animals you'd never seen before—and he'd told you to leave before you "contaminated his space with your incompetence."

You'd tried to talk to Dick, to ask about school since you'd been enrolled in Gotham Academy and had no idea what to expect. He'd given you surface-level advice—"just be yourself, you'll be fine"—while texting on his phone, clearly eager to get back to whatever he'd been doing.

You'd even tried to connect with Bruce, waiting outside his office one evening, working up the courage to knock. When you'd finally done it, when he'd called you in and looked up from his computer with that expectant expression, you'd frozen. What did you even say? What did normal daughters talk to their fathers about?

"Did you need something?" he'd asked, not unkindly, but busy, distracted.

You'd shaken your head and left.

As weeks turned into months, the initial hope—that fragile, desperate hope that things would be better—began to crumble.

You'd learned the manor's rhythms, its patterns. Bruce worked constantly, either in his office or disappearing at night for reasons no one explained. Dick came home occasionally, staying for a few days before leaving again for something called "Titans." Damian had his routines—training, school, his animals, more training—and you were an interruption to all of it.

Alfred was kind, but he had an entire manor to run, and he treated you with the same polite distance he treated all of Bruce's wards. He'd ensure you had meals, clean clothes, that your needs were met in the most basic sense. But he didn't see you either, not really.

The invisible patterns of neglect from your old life began to repeat in new, different ways.

At dinner, conversations would flow around you. They'd discuss patrol, cases, training, people and places you didn't know. When you'd tried to ask what they were talking about, Damian would roll his eyes. "It's not your concern," he'd say, and no one would contradict him.

You'd started skipping meals because no one noticed whether you were there or not. You'd tested it one night, staying in your room during dinner. No one had come to get you. No one had mentioned your absence the next day.

So you'd tried again. And again.

It wasn't until you'd missed three dinners in a row that Alfred had knocked on your door.

"Miss, are you feeling ill? I've noticed you haven't been down for meals."

"I'm fine," you'd said, because that was the safe answer. "Just not hungry."

He'd studied you for a moment, concern flickering in his eyes, but then he'd nodded. "Very well. But please let me know if you need anything."

And that had been that.

You'd started hoarding food again, pockets full of dinner rolls, fruit hidden in your desk drawer, anything non-perishable that you could take without being noticed. The anxiety of not knowing when your next meal would come had never left, despite the manor's abundance.

At school, you'd struggled in different ways. Gotham Academy was full of rich kids who'd known each other since kindergarten, who had inside jokes and shared histories and social rules you couldn't begin to understand. Your clothes were expensive now—Alfred had made sure of that—but you wore them wrong. Your hair was properly cut and maintained, but you still carried yourself like someone expecting a blow.

"That's Bruce Wayne's new daughter," you'd heard them whisper. "The one from Crime Alley. Can you imagine?"

You'd made no friends. At lunch, you'd sit alone, and when you'd tried to join groups, the conversations would die, awkward and stilted, until you'd leave again.

Damian attended the same school. You'd thought maybe there, away from the manor, he might be different. But he'd been worse. He'd pretend not to know you, and when other students had asked if you were his sister, he'd said, "Only by the most unfortunate technicality."

His friends—children of other wealthy families, equally sharp-tongued and cruel—had taken their cues from him. They'd mocked your manners, your speech patterns, the way you didn't understand their references or know their customs.

Once, one of them had "accidentally" knocked your lunch tray out of your hands. Food had scattered across the cafeteria floor, and laughter had erupted. You'd dropped to your knees to clean it up—automatic response, always clean up your messes—and Damian had walked past without a glance.

The teachers had been polite but distant. You were a Wayne, which meant you were both above reproach and impossible to discipline. When you'd struggled with subjects you'd never been properly taught, they'd offered tutors in that same detached way, as if checking a box. None of them had asked why a ten-year-old didn't know basic multiplication or how to write a proper essay.

Back at the manor, you'd become a ghost in truth. You'd learned which hallways the family used and avoided them. You'd learned what times they trained in the cave (you'd discovered it by accident one sleepless night, following sounds, and had been dismissed immediately by Damian: "This isn't for you. Leave."). You'd learned when Bruce would be in his office, when Dick would visit, when Alfred would be busy with household management.

You'd carved out a small existence in the spaces between their lives.

Some nights, everyone would be gone. Bruce, Dick, Damian—out doing whatever they did. Alfred would be asleep or tending to his own quarters. And you'd be alone in this massive house, hunger gnawing at your stomach because you'd missed dinner again and were too afraid to go to the kitchen at night for fear of being in the way, of taking something that wasn't meant for you, of being seen as a burden.

Those nights were the hardest. The manor would creak and settle around you, and you'd curl up in your too-soft bed in your too-large room, and you'd think about your old apartment. It had been terrible, but at least you'd understood it. At least the neglect had been honest.

Here, you'd been promised better. You'd been told things would change. You'd been given this beautiful room and expensive clothes and access to food and safety, but somehow you were more alone than ever.

Because before, you'd had no expectations. Now you had hope, and hope was so much more painful when it went unfulfilled.

You'd think about your mother sometimes, though you tried not to. She'd been cruel, neglectful, abusive. But she'd also been predictable. You'd known where you stood—nowhere. You'd known what to expect—nothing.

Here, you'd been told you were family. Daughter. Sister. Wayne.

But titles meant nothing when you were invisible.

You'd started talking to yourself, quiet conversations in your room to fill the silence, because days would go by where no one spoke directly to you beyond pleasantries. "Good morning." "Excuse me." "Pass the salt."

You'd sit in the library—that massive, beautiful library—and read books about families, trying to understand what yours was supposed to look like. The families in stories loved each other, protected each other, knew each other. They had traditions and inside jokes and memories built together.

Your family had none of that. You were a stranger living among strangers who happened to share blood with one of them.

Oh, I love this. You make me sound feral.

Like, I like my audience. You guys are nice to me. You talk to me. I talk to you.

But like, from what I’ve seen on other people’s accounts, normal x reader writers don’t get the same kind of support?? If that makes any sense???

"I'll be home. I promise"

He leaves in the taxi watching as his beloved waves goodbye.

Christmas eve, a letter from him from months ago swore things were going well and he'd be home in no time.

A knock on the door.

Two men looking solemn as they hold a folded flag and present dog tags to shaky hands that belong to someone whos heart now feels as empty as all the space their husband won't fill anymore.