Your friend with the key won't even hold your hand? that daft girl had asked, and then there had been no response that Bruce could see. He'd understood in a heartbeat, in that absence. Still hasn't inspected it too closely-- not over any squeamishness, but he's so overloaded with everything else it was just too much. Oh, he'd thought, and left it.

Oh he thinks again now. And there's no leaving it.

(His heartrate does speed up this time. Damnit.)

Bruce doesn't protest, doesn't play dead or tense up, but he doesn't return it, either. He's too busy processing what's happening and what it feels like and if he can deal with someone this size pressing him into a wall to react. He's still holding Clark's glasses in one hand, hands that are against the other man's shoulders. It's nice. Better than he might have imagined, if he'd ever let himself imagine it. He thinks he likes the way Clark smells.

"That explains some things," he says softly when they're apart. It's not disdainful or wry. He's gentle.

His heart is still sped up, though, and as he stands there he thinks of the absolute last thing he wants to think of

Just you and me forever

sees in his mind's eye the absolute last thing he wants to see

All deep inside you

and the way his pulse trips is not one of passion but of panic.

"Can we maybe," he begins, still managing to sound calm, "not against the wall."

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.