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Robin has no right looking that small, Clark thinks as he lowers down to the ground.
The hurricane of chaos has finally faded away, as all of the vigilantes and heroes called down to Gotham work on filing the villains back into Arkham Asylum. They’re all exhausted from the battle- Clark can already hear the news stations dubbing this the Battle of Gotham. Hadn’t that name already been used before? Battle was right, though. It was a gruesome, long week of battle strategies and plans that never worked, of biting down nails as they watched their teammates be thrashed to the ground by whatever Arkham villain managed to get their grabby hands on them.
Clark remembers seeing Batman be thrown to the side by Bane, back cracking against the force. They’d all piled into the Batcave to watch Bruce try to breathe through machines. Robin had stayed by Clark’s side, face carefully blank. None of the other ex-Robin’s had been there- all stretched to thin out on the field. Alfred and Robin had shared a look, and then Robin had disappeared. When he came back, he was wearing Batman’s cowl. The only difference was in the cape. A black outer cloak, and a dull, yellow inside. His Robin cape.
He’d taken all of their plans by the throat and tore them all apart. Clark got to see first hand how the League of Assassin’s planned out their attacks. Each ambush he created was brutal, though he assured that his plans would get no one killed. He was correct. No one did. Because of Robin’s plan- Clark refused to think of him as Batman, even with the cowl. Bruce was still alive, he was still healing- they managed to surround the dead center of Gotham. Gotham’s center was where Arkham’s patients had swarmed to set up base, granting easy access to everything else they desired to conquer.
Before Clark had been called in, the villains had beaten down all of Gotham’s resident vigilantes. Red Hood was milling around with sixteen stitches on his side and a sprained ankle- (though that was all that he said aloud, Clark had seen much more). Nightwing had dislocated his shoulder and popped it back into place. He hardly sat down long enough for anyone to look at it. Clark was pretty sure that Red Robin was working with a concussion. (Surely Alfred was dealing with a heart attack every few moments, working with this family.) Bruce had broken ribs, of course. Exhaustion dragged all of them down.
Clark hadn’t gotten a very good look at Robin’s injuries, before he came back with Batman. He seemed to have a healthy mix of all of his family’s other ailments. Nightwing had told him that he’d been switching teammates non-stop before Clark came. Him and Red Hood are the most in tune with the villains of Gotham, as much as I hate to say it, he’d said. They’re useful to us. They make ambushes go smoother. That, and I can’t deny that Talia taught Robin well when it comes to battle strategies.
And that last statement was completely right. Once they’d all fought tooth and nail to Gotham’s center, the eye of the hurricane passed. Clark knew that the real battle had only began once they engaged the last remaining Arkham prisoners- Whoever lost this lost the entire war. Whoever lost this, lost Gotham. Clark couldn't let Gotham's vigilantes lose Gotham.
He wouldn’t let a bedridden Bruce down.
He wouldn’t let Robin, Robin who looked drowned in his Batman costume, down.
He wouldn’t let Nightwing down- not when he scooped Robin off of his feet before the battle began and cried, because he was too young to be fighting for his city and he was too young to bear the weight of Bruce’s damn cowl.
He wouldn’t let Red Hood down- We’re going to survive this one, Red Hood had said to Robin. Clark hadn’t meant to listen in. We won’t die, not this time. No one’s gonna die.
He wouldn’t let Red Robin down, either- he’d come in with a flurry as Wonder Woman and her team left to go to their position, had marched right over to Robin, where the younger stood before his elaborate plans. He’d yelled and called Robin a demon and stupid and- And Robin hadn’t responded. I’m sorry, Red Robin had breathed, after that. Please, just go home, Robin, please.
He wouldn’t let Alfred down. His face had been long as he ushered them off, loading up his shotgun and starting the Batplane. He wasn’t going to let his grandsons go out there and fight without him by their side, providing air support. This city means to much to Master Bruce and the boys. I can’t let it fall because I refused to help.
Clark had descended upon the villain’s base, Robin gripping at his pet’s red fur- Goliath, he was called, if Clark wasn’t mistaken- as he flew right beside him. Clark couldn’t help but think of Jon, who was still at home with Lois, because Clark refused to have his son fight in a bloody battle like this. Why Bruce hadn’t pulled Robin out of the fight like Clark did with Jon, Clark didn’t know.
It made his blood boil, now. Robin was still standing, though he swayed as blood dried against his temples. He was small. He was young.
Robin was crying as he tore off the cowl.
For some reason, Clark had been expecting Robin to have blue eyes, just like Bruce. He’d never met Robin out of the mask before. All he knew was that Robin was Bruce’s biological son- born from Talia al Ghul and Bruce (Batman) Wayne. He’d been raised with the League.
He was ten years old, he’d died before, and he was crying.
A ten year old boy, crying because he’d just fought in a battle for his home against a manic man with a green, green grin, against a handful of bulking beasts with different names, against a woman with hands of green plants and a man with lust for fear in his eyes.
Why would they let this child fight in this battle? Why did Clark allow Robin to follow him? Why did Clark allow him to dawn the cowl and take his father’s name?
Why?!
It was Robin’s sob that forces Clark to surge forward and scoop him up into his arms, just like he would with Jon after a nightmare about the monsters under his bed or hidden in his closet. Clark could deal with monsters lurking in their home, they were figments of the imagination, driven away by a mug of steaming coca and snuggles with a mom and dad. Robin’s sobs were trauma, Robin’s sobs were bred from an event that would stay in his mind for years to come. There was nothing that Clark could do to cure this. Hell, a good chunk of the time, when he did deal with children who he saved from traumatic experiences, their night was saved by the fact that he was Superman. Robin wasn’t the same. A good amount of the time, he hated Clark.
Clark doesn’t even realize that Robin sobbing is bad- Not until Nightwing pushes past on a possibly broken ankle, leaning half on Red Hood. He’s abandoned his mask, leaving him as Dick Grayson. Red Hood is missing the helmet, but not the domino mask.
“Dami,” Dick cooes, voice shattering in too many places. “Dami, what’s wrong?”
He doesn’t make to take Robin from Clark. He probably can’t hold him, not with how busted they all look. Clark makes sure to angle himself just enough to let Dick cradle Robin’s teary face in his hand. Dick’s eyes are panicked, hazy. Not from the battle- It’s for Robin’s reaction.
Red Hood picks up on Clark’s confused gaze, sucking in a deep breath before he says anything. “Robin sobbing is like-” He pauses. “Like-” Frustrated sigh, running a hand through tangled and dirty hair. “Robin flinching is like a normal ten year old sobbing full out, I guess. So, this is-”
“A whole lot worse than I thought?” Clark assumes.
Red Hood nods. Into the coms, he calls for Red Robin and ‘Penny-One’. Dick doesn’t take his eyes off of Robin.
“Baby Bird, you’ve gotta look at me. I gotta know what’s wrong, Lil’ D, you’ve gotta tell me what’s wrong. I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong. Is it Tim-? Pennyworth? They’re on their way- Is it Bruce?” Clark ignores the one-sided conversation and its weight to instead ponder how many nicknames Bruce’s boys had for Robin. Baby Bird, Lil’ D, Dami. There was Dames, Batboy, Little Wing. (He wasn’t going to count Demon from Red Robin, though it was there.) His mind ponders why Dick isn’t asking if the problem is if Robin’s hurt, though it feels obvious that he is. “C’mon, Baby Bird, please, work with me here-”
Robin tugs at the bat symbol on his chest and Clark doesn’t understand.
“We’ve got a spare Robin costume in the Batmobile,” Red Hood says. “Nothing civilian until we’re back at the manor. Is that fine?”
The boy in Clark’s arms lets out a high-pitched whine, and then a please, as he grips at the bat symbol again. Clark really doesn’t understand what that means, or what Red Hood means, but he complies when Dick orders Clark to set Robin down and help peel off the uniform. They’re not worried about anyone seeing them, the only other people here are the Justice League and it’s younger teams. The Titans, Teen Titans, Young Justice. Red Hood disappears to find the Batmobile. Red Robin finds his way to Clark’s side.
Once Robin’s left in his undershirt and pants- both bloodstained and torn- Red Robin pulls him into his lap and pulls off his own domino mask, making way for Tim Drake to take the stage. “Hey, gremlin,” he whispers, like it’s an inside joke. Robin doesn’t say anything back, besides his little sobs and gasps. “We did really good today. You did really good today. It’s time we go home and see Bruce, yeah?”
“Please,” Robin wheezes. “Please-”
“As soon as we get you changed up and Alfred gets here, we’ll go home,” Dick assures. He pauses, shrinking into his shoulders. “Do you want us to call Talia when we get there? She’ll be so proud of you fo-”
“No,” Robin says, immediately. “I wish to go home, Richard- I wish to see Father- I-”
Just before Clark can interrupt with his own two cents- (I can fly you home while we wrap up here, Robin.)- Jason Todd walks back up to the group. His mask flops in his pocket, in his arms sits Robin’s normal costume. “All right, Baby Bat, let’s get you into this. Then home.”
The boys keep true to their word. Clark accompanies them and Alfred home to the cave, where Bruce awaits them, bleary and weary and freshly woken. He’s pale and sitting in a wheelchair, but unhooked from the machines and moving all on his own. It’s progress, Clark thinks, though he does feel that he should be in bed for longer than he was. Alfred begins the long process of checking him over- followed by sitting each of the boys out and stitching up their wounds. Alfred is fine, for the most part. There’s some black marks along his face, but he assures that they’re just dust and dirt from a shaky landing. Clark opts to believe him.
They save Robin for last. Dick keeps him in his lap as Alfred peels back the lairs they just dressed him in. Jason hovers beside his brothers with a scowl on his face. Tim sticks close, going the extra mile to help Alfred by fetching whatever he needs. Robin has long since stopped sobbing, but the tears keep flowing.
Clark settles down beside Bruce as they work. In a hushed tone, he can’t keep himself from asking, “Why do you let him fight in stuff like this? It’s not- This isn’t how a child should be raised-”
“I know,” Bruce says, and his tone is final and sullen. “If I had my way, he’d be going to school every day and making friends and not worrying about patrol or the cowl or the cape. If I had my way, he wouldn’t have killed at eight years old and Talia would’ve never been able to lay a hand on him.”
“You’re the parent,” Clark says.
“That’s never been enough to stop Damian. He’s got adventure in his veins.”
Clark blinks, and he regards Damian Wayne for the first time. Robin is just a child in his mind, a little boy with a jolly grin on his lips. Not every Robin, he thinks- The Robins that he knew were. This Robin- Damian Wayne- is a child born a soldier, a bird just hatching out of its shell.
Clark lets the topic drop.
(Robin had no right looking that small, Clark thought as he lowered down to the ground.)