Meanwhile, Bruce has found a detour in the space-time continuity that's let him get dressed and make himself presentable (ninja jokes with guys his size don't work, right?), and if not for the brittle look around his eyes, his struggle with consciousness earlier might be believed to be imaginary.

It's too bad that Clark decided to put pants on, he reflects upon being met. Probably a wise move, though. He finds himself slightly anxious to cross paths with the lady of the house, even while scarred hands curl gratefully around the offered cup. Visions of her with Lois dance in his head, set to festive music, and so on.

"Thanks," he says, as coffee is en route to his face. If it's too hot he doesn't seem to give a fuck.

Oh. Uh.

"Merry Christmas."