Quippiness of this line utterly spoiled with distraction, because what the fuck. The gentleness mingled with intimacy almost has Clark reversing that subtle withdraw, the desire to luxuriate in gentle touches and the slightly assumptive, soft way Bruce is going about all this is a powerful deterrent against going inside. It's ridiculous. What the fuck is wrong with him. All he does is kind of go still, then tip his head to bump temple to Bruce's in slightly doggish affection.
They go inside. Martha is doing a pretty good impression of having not seen anything, although the slightly evasive eye contact with Clark in specific while they do the last of the dishes is confirmation enough and he feels-- like he should probably want to die about it, but abstractly does not.
Probably 'cause she's still smiling like that at Bruce as she shows him to the guest room they've prepared, asking if he's got all he needs. Good enough.
They turn in early, relatively speaking. It's cold and deeply dark, anyway, and Clark lies in his old room and listens to Martha easing into her early-to-bed, early-to-rise routine slumber. He is busy staring fixedly at the ceiling. Thinks about calling Lois. Hey, you know that thing we talked about? I have some developments. But how're the folks? That's it, for people he could talk to, with his mom asleep, and Diana still qualifies as Bruce's friend, anyway.
So that's fine. He's just regressed into his sixteen-year-old self, lying where he's lying now, thinking about every stupid thing he'd managed to say to Lana Lang that day.
Bed springs shift, a half-motion towards getting out of bed. He redirects his focus to the guest room, mostly just to confirm if Bruce is also awake, or if he's turned into a pumpkin with promptness. Bare feet silent where they touch down, gravity whatever he makes of it, he goes to step out into the cold, dark hallway.
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Quippiness of this line utterly spoiled with distraction, because what the fuck. The gentleness mingled with intimacy almost has Clark reversing that subtle withdraw, the desire to luxuriate in gentle touches and the slightly assumptive, soft way Bruce is going about all this is a powerful deterrent against going inside. It's ridiculous. What the fuck is wrong with him. All he does is kind of go still, then tip his head to bump temple to Bruce's in slightly doggish affection.
They go inside. Martha is doing a pretty good impression of having not seen anything, although the slightly evasive eye contact with Clark in specific while they do the last of the dishes is confirmation enough and he feels-- like he should probably want to die about it, but abstractly does not.
Probably 'cause she's still smiling like that at Bruce as she shows him to the guest room they've prepared, asking if he's got all he needs. Good enough.
They turn in early, relatively speaking. It's cold and deeply dark, anyway, and Clark lies in his old room and listens to Martha easing into her early-to-bed, early-to-rise routine slumber. He is busy staring fixedly at the ceiling. Thinks about calling Lois. Hey, you know that thing we talked about? I have some developments. But how're the folks? That's it, for people he could talk to, with his mom asleep, and Diana still qualifies as Bruce's friend, anyway.
So that's fine. He's just regressed into his sixteen-year-old self, lying where he's lying now, thinking about every stupid thing he'd managed to say to Lana Lang that day.
Bed springs shift, a half-motion towards getting out of bed. He redirects his focus to the guest room, mostly just to confirm if Bruce is also awake, or if he's turned into a pumpkin with promptness. Bare feet silent where they touch down, gravity whatever he makes of it, he goes to step out into the cold, dark hallway.