There was something meditative in simply taking the hits, and there's something meditative in receiving these gentle touches too. Clark draws his elbows in enough to rest his chin on his forearm, feeling all those points of tension work themselves out like something draining away. Arousal is there, affecting, occupying, but it can wait.

He gives a soft, abashed laugh at that comment. Yes, that sure happened, happened intensely enough that he was close to throwing their whole agenda out the window.

It seems kind of precious to be squeamish about the prospect of putting his mouth on Bruce's mouth, at this point. "I don't want you going anywhere," he says. His voice is rougher at the edges, eyes hooding as he feels Bruce's palm skim over sensitive flesh. He'll be grateful tomorrow for his own healing, but for now, is almost as curious about the way all that lingers as he was about acquiring it in the first place.

Speaking of, "How're your hands?"