Most times, it seems, Bruce should just be left to suffer. Isolated, in the dark, the damage is minimized; he only hurts himself. Imagine how much less strange this day would have been if Clark hadn't cared so much.

"Mm." About the convincing. Like: I will, so.

Since he's offering, Bruce forks over the wrapper, and then smiles at him in that jagged-edge socialite way he did back at that awful library benefit. It's just as performative, but funnier these days on account of just how bullshit Clark knows it to be—

And how sexual it obviously is.

"You're a saint, Kent."

Yes, more coffee, please. And when that's sorted out, they're off to the aquarium, which is far from bustling on a week day, but not empty. The parking garage is uninspired, littered with cars spanning Gotham's usual wide range, junkers to luxury. Bruce's isn't even the nicest one, which says something about the nature of the city; opportunity and intrigue often does much more than safety. It's a shithole, and yet there are jobs, and engaging politics, and diverse schools. Gotham City is always fucking trying, which is more than many other, better places can say.

In his hat, Bruce looks slightly more unremarkable. Probably only a few chaperoning parents and the odd manager would recognize him anyway, these days. Which is a relief. Bruce does not miss being the height of useless celebrity, no matter how it's worked out alright for a cover.

"Sharks or eels, first?"