Bruce let it drop.
Too soon to push.
"This is a nice school," he said instead, looking around the hallways. "Smaller than Gotham Academy but it feels more, I don't know, personal?"
"Yeah, everyone knows each other. For better or worse." Clark led him through the main hallway, pointing out classrooms, the cafeteria, the gym. His tour guide speech was awkward but genuine. He clearly wanted to be helpful.
They passed a display case full of football trophies. Clark's expression tightened slightly.
"Big football town?" Bruce asked.
"Very big. The Crows are kind of everything here. Friday night games, the whole town shows up." Clark's tone suggested he wasn't a fan. "You play any sports?"
"Not competitively. I train in martial arts, but that's more personal than team-oriented."
"Martial arts?" Clark looked interested for the first time. "Like karate?"
"Karate, judo, Brazilian jiu-jitsu, a bunch of others. I've studied different styles over the years." Bruce kept his tone casual, not mentioning he'd mastered 738 different martial arts to a level that would make professional fighters weep due to his proficiency system function.
"It's good for discipline, self-control. Knowing when to fight and when to walk away."
Something flickered in Clark's eyes. Recognition, maybe. "That sounds useful. The self-control part, I mean."
"It is. Especially when you're stronger than you look. Easy to hurt someone by accident if you don't know your own strength." Bruce let that hang in the air for a moment, then added, "Not that I'm that strong. Just something my instructor always emphasized."
Clark went quiet, but Bruce could see him processing the words. The farm boy was smart despite his modest grades. He'd caught the implication.
They finished the tour and headed to first period. English class, reading The Great Gatsby and discussing themes of identity and reinvention. Bruce found himself sitting next to Clark in the back row.
The Smallville teacher, Mr. Harrison, was competent but unexceptional. He led a discussion about Gatsby's manufactured persona and the American Dream. Bruce contributed occasionally, enough to seem engaged but not enough to dominate the conversation.
Clark remained silent the entire class, taking notes but never raising his hand. Bruce noticed him flinch twice at sounds no one else reacted to. Super hearing acting up.
Between first and second period, they had a brief break. Bruce watched Whitney Fordman approach with his two teammates flanking him.
"Hey, Kent," Whitney said, voice loud enough to draw attention. "Heard you got stuck babysitting the rich kid from Gotham. That sucks for you."
Clark's shoulders hunched more. "It's fine, Whitney."
"Yeah? Well, try not to bore him to death with your farm boy routine. Wouldn't want Gotham thinking Kansas is full of losers." Whitney shoved Clark's shoulder as he passed, hard enough that a normal person would have stumbled.
Clark didn't budge. He'd braced himself without thinking, planted his feet. Whitney's shove might as well have been pushing against a wall.
The quarterback's eyes narrowed. "Watch it, Kent."
They moved on, laughing. Clark's hands were shaking.
Bruce waited until they were out of earshot. "Friend of yours?"
"Not exactly." Clark's voice was tight.
"Whitney and I have history. He's dating Lana Lang. She and I are friends. He doesn't like that."
"So he takes it out on you physically and you just accept it?"
"It's not worth fighting about."
"Even when he's clearly in the wrong?"
Clark looked at him, something pained in his expression. "Fighting just makes things worse. Trust me. Better to let it go."
'Because you're afraid you'll hurt him,' Bruce thought. 'You know if you fought back for real, you'd put him through a wall. So you endure it instead.'
'You always hold back, Clark.'
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