Bruce tilts his head. Yeah. No more kryptonite. Setting aside the paradox - if he hadn't hated Superman, he wouldn't have made them, and if he hadn't made them, then they couldn't have stopped Doomsday - that was very mean of him. Effective, but mean. And no matter how much he likes hearing Clark say things like Something that didn't yield to me, it's not acceptable to consider other uses.
"It's not something we can revisit," he says lowly.
Bummer.
With deliberation, Bruce pushes to his feet. In that same dishevelled state. He steps over to Clark, hands on his shoulders, pushing him til his spine is pressed up to the back of the chair - if he goes, anyway. All this talk. He might not. Bruce's heartbeat is still elevated. He drags in a breath and doesn't say anything else, not yet, torn between doing so or not. What's the harm, this deep into it. He pulls one hand up along Clark's face, digging fingers into his hair.
no subject
"It's not something we can revisit," he says lowly.
Bummer.
With deliberation, Bruce pushes to his feet. In that same dishevelled state. He steps over to Clark, hands on his shoulders, pushing him til his spine is pressed up to the back of the chair - if he goes, anyway. All this talk. He might not. Bruce's heartbeat is still elevated. He drags in a breath and doesn't say anything else, not yet, torn between doing so or not. What's the harm, this deep into it. He pulls one hand up along Clark's face, digging fingers into his hair.
"I still want you like that. I don't care how."
Don't you?