And there is Clark, in normal human clothes, with normal human foot creaks on floorboards that are due to be stripped and replaced. Plaid, denim, accidentally in keeping with his supercolours, and scuffed boots. He has been walking alongside Bruce for the most part, staying in visual range and earshot, and not pretending like he hasn't come here before. And anyway, he'd pick up on the sounds of cameras.
When Bruce pauses at the doorway, Clark moves past him.
His imagination isn't such that he can't picture what it used to look like, what it will look like. Where he draws short is imagining it as any kind of family home and not, like, a heritage building, with velvet ropes and little plaques. Probably some these big rooms were like that more than others.
"What happened?" he asks, tipping a look upwards, then around back at Bruce. Curious, light, not without knowledge that almost any question could find a cold patch in their conversation. "How'd the fire start." Not, like, to the bird, whom he will imagine was set free.
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When Bruce pauses at the doorway, Clark moves past him.
His imagination isn't such that he can't picture what it used to look like, what it will look like. Where he draws short is imagining it as any kind of family home and not, like, a heritage building, with velvet ropes and little plaques. Probably some these big rooms were like that more than others.
"What happened?" he asks, tipping a look upwards, then around back at Bruce. Curious, light, not without knowledge that almost any question could find a cold patch in their conversation. "How'd the fire start." Not, like, to the bird, whom he will imagine was set free.