Kryptonians on Krypton were human, is what Bruce would have said, to that line of thought. Unscientific and factually incorrect as it is. And yet, it must be true, because Kal-El is here and not on some other planet full of emotionless beings. If his body is of the stars, his heart and soul are terran, and that's two versus one.
He's good at it. Being human. Better than Bruce, that's for sure.
There's a look on his face, a flicker of almost-laughing-- perhaps it had been behind his teeth to say So it's not a secret at all, in Smallville?
Because.
Anyway, he's saved, because Clark fills in the blank of the joke for him, breezily outing the recipe as easy as Zod blowing a hole through the roof of the house they're all sat in right now. (Should he have asked Clark about creating a new identity on paper? He could. Can. No one would be able to see through it; the FBI itself could not crack even Bruce's earliest forgeries. Maybe he'll ask. Not today. Making the offer on Christmas would be weird-- though practical. Who doesn't like a practical gift?
Please help him, holiday deities.)
Eggnog is strange. Raw custard and nutmeg and not enough alcohol. He wonders about making it, despite being fully aware it'd be a glass of brandy with a spiced cream garnish. Bruce drinks it even though it bucks up against his preferences, too sweet and cloying, because it seems correct, and because he's pretty sure Marta Kent could get him to eat sandpaper with bit of broken glass if she offered it to him.
Richard would like it.
Brains are the worst.
"What am I doing here?" he asks, when they're outside on the porch watching the snow come down in fat flakes. Ostensibly to take the dog out. He knows it's Clark behind him, not Martha; footsteps. Clark. What am I doing here.
no subject
He's good at it. Being human. Better than Bruce, that's for sure.
There's a look on his face, a flicker of almost-laughing-- perhaps it had been behind his teeth to say So it's not a secret at all, in Smallville?
Because.
Anyway, he's saved, because Clark fills in the blank of the joke for him, breezily outing the recipe as easy as Zod blowing a hole through the roof of the house they're all sat in right now. (Should he have asked Clark about creating a new identity on paper? He could. Can. No one would be able to see through it; the FBI itself could not crack even Bruce's earliest forgeries. Maybe he'll ask. Not today. Making the offer on Christmas would be weird-- though practical. Who doesn't like a practical gift?
Please help him, holiday deities.)
Eggnog is strange. Raw custard and nutmeg and not enough alcohol. He wonders about making it, despite being fully aware it'd be a glass of brandy with a spiced cream garnish. Bruce drinks it even though it bucks up against his preferences, too sweet and cloying, because it seems correct, and because he's pretty sure Marta Kent could get him to eat sandpaper with bit of broken glass if she offered it to him.
Richard would like it.
Brains are the worst.
"What am I doing here?" he asks, when they're outside on the porch watching the snow come down in fat flakes. Ostensibly to take the dog out. He knows it's Clark behind him, not Martha; footsteps. Clark. What am I doing here.