Clark's mouth presses into a line of protest, at first, but this gentles at the rest, eyes hooded as he thinks that through, absorbs it. It's not you, he'd said, has said before, when it comes to that spiral that Luthor had sent him down, and even in the context of trauma, of fragility, of treatment and its fallibility, the sentiment stands. If either of them were wholly defined by their worst moments, no matter the cause of those moments, and if those moments wholly defined their futures, they wouldn't be here.

"Maybe," he says. Not doubtfully, really. For prophetic dreams, they sound like they get under Bruce's skin more profoundly than they need to. Clark's hand gently sweeps down Bruce's spine. "I guess the question is, if it distorts the delivery, does it corrupt the message?"