It feels almost ill-gotten, this acquiescence on both their parts, but Clark will take it. The alternative feels wrong, even more wrong than letting someone fall. Like letting himself fall.

But Bruce against him feels like relief, and he settles into the hold, fingers curling in a fold of fabric, breath felt against Bruce's neck. Familiar baking heat that seems to emanate from the core of him, transferred easily in the crush of their bodies together. His temple brushes against Bruce's, before he tips as if to--

Well he doesn't, actually, kiss him, and not for a lack of desiring to do so. Maybe remembering his witless pawing the night before, and deciding to welcome it rather than initiate.

"Good," he says, in the interim, fingertips finding where shirt collar ends and skin at the back of Bruce's neck begins.