[ Bruce trails off, perplexed, as he looks sideways at Clark. He doesn't intend for the question to hang, but the absence of what he needs to fill in throws him off. That uncertainty should be soothed by the laugh (how does he know that?) but something about the soft noise ruffles the hair on the back of his neck.
It's not bad. He thinks.
But he doesn't think much about it, because then he sees what he intuits might just be his. Bruce stops short at the sight of the name at the base of a black stone monument weathered by the environment. He can't tell what the hunched shape on top of it is supposed to be, grieving angel or avenging gargoyle, and he doesn't know that it matters.
Bruce Wayne, it says. He can't make out the dates. He doesn't think those matter either. What catches his attention like a hook is the flash of something shining in the dirt at its base, something that stutters his heartbeat, makes his fingers twist in the fabric of Clark's shirt at his forearm and his side. ]
Yes.
[ His voice is a closed, flat rasp. He keeps staring. It doesn't occur to him not to. ]
no subject
[ Bruce trails off, perplexed, as he looks sideways at Clark. He doesn't intend for the question to hang, but the absence of what he needs to fill in throws him off. That uncertainty should be soothed by the laugh (how does he know that?) but something about the soft noise ruffles the hair on the back of his neck.
It's not bad. He thinks.
But he doesn't think much about it, because then he sees what he intuits might just be his. Bruce stops short at the sight of the name at the base of a black stone monument weathered by the environment. He can't tell what the hunched shape on top of it is supposed to be, grieving angel or avenging gargoyle, and he doesn't know that it matters.
Bruce Wayne, it says. He can't make out the dates. He doesn't think those matter either. What catches his attention like a hook is the flash of something shining in the dirt at its base, something that stutters his heartbeat, makes his fingers twist in the fabric of Clark's shirt at his forearm and his side. ]
Yes.
[ His voice is a closed, flat rasp. He keeps staring. It doesn't occur to him not to. ]