Potentially, Superman's superfeelings could be hurt at the ongoing use of a you that flies by him, but optimistically, he doesn't feel as though that's the aim in this endeavour. He drinks his beer and watches, interested in spite of himself, and does think back to the feeling of trying to fight while his body rebelled against him, while the cold night sky offered him nothing.

"Obviously," he agrees, gracious, not without his brand of low-key humour.

Clink. He sets the bottle down on the rooftop's edge, stepping away from it. He looks down at his own hands, closing them into fists, then tipping a look back up at Bruce. "So how's it supposed to go?"