The battlefield voice hits him like a green bullet even if he already looked sick, his head turning like a slap to focus on Bruce. He listens to the words, he does, understands them even. When is to specify a time. I is a pronoun. Say is a verb. He's got this. He's got this.

He's Superman.

And looks nothing so much like a guide animal taking commands until the words translate into meaning. God, what did he do? What the fuck did he just do?

You just assaulted your best friend. That's what you did, Kent.

You assaulted your injured, grieving, poisoned, traumatized best friend.

He was just making some quiche and he wants his glasses so badly he's crushing the handle of the knife in his hand, leaving it a misshapen lump with the imprint of his fingers deep in the metal.

"Of course," he says again, because of course. Because can we maybe not and against the wall and of course you step back and you show him how to make dinner like you said you would and then you leave and you never come back because he doesn't need you, he's never needed you like you need him, because he survived a year without you and you could hardly last fifteen minutes when that meteor exploded

When your brother died in your arms

You've never touched another person you love without their express permission in your entire life because how you feel doesn't require them to feel the same way, no matter how much they care. No matter how deep the bond between you goes.

You take a step back and say

"Okay."