[ The only thing that follows Bruce's question is laughter, and after that a quiet (but not any less whingeing) 'ow'.
Clark is eating the soup quite happily, though, despite its lacklustre taste. He hadn't been kidding about the sentiment mattering-- it'd make even lukewarm hotdog water taste like gourmet soup, knowing someone had done something for him specifically. That was how his son's attempts at cooking went for him in ages past, and Jason's skills in the kitchen were a lot worse than whatever it is Bruce managed to do with this stew.
By the time Bruce returns, Clark feels a lot better than he did when he was first found out in the cold night. There's colour in his cheeks, a brightness in his eyes, and a bowl of soup that's only got one more hearty gulp left. Clark takes said gulp before he goes to take the mug of coffee offered to him, and as he cradles the bowl in his hand, he looks with wide eyes at the drink he takes in the other like he can't believe what he's seeing.
Coffee! Is it the fact he knows he's dead that makes the whole thing seem like a godsend? It's not like canned goods don't exist out here, given Bruce's stew's main ingredients. But then, again, Clark's sentiment goes a long way. ]
"Never forgive you"? For-- for what, not serving me filet mignon? [ After he's bent to put the bowl down on the floor, Clark holds the mug in two hands like a child holds anything precious. ] We make do with what we have, and you didn't have to make any of this for me in the first place.
[ He grins. It is the most confident he's looked so far. ] My standards are just fine.
I'll admit, though, [ and he leans in slightly in a very careful attempt not to jostle his wound, his voice lowered in a conspiratorial whisper ] the coffee does smell better than the soup.
[ Coffee that he sips... and then goes 'wagh, hot!' at, after. ]
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Clark is eating the soup quite happily, though, despite its lacklustre taste. He hadn't been kidding about the sentiment mattering-- it'd make even lukewarm hotdog water taste like gourmet soup, knowing someone had done something for him specifically. That was how his son's attempts at cooking went for him in ages past, and Jason's skills in the kitchen were a lot worse than whatever it is Bruce managed to do with this stew.
By the time Bruce returns, Clark feels a lot better than he did when he was first found out in the cold night. There's colour in his cheeks, a brightness in his eyes, and a bowl of soup that's only got one more hearty gulp left. Clark takes said gulp before he goes to take the mug of coffee offered to him, and as he cradles the bowl in his hand, he looks with wide eyes at the drink he takes in the other like he can't believe what he's seeing.
Coffee! Is it the fact he knows he's dead that makes the whole thing seem like a godsend? It's not like canned goods don't exist out here, given Bruce's stew's main ingredients. But then, again, Clark's sentiment goes a long way. ]
"Never forgive you"? For-- for what, not serving me filet mignon? [ After he's bent to put the bowl down on the floor, Clark holds the mug in two hands like a child holds anything precious. ] We make do with what we have, and you didn't have to make any of this for me in the first place.
[ He grins. It is the most confident he's looked so far. ] My standards are just fine.
I'll admit, though, [ and he leans in slightly in a very careful attempt not to jostle his wound, his voice lowered in a conspiratorial whisper ] the coffee does smell better than the soup.
[ Coffee that he sips... and then goes 'wagh, hot!' at, after. ]