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One of Dick’s earliest memories was of flying.
He didn’t remember how old he was, or what trick he was learning. He just remembered sailing through the air, weightless and free; the warmth of his dad’s hands as they clapped around his wrists, strong and secure; the sound of his mom’s laugh as he flew into her arms on the platform.
The family that flies together stays together, they said.
They never said anything about the fall.
justice (noun)
punishment of an offender; retribution deemed appropriate for a crime
“Do you think he knows?” Dick said, opening the Waynes’ case file again. He should’ve put it away already, in the same place he’d put all of Mr. Todd’s active cases—middle left filing cabinets, eye-level for Mr. Todd and a stepladder up for Dick—but he couldn’t stop thinking about the picture of the boy on the stairs.
“If you want to be a detective,” Mr. Todd said, “the first step is learning to ask clearer questions.” He was leaning back in his office chair, dark red sleep mask over his eyes. He did that a lot—napped or rested his eyes while Dick did his busy work for him. It was annoying, but when Dick had complained, Mr. Todd just said it was the rite of passage for an apprentice, so Dick learned to ignore him.
“Bruce Wayne,” Dick said. “Do you think he knows they got the wrong guy?”
“What do you think?” Mr. Todd said. He did that a lot, too—asked Dick to answer his own questions, even though Dick wouldn’t be asking if he already knew the answer.
Dick stared at the picture again. He didn’t really know anything about Bruce Wayne, but he remembered how Wayne had shut down that awful, rude couple in the restaurant, just by being nice. And he remembered the serious look on Mr. Wayne’s face after, and how different it seemed from his smile—how much more natural it had looked on his face.
“I don’t think he spends most of his time chasing skirts,” Dick said.
Mr. Todd put up two fingers. “Next lesson,” he said, still leaning back like he was trying to nap. “If you’re going to assert something, you have to be ready to back it up with facts.”
Dick looked down at the picture again. “It’s just a feeling.”
Mr. Todd didn’t say anything to that, probably because there wasn’t anything to say.
Dick took one last look, and then he closed the file, neatly stacking the pages inside. When he looked up again, Mr. Todd was sitting up and watching him, his eye mask dangling from one hand.
Finally, Mr. Todd said, “Remember what Bruce Wayne has that we don’t?”
Dick hesitated. “Money?”
“Bingo.” Mr. Todd flicked the eye mask onto his desk and leaned forward. “Men with money can get a lot of things done. You think he’d let the cops get away with getting the wrong guy if he knew? Or that he wouldn’t have hired some other detective to investigate by now?”
Dick didn’t have a good answer to that. All he knew was that, while Bruce Wayne looked casual and careless, he seemed to know exactly what he was doing. He wasn’t an idiot, and he was there when his parents died, like Dick. He must have seen, like Dick. He must know.
But Mr. Todd was right, too. Dick would never give up on bringing his parents’ murderer to justice, and if Bruce Wayne was like him—if he knew—why wouldn’t he do everything he could, use everything he had to find the real killer?
But maybe—said a voice in Dick’s head that he didn’t want to listen to—maybe he had tried. And maybe, even with everything Bruce Wayne had that Dick didn’t, it still hadn’t been enough.
And maybe, no matter what Dick did, it wouldn’t ever be enough, either.
“You know,” Mr. Todd said, still looking at Dick, “you’ve got something he doesn’t, too.”
Dick just stared at him, because he was pretty sure he didn’t have anything—or even anyone, except Uncle Sam, and Uncle Sam had told him to let it go.
“You know how the world works,” Mr. Todd said.
Dick frowned. “What do you mean by that?”
“It hasn’t even been a year since your parents died,” Mr. Todd said. “And here you are, doing whatever it takes to find their killer. It’d be a wonder if Wayne even knew how to tie his own shoelaces at your age.”
“Seriously,” Dick said, unimpressed.
“I’m serious,” Mr. Todd said, and to be fair, he did look it. “You have guts, street smarts, ability—and you have me, of course.”
Dick rolled his eyes, but it did make him feel better to hear it. It made him feel like at least he had a chance—at least Mr. Todd had given him a chance. And maybe, Dick thought while looking down at the folder again, that Mr. Todd was giving Bruce Wayne one, too.
“Do you think we’ll get him?” Dick said.
“I know we will,” Mr. Todd said.
Dick believed him.
justice (noun)
conformity to moral rightness in action or attitude; righteousness
“Do you ever walk on the ground?” Mr. Todd said. He was walking down the sidewalk, one hand in the pocket of his long brown coat, and frowning up at Dick walking along the top of the brick wall beside him.
“I see better from up here,” Dick said, scanning the streets for a fluffy flash of pink.
Mr. Todd was still frowning. "As long as you don't fall."
"I haven't fallen from a tightrope since I was born.” Not that the wall was even close to a tightrope—it was at least five times as wide and completely solid, so it was basically a street as far as Dick was concerned. He didn’t even need to put out his arms for balance.
“Just how young did you start performing?"
"Four," Dick said. "But it was all just kid stuff until I was five.”
“Kid stuff,” Mr. Todd said, and Dick got that it was a question even if it didn’t sound like one in Mr. Todd’s voice.
"Tightrope, juggling. A little static trapeze. Everyone else was worried I'd fall, too. But not my parents. They always knew that I—that I’d never.”
Our little Robin was born with wings, his mom always said. Maybe it was true.
Mr. Todd was quiet after that, and Dick thought maybe he regretted reminding Dick about his parents.
“How’d you hear about this missing toy, anyway?” Dick said.
“It’s my neighbor’s kid’s.”
“You have neighbors?”
Mr. Todd gave him a look like he wanted to laugh, but wanted to act stuffy more. “Everyone has neighbors.” Then he seemed to think about it and said, “Most people, anyway.”
“Doesn’t mean everyone knows who they are.” Dick had seen a total of six other people from his building, and had only ever talked to two of them. He didn’t know any of their names, and he definitely didn’t know if they had kids and if their kids had dropped their pink stuffed rabbit somewhere between their building and the park and they didn’t know where.
“Next lesson,” Mr. Todd said. Dick had lost count of how many lessons there had been. “Most of a detective’s work is talking to people and getting to know them. We’re not police; we can’t ever make anyone talk to us. So practice on the people around you. If you can’t even get a tip from your neighbor, how do you expect to get one from a suspect?”
Dick frowned. “That sounds… I don’t know. Like you’re using them.”
Mr. Todd shrugged, one hand still in his pocket. “So what? You’re using me.”
Dick winced but couldn’t deny it. He wouldn’t have talked to Mr. Todd at all if he hadn’t been a detective.
“We’re all using each other, all the time,” Mr. Todd said, “because we all want something. It’s not necessarily a bad thing. It’s just how humans are.”
“I guess,” Dick said, but he still felt uneasy about it. He always just said what he thought. Planning what he might get out of it every time he said something just felt… wrong.
Mr. Todd looked up at him. “You don’t have to like it,” he said, his voice as kind as Dick had ever heard it, “but it’s the world we live in. You’re either a player or a pawn. And I have a feeling you’d rather be the one moving the pieces.”
Dick couldn’t argue with that, if those were his only two choices. He wasn’t convinced that they were. But before he could figure out what other options there might be, a flash of pink caught his eye.
Fluffy pink.
“Oh!” Dick hopped off the wall, and blinked when he found himself in Mr. Todd’s arms—sort of. Mr. Todd was holding him up with his hands under Dick’s armpits like Dick was a stray cat. “Um.”
“You weren’t falling,” Mr. Todd said, and it didn’t sound like a question, but Dick knew it was one.
“I said I wouldn’t.”
Mr. Todd huffed. “Guess you did.” He set Dick down. “What were you doing, then?”
Dick pointed past the upcoming intersection. “I found it.”
Mr. Todd followed him over to the next street and watched as Dick pulled the stuffed rabbit out from where it was half-hidden under a bush. It was a little dirty and looked like a dog had chewed part of one ear off, but it was there.
Dick dusted it off as best he could—which wasn’t much, since the dirt had caked into the fuzz—and held it out to Mr. Todd. “You didn’t have to babysit me for this. Even a kid could have done it.”
“You’re a kid,” Mr. Todd said, taking the toy.
“Not really,” Dick said. Not in all the ways that mattered, anyway. Real kids weren’t spending all their time seeking justice for their dead parents.
Real kids didn’t have dead parents to seek justice for.
“You’re a kid,” Mr. Todd repeated, putting his hand on Dick’s head even while Dick frowned and swatted at him. “Even if you feel like you had to grow up too fast, you’re still a kid. So let us adults look out for you a little, huh?”
“I’m not a baby.” Dick wiggled out from under Mr. Todd’s hand and tried to fix his hair. “I can take care of myself.”
Mr. Todd looked at him for a second. “No one can take care of themselves all the time, kid.”
“What about you?” Dick shot back. He went to Mr. Todd’s office after school on most days, and stayed until dinner. He’d never seen Mr. Todd talk to or about anyone unless it was for a case. Maybe Mr. Todd had neighbors, but Dick wasn’t convinced he had any friends.
“The day I need a pipsqueak like you worrying about me is the day I lose all my pride as an adult,” Mr. Todd said dryly. He waved the toy and started walking down the street. “Come on, you can give this back to Annabel yourself.”
Dick frowned, but Mr. Todd was stubborn when he wanted to be, so it wouldn’t do any good to try to push him for answers now. Better to try again another time.
And besides, Dick thought that maybe avoiding the question was as much of an answer as anything—that, and the fact that Dick was even here with him in the first place. He’d always wondered why Mr. Todd had given him a chance when no one else would.
Maybe Mr. Todd was like him. Maybe, before Dick had shown up, he’d been alone, too.
And maybe—Dick thought, looking at Mr. Todd’s back in front of him—maybe now that was a little less true for them both.
justice (noun)
the fair treatment of people
Dick stayed up all night, sitting in Mr. Todd’s big desk chair and hugging his knees so tightly his shoulders ached. Dick had already gotten a kid killed because he’d messed up; if Mr. Todd died too, then—
But Mr. Todd—Joker—knew what he was doing. And he worked with Batman. He wouldn’t be out there alone, if Batman got there in time.
But when the sky shifted from black to grey and still no one had even knocked on the office door, Dick knew Batman hadn’t.
The sun forced its way through the Gotham smog, and there was no point in waiting any longer. With shaking hands, Dick mashed at Mr. Todd’s keyboard until the screen turned on, then used one finger to carefully mash out the letters j-o-k-e-r. There was a video already on the screen of Mr. Todd, sitting in that same chair. The name at the top said FOR DICK.
He’d known. He’d known he might not come back, but he’d still gone—to save Dick.
Dick clenched his hands into fists on the table. He’d been scared, but he shouldn’t have run. He should’ve stayed. Maybe that wouldn’t have changed anything, but maybe it would have, and either way, it would’ve been better than this—better than having everyone who’d ever cared about him die.
Better than being alone again, forever.
Eventually, he managed to move the computer mouse until the cursor hovered over the play button. In the video, Mr. Todd was smiling.
Dick finally put his head down and cried.