It's a moment before Bruce begins to lose some of the tension in him, raising hands to Clark's elbows in something like a return of that hold. He still feels over-controlled, stilted, but he doesn't pulling away.

"I'm not going to turn into a nice person because you're apologizing," he points out. His breathing has evened out - forced as it is, counting heartbeats in his head, willing himself to calm down. Why the fuck can you leap off buildings and punch monsters in the face but this sends you for a loop? he berates himself, even though he knows full fucking well why. (Every so often, splintered memories of the therapist he'd been dragged kicking and screaming to as an eleven year old. Already too-smart, sounding too-adult, with a doctor looking over at him, uncanny in her observations, speaking to him like he was older, knowing that was the only way to get through. You have to deal with this. He didn't. He won't.)

"You fucked up. Do you understand. I don't need help unless I ask for it. And you can't-- be in that habit, Clark. I'm only going to deteriorate. You're going to have to let me fall."