"He can get in line," Clark says, of the fish, nerd glasses now likewise folded and tucked into his pocket. Only when he lifts the phone and captures them adequately in the rectangle frame and sharpens up his smile does he worry that maybe he should not, given the way this whole day began, which feels like from another world.

Well.

Click.

He takes the picture, their stupid faces taking up a lot of real estate but there's the tank behind them, and streaks of silver from schooling fish. He checks the gallery to see if the job he did was good, other hand drifting to Bruce's back. There are other photos like this, Lois-y ones for the most part, beach days and picnics and brunches, and also one of Diana, all of a similar genre. One without himself in it, of Barry and Arthur across a table somewhere noisy, half-filled pints, not noticing surreptious phototaking. Martha, in her sun hat, holding a trowel and looking embarrassed for the attention, and pleased by it too.

There's no instragram for these, obviously, and he is not actually That Guy about photos, but a collection's begun to form since he came back from the dead. New habits. It's probably unrelated.

Clark shows the picture to Bruce, for his satisfaction.