But-- [ Whatever attempt at protest Clark might have made is swiftly dampened out by the most matter of fact listing of details he's ever heard. He's not sure what this has to do with anything for a while there, his brow lifting and his expression screwing up somewhat in thought, but then Bruce brings up chefs and it all dawns on him quite swiftly. ]

Are you trying to, to tell me your food isn't very good?

[ That's what it sounds like, anyway. Clark was primed for argument already, but suddenly Bruce has closed the space between them. He's there, holding the bowl out towards him, and Clark finds himself taking another sniff and thinking, well, it still smells pretty good, so what's the problem?

Up close like this, the steam is more obvious in the air. Just looking at it instills a sort of comforting warmth, even though the motion of his hands and the brush of his fingers over Bruce's sort of gives Clark's own heat away. ]

I promise I won't expect a five-star meal, okay? [ That's neutral territory, isn't it? He's not sure, really, if Bruce is seeking approval or something of the sort, but he seems like a man of facts, and so facts are what Clark gives him.

He dips his head and blows at the soup, thumb brushing gently against the bowl. ] ...but you don't have to worry about taste, Bruce.

Frankly, I-- I'm just touched you made something for me at all. [ That's what makes cooking for someone else as tender a gesture as it is.

He takes the first sip, which is indeed not at all that extravagant, but is warm in a perfect metaphor for the feelings that having Bruce take care of him evokes. Is the stew too hot? He can't tell. Hopefully it isn't too strange he doesn't react with a burnt tongue. ]

Mm. [ Clark nods his head, glancing up at him. ] It's perfect.