The next morning, Clark was more concerned about Alfred's mood than his own, upon seeing the tight strain on his face when he knocked on Clark's door.
"Is Bruce alright?" Clark immediately asked, unprompted, and at first wondering if he had stepped out of bounds, if this was not his business, yet Alfred did not look displeased with him, only letting out a small sigh before responding.
"In a manner of speaking, yes, he is alright. You may see for yourself though, Mister Kent. He will be joining us for breakfast."
Clark forgot about his previous musings, they suddenly seemed inconsequential, of very little importance, in fact, his musings seemed downright selfish now, as Alfred wheeled him downstairs at what Clark was sure was the same speed he normally pushed the wheelchair, that nevertheless now felt agonizingly slow, as all of Clark's movements had felt agonizingly slow as of late.
It just seemed unspeakably shameful, that Clark had been lost in thoughts that went nowhere, while Bruce had been suffering, and now all he wanted was to see him, and to hear his voice that had caused Clark such petty troubles, and soon enough he got his wish, as Alfred wheeled him into the kitchen and he took in the form of Bruce, hunched over at the round table.
He had already deduced if Bruce was eating, his injuries were not grave, still, it was a relief to see him sitting upright, as Clark took the seat next to him and not across from him, and regardless of the pained set of Bruce's shoulders, his pale face and the darkness under his eyes.
"Have you slept?" Clark asked, skipping pleasantries, and despite knowing the answer.
"Isn't that what I'm supposed to be asking you?" Bruce replied, before adding, "It was a busy night."
"What happened?" Clark inquired.
"Arkham really needs to tighten up their security." Bruce answered evasively, and in the pause that followed Alfred chimed in with. "I was not aware Arkham had any security, sir. I heard they simply implement a revolving door."
Clark was sure his surprise shown on his face at this. He knew Alfred possessed a dry humor, yet he had never heard him quite so scornful as this.
"Who walked out this time?" Clark carried on with the joke regardless, while also trying again for more details.
"Poison Ivy." Bruce supplied.
"Packing quite a punch, I might add." Alfred interjected.
"Among other things. Fortunately, she was not expecting me so soon." Bruce continued, and it was fascinating how coordinated he and Alfred were in their speech, as though speech was not actually a necessity between the two of them, for them to understand each other. Of course they would be, and they only continued to do so, as Alfred commented, "You do have such trouble keeping to a time-table, sir."
It seemed Alfred's dry humor was still present in abundance, enough for even Bruce to respond, "Am I detecting a note of sarcasm, Alfred?"
"You would of course be the expert on that, Master Bruce, however, how would you like your eggs this morning? I dare say scrambled would be appropriate."
"What about hard boiled. Would that also be appropriate?"
"Excellent choice, sir."
"On second thought, let's let our guest decide, shall we? Clark, how would you like your eggs?"
Clark blanched for a moment, to suddenly be the focus of this conversation that he was only barely able to read between the lines of. Only that Alfred was frustrated with Bruce, presumably pertaining to the events of last night, the events Clark had not been able to get a straight answer about, and Bruce was frustrated in return.
"Um… sunny side up?"
At this, Bruce appeared disappointed. "Really? Sunny side up?"
"What's wrong with sunny side up?"
In lieu of answering, Bruce directed his next statement to the chef. "I'll take mine scrambled, Alfred."
Alfred sighed, whilst turning on the stove top, before then explaining, "Don't mind him, Mister Kent. Rather like a vampire, the mere mention of the sun seems to cause him physical pain."
"I prefer the yolks of my eggs to not be a wet, runny mess." Bruce amended.
"It's nice on toast." Clark added, almost despite himself, knowing he was the third wheel in this conversation, as Alfred continued.
"I stand corrected, Mister Kent, though I will happily make you sunny side up eggs."
"That's alright, Alfred. No need to sully another pan. Let's all have same thing. We'll go with your first suggestion: scrambled it is."
"Very well, sir."
Alfred busied himself with the preparation of the much discussed eggs, while Bruce commented, not with any particular malice, yet not particularly approvingly, "Ever the diplomat, aren't you, Clark?"
Still, this was close enough to their usual banter with each other, much more familiar than their previous evening fire side chat, or this intimate morning breakfast, that at least Clark did not struggle with a response, plastering one of his typical modest smiles on his face to say, "I try."
Bruce nodded, as though he had anticipated this answer, and for a time they sat in relative silence, listening to the sizzle of oil, the scrape of the spatula against the pan. Alfred had already set out some drinks and fruit, and while Bruce was helping himself, the sleeve of his t-shirt pulled up, revealing the beginnings of a bruise, and Clark felt a sudden and strange weightlessness at the sight of it, disoriented and disturbed, yet drawn to it, and found himself reaching forward as if in a dream, for the edge of the sleeve, to see how far the bruise extended, and also to try and determine how far it would extend, how much it would cover when it was done forming, how deep the blues and the purples would become, or if they would eventually turn to black, and while doing so only belatedly realized Bruce was outright staring at him, eyes alive but his body frozen, looking at Clark as though he could almost but not quite believe what he was seeing, what Clark was doing, despite catching him red-handed, pulling up the rest of the sleeve.
Clark also knew, once the two of them locked eyes, that Bruce was aware that Clark himself was startled by what he was doing, and that recognition only made Bruce's eyes flash brighter, and the cogs of his mind spin faster, and Alfred, no doubt having some sixth sense that something unusual was happening behind his back, turned and was equally still in his evaluation of the situation, and devoting to it a laser-like focus that was not unlike that of his charge.
Clark could only imagine what their thoughts were, they who were so used to cuts and scapes and bruises, who dealt with even worse, breaks and punctures, how this must seem a dramatic reaction, and not only to them, all the members of the Justice League had to deal with things like this regularly, except Superman, and how alien Clark must seem in comparison.
How barely relatable he must appear, and even more so as he belatedly recognized another of their coping mechanisms, their digs at each other and their teasing, letting off steam and adrenaline, banter that Clark had always had a difficult time participating in, perhaps because he did not have the same sharp edge to his mortality honing his humor, with the only major threat to him being a crystalline material from his own home-world.
Yet Clark did not want this distance, and he wanted to argue, however futilely, that he would not have had these superpowers, if he were still on Krypton, that he would live much as humans lived on Earth, except that was not his fate. His fate was that he did not bruise or break or sprain or bleed. At least, not often, and Bruce's fate was that he did. He did bruise and break and sprain and bleed, even though he took measures to protect himself, and Clark knew how hard Bruce had to have been hit, to do this kind of damage despite his protective suit, and despite the fact that he know both Bruce and Alfred were staring at him, Clark could not stop staring at that bruise, at Bruce, and could not stop himself from asking.
"Ivy really did this?" Him speaking seemed to ease some of the tension that had built up, not entirely, but some, as Alfred returned his attention to the much debated eggs, and Bruce regarded him, and answered guarded.
"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned…" Bruce evaded, cryptic, before changing the subject, "You seem to be feeling better though."
Clark did not follow this line of thought. "What do you mean?"
Bruce's eyebrows furrowed fleetingly before clarifying, perhaps the only time he had truly done so in this conversation, "You're floating."
These words created a blankness in Clark's mind, followed by slow, hazy recognition: the angle he was looking at Bruce was slightly higher than it should be, not by much, only slightly; that he was indeed not in contact with his chair, with his arm extended over the table; that his earlier feeling of weightlessness was not entirely emotional.
He recognized it, yet it did not make sense to him. This… this had never happened to him. His ability to float, despite the apparent ease with which he now took flight, had not come easily to him. It was not something that happened, or something that occurred without him willing it.
Falling however, was much easier, and he fell now, arm still extended across the table, on Bruce's sleeve, and Bruce quickly and automatically compensated for him, pushing him backward so he landed on his chair instead with a clatter, though not without a cost too him. Clark heard Bruce's sharp intake of breath after he did it, could guess the pain it had caused in that already sore shoulder to have done so, and Clark wanted to say something, to apologize, to answer the questions in Bruce's eyes, after he caught his breath, when Clark looked to him after he had regained his orientation.
Instead, Alfred walked over, placing a plate of still steaming scrambled eggs onto the table, then sat down to join them.
"The eggs are done, gentlemen."
"Thanks Alfred. And…" Here Clark paused, a rare feeling of bashfulness overcoming him, as he put his hand on the back of his head, before continuing, "Sorry for almost flipping the table there. I haven't had that much trouble flying since I was first learning. I gave my ma a real fright a few times."
"I can imagine, Mister Kent." Alfred replied, looking at Bruce, meanwhile Bruce was looking at Clark, questions still in his eyes, and he continued to do so throughout the meal, as Clark uncharacteristically fumbled with his fork.