If Clark had not heard the call that came before, if he'd not wandered the retired halls of Wayne Manor, he might make fun, with that's a boring thing to say, Bruce: the cynicism, the aloofness. He finds himself swerving around a lot of jokes that seem to poke at the bruises he's uncovering, as time wears on. Glad that he's uncovering them.

He invites himself in further, despite that look, all the way to taking a seat for himself at the edge of the bed, mattress dipping beneath dense weight.

"Me too," he says, unbelievably, given black wrapping paper and table setting and the entire evening, and doesn't let the statement stand unqualified for long. The timbre of his voice is always a little deeper when he's being quiet. Warmer. "Used to, I mean, because I missed it. The times I couldn't come home, you know, 'cause of the money and the distance, or just." Or just.

That he couldn't. Shame and guilt. He has no earthly idea what lies between Bruce Wayne and Richard Grayson, but he knows there's tons of reasons a kid might not pick up the phone when his parent calls him, even on Christmas.

Like maybe it's late and he's partying, Clark doesn't know, but knows enough to assume maybe not just that. A natural inclination to keep something unsaid has him just shrugging a little, letting his own recollection go implied.

"I'm glad you made it out. Three's not a crowd, here. I know mom's been wanting to do something nice." For you. For Christmas. Either or.