Archive of Our Own

”Damian!” The boy’s head perks up when his name is said, although his expression remains mute when he snaps his attention over to Clark’s. He’s told Bruce this, who perfectly replicated the expression Damian is giving him now; both are instantly able to look like they’re done with Clark before he’s even said a word. Quietly, Clark finds this endearing though, and a particularly batty trait. He doesn’t mention it.

Young and angered by a massive world that he can do little to fix despite all the power he’s been born with. This is another thing Clark doesn’t mention, but he understands well too. The boy is on his laptop at the counter and is working on his online school work while the rest of his family is elsewhere. He turns around on the stool he’s sat on and looks at Clark instead like he’s Superman.

”Kent,” is Damian’s monosyllabic response. He studies Clark, hovering on the book in his hands before bouncing back up to his eyes. “Father is in his office, although you’re aware of that.”

Awkwardly, Clark nods and shuffles around a little. “Yeah, yeah I know that. ‘Can hear him and all.” Damian nods and then begins to turn back around to his work. “I uh… I actually have a present for you?”

Damian’s attention is back on Clark. He narrows his eyes, “is that a question?”

Clark chuckles and shakes his head. Damn this kid for being so much like Bruce. He wasn’t even raised by the man, now imagine if he had been. That would be a sight—although, that is not to discredit the absurdity of Damian being raised in an eco-terrorist cult of ancient assassins.“No. A statement, but I didn’t want to bother you if you’re too busy.”

”You have already interrupted,” Damian venomously spits out, but underneath the hissing, Clark can tell that he’s intrigued. Damian tilts his chin up and with an overly-unenthusiastic look and states that, “there is no gift-giving holiday on the approach.”

“Yeah, I know. Didn’t get hit that hard during the last fight.” Clark takes it as a win that Damian is slightly amused by that comment. “Blame my midwestern attitude if you’ve gotta, but I was in England helping out recently and I picked up a book that made me think of you.”

The boy looks side to side. “Is this your attempt to gain my favor?”

”If that’s how you need to look at it,” Clark shrugs. “My mom read this to me when I was a little younger than you are now… I don’t know, you’ve probably read it before, I don’t know why I’m thinking you haven’t—it’s Black Beauty, by Anna Sewell.”

He puts the novel between them like a peace offering. It’s old and well-worn, with gold foil inlaid on the cover’s text to contrast against the pale green that makes up the rest of the book’s bindings. Damian reaches out from his seat and carefully takes the antique book into his hands, then paws through the introductory pages.

“The book’s in decent condition I think—for a book that old. Or I hope it is—because they charged me fifty bucks for it.” Damian scoffs and Clark feels proud of himself for that. Then, he continues to elaborate when Damian doesn’t immediately recognize the work. “It’s about a horse in the Victorian period, in England. It was one of the first novels to push for animal rights and empathy for livestock.”

Considering this, Damian pulls the story closer to himself. He has an odd expression on his face, brows furrowed and thoughtful. “I… thank you, Kent.” Damian then looks back up at Clark and his green eyes are just a little bit softer around the edges. “I shall think about this gift the next time you do something bothersome, and will perhaps hesitate.”

Clark laughs boisterously at that, he can’t help it. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Damian doesn’t seem like the kid who appreciates his hair being ruffled—maybe if Clark was one of his brothers instead—so he leaves their interaction at that and goes to find Bruce elsewhere in the manor without much more thought.

Clark is back at the front steps of the manor a little over twenty-four hours later and Bruce meets him at the door in his all dark underclothes. There are shadowy circles under his eyes but he still motions for Clark to come in after him.

”Sorry to put you on short-notice babysitting duty,” he says while locking the door back. “But you know how Damian is. When push comes to shove, he can’t sneak past you and I know you can physically restrain him to his room if he decides to go against the doctor’s orders.”

Clark shrugs, “doesn’t bother me, I didn’t have any plans.” Bruce takes his coat and hangs it in the narrow closet built into the wall by the door. He comes back around and places his hand on Clark’s back to lead him further into the home. “I get about the same amount of work done here or at my apartment, but you guys have a kettle and fully functioning stove to boot.”

Bruce rolls his eyes, “you should let me fix that—or I could just buy the building and fix it I guess—“

”Please do not do that.”

”Well I’m just saying. I know the bachelor lifestyle lie is part of your cover but come on! I’ve been hearing you complain that your oven won’t get up above 300 degrees without heat vision for months now.”

Clark shoves Bruce with his elbow and he chuckles. They’re up the stairs and down the family hall now, standing before a door with Damian’s name written on it in a multitude of ways. Bruce brings a closed fist up and knocks, then waits, then slowly begins to open the door. 

“Dami? Dick needs to patrol tonight so Clark is going to watch over you in case you need something,” he announces as the dim room opens up. The walls are painted dark and neutral colors and blackout shades keep any sunlight from filtering in. Richard is sitting on the foot of the bed and Damian is tucked in tightly and staring daggers at the two men who are approaching him.

”Uncle Clark!” Greets the oldest Robin, who rises from his seat on the bed and walks over for a brief hug. “Glad we’ve got you. I know you can keep him down,” he says while eyeing his younger brother stewing in bed. 

Clark smiles, “that’s pretty much what your dad said too.” Dick claps him on the back and then is about to slip by before he stops by Bruce, watching his attention. 

“Did you know he gave Dami a copy of Black Beauty? I can’t believe I never thought of that,” he turns his attention back to Clark for just a second and Bruce’s gaze follows his son’s back towards the Super as well. “That was really thoughtful of you, Clark.”

Dick waves and is gone, leaving Clark facing the boys’ father. He knows he’s going beet red and the dim lighting in the room doesn’t do anything to hide that from anyone. Bruce pitches an eyebrow up and tilts his head. “That was very considerate. Is that why you were so happy to be puttering around yesterday when you came and saw me?”

Clark brings a hand to the back of his own neck and massages the muscle running down it while looking off towards an unoccupied corner of the room. “‘Caught me there. I’ll—“ Bruce is still standing by the door and hasn’t angled himself to step further into the room. “I’ll tell you about it when you get back.”

He knows the Bat well enough to know he’s silently glad for the quick out. “That sounds good, I’ve got to catch up with the rest.” He then turns his attention back to his bedridden son, who Clark is pretty sure is trying to sink deeper and deeper into the mattress so as to not be perceived in such a state. “Damian, please don’t try to stab Clark again.” A pause, “I'm being serious.”

Some kind of grumble-acknowledgement comes from the bed, and Bruce takes that as the kid’s word. He salutes Clark, tells him how long he should be gone, and to use his best judgement not to let Damian strain himself anymore while he’s on the mend before Clark is listening to Bruce’s solid footsteps get further and further away down the hall, and then into the cave system below. 

When he shakes Bruce from his mind’s eye, Damian is still there curled up in his bed. He doesn’t feel right taking Dick’s spot at the end, but there’s a chair in one of the room’s corners beside a nightstand, so that is where Clark migrates to with his computer bag. He brought drafts of papers to look through and some minor case work that Batman has him sorting through to pass the time. 

But first, he looks over to Damian again, who is looking expectantly at him. “What all happened to you, kid? You were fine when I saw you yesterday.”

Damian rolls his eyes and scootches a little further up in his bed. “I had the Penguin cornered, but he was able to hit me with a lucky shot using a metal pipe. Concussions.”

”That’s why Bruce has the cowl.”

The boy makes a nasty face at him, “that is practically exactly what Batman said to me as well.” Clark chuckles. ”Usually I would have been alright—but I have been very sensitive to light and motion since the incident.”

”Which makes running around in the dark difficult,” Clark supplies, and Damian nods. “And probably looking at screens too.”

”Thus, I find myself obscenely bored and quite possibly on the brink of losing my mind. They have quarantined me to this bed but have refused to give me any form of medication to aid me in passing out.”

Clark nods sympathetically and Damian makes another noise of annoyance and allows himself to limply melt back onto his bed. In the otherwise silent room, Clark can hear the kid’s vitals and surprisingly little else. The family wing is better insulated against his hearing anyways out of Bruce’s paranoia, but even within the walls, everything is still. No clicking of keys or whirring of motors, and while there is a grandfather clock, it has been stopped. 

Yeah… this would drive Clark up the wall too. There’s a drawing desk on the other side of the room and a calendar that looks like it’s written in a cipher. If he wanted to work on his art, Damian would probably need to turn on a lamp which would irritate his concussion. Clark keeps looking. There’s a small gaming device, but that’s a screen. There’s a bookshelf but again, light is needed for that and trying to focus on small text up close doesn’t sound too fun either.

The copy of Black Beauty, now that Clark is thinking about it, is sitting right next to Damian on the nightstand. The boy is staring blankly into the ceiling. “Did you get to read any yet?”

Damian glances at him, and then the book, and then shakes his head. “Hadn’t found the time, but it certainly won’t be happening now.”

Clark nods and they are back to sitting in silence. Then, another idea, “would it be alright if I read it to you? That would be… something other than sitting in silence.”

The Robin is silent, thinking. “You said your mother did that for you.”

”I’m not trying to be… your mother… or something—it’s just a fond memory from when I was a kid.”

”When you were a kid,” Damian echos and sits on that thought. Nobody except for Kal himself spends too much time thinking about that time, except for his parents. Superman was once a little boy in a wide, windy Kansas wheat field. Superman has a mother who had to teach him to be kind and to be gentle.

”I will not always be a child,” Damian states. This is certainly something his parents have considered, but maybe not him. To Clark, Damian has always existed as a kid, even if he was expected—is expected to act like more. But he will one day also be thinking about his childhood. Maybe that’s why he nods.

”You can read the book aloud to me.” He is perfectly still and contemplating before deflating in a matter of moments. “I guess that is an acceptable form of entertainment, seeing as I am unable to conjure up any other forms.”

My Early Home, The Hunt, and My Breaking In

“The first place that I can well remember was a large pleasant meadow with a pond of clear water in it. Some shady trees leaned over it, and rushes and water-lilies grew at the deep end. Over the hedge on one side we looked into a plowed field, and on the other we looked over a gate at our master's house, which stood by the roadside; at the top of the meadow was a grove of fir trees, and at the bottom a running brook overhung by a steep bank.

While I was young I lived upon my mother's milk, as I could not eat grass. In the daytime I ran by her side, and at night I lay down close by her. When it was hot we used to stand by the pond in the shade of the trees, and when it was cold we had a nice warm shed near the grove.

As soon as I was old enough to eat grass my mother used to go out to work in the daytime, and come back in the evening.”

It feels odd to Clark, to watch Damian as he’s reading. He keeps his attention on the words instead, and hears how the boy shifts in his bed. He’s probably doing the same thing his father does when he is really listening; turning an ear towards the point of interest rather than the typical watchful gaze you’d expect. Clark does it too, but he doesn’t remember who picked up the trait from who.

“There were six young colts in the meadow besides me; they were older than I was; some were nearly as large as grown-up horses. I used to run with them, and had great fun; we used to gallop all together round and round the field as hard as we could go. Sometimes we had rather rough play, for they would frequently bite and kick as well as gallop

One day, when there was a good deal of kicking, my mother whinnied to me to come to her, and then she said:

"I wish you to pay attention to what I am going to say to you. The colts who live here are very good colts, but they are cart-horse colts, and of course they have not learned manners. You have been well-bred and well-born; your father has a great name in these parts, and your grandfather won the cup two years at the Newmarket races; your grandmother had the sweetest temper of any horse I ever knew, and I think you have never seen me kick or bite. I hope you will grow up gentle and good, and never learn bad ways; do your work with a good will, lift your feet up well when you trot, and never bite or kick even in play." I have never forgotten my mother's advice; I knew she was a wise old horse, and our master thought a great deal of her. Her name was Duchess, but he often called her Pet.”

Damian is looking pointedly at Clark now, so as he gets to a stopping point, he looks back. Damian’s brow is furrowed again and his lips pursed. “This horse has a fine pedigree,” he states. Clark nods and waits for anything else until he thinks the time has passed. He begins to flip over to the next page. 

“Did your mother tell you that? ‘To grow up gentle and good’?” His voice is much softer this time and he’s looking back towards the wall on the other side of the room. His breathing is deep and slow, and it reminds Clark to breathe as well, even if he doesn’t need it.

”I guess she did—Ma Kent, I mean. She didn’t know anything about me though; my parents or grandparents. Didn’t know who I was coming from, if that’s important.” Damian nods, “she didn’t have any expectations that I was going to grow up to be strong enough to split planets in half or shoot lasers out of my eyes. Whether I was able to or not though, she was always going to make sure that I kept gentle and good.”

Damian looks like he has something else that he wants to say… but after another long pause, nothing comes out. So Clark continues over to the text under the next heading, gently leafing over old, old paper. 

“Before I was two years old a circumstance happened which I have never forgotten. It was early in the spring; there had been a little frost in the night, and a light mist still hung over the woods and meadows. I and the other colts were feeding at the lower part of the field when we heard, quite in the distance, what sounded like the cry of dogs. The oldest of the colts raised his head, pricked his ears, and said, "There are the hounds!" and immediately cantered off, followed by the rest of us to the upper part of the field, where we could look over the hedge and see several fields beyond. My mother and an old riding horse of our master's were also standing near, and seemed to know all about it.

"They have found a hare," said my mother, "and if they come this way we shall see the hunt."

And soon the dogs were all tearing down the field of young wheat next to ours. I never heard such a noise as they made. They did not bark, nor howl, nor whine, but kept on a "yo! yo, o, o! yo! yo, o, o!" at the top of their voices. After them came a number of men on horseback, some of them in green coats, all galloping as fast as they could. The old horse snorted and looked eagerly after them, and we young colts wanted to be galloping with them, but they were soon away into the fields lower down; here it seemed as if they had come to a stand; the dogs left off barking, and ran about every way with their noses to the ground.

"They have lost the scent," said the old horse; "perhaps the hare will get off."

"What hare?" I said.

"Oh! I don't know what hare; likely enough it may be one of our own hares out of the woods; any hare they can find will do for the dogs and men to run after;" and before long the dogs began their "yo! yo, o, o!" again, and back they came altogether at full speed, making straight for our meadow at the part where the high bank and the hedge overhand the brook.

"Now we shall see the hare," said my mother; and just then a hare wild with fright rushed by and made for the woods. On came the dogs; they burst over the bank, leaped the stream, and came dashing across the field followed by the huntsmen. Six or eight men leaped their horses clean over, close upon the dogs.

The hare tried to get through the fence; it was too thick, and she turned sharp round to make for the road, but it was too late; the dogs were upon her with their wild cries; we heard one shriek, and that was the end of her. One of the huntsmen rode up and whipped off the dogs, who would soon have torn her to pieces. He held her up by the leg torn and bleeding, and all the gentlemen seemed well pleased.

As for me, I was so astonished that I did not at first see what was going on by the brook; but when I did look there was a sad sight; two fine horses were down, one was struggling in the stream, and the other was groaning on the grass. One of the riders was getting out of the water covered with mud, the other lay quite still.

“His neck is broke," said my mother.”

Damian scoffs, “that sounds like my mother.” Talia Al Ghul is a woman that Clark Kent has never had the chance to understand. The personal connections held by Batman with his rouges is unparalleled—Talia, Catwoman, Two-Face—Superman’s foes tended to be on the fascist-leaning megalomaniac side of things. 

There’s crossover of course, there always is, but Gotham’s rogues are a peculiar bunch who stay just about as territorial as street dogs. Clark shakes his head and continues reading.

“”And serves him right, too,” said one of the colts. 

I thought the same, but my mother did not join with us.

"Well, no," she said, "you must not say that; but though I am an old horse, and have seen and heard a great deal, I never yet could make out why men are so fond of this sport; they often hurt themselves, often spoil good horses, and tear up the fields, and all for a hare or a fox, or a stag, that they could get more easily some other way; but we are only horses, and don't know."

Another subvocal noise comes from Damian.

“While my mother was saying this we stood and looked on. Many of the riders had gone to the young man; but my master, who had been watching what was going on, was the first to raise him. His head fell back and his arms hung down, and every one looked very serious. There was no noise now; even the dogs were quiet, and seemed to know that something was wrong. They carried him to our master's house. I heard afterward that it was young George Gordon, the squire's only son, a fine, tall young man, and the pride of his family.

There was now riding off in all directions to the doctor's, to the farrier's, and no doubt to Squire Gordon's, to let him know about his son. When Mr. Bond, the farrier, came to look at the black horse that lay groaning on the grass, he felt him all over, and shook his head; one of his legs was broken. Then some one ran to our master's house and came back with a gun; presently there was a loud bang and a dreadful shriek, and then all was still; the black horse moved no more.

My mother seemed much troubled; she said she had known that horse for years, and that his name was "Rob Roy"; he was a good horse, and there was no vice in him. She never would go to that part of the field afterward.

Not many days after we heard the church-bell tolling for a long time, and looking over the gate we saw a long, strange black coach that was covered with black cloth and was drawn by black horses; after that came another and another and another, and all were black, while the bell kept tolling, tolling. They were carrying young Gordon to the churchyard to bury him. He would never ride again. What they did with Rob Roy I never knew; but 'twas all for one little hare.”

”They killed a horse and a boy,” Damian summarizes as Clark closes the section.

Clark nods and them repeats the final line, “and ‘twas all for one little hare.” The boy in his bed gives Clark a questioning look. “I don’t know, where I grew up, there were men who had hunting dogs. But this—I guess like his mother was saying—is over the top.”

He can tell Damian is excepting a further explination fro him. The boy’s an animal lover through-and-through, so Clark probably should have expected this. He sits back in his chair and responds with his truth, “I’m not against hunting, I don’t think I can be as someone who was raised on a farm. I grew up processing chickens just as much as harvesting corn and everything else. Part of farming, and hunting, is understanding the weight of the animal’s life you’re taking.”

The kid considers this although the bitter look on his face is obvious. He wraps himself a little further into the sheets and blankets. “I wouldn’t hunt animals, and I see too many problems in the meat farming industry in this country.”

”You’re vegetarian, right?” Damian nods solemnly. “Yeah, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that by any means—I think that’s a very conscious choice for you to make in order to enact change on a personal level. I typically try and get meat from small farms, because I know the livestock will have had a better quality of life—I’m sorry, I’m going on a tangent.”

”This is something you care about?” Clark can’t really tell if that’s a question or not.

”It is, but it’s not really a problem Superman has to deal with, so I don’t ever get to talk about it. And in Metropolis, there’s more of a disconnect between where our food is coming from; not that people don’t care, but there are a lot more interesting things I guess. I’ve tried writing articles about this kind of stuff but they just don’t do as well.”

”That’s unfortunate.” He sounds honest about that, in the typical Wayne Family Monotone cadence.

”Yeah… well, what I was getting to is that for all of the free-range cattle ranches out in Montana where the cattle have thousands of acres to run though, you’ve also got the coyotes preying on their calves. And it’s not the coyote’s fault, it’s just their nature, and they need to eat just like everyone else. But every calf that doesn’t get to grow up means the farmer will make less income, and that will put stress on the rest of their company which will probably decrease the livestock’s quality of life before anything else. It’s just a nasty spiral that non-conglomerate farms are stuck in and I can keep going… but I understand why hunters in those cases go out and kill, even if they’re not harvesting the meat.”

When he’s done with his tangent, he realizes that Damian is staring at him cool but pleased expression. Clark is honestly about to apologize again when Damian cuts him off first. “It’s fascinating that you have opinions.”

He can’t help it, he has to laugh at that. Because the kid’s right, it is absurd that a being from another planet who can fly around the earth in seconds is so opinionated about sustainable agriculture and reliable farming. Tell me about it, he thinks, but that’s why he loves the Bat’s family so much; they understand more than most in their community what it’s like to uphold a mantel and reputation and never get to be who you are beneath all of that.

”Superman could comment on this.”

Clark shakes his head, “too polarizing, I think. And Bruce would tell me it makes it too obvious that I’m some kind of country hick or another.” Bruce probably wouldn’t tell him that exactly… but something close enough. “And Supes has a lot bigger problems to deal with anyways. This is Clark Kent’s soapbox.”

Damian still stares at him for a minute longer before pointedly blinking in Clark’s direction and changing the subject, “very well.” He motions to the book, “you should continue.” 

“Oh, yep. Yeah, let’s see… here. My Breaking In.” Damian winces.

“I was now beginning to grow handsome; my coat had grown fine and soft, and was bright black. I had one white foot and a pretty white star on my forehead. I was thought very handsome; my master would not sell me till I was four years old; he said lads ought not to work like men, and colts ought not to work like horses till they were quite grown up.

When I was four years old Squire Gordon came to look at me. He examined my eyes, my mouth, and my legs; he felt them all down; and then I had to walk and trot and gallop before him. He seemed to like me, and said, "When he has been well broken in he will do very well." My master said he would break me in himself, as he should not like me to be frightened or hurt, and he lost no time about it, for the next day he began.

Every one may not know what breaking in is, therefore I will describe it. It means to teach a horse to wear a saddle and bridle, and to carry on his back a man, woman or child; to go just the way they wish, and to go quietly. Besides this he has to learn to wear a collar, a crupper, and a breeching, and to stand still while they are put on; then to have a cart or a chaise fixed behind, so that he cannot walk or trot without dragging it after him; and he must go fast or slow, just as his driver wishes. He must never start at what he sees, nor speak to other horses, nor bite, nor kick, nor have any will of his own; but always do his master's will, even though he may be very tired or hungry; but the worst of all is, when his harness is once on, he may neither jump for joy nor lie down for weariness. So you see this breaking in is a great thing.”

“This horse is remarkably sarcastic,” Damian says dryly, although the corners of his mouth are curling up into a smug smile. Clark has to agree. “Although I’m unfamiliar with many of these equipment pieces.”

”I think most of those parts are for driving. Crupper, breeching—those are parts of the carriage harness I’m pretty sure, so they’re not used too much anymore.” Damian nods.

“I had of course long been used to a halter and a headstall, and to be led about in the fields and lanes quietly, but now I was to have a bit and bridle; my master gave me some oats as usual, and after a good deal of coaxing he got the bit into my mouth, and the bridle fixed, but it was a nasty thing! Those who have never had a bit in their mouths cannot think how bad it feels; a great piece of cold hard steel as thick as a man's finger to be pushed into one's mouth, between one's teeth, and over one's tongue, with the ends coming out at the corner of your mouth, and held fast there by straps over your head, under your throat, round your nose, and under your chin; so that no way in the world can you get rid of the nasty hard thing; it is very bad! yes, very bad! at least I thought so; but I knew my mother always wore one when she went out, and all horses did when they were grown up; and so, what with the nice oats, and what with my master's pats, kind words, and gentle ways, I got to wear my bit and bridle.

The next unpleasant business was putting on the iron shoes; that too was very hard at first. My master went with me to the smith's forge, to see that I was not hurt or got any fright. The blacksmith took my feet in his hand, one after the other, and cut away some of the hoof. It did not pain me, so I stood still on three legs till he had done them all. Then he took a piece of iron the shape of my foot, and clapped it on, and drove some nails through the shoe quite into my hoof, so that the shoe was firmly on. My feet felt very stiff and heavy, but in time I got used to it.

And now having got so far, my master went on to break me to harness; there were more new things to wear. First, a stiff heavy collar just on my neck, and a bridle with great side-pieces against my eyes called blinkers, and blinkers indeed they were, for I could not see on either side, but only straight in front of me; next, there was a small saddle with a nasty stiff strap that went right under my tail; that was the crupper. I hated the crupper; to have my long tail doubled up and poked through that strap was almost as bad as the bit. I never felt more like kicking, but of course I could not kick such a good master, and so in time I got used to everything, and could do my work as well as my mother.

I must not forget to mention one part of my training, which I have always considered a very great advantage. My master sent me for a fortnight to a neighboring farmer's, who had a meadow which was skirted on one side by the railway. Here were some sheep and cows, and I was turned in among them.

I shall never forget the first train that ran by. I was feeding quietly near the pales which separated the meadow from the railway, when I heard a strange sound at a distance, and before I knew whence it came-with a rush and a clatter, and a puffing out of smoke— a long black train of something flew by, and was gone almost before I could draw my breath. I turned and galloped to the further side of the meadow as fast as I could go, and there I stood snorting with astonishment and fear. In the course of the day many other trains went by, some more slowly; these drew up at the station close by, and sometimes made an awful shriek and groan before they stopped. I thought it very dreadful, but the cows went on eating very quietly, and hardly raised their heads as the black frightful thing came puffing and grinding past.

For the first few days I could not feed in peace; but as I found that this terrible creature never came into the field, or did me any harm, I began to disregard it, and very soon I cared as little about the passing of a train as the cows and sheep did.

Since then I have seen many horses much alarmed and restive at the sight or sound of a steam engine; but thanks to my good master's care, I am as fearless at railway stations as in my own stable.

Now if any one wants to break in a young horse well, that is the way.

My master often drove me in double harness with my mother, because she was steady and could teach me how to go better than a strange horse. She told me the better I behaved the better I should be treated, and that it was wisest always to do my best to please my master; "but," said she, "there are a great many kinds of men; there are good thoughtful men like our master, that any horse may be proud to serve; and there are bad, cruel men, who never ought to have a horse or dog to call their own. Besides, there are a great many foolish men, vain, ignorant, and careless, who never trouble themselves to think; these spoil more horses than all, just for want of sense; they don't mean it, but they do it for all that. I hope you will fall into good hands; but a horse never knows who may buy him, or who may drive him; it is all a chance for us; but still I say, do your best wherever it is, and keep up your good name."”

“And that’s the end of that?” Damian asks, and Clark nods. “Hm” he pauses. 

“The Arabic equivalent is رَّوَضَ فَرَساً,” says Damian, “which more closely translates to tame, rather than to break. There are many more gentle ways to treat a horse that will get you much better results and thorough trust built with your mount.”

”I'll admit, I don’t know a lot about training horses. You probably know more about this than I do, since it sounds like you grew up with them?”

”My grandfather kept many, yes. He’s very proud of his horses.” Clark waits, and Damian elaborates upon being given the opportunity. “He trained his own horses. Of course he had little time for me, but that is one thing we never started on; he said he would teach me how he trained his steeds. But my mother taught me to ride.”

Smiling at the boy, Clark adds his own two cents: “we had a neighbor when I was a toddler who kept some horses. I was always infatuated with them, although they didn’t like me too much.”

Damian snorts, “of course not, they probably understood that you’re not human.”

”Yeah, but I barely knew that back then. So I was just upset that they wouldn’t take the carrot from my hands.”

”That is reasonable, I suppose.” 

“My dad always joked that I’d make a great bronc rider though—could probably have made a lot of money through being able to wig the horses and keep ‘em bucking while being invulnerable too.”

Damian raises a very serious eyebrow and states, “I firmly do not believe that you have never used your abilities to best someone in a competition.”

Clark puts his hands up, closing the book and putting it back on the nightstand. “Hey, I’m not claiming that I haven’t either!” He knows the look he’s getting from Damian without having to actually see it. “But it’s probably not what you’re thinking. More like… going to the county fair and winning those ‘test your strength’ competitions so I could get my middle school girlfriend the prize she wanted.”

The kid looks very unimpressed. “You did the same thing a year ago when you forced my father to go with you, as well. Don’t act obtuse.”

”I’ve done it for him every year that I’ve made him go, thank you very much.”

Damian tuts and crosses his arms, “you disgust me,” although his tune quickly changes when Clark is getting up from out of his chair in the corner. Then, he is asking, “where are you going?”

“There’s cranberries and pomegranates in the kitchen and your dad just texted me that you should have some. Good for you skull or something, I don’t really know.”

”Inflammation.”

”Yeah, sure.” He has no clue, honestly. Did not pay attention in sports medicine. “Can I get you anything else, Damian? Something to drink?”

He narrows his eyes, “I do not trust you not to mess such a task up…”

”Just water then?”

”No ice.”

”Very European of you,” Clark comments. He stands in the doorway and asks, “anything else, Your Majesty? Maybe a pillow fluffed to perfection or your slippers warmed?”

Damian waves a dismissive hand from his spot on the bed. “Just go. I can only endure your peasant humor for so long.”

Chuckling softly, Clark shakes his head. “Alright, I’m running. But—“ before he can get anything else out, he’s hearing Superman be called by a young voice somewhere down the East Coast. 

When he looks back at Damian, the kid already knows and motions for Clark to excuse himself. “I shall stay put, seeing that you do not take an exorbitant amount of time and I must fetch my own water.” 

Clark just has to take Damian at his word on this one. He’s already slipping into the bright hallway to change into his suit. Luckily, Damian’s behemoth of a dog meanders in as Clark is going out. 

“Ah, there you are, buddy. Don’t let him sneak off anywhere, yeah?” The dog opens his mouth and pants; close enough. Clark shoots a look back up to Damian, “he’ll rat you out the second I’m back.”

Damian narrows his eyes, his voice flat. “He is more loyal to me than you. You have no leverage.”

Clark admits defeat there, but Titus is still sitting at attention for Clark. “Don’t let him get up, buddy,” he tells the dog, “you’re in charge,” and is gone.

It doesn’t take long to sort out the interruption—a minor thing that Superman easily sorts out in a couple of minutes—but by the time he returns to the room, a tray with the cranberries, pomegranate, and water balanced in his hands, Titus is smushing the bat boy into his bed. Their breathing is steady and even, but the dog’s ears twitch as Clark silently approaches his chair again. Damian has drifted off—and is seemingly out like a light.

Clark sets the tray down gently on the nightstand and then gets back into the chair in the corner. He glances at the sleeping kid, and then his dog. “He could have just told me he was bored,” he mutters under his breath, but he knows he’s smiling just a little bit. 

So Clark pulls a folder of paperwork from his bag and gets back to his own work. The room is quiet save for the faint sound of Damian’s breathing and the occasional thump of Titus’ tail as the dog fights off sleep himself. Clark works for the rest of the evening in the soft light of the lamp, waiting for Bruce to return. Occasionally, he’ll stop and listen; listen to Damian’s breathing, and then further out, his father’s heart beating strong in the night, and then Richard’s way out on the train going to Bludhaven. 

When the Batman returns to his cave and emerges from behind the clock to check on his son, all three—man, boy, and dog—are all sound asleep. A train sounds in the distance, and no body stirs.