Maybe it will be, maybe it won't be. Clark takes a moment of just this, kind of holding Bruce to him while he recovers from the last of errant muscle twitches and tingles. This is nice, just this, until senses ooze back in through the synapses.

He bends down, arms hooking under Bruce's and lifting him easy to his feet. A slight dizzy pivot has Bruce with his back to the tile to balance against. It doesn't spare him all discomfort as legs and spine straighten out and blood rushes back over kneecaps, but if there is a complaint coming, it's covered in a kiss to his mouth, unmindful of bitter traces or breathing still being recaptured.

Clark tips his head back, looking at him, keeping him held in place. Slightly silly smile, eyelashes clinging together in shower water. "What do you need," he asks.