Bruce relaxes. Clark does too, a little, making only a subtle adjustment to make the position less physically awkward, if no less-- otherwise awkward. He awaits instruction, complaint, signal to move -- should probably not wait for any of that and just roll off like a normal person -- and thinks that even with the ability to telescope his vision to identify where subtle silver has threaded itself into Batman's five o'clock stubble from two blocks away, it's different up close. Mutual absorption of detail.

Detail coming attached with opinion, like how his age suits him, how brown eyes no longer seem as murky and walled off as they usually do but like wood cut to transparency and brought to a polish, and wondering what else it might take for Bruce not to school his expression so perfectly.

Beside Bruce's shoulder, his fingers curl inwards, as conscious as a wild animal of movement, brow pulling at the centre. Tension returning, kindled differently.

And then a knee to the torso, too densely made for it to drive the breath out of him but his breath still hitches anyway. Clark rolls as heavily as a log and lands with an over loud thump of his shoulders hitting padded ground. The next breath is a semi-laugh, head falling back against the ground. Cool cool cool.