Bruce's life is all weird shit. It makes all the rest - domestic cohabitation, Clark smiling at him like that - completely insane. Normal is screws in his vertebrae, a shithole city, isolating himself, the paradoxical situation of being a monster that's only free when he puts on a literal mask. He doesn't want to be struggling, he doesn't want to be digging his heels in, but it's not easy, all of this.

He imagines it isn't easy for Clark, either, despite that smile. Bruce has come to the conclusion that he papers over quite a lot; pretty antique farmhouse wallpaper, even. Right over the cracks. Good as new.

Well. Maybe there aren't any right now, and it's just one of those things Bruce can't fucking wrap his head around. Treat it like a case, he thinks.

One eyebrow goes up. "Are you trying to get me to slack off on my very important crime fighting?"