There's a lot of thinking happening up there, probably, and Clark is content to sit patiently while it happens. Bruce's hand in his hair is nice, too.

Bruce is human and humans don't have prophetic dreams. It's a thought he turns over in his own mind, a concept smooth as a river stone and curious all the same. There was a good portion of Clark's childhood where he'd believed himself human-but-different, and maybe even long after, until he stepped foot inside the Kryptonian scout ship and spoke to the holographic memory of Jor-El and learned of his home planet, and maybe even after then, sometimes.

The concept of human-but-different feels easy. The hard line logic of his ancestry doesn't take away from it. He finds that he can believe that Bruce Wayne, human, has visions of the future. That such things can happen. Who's to say they don't?

If they're not sleeping, he thinks about options. Breakfast, obviously. A walk outside while the night is pulled back from the sky. Maybe something's on TV.

He smiles when Bruce asks that question, crinkled amusement at the corners of his eyes, and says, "No, I haven't. They open?"