Clark is right: Bruce wouldn't have done what he did. He had to push through the doubts of others, not just from his newfound allies but from Alfred, his only confidant, and keep an iron grip on faith that it was the correct path even in the face of Superman's hostile, mindless return. If his trust wasn't perfectly complete, if he had even a spark of fear, he wouldn't have been able to make himself, much less bodily haul the rest of them along.

He thinks about that, and watches Clark, his expression grave and grateful. Taking it deadly seriously, as it is. Bruce squeezes his hand. He might lean in for a kiss, but just leveling him with this look, mood laid bare, feels even more intimate.

Thank you. You're right. I'm sorry. This has been more than anyone should be asked to shoulder.

Bruce feels less out to sea, appreciative of the light (and possibly imaginary) reproach over— of course this matters to Clark beyond it merely upsetting Bruce, or a nebulous 'maybe' of something unimaginable. He treats his own resurrection with such easygoing disregard sometimes that Bruce has, apparently, found himself fooled into going along with that.

So.

That question.

(Woodstock: pingpingping, on the countertop. Cheery.)

"If they're not nonsense," he begins, with careful deliberation, "and I am looking for a sense of control, where I start is with the man who killed Jason."