PART I ──── ❛❛OLD DOG, NEW TRICKS.❞

CHAPTER SUMMARY ──── You're an idiot in a homemade suit. But in a good way. He guess.

They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.

But at forty-four, Dick Grayson was still proving people wrong, still swinging across Blüdhaven rooftops long after most would’ve hung up the mask. Nightwing had become a legend, one of the most respected heroes around. Richard Grayson, meanwhile, had turned his name and fortune into something that actually mattered, funding schools, shelters, and youth centers all over New Jersey. He'd built a better state piece by piece, even if it meant his own back ached every other night.

He still kept up the Grayson grin, the one the tabloids called effortless, the one that made gala photographers hover like moths. He’d been invited to more charity dinners and police fundraisers than he could count, shaking hands, trading easy laughter. The charm was muscle memory now, a leftover part of the acrobat, all balance and performance.

But underneath, something had gone quieter.

The playboy thing was a rumor he’d let live, because it kept people from asking what really mattered. No one looked too closely at a man who smiled that easily. They didn’t see the bruises fading beneath the cufflinks, or the way his eyes sometimes drifted toward the exit when the music started to feel too loud.

He played the part, but the truth was simple.

Dick Grayson didn’t really know how to stop performing.

There was gray in his hair now, something his brothers never stopped teasing him for, and mornings came with a few too many sore joints. He had lived longer than he ever expected, and he was happier than he’d once believed possible. Dick told himself he didn’t need anything more than that quiet life: the bachelor apartment, his nights as Nightwing, and the rhythm he’d settled into as a middle-aged, single man who never stayed lonely for very long.

He dated easily. Always had.

There were girlfriends who lasted weeks, some a few months — women who liked his charm, his smile, the way he listened like their words mattered. He was good company, generous with his time, careful never to promise more than he could give. They came into his life softly and left the same way, no explosions, no broken plates. Just the mutual understanding that Dick was passing through, not putting roots down.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t commit.

It was that commitment, real commitment, felt heavier now, like something he’d already spent most of his life carrying in other forms. The city. The suit. The people who depended on him without ever knowing his name.

So he smiled, flirted, showed up when invited, and went home alone when it was over.

And most nights, that was enough.

Until it wasn’t.

Until you showed up.

Poor thing, barely in your twenties, with eyes bright and heart louder than your footsteps. You came charging into Blüdhaven’s underworld with duct-taped armor and too much courage for your own good. And of course, Nightwing found you before anyone else did. He landed in front of you with the kind of tired grace that only comes with age and experience.

His gaze swept over your homemade gear, the determination on your face.

“Go home, kid,” he said, voice low but not unkind. “and don’t ever do that again.”

And God, he thought that would be the last time he saw you. It should have been. But Blüdhaven had a way of dragging people back in and, a week later, there you were again, this time with better gear and a stubborn set to your jaw.

“Didn’t I tell you to go home?” he asked, dropping down beside you on a rooftop.

You didn’t flinch. “You did. I didn't listen.”

That look in your eyes, sharp and reckless, reminded him too much of himself at your age. And that’s what bothered him most. He saw the same hunger, the same need to matter.

So instead of turning you away again, he sighed and said, “Fine. If you're going to do this, you’ll do it right. But you listen to me. And when I say run, you run. Deal?”

You smiled, small but triumphant. “Deal.”

He never planned to take you under his wing.

You were raw energy in a stitched-together suit, stubborn as hell, full of the kind of fire he hadn’t seen since he was your age. The kind that burned bright and fast and didn’t understand how permanent scars could be.

And at first, you were a distraction. Someone to keep from getting killed. But then you became something else. A mirror. A reminder of the version of himself he’d buried under years of responsibility and loss. You laughed too loudly. You cracked jokes in the middle of fights. You cared deeply about people.

You reminded him what it was like to believe that saving a single person could still matter. And for a man who’d spent half his life measuring victories in body counts and broken bones, that was a kind of salvation he hadn’t expected. You made him feel the age in his bones, not because you were younger, but because you still looked at the world like it could be better.

That belief was contagious.

Dangerous, even.

He started showing you how to move through the dark without getting lost in it. You started showing him that there was still something left in the light worth chasing. Sometimes he caught himself watching you work a lead or pull a crowd together, that spark in your eyes when things clicked and he’d feel something shift in his chest.

Not desire, not nostalgia, but something quieter and harder to name. It was like standing at the edge of a high wire again — the same old fear, the same thrill, the same whisper in the back of his mind: just don’t fall this time.

The others noticed, of course.

Tim asked if he was “mentoring” again, the quotation marks audible. Barbara just laughed, told him to stop pretending he didn’t like having someone challenge him again. Damian judged him for it, said he was always taking in strays out of pity, just like their father.

And they were all right, in their own way.

The rookie wasn’t his replacement or his project. You were proof that the work still mattered, that the idea of Nightwing could outlive the man wearing the mask. Maybe that was what staying meant. Not clinging, not performing, but passing something on, like belief, skill, hope.

The important things that outlast bruises and broken ribs.

Weeks went by.

He told himself it was just mentorship. Just training. That was all.

But when you smiled like that, for a second, it felt like something he shouldn’t be feeling at all, something he pushed down fast. He’d been a teacher before, but never someone who had to remind himself, every other night, that some lines weren’t meant to be crossed.

He didn’t know, deep down, what you meant to him.

And Dick didn’t try to name it anymore.

He’d had enough labels in his life. Robin, Nightwing, partner, leader, brother, son.

This wasn’t any of those.

He didn’t know what you meant to him.

The sparring room echoed with the rhythm of movement, the soft thud of bare feet and the quick rush of breath. Dick moved like water, smooth and precise, each motion the product of years of practice. You mirrored him, clumsy but determined, sweat already running down your neck.

“Keep your guard up,” he said, voice firm.

You adjusted, and he nodded once before stepping in. The next few exchanges came fast until your forearm met his with a sharp smack that stung your bones. He grinned despite himself.

“Better,” he said.

You lunged again, and this time he let you get close before catching your wrist mid-strike. The momentum pulled you both forward — the space between you vanished for a heartbeat. His grip was firm and the sound of your breathing filled the room.

He released you right away, taking two steps back, forcing a calm into his posture that he didn’t quite feel.

“Balance,” he said, gesturing for you to reset. “Don’t let your opponent control it. You decide where the fight goes.”

You nodded, cheeks flushed, and reset your stance. He could see it in your eyes — the focus, the hunger to learn — and it hit him again how young you were, how much you still had to lose. The next round went cleaner. You blocked one of his kicks, pivoted neatly, and for the first time, knocked him slightly off-center. He laughed, a surprised sound that made the air between you lighter.

“Not bad,” he said, rubbing at his shoulder. “You’re starting to get it.”

He meant the technique, but part of him knew there was more underneath, something he had to keep in check. So he grabbed his water bottle, tossed you one, and said with a practiced ease, “That’s enough for tonight. Go cool down.”

He waited until you’d left the mat before letting his mask drop, the easy smile fading into something heavier, the weight of knowing he was teaching you to fight the darkness, while fighting a different kind inside himself.

You became a parasite in his mind, slowly and stubbornly. Your clumsy footsteps echoed across rooftops as you followed him, like a reckless, awkward excuse for an adult sidekick, your stupid joke earning nothing but a long sigh and an eye roll beneath the domino mask. And somehow, the most infuriating thing of all was your love for people, that constant, exhausting need to be good to them. Sometimes you reminded him of the big guy in blue, saving dogs and cats with earnest, bright eyes, believing a little too much in everyone.

You weren’t in this to brood on rooftops or because you enjoyed the violence. You were just a college kid who wanted to make a difference, to matter. And, honestly, that was kind of admirable. Even when you showed up at his apartment with your arm completely wrecked, asking for a glass of water. And maybe a first-aid kit. You didn’t want to sound greedy.

You fumbled your way through his window.

“Hey, Mr. Nightwing,” you said, breathless and awkward, “I think I broke my arm.”

The next thing you knew, you were on the floor.

Your arm was seriously messed up. Dick had been shirtless, midway through push-ups, and now he was already at your side.

“Jesus—what the hell happened to you?” he muttered with a heavy sigh, hauling you up like you weighed nothing.

Your eyes went wide as he effortlessly maneuvered you onto the couch, hands firm and practiced, already assessing the damage like this was just another night gone wrong.

He crouched in front of you, eyes sharp now, all humor gone. His fingers hovered near your arm.

“Don’t move,” he said, already standing again. “Actually—don’t breathe.”

You opened your mouth to apologize. He shot you a look that shut you up instantly.

The apartment smelled like detergent, metal and sweat. Dick disappeared into the bathroom and came back with a first-aid kit that looked suspiciously overused.

“So,” he said, kneeling again. He glanced up at you. “Care to explain how you managed this?”

You shrugged with your good shoulder. Bad idea. White-hot pain lanced up your arm and you hissed, biting back a sound.

“Yeah,” he muttered, unimpressed. “That checks out.”

He worked quickly, efficiently, wrapping and bracing with practiced ease. You watched him from under your lashes, how focused he was, how gentle despite the blunt way he handled you. It was almost embarrassing, how easy it was for him, how hard you’d tried to be something you weren’t ready to be.

“You can’t keep doing this,” he said quietly, not looking at you. “Showing up half-dead like it’s no big deal.”

You swallowed. “Someone’s gotta help.”

That finally made him look up. His expression softened, just a fraction, like something in your words hit too close to home.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “I know.”

He stepped back, crossing his arms. You clocked it immediately, the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw set like he was reminding himself of something important.

“I’m not always going to be here to help you—,” he said and stopped. “You’re not invincible.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “Neither are you.”

That landed harder than you meant it to.

The room went quiet. Not awkward, but charged. Like the air itself had weight now.

Dick looked at you for a long second.

“You make it hard,” he muttered.

You blinked. “To…?”

He can’t do that right now.

“Forget it,” he warned gently, already turning away to put the kit back. Boundaries snapped into place like armor. “Get some sleep. You’re staying here tonight.”

You smiled to yourself, sinking deeper into the couch.

“See?” you said lightly. “Good decision-maker.”

He paused at the doorway, shook his head, and, so quietly you almost missed it, said, “You’re going to get yourself killed, kid.”

“Don’t ‘kid’ me. I’m a grown woman.”

“You’re wearing anime-themed socks.”

“I’m a college senior.”

“With Attack on Titan socks.”

Silence.

“So you know Attack on Titan?”

Dick turned off the living room lights without another word.

Sometimes he thought telling you his secret identity had been a terrible, objectively irresponsible decision. But then you’d sit on his couch, feet kicked up, socks on full display, arguing half-dead on his living room and he’d admit, quietly, that he kind of liked having you in his life.

Exactly like this. Loud and ridiculous.

Idiot included.

┆NOTES .ᐟ : that felt very gen z on milennial crime. next part? it's up to you babes! love you.

┆WARNINGS .ᐟ read on ao3, + 18 content, eventual smut. fem!reader. it's a messy love triangle. i'm following the canon/comics. reader is an honorary member of the batfamily. very slowburn. reader is jason todd's childhood best friend. there is a 6 year age gap between dick and reader.

FIRST CHAPTER ──── ❛❛You never wanted that stupid scholarship or to attend a school full of snobby rich kids. But then Jason Todd showed up, and suddenly, you felt… something.❞ READ ON AO3.

SECOND CHAPTER ──── ❛❛Jason meets your mom, and you have a surprising, heart fluttering encounter with his older brother.❞ READ ON AO3.

THIRD CHAPTER ──── ❛❛Your sister surprises you on your thirteenth birthday with a life-size cardboard cutout of Nightwing.❞ READ ON AO3.

┆NOTES .ᐟ The beginning of the story takes place in the early 2010s, with Jason and Reader being 12 and Dick being 18. The references and technology at the start will follow that period. I’m following the comics to avoid major mischaracterization, so they’re my main source of inspiration. There’s no use at all of “Y/N,” and the Reader isn’t formally described beyond being she/her, so you’re free to imagine her however you like.

┆NOTES .ᐟ The age gap between Reader and Dick is a central factor in their development, as it highlights the imbalance of experience and perspective between them. In contrast, Reader’s relationship with Jason operates on a more equal footing, creating a distinct power balance that influences how each dynamic unfolds.

┆NOTES .ᐟ Every time I bring information, I’ll include the reference from the comic book where I took it from.

┆NOTES .ᐟ Chapters will always be posted on AO3 first, so make sure to follow me there as well.

┆ᰍ hello .ᐟ @adorabluesposts, @nightwingsbabe-blog, @possiblyafangirl, @isar8tsyyy, @kaeyakaikai, @simplymygojo, @iheartnostalgia, @annaevermore, @floatinginthecosmo, @cassiecasluciluce, @raenaburrito, @thereallifebambi, @rn-busy, @iluvoaldmen, @bbmgirll, @vanilledc, @livelaughlovekuni, @sam--sara, @ememgl, @bearchermer, @notsamaira, @alwaysholymilkshake, @iambigyes08, @pesto777, @animegirlfromvietnam, @acourtofdeppressionandanxiety, @accio-rogers, @ukulele-tea-and-ocean, @catiwinky, @calicocat-ina-tuxedo, @littlebleepsstuff, @the-u-brawl-truck, @inkdrinker-overthinker, @solarisstarrsolomonsbeloved, @noodlie-reads, @soggywhore, @slowlyshycomputer, @lolurk, @wisefuncherryblossom, @iammaryfromwork, @theracooninyourgarden, @chiizuluvr, @chaosandcandies, @lemonadesforsale, @lust4daya, @ramens-posts, @cupid73, @liltherealone, @scqvoa, @staryyunho.

┆WARNINGS .ᐟ read on ao3, + 18 content, eventual smut. fem!reader. it's a messy love triangle. i'm following the canon/comics. reader is an honorary member of the batfamily. very slowburn. reader is jason todd's childhood best friend. there is a 6 year age gap between dick and reader.

FIRST CHAPTER ──── ❛❛I THINK I WOULD REMEMBER IF YOU HAD THAT FACE.❞

CHAPTER SUMMARY ──── ❛❛You never wanted that stupid scholarship or to attend a school full of snobby rich kids. But then Jason Todd showed up, and suddenly, you felt… something.❞

NEXT ﾉ MASTERLIST ﾉ READ ON AO3.

──── GOTHAM ACADEMY, GOTHAM, NEW JERSEY. EARLY 2011.

Rejection is probably the worst thing a pre-teen could feel.

It settles on your small shoulders like a heavy, tattered cape, dragging you down with every step. Your eyes stay glued to your shoes, two sizes too big, scuffed, hand-me-downs from your older sister’s high school days. The worn soles squeak softly against the polished floors, echoing through the hallways in a way that makes you feel painfully exposed. Around you, the other kids laugh in crisp uniforms, their shoes shiny and perfectly fitted, their backpacks glossy and new. The smell of polished wood and lemon-scented cleaner fills the air and every whisper of laughter, every glance at you, feels like a spotlight shining on your differences.

Your hands hang awkwardly at your sides, fingers brushing against the oversized sleeves of your blazer. Your mom couldn’t afford to buy a new uniform, but thankfully your neighbor’s daughter had been a scholarship student at Gotham Academy too, and now you have a set of her old blazers, one of them swallowing your frame. The skirt is another story, your mom patched the gaps with so much care that it almost hurts to look at it, the stitching holding more love than it could ever be fashionable.

“Are you kidding me? They just accept anyone these days. Bruce Wayne must be losing it,” you hear from behind. Four boys are passing by, their voices loud and casual, but every word feels like it’s meant to land right on you. The tallest one has messy blonde hair and a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes. He glances you up and down, lingering just long enough for you to feel the weight of his judgment.

“Whoa… did you smell that?” he adds, laughing, and his friends snicker along with him. You shrink into your oversized uniform, tugging at the sleeves as if hiding could erase your presence. Your patched skirt and too-big shoes suddenly feel heavier, every step squeaking against the polished floor like it’s announcing your wrongness to the whole hallway. You force your gaze down, wishing the walls could swallow you up and make them forget you exist.

When the bell rang, you nearly bolted toward your classroom, slipping inside as quickly as you could. You didn’t dare look at anyone, didn’t pause to meet a single pair of eyes. Instead, you went straight for the last row, sliding into the corner seat like it was the only safe place left in the room.

The chair was surprisingly comfortable, far sturdier than the wobbly desks back at your old public school. Even the air here felt different, quieter, sharper, like everything at Gotham Academy had been built to remind you of how far you were from home. For the first time that morning, you let out a shaky breath, thinking maybe, just maybe, you could disappear here.

But then a shadow fell across your desk.

“That’s my seat,” a boy’s voice drawled. He stood over you, arms crossed, a smug grin tugging at his face. It’s the same blonde from the hallway. His friends lingered behind him, already laughing as if they knew how this would end. You froze, hands clutching the edge of the desk, heat rising in your cheeks.

He leaned closer, wrinkling his nose like you were some kind of disease. “Ew… do you always smell like that? Cheap, nasty perfume—my maid wears better stuff than that,” he sneered. “I can smell it from here. You’ve basically ruined the whole row with… whatever that is.”

His friends burst into loud, cruel laughter, the sound echoing off the classroom walls like it was meant to humiliate you. A few kids glanced over, some giggling, others quickly pretending they hadn’t noticed, like they didn’t want to be associated with someone like you. You felt your stomach drop, shrinking further into yourself, wishing you could vanish into the floor. But before you could even move, another shadow fell over the desk.

“Back off, Jordan.”

The voice came from your left. You looked up and saw a boy with dark hair and piercing blue eyes standing there. He didn’t move closer, didn’t shout, but the weight in his tone made the room feel heavier.

Jordan's smirk faltered. “Excuse me? Do you know who you’re talking to? My family—”

Your savior’s lips curled into a sharp, unreadable smirk. “Yeah, I know your family. You’re horrible with chicks just like your dad, huh? Wife-beater behavior runs in the family.”

The words hit Jordan harder than anything else could. His friends froze, unsure whether to laugh or retreat. Jordan's face went red with anger, his smugness cracking, but he opened his mouth to defend himself.

“My dad… my family—”

He cut him off, deadly serious. “I don’t give a fuck about your dad. Back off before I break your nose.”

Jordan’s scowl deepened, lips pressed into a tight line, but he finally stepped back, muttering under his breath. The black haired boy dropped into the seat next to yours and gave a small, almost invisible nod.

“I’m Jason,” he said, his tone casual, but there was a sharp edge to it, the kind of confidence that made it clear he wasn’t someone you messed with. On the surface, he looked like a regular rich kid, fancy shoes, hair perfectly in place. But his eyes… They carried weight, the kind of intensity you didn’t usually see in someone born with a silver spoon in their mouth. He leaned back slightly, one shoulder brushing yours, and gave a small, half-smile. “Don’t worry about Jordan. He acts like he’s got a stick up his ass all the time probably because his dad’s a disgusting piece of shit.”

“His dad?” you asked, surprised.

“Uhm… Mayor Hamilton Hill,” Jason said with a shrug, like it was common knowledge.

You glanced toward Jordan, who sat a few rows up with his friends gathered around him, tossing out half-baked jokes to lighten his mood. But he wasn’t laughing. The moment he felt your eyes on him, his head snapped back, and his gaze locked onto you, sharp, furious, like you’d trespassed into a place you didn’t belong.

It was insane. He didn’t even know you, yet the hatred was already there, simmering in the way his lips curled. It wasn’t just about a seat. It was about the uniform you wore that didn’t quite fit, the scuffed shoes on your feet, the patched skirt stitched with love instead of money. To him, you weren’t just a new student, you were a reminder that not everyone at Gotham Academy came wrapped in silk and gold, and he despised you for it. But your twelve-year-old brain didn’t hold onto things for long, and your attention shifted the moment class began. Physics was first, and you let out a quiet sigh as you pulled your notebooks from your bag.

The teacher started scribbling equations across the board, symbols and numbers flowing together like another language. You stared at them, eyes wide, as if you’d just been asked to solve rocket science. Back at your old public school, lessons had been slow, basic, sometimes the teacher didn’t even bother showing up. Here, though, everything moved too fast, built on foundations you’d never been taught.

Your pencil hovered uselessly over the page. It wasn’t just that you hated numbers, it was that you’d never been given a real chance to understand them. And now, surrounded by kids who nodded along like it was nothing, the gap between their world and yours stretched wider with every line the teacher wrote.

You felt your cheeks grow warm, shame settling heavy in your stomach. You shifted, hoping no one would notice.

But someone did.

Jason leaned back in his chair, glancing sideways at your notebook. He didn’t say anything at first, just smirked faintly, like he’d already figured out what was going on. When the teacher turned back to the board, Jason muttered low enough for only you to hear, “Don’t sweat it. Half these rich idiots don’t actually get it either—they just pay people to make ’em look smart.”

He tapped his pencil once against his desk, casual. Before you could give him more than an awkward smile and a straightened, whispered “thank you,” your teacher’s voice cut through the room.

“Alright, let’s see who was paying attention…” His eyes swept the class, finger pausing before landing right on you. “You—new girl. Can you answer this one?”

Your stomach dropped. The chalk marks on the board blurred together, numbers and symbols turning into a jumble that made your chest tighten. You gripped your pencil so hard it might snap. A couple of kids twisted in their seats to look back at you, some already smirking, waiting for you to trip.

Jason didn’t give them the satisfaction.

“She knows it,” he cut in smoothly, his tone sharp enough to snap the tension. He leaned back in his chair with a cocky grin, eyes locked on the teacher. “But if you’re really trying to put someone on the spot, pick me. I like this crap.”

A low ripple of laughter moved through the room. The teacher frowned, hesitated, then sighed and called on another student instead. The whispers quickly faded, the eyes on you turning back to the board. Jason glanced sideways, his smirk softening into something less sharp, almost reassuring. The knot in your chest began to ease, and you found yourself giving him a small, uncertain smile in return. Maybe, just maybe, you hadn’t walked into Gotham Academy completely alone.

“Mom, I’m home!” your voice echoed down the narrow, dimly lit hallway of the apartment building as you kicked off your shoes by the open door. The soles were caked with grime from the Narrows, subway dust, rain-slick asphalt, and everything else Gotham liked to cling to you on the walk back from the station. No matter how polished and pristine the Academy looked, the streets you crossed to get home never let you forget where you really lived. The apartment was small and warm, and smelled faintly of onions sizzling in a pan.

Your mom stood in the kitchen, still in her diner uniform, apron strings knotted tight around her waist. Her hair was falling loose from a bun, and she looked bone-tired, but her face lit up the second she saw you.

“There’s my smart girl,” she said, stirring the pot before wiping her hands on her apron. Her face looked worn, and the smell of cheap coffee still clung to her, but her smile was full of pride. “How was your first day?”

“It was nice, I guess.”

She tugged gently at your shirt and skirt, inspecting the seams with a frown, worried her stitching might not hold up through a long day. “Don’t forget—I need that uniform. I’m washing and pressing it tonight, no excuses.”

From the living room, your brother called out over the blaring baseball game. By his grunts, it sounded like the Gotham Knights were losing again. He was stretched out on the old couch in a clean T-shirt. Rare sight “Come on, ma,” he said, a grin in his voice. “She’ll survive one day at school without you wrapping her in bubble wrap.”

Your mom just kissed your forehead, “Go get cleaned up before dinner.”

You passed your brother in the living room. His feet were kicked up on the scratched coffee table, a pile of magazines teetering nearby. The couch sagged under him, its faded fabric dotted with crumbs and the faint smell of sweat and sawdust from work.

“Mom’s going to kill you for that,” you muttered, glancing at his scuffed boots by the door. He’d been working construction since he dropped out of high school, putting in long, dusty days at sites all over the Narrows. He always smelled like concrete and sweat.

He just reached out and ruffled your hair. “Go shower, Ankle Biter. You stink.” He sniffed dramatically and recoiled, waving a hand. “Wait… is that mom’s perfume?”

You wrinkled your nose.

“You know that stuff’s ancient,” he said, gasping as if he’d just uncovered a crime scene. “Seriously, go shower before she notices.”

Chances were, she had already noticed, not just the perfume, but that you’d tried to borrow some of her makeup. A bit of foundation under your dark circles, a touch of mascara, last night had been rough with your older sister’s newborn crying nonstop. But your mom was too kind to say anything, letting you slip by, proud of you no matter how small the effort to look presentable for the new school.

“Tony, take your dirty feet off my coffee table!” you heard your mom yell as you shut the tiny bathroom door behind you. Something thumped against the couch, probably whatever she had thrown at your brother this time. From the front door, your sister’s arrival reached your ears, your nephew babbling nonsense only she seemed to understand. You laughed and shook your head, slipping out of your uniform. The noise and chaos of the apartment faded into the background, a comforting white noise as you stepped into the shower.

But your moment of peace was short-lived. A knock at the bathroom door sounded insistent.

“Come on! I really need to pee—these pregnancy hormones are no joke!” your sister shouted.

The perks of having only one bathroom in the whole house.

“You’re not pregnant anymore, Simone,” you said, opening the door, already dressed in your Superman pajamas. She barged in, practically shoving you aside.

“She better not be!” your mom yelled from the kitchen as the baby reached up to tug at her hair.

Simone had become a teen mom last year, after six months of secretly dating the crackhead who lived down the street. You were pretty sure he was too old for her and he hadn’t paid a cent in child support. That’s why she dropped out of high school in her senior year, taking a job as a cashier at the corner bodega just to make ends meet. You still remembered the shouting matches between your mom and her.

And Tony? Well, he dropped out of high school in his junior year after your dad bailed, leaving your mom to raise three kids on her own. Since then, he’d stepped in, not just as a father figure, but as the one keeping the household afloat.

They were over the moon when you got the scholarship. You could see it in your mom’s eyes, in Simone’s beaming smile. In Tony’s quiet praises. For the first time, someone in your family was getting a shot at a real education, a chance to step out of the struggles of the Narrows and into something bigger.

At the dinner table, you carefully recounted your first day, making it sound smooth and easy, because you didn’t want to worry them. You left out the tears in the girls’ bathroom during lunch, and the awkward encounter with the mayor’s son. This was your moment and you wanted them to share in the pride, not the doubts.

Tony pushed his plate back slightly, crumbs clinging to his fingers. He leaned back in the chair. “Nice to hear your day was all sunshine and rainbows, Ankle Biter,” he said, voice teasing but gentle. “But… don’t you have homework? I doubt Gotham Academy goes easy on you.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ll get to it.”

Across the table, your mom was sneaking glances at you while eating, and Simone cooed at her baby, mumbling something.

That night, you helped with the dishes. It was just you and your mom in the kitchen, steam curling from the leftover food as she slid containers into the fridge and you dried the plates. The apartment was quiet except for the clink of dishes and the low hum of the radiator.

“Mom,” you asked quietly, glancing up at her, “can you help me with my homework?”

She froze for a second, the spatula hovering mid-air, before straightening her shoulders like she knew exactly what she was doing. “Uh… of course,” she said, her voice a little too bright, a little too confident. You could see it in the way she smoothed her apron and tried not to fidget, homework had never been her strong suit, but she was determined to make you feel like she had it under control.

You smiled at her, and she returned it, though just barely. The tremor in her hands betrayed the confident posture she was trying to wear. You could see it in the way she shifted her weight from foot to foot, biting her lip, fumbling with her apron—your mom trying so hard to seem capable, even though you knew she’d never finished school.

You sighed softly and headed to the bedroom. Simone and the baby were already lying across her bed, the little guy murmuring an incoherent babble, while Simone was reading a copy of People magazine, her eyes caught on an article about Kim Kardashian’s whirlwind 72-day marriage that everyone had been gossiping about. You grabbed the textbook the school had handed you, opening it to the first chapter.

“I need to write an essay about Little Women by Louisa May Alcott,” you said, setting the book on your lap. You could feel your mom lingering in the doorway, hesitant, hands clasped together like she wasn’t sure whether to leave or step in.

“Uh… yeah, okay,” she said finally. “I… I can help. Sure. Sit down.”

You patted the spot beside you. She sat, sinking onto the edge of the bed with a little groan, the mattress dipping under her weight. Immediately, you noticed the way she scanned the page like it might explode in her hands, brow furrowed, lips pressed tight. She glanced at you, clearly anxious, pretending she understood, but the way she tapped the page with her finger betrayed her.

You looked at your mom with soft eyes, taking in the tired lines on her face and the slight tremor in her hands. You’d never seen her reading a book your entire life. Gently, you kissed her forehead.

“Mom… I actually asked my new friend—uh, Jason—to help me with this earlier,” you said casually. Sometimes, lying isn’t wrong—it’s just protecting someone’s feelings... “He promised to explain the parts I didn’t get, so you don’t have to worry.”

Her eyes widened a little, a flicker of relief, and maybe guilt, crossing her face. She tried to hide it with a nod. “Oh… right. A new friend,” she said, her voice just a little shaky. “That’s… good. That’s… really helpful.”

She stood up from the edge of your bed and shuffled around the cramped bedroom, fumbling slightly as she grabbed your uniform from the pile of laundry on the chair. Her shoulders were hunched, and the dark circles under her eyes betrayed just how little sleep she’d had.

“I’m going to wash it and press it,” she said, trying to sound firm.

“It’s midnight, mom… you have work tomorrow,” you protested softly, reaching out to stop her.

She paused and turned to you, giving you a small smile. The corners of her eyes crinkled, and she brushed a loose strand of hair from your face. “Just go to sleep, pretty girl. I’ve got this,” she said, her voice gentle.

For a moment, the hum of the radiator and the soft creak of the floorboards filled the apartment. You watched your mom from the bedroom doorway, folding your uniform carefully.

Once she was done, you closed the door behind you and walked over to Simone, who was lounging on her bed with the baby beside her, the TV flickering in the background with Keeping Up with the Kardashians. “Hey, have you read this book?” you asked, holding up the textbook.

“Of course not,” she replied without looking up, her eyes still fixed on the magazine. “I tried watching the movie with Christian Bale, but it was so boring I couldn’t even finish it.” She nodded toward the TV with a faint smirk. “Honestly, this show is way more entertaining.”

You rolled your eyes and sat down next to her. “Well, one of us has to actually, you know… learn something.”

She snorted, tossing a blanket over your lap. You closed the book and leaned closer to her. “Sure, Professor Ankle Biter.”

Slowly, your eyelids grew heavy. You drifted off with your big sister gently stroking your hair and with the soft weight of your nephew curled against you, drooling lightly on the sheets.

You didn’t see Jason again until four days later. By then, you’d noticed he had this strange habit of skipping school for days at a time and then showing up with fresh, unexplained bruises. This time, it was a swollen black eye, dark and raw against his skin. At lunch, the cafeteria buzzed with voices and clattering trays, every table crowded with clusters of friends, except his. He sat alone, hunched over, picking at the food he wasn’t eating.

“You should put some ice on that,” you said quietly, stepping up behind him.

Jason glanced up. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that.” His voice wavered just a little.

You shifted the Little Women book in your hands, hugging it against your chest, not sure what to say next. He noticed, his gaze flicking to the cover.

“You finish the essay yet?”

You shook your head. “Not even close.”

Something in his expression softened. “Good,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair. “Makes me feel a little better.”

You sat down, facing him, heart racing slightly. But you didn’t answer right away, and the silence stretched until he let out a long sigh. “It shouldn’t take long. Little Women’s an easy book.”

“Yeah, totally easy. I can read it with my eyes closed,” you said, shifting in your seat. But Jason caught it—the way your hands fidgeted with the spine of the book, the slight awkward twist of your shoulders. His gaze tracked every movement like he was piecing together a puzzle.

“You never read it, did you?”

“Mm… no.”

“You didn’t understand it?”

You shook your head, bracing yourself for a sarcastic jab, maybe even a laugh. But none came. Jason just sat there, studying you with that bruised face and tired eyes. He leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the table like he was debating whether to bother. Then he huffed out a breath. “Alright. Look. Little Women’s not rocket science.”

You tilted your head, clutching the book tighter. “Easy for you to say.”

He smirked faintly, but it didn’t quite reach his bruised eye. “Okay, so—you got four sisters, right? Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy. They’re dirt poor, but they’re trying to keep it together while their dad’s off fighting in the war.” He paused, making sure you were listening. “The book’s really about how they deal with growing up when everything around them kinda sucks.”

You blinked at him. “That’s… actually a lot clearer than how our teacher explained it.”

Jason shrugged. “Yeah, well, teachers like to make things sound fancy. Truth is, it’s just about family. Each sister’s got her thing—Meg wants to fit in, Jo doesn’t want to be told what to do, Beth’s sweet but too quiet for her own good, and Amy… well, Amy’s Amy.”

You bit back a laugh. “That’s it? That’s your literary analysis?”

His lips twitched. “Hey, I didn’t say I was writing your essay for you. I’m just giving you the cheat sheet. Point is, the story’s not about big words or whatever—it’s about trying to do right by your family even when life kicks you in the teeth.” His voice softened at the edges, like maybe he wasn’t just talking about the book anymore.

For a second, neither of you spoke. The cafeteria noise buzzed around you, but at that table, it was just the two of you.

You looked down at the cover of Little Women and then back at him. “You’re… actually kind of good at this.”

Jason smirked again. “Don’t spread that around. Gotta keep my reputation.”

“Yeah, sure but... Thank you,” you said quietly.

He leaned back, starting to wave it off. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve read this book a bunch of times, so it’s—”

“No, not just about the book,” you cut in, heat rising in your cheeks. “I mean… standing up for me. For not letting Jordan humiliate me. Or our teachers.”

For once, Jason didn’t have a quick comeback. His smirk faded into something gentler, almost surprised, like he wasn’t used to anyone noticing that side of him. He rubbed at the edge of his tray, looking everywhere but at you.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, voice low, “somebody had to.”

Neither of you said anything after that, both of your faces heating up. Jason’s eyes dropped to his bruised knuckles, and you found yourself fiddling with the corner of your book.

“So, uh… did you start the physics homework?” he asked suddenly, like he needed to change the subject fast.

You shook your head. “No.”

“Okay, then. We’ll do the essay together, and after class we’ll tackle physics.”

Your eyes widened. “Really? I mean—I don’t want to bother yo—”

“Just give me your mom’s number,” Jason cut in, his words quick and clumsy. “I’ll… I’ll ask Bruce to talk to her. You can come over to my place. There’s more room to study there.”

You blinked. “Bruce?”

His body went rigid. He scratched the back of his neck, looking everywhere but at you. “Uh—Bruce Wayne. He, uh… adopted me. I’m… adopted.”

You froze for a second, eyes wide, your mouth opening and closing like you were about to say something smart but failing spectacularly. “Wait… so… you live with Bruce Wayne? Like… the billionaire guy?”

Jason’s cheeks flushed, and he jerked his hand toward the tray in front of him. “Yeah… but it’s not like I’m rich or anything, okay? Don’t tell anyone.”

You nodded frantically, heart racing, words tripping over themselves. “No, no! I—I won’t! I promise!”

He gave a small, awkward smile, and the cafeteria noise faded into the background, leaving just the two of you. Awkward, a little embarrassed, but strangely… allies in all of this.

┆NOTES .ᐟ Jordan Hill and his family aren't OC's. Fans of The Batman: The Animated Series might recognize him as the Mayor’s son. He’s not actually a jerk in canon, but I needed someone to fill the bully role here. Canonically, Dick Grayson was a Gotham Academy student in both the Young Justice comics and the show. I read Issue #408 and the subsequent issues covering Jason’s origin and didn’t find much about the school he attended before his death, but I decided to place him in Gotham Academy for the story.

┆NOTES .ᐟ A few small changes: I decided that the beginning of the story will take place in the early 2010s, with Jason and the Reader being 12 years old. The references and technology at the start will follow that period.

┆NOTES .ᐟ As an author, and especially one who writes "reader x" fics, sometimes the absence of a nuclear family for the MC makes me relate to them less as real people and more as ornaments in someone else’s story. Coming from a big family, being poor, and growing up in the Narrows are experiences that shape our reader and her perspective.