It was funny, how time worked.
One moment Batman was punching Joker in the face, the next he was radioing Clark for medical assistance, and then he was running to a certain bloodied sidekick.
And then he was holding said sidekick—actually, cradling was more accurate a word—and praying that this was not the end, because oh God please, that skinny little acrobat meant too much for him to lose, and please, this was supposed to be a regular night out in Gotham (if such things existed) and Robin had a team and friends and amazing hacking skills and a life and a future, and here he was lying unresponsive and dying in Bruce's arms. And darn it this was wrong; this was so wrong. . . .
Clark found them there, with Richard curled up in Bruce's arms, and Bruce singing softly, which was even more out of the ordinary than Robin being beaten to a bloody pulp, and Superman almost wanted to stand and stare and listen—
And then he got a good look at Boy Wonder, and realized that standing and staring was completely not an option, not here, not now, and perhaps never if he didn't fly that boy to the nearest hospital A.S.A.P.
So the Man of Steel took Robin into his arms, and Bruce watched them leave, and swore that if his son made it, Batman would start being nicer to cats and more friendly with the League and maybe just a tad bit less grumpy in the mornings. . . .
The Dark Knight promised these things and many more, all trivial ramblings that sounded like things the inhabitants of Arkham would mutter in their sleep, but they must have worked, or maybe Someone on High knew Robin still had work to do, work left unfinished, because the Boy Wonder didn't die after all and consequently Batman was not shattered like a crystal glass, merely slightly splintered. And consequently Gotham was not destroyed by a vengeful demon consumed by the night, but instead saved by a man who dressed as a Bat.