Alfred's gaze on his ward is immediately accusatory at the way Clark reaches out to him. (He'll get used to it-- it's not that Clark is a man, not even that the situation is unorthodox, he just worries. About everyone, but especially Bruce, and it's easier to appear generally disapproving than admit he's afraid Superman will break his alcoholic disaster child's heart.)
Despite that look, one arm slips around Clark's back, holding him up and close. There is something in Bruce's chest that's still trembling, thinking about Clark being dead or permanently damaged. Because of me. Because he dove in there trying to help me. If we weren't-- he wouldn't have.
"It's okay," he says, of car beeping, and realizes just how fast his heart's beating. Relief hasn't quite taken hold yet, but there's at least a ribbon of it cutting through his anxiety at being in the same room with him, at being able to touch him. He reaches out and tilts a readout screen to an angle that permits him to read it.
"Depressed behavioral inhibitory center in the cerebral cortex," he's murmuring, "Lowered glutamate, stimulated hypoth-- uh."
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Despite that look, one arm slips around Clark's back, holding him up and close. There is something in Bruce's chest that's still trembling, thinking about Clark being dead or permanently damaged. Because of me. Because he dove in there trying to help me. If we weren't-- he wouldn't have.
"It's okay," he says, of car beeping, and realizes just how fast his heart's beating. Relief hasn't quite taken hold yet, but there's at least a ribbon of it cutting through his anxiety at being in the same room with him, at being able to touch him. He reaches out and tilts a readout screen to an angle that permits him to read it.
"Depressed behavioral inhibitory center in the cerebral cortex," he's murmuring, "Lowered glutamate, stimulated hypoth-- uh."
Alfred raises his eyebrows, exasperated. See?
Huh.
"He's drunk."