Eyebrows. Can you what? Bruce's look is not No, but it's very Bold of you to ask, dry without saying anything. He doesn't answer right away, instead bumping in close once more to run his mouth from the pulse point beneath Clark's jaw to his ear, capturing the lobe for an almost-long moment. There's a spark of something low in his stomach, like an ache; both pleasure at being required to draw it out and have this moment contained as itself, and desire to be nearly anywhere else. It's an enjoyable mix.

He sits back.

"Sure. All you farmboys can drive stick, right?"

Because of course he doesn't have a fucking automatic.

So: to the front seats they go, and he picks up his other post cards and stamps on the way, buckling in and sifting a pen from the glove box.