Clark was equally sincere, and poking fun at him, something Bruce found disconcerting. He fixed Clark with a narrow eyed look and made a non-committal sound. "I was there for my own purposes. If I contributed anything in return, I'm sure they considered it payment."
Bruce idly wondered if Clark had already eaten before he'd left Metropolis, but was even more curious to know, "How did your parents afford to feed you on a farmer's income? I can't imagine how much more you ate as a teenager." Bruce had acquired five children who had passed through their teens in his home; he knew how much they could eat, and Clark surpassed them all.
"You mean... a slumber party?" If his expression wasn't skeptical enough, his voice dripped with sarcasm. "Clark. Are we going to stay up all night and tell ghost stories and eat those marshmallow things?" Bruce had already been planning on staying the whole day. He wouldn't tell Clark that, though. Heading for the house ahead of his friend, he also wouldn't admit that the idea of staying till the next day held a strange appeal he couldn't quite describe. It made him cranky. "I'm not twelve, Kent."