Getting Bruce's agreement to spend time, to share in something, to keep furthering whatever they have along without protest, still comes with a hint of satisfaction. Minor, here, like the click of a puzzle piece going into place. The smile it brings around isn't visible from Bruce's angle. Privately there.

And then Bruce steps out of Clark's vision, which just means he has his other senses to go off of. The shift in temperature of another body near his, the ever present signal of his heartbeat, the general collection of auditory, sensory input that seems to operate on a subconscious level to give Clark the general physiological awareness of someone standing behind him.

He sighs out when Bruce's hands make their way up his spine, head bowing. Not all relief has to be physical. He is not tense, but that doesn't mean he can't relax a little more.

Bruce's words send his mind back to the thing he was saying, the ocean being a friend—but only from the perspective of the beach. He's seen the ocean a lot since he learned how to fly, more than making up for a landlocked childhood, and hovering between a lightning-forked sky and the roiling churn of the gigantic sea makes the earth seem like the strange and unknowable planet it's supposed to be for an alien. It's not all bad, it's not all good.

Clark is happy to soak up a backrub even after he's rinsed the last of the soap off his body, but eventually turns around, expression serene. His hands, reaching out to glide his palms over the muscle slabbed over Bruce's ribcage, this extreme control behind gentleness offset by the fact he can tug Bruce's considerable self to him just like

this

without any effort, a smile breaking across his face and only visible for a moment before he noses up under Bruce's jaw.