He came into the room through the door instead of past the door. The feeling of his body’s molecules vibrating just the right way to get him where he was without having to turn a doorknob was enough to nearly throw him off balance. He felt a brief, passing sting that came and went and he wrote it off as his imagination, because it wasn’t pain and it wasn’t there long enough to be annoying. His stumble was abrupt. It was fleeting and he caught himself, regaining perfect stability so that he could stare down the ghost (Lex?) without looking like a total klutz who had (apparently) just learned how to walk (or run/fall) through solid objects.
Clark was beside him, where he had gone to fumble for the doorknob that Bart hadn’t touched. He put his hand on his arm, out of instinct to pull him back, further away from the glow of the kryptonite and from the thing that looked exactly like Lex Luthor.
There were instances when Bart could be so far away from playful and innocent and endearing. This was one of those instances. His eyes darkened. He glowered, and it wasn’t one of his you took my toy and now I’m not going to talk to you for an hour glares; it was sharp. He was rigid but ready to move.
“If that’s as real as it looks I’m going to rip it off your finger.”