The laugh in Tim's voice is more a quietly huffed exhalation. Just be. Can he really? Does he even remember how that's supposed to work? Who even is he anymore, out here under the alien stars, still surviving when by all accounts he shouldn't be?

"You make it sound so easy," he answers, turning his head towards Clark, offering a smile, mingled rue and self-deprecation in the look. "Honestly, I've spent so long being other things I'm not sure I remember how to just be." It feels complicated. Like he can't slow down, even now, here, laying on his back in a grassy field, like his head's still going a thousand miles an hour. Maybe it's just the interdimensional jet lag.