With his free hand, Bruce reaches up and holds the side of Clark's face. Affectionate and a little desperate. I don't understand either, I'm sorry. He doesn't do anything more than that; even if any part of him could tolerate crawling back in bed and trying to forget in his arms, he wouldn't let them.

He drops his hand, scrubs it over his own face.

"It keeps changing," he explains. If one can explain something like this, which he knows sounds completely crazy. "Like every time I block one avenue it finds another. And I don't know— if I'm not just—"

He stalls. If I'm not just losing it. An unpleasant spin on that phone call once everyone had been settled back at home after defeating Steppenwolf. Bruce holding a mug of coffee and offering Clark an exhausted, lopsided smile, showing him grainy security footage of a being calling himself a 'Martian Manhunter'. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy to be doing this and grateful you came, but I'm still not sure I'm not having a breakdown. Ha, ha. Funny joke.

A rough exhale. "I can show you something downstairs." And also like, bandage his dumb hand. Come on. Bruce snags his robe off a chair where he'd chucked it earlier as they go.