Clark didn't take long. Soon enough, he was walking out with a bathrobe wrapped around him and his hair hastily dried with a towel. He didn't say anything; he just walked over to the bed, crawled on, and put his head down next to Bruce's.

He couldn't say thank you, because in the same way that Clark wouldn't accept his apologies, Bruce didn't like to accept Clark's appreciation. But in that moment, he was so grateful that his skin practically buzzed with it.

He hadn't trusted himself. He hadn't trusted himself to go out and he'd asked Bruce, whether there'd been a question mark at the end of his sentences or not, and Bruce had trusted him. Bruce had told him to go. And because of that, many many people were alive.

And a small part of him was angry at himself, angry at his own fear for what it had almost cost others. But a much bigger part of himself was too busy being thankful and settled near Bruce in his new bed, in his new home, so so glad he hadn't been flying back to an empty apartment. He wasn't sure he would have been able to handle that at the moment.

"I'll shampoo that part of the rug," was what he finally said, and he almost sounded matter-of-fact. "I'm assuming you have a rug cleaner?"