It seems like the kind of activity that invites solitude. Requires it. Having touched down, gently, on the rooftop of the manor, Clark listens to the steady heartbeat that, among a few, have become familiar to his ear, peering out into the darkness where he can detect Bruce walking. Drifting. Not where he thought he'd be.

Considers leaving him alone, but it's not his natural instinct, personally. Leaving things alone.

A flutter of cold wind. In the bleak Gotham evening, colours of blue and red are rendered into shades of deep grey. He lands at a respectable distance, shock absorbed into bent knees, several feet behind. Probably, if there were an emergency, he would say so, instead of, upon standing up,

"Hey."