[ No stitches? Clark lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, slow and even in some conscious attempt at not sounding like an utter tool. ] Oh, thank goodness. I’m terrible with needles… [ And even worse with blood, if the way he pales when he’s made to press the fabric to his own wounds is any indication. He does as told, though—Clark Kent isn’t too well-versed in medical procedures, and as absurd as it might seem to rely so heavily on the expertise of someone who is most definitely still a child, there is a sort of calm, practised aura about him that Clark ends up deferring to almost instinctively.

Ooh, but he certainly does wince if he presses too hard, which is often enough considering his sort of awkward clumsiness. Clark takes a few tries before he finds the right pressure the boy had applied earlier, and then does his best to stay that way.

He manages a wry smile. ] I can certainly try walking. [ But it should be obvious, anyway, that the wound isn’t so bad that he’d be impaired by it.

Clark considers the sweater now pressed against it and makes a mental note to make it up to this boy somehow; he hadn’t wanted to ruin a perfectly good piece of clothing with his own blood, which is about one of the worst ways anyone could ruin anything. ]

Thank you, [ he mentions once they start on their way, his lantern in one hand and the other over the sweater ] for helping me. [ Clark tries not to grit his teeth as he moves, but it’s hard not to whenever he puts weight on the leg of the side affected. ]

I’m, uh, s-sorry about your sweater, though. I think the blood’s ruined it.