Helpfully, while Bruce is out of practice with other men by a vast expanse of time, he is accustomed to fitting his mouth against a shorter person's. It is, in fact, routine (as it must be for all people with his particular dimensions), and so the only angle he's concerned with is finding each new best way they fit together for these exploratory kisses. On a delayed thought, 'exploratory' doesn't seem like the right word; learning, maybe. If there are echoes of relief or need, he worries that they're only coming from him - because who needs Bruce Wayne? And furthermore, what does Kal-El of Krypton possibly need from anyone? Much less an old man who tried to murder him.

That this is happening at all after what Bruce has done to him feels unreal. It's only the lack of horror that tells him it isn't a dream, for his subconscious, clever as it might be, is too disdainful to ever bribe him with a fantasy without suffering.

Clark says You're welcome and Bruce twitches one brow up, looking back into his eyes - it's a shame that it's too dark out here to really see the dual color of them, but he's plenty beautiful as-is standing in the moonlight. Instead of trying for some kind of sassy comeback he tips his head forward for another kiss, and this time he lets the barest edge of withheld roughness bleed through. Desirous and thorough and with a ghosting imprint of white teeth at his lower lip when he pulls away.

There's an awkward, un-Bat-like shuffle, getting socks from his off-hand to the one at Clark's neck. Freed, he pats Shelby's head.

"I'm in the middle of something," he rumbles at the dog. Thump thump. Her tail happily whacks the porch railing.