Bruce sits down next to him, his movements measured. He still has Clark's glasses, clipped at some point in the collar of his sweater, a silent hostage. No verbal answer, not yet. He takes one of Clark's hands and turns it palm up in both of his, holding it, running one thumb over the lines there - superstitious nonsense, lifelines.

"You're right that I'm not ready to deal with this right now. And neither are you, not really." His deep voice is subdued, looking at Clark's hand. Now he looks up, gaze calm. "Can we just sit together, just for now. Just shut up for a little while and be here."