His insides twist. He stares down at their hands, his in Clark's. Superman could not have helped in in Gotham, not the night he came here, not in the months leading up to it. Those wounds inside and out were all New Jersey machinist noir, all darkness and rain and blood. His Kryptonian strength couldn't have cured Bruce, or fixed Jason, or purified the air. He knows that when he goes back, he won't speak to Clark ever again.

"...I need to sit down."

Bruce will. Will he? Tell him. Maybe. He'll see. But he's not going to do it standing here while Clark's eggs are going cold. It feels like reality playback on pause, and makes him want to ninja out the damn window. He squeezes Clark's hand.