And us is wonderful. Us is this strange combination of ice water and cinnamon sugar and his glasses in Bruce's hair. The band of bruises on wrists that brought it on themselves. Clark is looking at him with the truly powerful, perhaps even super, puppy eyes, and only a few subtle eyebrow wrinkles.

It feels like a gift, what Bruce is saying, something handed to him that is unexpectedly delicate, and he doesn't quite know where to put it. So it's just held, admired, unsure what he can give in exchange of equal delicacy and value, and not minding that either.

"I think I'm more in danger of pretending than hurting you," he says, some humour in his tone that doesn't make him any less earnest. Old habits, et cetera. "But I want that, for both us."