The other giant man squeezing between overstuffed aisles of tropically colo(u)red merchandise is picking at a rotating display of postcards, and not seeming to do much squeezing. For all his acting ability, Bruce has a difficult time not looking like he moves easy, despite being the broad side of a barn door. The postcards are 75cents each, or 4 for $2, and so, he picks 4.

"Does your mom want one?" he asks Clark at the counter, tapping them. Smalltalk, he's buying them anyway. Also allowing himself to be sold a book of fish stamps to go with. His haul also includes the cup, and a tiny ceramic baby Weddell seal - the trinket kind that come lightly glued to tiny white paper squares. Not even the adult, just the baby. Slightly smaller than a quarter, a little blobby and characterful for the hand-painting. Bruce could get Diana a thousand things, expensive and elegant - his tastes match hers, if he picked out jewelry he's sure she'd wear it - but her collection is fine, and this is funnier. Besides. He knows what kinds of things she keeps. Old photos and watches. She can chuck this in a drawer, forget about it for a century and a half, find it again someday. Why the hell did Bruce get me this.

(Because there are no bats at aquariums.)

The cashier takes a look at Bruce's bandaged hand, and pointedly passes his paper gift bag to Clark. Bruce does not laugh. Barely.