It's funny, the priorities people can have, about death. We never resolved that argument is not something Bruce would think of his late son; perhaps because their arguing was so frequent as to be completely normal. That young man, brilliant and sharp, would hate the way Bruce is so careful of Richard now. He'd hate this, too, knowing Bruce was sitting in the dark holding someone's hand instead of just 'pulling the trigger'. Too soft for him. The nights when the horror of memory became too much and he found himself curled up with his adopted father, seeking that intangible sense of safety, were moments to be ignored as soon as the sun rose.

What are you talking about, Bruce would say, to Clark. You're here. Your mother's here. You love each other. It's worked out.

"I'm just as appealing at parties when I'm not pretending as when I am," Bruce tells him, a little wry. He can't play the socialite asshole, here, just the kind of asshole he is naturally, and that leads to a problem which is self-evident in the wording. Bruce sees no reason to end up causing difficulties with their friends due to his lack of personable graces; at best, he'd be a silent, awkward addition. Maybe Clark thinks he wouldn't mind, that Bruce's company would be worth the strangeness, and that is-- dangerous. And overly optimistic. Clark will mind, in action.

Now's just fine.

Bruce wants to kiss him. It's obvious in the way his fingers are linked against Clark's, the way his pulse has evened out after that phone call only to subtly tick up again. But he hesitates, like maybe it wouldn't be welcome. Like there's any clearer sign than Clark sitting in bed with him in his underwear.