Expensive hotels, ordered food, lying around in bed - favored activities, for Bruce and his various paramours. Unusual is how quiet this is, how unfrantic, how safe. He still likes it the other way: if Selina texted him the address of the Gotham West Hilton and her room number he'd go, and they'd leave a whole host of bruises and scrapes on each other, spilled champaign, maybe a broken window, someone else's call to security about the inevitable screaming match that would later simmer back down to whispered passions. That's what he's used to. He's not used to Clark's subtle humor, his keen observations and gentleness despite it, or the surreal experience of remembering how to feel again. He's not used to his own capacity for care being acknowledged, much less appreciated.

Turns out he likes it.

"I think," leaning back, one knee up, a stray plate at the very end of the bed on the corner, "that the only options are eating everything or nothing. If you judge based on intelligence, it's like you said, everything's smart at something. If you judge based on morality, you're either using a purely subjective sliding scale, which is nonsense, or you have to make a scientific baseline, which is not moral. So when you boil down to the last equation there's no difference between eating a human or eating a pillbug. And then there's the problem of: if it's morally wrong to consume a human for food, because of damage to the human, then is it morally wrong to consume crops harvested by veritable slave labor? To say nothing of the ethics of where drinkable water comes from and how its distributed, anymore."

Okay, well.

Bruce sips his beer.

Silently.

Anyway, "Alfred said he was involved in a project to train an octopus as a spy, once. My night was fine."