The chair is urged aside, and it skitters off like ten feet with barely a nudge, somehow non-violent despite the casual display of great strength. Pain makes divots at Clark's brow, but not for some reminder about his own strange mortality, but for how wrong it feels for Bruce to say something like that. Bruce, who saved him, who did so in a way that didn't feel like he was summoning some Superman-shaped angel to save the day, but who put Clark back in those shoes. Who saved Martha, and brought Lois to him, and gave him back his home.
It's a lot to think and feel and impossible to articulate in this moment without sounding insane, and all the more frustrating because he didn't think this was brand new information, or minimised so much under the spectre of I killed you.
So Clark doesn't, you know, try. He steps forward though, suddenly right there, suddenly with his hands up and gentle against the sides of Bruce's face. It feels like a dangerously fine line, between being too much and overcorrecting into too little, but at a certain point, he generally follows his instinct.
"You brought me back," he says, steady, earnest, like he could make all this real simple, real fast, if Bruce would let him. "And this is where I wanna be. Don't send me away."
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It's a lot to think and feel and impossible to articulate in this moment without sounding insane, and all the more frustrating because he didn't think this was brand new information, or minimised so much under the spectre of I killed you.
So Clark doesn't, you know, try. He steps forward though, suddenly right there, suddenly with his hands up and gentle against the sides of Bruce's face. It feels like a dangerously fine line, between being too much and overcorrecting into too little, but at a certain point, he generally follows his instinct.
"You brought me back," he says, steady, earnest, like he could make all this real simple, real fast, if Bruce would let him. "And this is where I wanna be. Don't send me away."