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 didn’t take long for the truth to come out: you were Bruce Wayne’s biological daughter, the result of an affair he would rather erase from his own story. He didn’t want you. Gotham was already on his shoulders—too many secrets, too many wars—a baby wasn’t part of the plan.
Still, he didn’t abandon you. Not out of love, but out of duty. Gotham wasn’t 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 couldn’t 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 beginning—through 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 color— 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:
— Bluebird, he needs me more than you do. — he’d say, with that smile that was too light. — Damian just joined the family. You understand, right? You’re so mature.
You didn’t 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 didn’t deserve to share the same air.
Tim… 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 “thank you.” He looked at the cup as if it were contaminated and discarded it without a word.
And Damian… Damian was the worst. He destroyed your stuffed bears—your only company during long nights—and 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 days—nights—in 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 wasn’t an emergency, but it wasn’t routine either. Bruce had received information about unusual activity around Gotham, and the security systems were running at heightened monitoring. Nothing that required Batman yet—just surveillance.
And, for some reason, you were included.
— You’re in charge of the secondary panel, — Bruce said, handing you the task like a silent test.
— Just monitor. Don’t 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 room—an extension of the Batcave—was 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 glass—cold, demanding.
Alfred passed behind you and lightly touched your shoulder.
— If you’re unsure, call, — 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 interference—something that usually corrected itself. But it wasn’t correcting.
You thought of calling Tim. Thought of calling Alfred. Thought of raising your hand and saying I don’t 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 sounded—louder than it should have. Monitoring dropped for exactly twenty-seven seconds before restarting.
— What was that? — Jason asked, already advancing.
Tim approached the screens, fingers flying over the keyboard.
— 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.
— Who did this? — his voice cut through the room, cold, without room for error.
You didn’t wait for them to point.
Bruce turned slowly, as if every movement was calculated.
— The alert wouldn’t stabilize. I thought it was light interference, I just tried to recalibrate—
— Without authorization, — he interrupted. — Without understanding the system.
— I understood, I just— I just pressed the wrong button, I didn’t know that—
— Exactly — Jason stepped in, with a hard half-smile.
— Bruce, it wasn’t on purpose, the bluebird just..
— It doesn’t matter, — Bruce replied, not taking his eyes off you. — Here, there is no “on purpose.”
Damian stepped closer, voice cutting.
— This is basic. Even I know not to touch what I don’t understand.
— I just wanted to help, — you insisted, voice already failing.
— You always say I don’t belong, so when you give me something, I try to do it right—
— And you fail, — Jason finished.
Tim finally turned to you. The look wasn’t cruel—it was analytical.
— The problem isn’t the intention. It’s the pattern.
— What pattern? — you asked, almost begging.
— You shut down the system, — he continued.
— Even if for seconds. If someone was watching, you would have delivered the entire mansion.
— I’m not stupid, — you snapped, your voice breaking for the first time. — I just made a mistake.
— A mistake here kills people.
— Then why did you put me there?
The question hung in the air.
Bruce didn’t answer immediately.
When he did, it was worse.
— Because I needed to see if you were capable.
— It always falls on us to fix it.
Tim shut his laptop too hard.
— You shouldn’t have tried to prove anything.
— I spend my whole life trying to prove something! — you exploded.
— I do everything you ask, I stay quiet, I help, I make mistakes and apologize, and it’s never enough!
The whole room fell silent.
Damian stared at you, without any empathy.
— Maybe because you’re the problem.
The phrase fell like a verdict.
— Everything you touch breaks, — he continued.
— Just like the woman who left you here said. You’ve brought nothing but jinx since day one.
The world seemed to tilt.
— I don’t bring jinx— you whispered, voice barely there.
— Don’t you? — Damian tilted his head.
— It’s all you do. She was right.
Before you realized it, tears were streaming down your face—hot, silent.
You didn’t wipe them away.
You weren’t going to beg anymore.
— If I’m a jinx… — you breathed, your chest aching.
— then why did no one ever send me away?
Bruce answered without emotion:
— Because responsibility isn’t disposable.
Not daughter. Not family.
Something inside you died right then.
— I understand, — you said, in a thread of a voice.
— So don’t call me anymore when you need someone or when you need someone to blame.
— No, — you cut him off, firm for the first time — Not now.
You stepped away from the table, each step heavy.
— You didn’t lose anything today. — You looked at all of them. — But I lost the last thing I still tried to believe in.
You left without thinking.
Not to your room—that 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 didn’t even notice you’d 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.
— Look what the alley gave me as a present… — the voice sang, amused.
— 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 Joker’s hideout smelled of rust, gunpowder, and old madness.
Your body hurt—the 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.
— So… — he said, stopping in front of you, leaning until he was eye-level.
— What was the daughter of Gotham’s richest man doing wandering around alone, crying like the world had ended? Fighting with your boyfriend?
You laughed without humor.
— Boyfriend? — you murmured.— My problems are bigger than that.
He made a theatrical pout.
— 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.
— He won’t come, — you said, voice hoarse, too tired to lie.
The Joker arched a painted eyebrow.
— They won’t come, — you continued, staring at him.
He tilted his head, now curious. Truly interested.
— Oh, sweetie… — he said, almost gentle.
— Everyone comes when I call. Gotham knows what happens when I get bored.
— He knows. — Your voice failed. — But he won’t come because… I only bring jinx.
The silence that followed was different.
The Joker didn’t laugh immediately.
He watched you. For real.
The pain on your face. The conviction in your voice.
It wasn’t self-pity—it was something deeper. Something broken.
— Aaaah… — he murmured. — So that’s it.
He crouched in front of you, resting his elbows on his knees.
— Jinx, huh? — he repeated, savoring the word — I like that. Bad luck is just another name for chaos… and chaos is incredibly honest.
You closed your eyes, exhausted.
— If they don’t want me… then kill me already. Or let me go. Because no one’s coming.
He laughed loudly this time, clapping once.
— Oh no, no, no! — he said, excited. — That would be wasting a masterpiece!
He came closer, his voice lowering, becoming dangerous.
— If they hate you so much… why do you still suffer for them?
— Why do you still beg for crumbs? — he continued. — 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 force—just intention.
— Take that fire burning inside you, — he whispered.— That pain they gave you as a gift. Use it.
He stepped back, spreading his arms as if showing the world.
— Jinx doesn’t destroy the one who carries it… — he said, with a feverish shine in his eyes.— jinx destroys others.
He looked at you again, wide smile, cruel, seductive.
— Let them bleed for making you believe you were worth nothing.
For the first time that night… the idea didn’t 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 didn’t 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 just listened—and each word seemed to tear years of composure from him.
When he hung up, his voice came out low. Unrecognizable.
— She… is with the Joker.
The air was sucked out of the cave.
— Damn. —Jason ran his hand over his face.— I didn’t like her, but… 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 yet—only urgency.
Too fast to find anyone alive.
The Joker’s 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.
— When the bats show up, — he said, spitting soot, the clown orders everything burned.
Bruce advanced first, ignoring the heat, the alerts in the communicator, the screams of “it’s too late.”
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.
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.
— We should have noticed.
Tim stood still, his brain trying to deny while the facts piled up.
— Time… the fire… it wouldn’t have been possible.
Jason clenched his teeth, anger overflowing too late.
— 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 them…
And now, for them, you weren’t missing.
