Rather than sit up, Clark has rolled lazily onto his back, arm bent back beneath his head. The over-gelled sidepart that has inspired its own thinkpieces in our time is gone in choppy wilder curls, clothes rumpled and possibly too little of them to be considered decent. Which is apparently fine, because that was indecent, Bruce, Clark's eyebrows going up before his face splits into smile.

"Okay," is the disbelieving to Bruce's exasperated when he's the one that Just Says Things. Then, mock seriously; "I mean. Probably. It's a family holiday, Bruce."

Now he coils up to sit in a slow and lazy stretch, chest bumping into the back of Bruce's curled shoulder. His hand rests lightly at the small of his back, travels upwards, as if sensing those little points of pain, and not ready to stop doing this just yet. "How about a cup of coffee? I'm gonna assume you take yours black."

Little joke. But despite his wilful partaking in the major food groups under this particular rooftop, Bruce strikes him as a non-dairy, anti-sugar kind of guy.