Query is met with a look that's searching-- as though inspecting Clark for signs of insincerity. Bruce nods. Sure. Next time.

For Bruce, the rest of the night involves a freezing cold shower and punching the granite wall during it hard enough to leave bruises on his knuckles. Stop it, he tells himself, vicious in his desire to sever the impulse under his skin to cling to the evening spent, honestly, in good company, enjoying himself. As if it's in the same universe as that simple.

He could have reached out and taken his face in his hands. He could have kissed him. He knows it.

Fuck.

You've already gotten him killed once. Stop it.

He will. He has to. No matter what Clark might think - and surely it's something misguided, if he's looking at Bruce like that at all - it's not worth letting him into, at best, the emotional blast radius of his fucking disaster of a life. Clark deserves infinitely better and-- has it, surely. (Why do you assume everyone but you is monogamous, says the same mutinous voice from earlier. Shut the fuck up, he tells it.)

It's a busy week. He's glad to lose himself in it.