And that... hurts. His hands on the desk don't tap but one of them curls in, not into a fist but it's definitely clenched. Something about Bruce's words... his throat feels tight and what had seemed like such a simple issue, such a simple solution, apparently wasn't. Because he's not-- he doesn't know what he feels but it hurts and he's actually ashamed of the fact that the thought swings through his mind. The one wild, stupid, insane thought that said that at least the wasteland had been simple.

Hell, but a simple hell.

He couldn't put this on Bruce. Bruce shouldn't have to handle him like this, this shattered bastardization of the person he loved. He'd never felt like he lived up to half of what people thought of Superman and now he knew he didn't because he was just such a live wire, ready to spark at the least thing. Ready to strike. Bruce's own kid had suffered for it already. How long until Alfred tried to sneak in to leave him breakfast and something happened. Or he did as Bruce had asked and--

"You're right," he said, and the first word was strangled but the second was dead. "That isn't feasible."

You invited Superman to live with you and you expect it to be Superman and if I can't even help myself from hurting the person I love more than anything without tracking his every twitch and beat and breath--

"I'll go to the Fortress until I'm less... volatile."