A light jab. Isn't there a kitten up a tree. Has to defend against the decisive opener of pajamas without looking like he's defending. Bruce does not sound more stressed out by that, even in the deepest recesses of his ventricles, but he sort of is. To tell him now— you can't stay, actually, I want to be alone— is a bigger disagreement than Bruce wants.

Eyebrows go up, in response to that question, and he glances around. Computers, notes on a corporate case in progress, monitors for a few sketchy downtown blocks.

"Doing the same as ever," he says. "Why, do I sound like I have cancer, or something?"

It occurs to him as he says it, deadpan 'humor' aside, that Clark could probably tell if he did. And isn't that thrilling. He tries not to stare too hard; he's missed him. But that doesn't really matter.