As a big city journalist whom Perry delighted in giving bullshit stories ever since he was brought on fulltime and is probably Superman, Clark has no excuse either, and yet, here we are. Being serious, gently, under a flat white sky and a sign advertising Christmas trees now sold out. He kisses Bruce's mouth, shallow and then just a little deeper, and then against his cheek, his jaw, other hand hanging onto coat, before pulling back again.

"I hear you," he promises, in close proximity. "And it's okay."

Bruce doesn't have to be good at anything, as far as Clark cares. As long as he's this, and they can be this together. At the back of his mind: hadn't Lois worried, too? In different ways, with different concerns, but it's always the other person who worries.

('Always', like he's had this experience more than twice. But it 'always' ends the same, kissing it away, loving it to irrelevance.)

He pulls himself in closer, before letting his grip on Bruce slacken. "Thanks for the presents, by the way. I looked. Sorry." A by now familiar bitey smile. Welcome to this particular world order, Bruce Wayne. Lois hates this too.