They only need to specify when it's not that night. That time they fought; no, together, against someone else. That night in Gotham; no, not that one, the other one. Clark's expression stills when it is evoked without qualification, fingers curling defensive into his palm, waiting for—
Not that. Open surprise gentles his features, staring fixed across at Bruce. In some other context, he might have thought this were a diversion, and a cheap one, distracting from the moment they're in now.
But it's not. It seems to snare right up in the now.
He remembers—one of a few times in the course of several wild minutes, having been slammed into concrete and barely moving, laid out on his back, and feeling as much as hearing the reverberating sound of Bruce's heavy metallic footfalls approaching him. He remembers thinking about the man hidden beneath layers of scratched up metal, the dull thump of his heartbeat, steady and reliable.
So he doesn't say, don't be fucking ridiculous, when he probably should.
"So were you," he says, which is only better than a confirmation by a matter of degrees, spoken quietly but not shyly. "As soon as you landed a hit."
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Not that. Open surprise gentles his features, staring fixed across at Bruce. In some other context, he might have thought this were a diversion, and a cheap one, distracting from the moment they're in now.
But it's not. It seems to snare right up in the now.
He remembers—one of a few times in the course of several wild minutes, having been slammed into concrete and barely moving, laid out on his back, and feeling as much as hearing the reverberating sound of Bruce's heavy metallic footfalls approaching him. He remembers thinking about the man hidden beneath layers of scratched up metal, the dull thump of his heartbeat, steady and reliable.
So he doesn't say, don't be fucking ridiculous, when he probably should.
"So were you," he says, which is only better than a confirmation by a matter of degrees, spoken quietly but not shyly. "As soon as you landed a hit."