It'd be easy to dismiss that, of course not, and Clark takes a breath like he might sigh it out, but he does neither thing. Faces the question instead, allowing the focus to pull to him for a moment.

"No," does feel important to say, regardless. "You wouldn't have bet the world on bringing me back if you were afraid of me. If any part of you was."

Clark keeps that hold on Bruce's hand. It feels odd, to say that out loud, because it feels like a given truth but also weighted and leaden. He knows the responsibility Bruce feels for him dying in the first place. Having his life in Bruce's hands, even a year and a half after the fact, is just the other side of that coin. But that's all to say: that he lives and breathes feels like a testament to trust. They hadn't known each other, not until it was all too late.

He drops his attention to their joined hands, letting his thoughts unwind down this path, letting the conversation divert and feel its way around. "When I came back," he says, "when I could think straight, anyway, I knew you'd done it for a reason. And once I worked that much out, all I wanted to do was learn what it was. And show up."

Even the part of him that wanted to lay down in a cornfield with Lois Lane for ten years was willing to wait a minute.

"That hasn't really gone away," rueful.