If a human instinct exists to withdraw from gods, then Bruce doesn't actually have it; first he wanted to fight Clark, and now this. His attempts to disengage have been a tangle of personal nonsense and personal clarity, and perhaps it hasn't been fair of him to make Clark feel like so much of an alien, when Bruce has had similar self-sabotage moments over mere mortals, too.

Perhaps also, mere mortals aren't equipped to tolerate his shit, and he was always meant for this in some way. Kryptonians and Amazons and the only humans who don't flinch from them.

"Do I snorkel."

Behind him, Bruce has conceded to removing his coat, temporarily depositing it on the railing leading down to the pool's edge. Using the thumb of his half-busted hand to tug up the opposite knitted sleeve. He hovers next to Clark for a while, enjoying watching him more than the idea of reaching into water turned into germ soup by a thousand hands and stingray pee. He will. Just give him a second.

Also, lurking behind him means that he can wait until Clark is behind forward again, and do that thing and poke him lightly in the back, like he's threatening to push him in.

"Can't say that I do, no."