Like your heart beat; slower than mine. Calm, low tide. He hadn't added that he likes listening to it, but it's there in his tone.

They're working. Clark walks this way across the room and back again, and while there is no discernible difference between him doing so now and him having paced around half an hour ago, it does feel different. He's not sure if that's a physical thing or a brain thing, knowing that if he did try to jump, he'd clear several inches into the air and no more. That if he swung a punch at the concrete wall, he'd break his hand. It makes him feel

clumsy, kind of, and like he's still overthinking his own physical self, just in a different way. When he turns, he brushes a hand against the wall as if to steady himself. Assures he's fine, really. Like riding bike.

The quietness of Bruce's voice catches Clark's attention from where he'd been eyeing the monitors. Not nervous, or anxious, not exactly. Anticipatory. It's still there when he looks over, a hard look that betrays how little he can read the other man, how used to it he is, but there's a crack of a smile as he says, "Yeah."