[ Despite his harmless aura, Bruce is still very (normal human) sturdy, when grabbed onto. He doesn't sway, and is as solid as a statue for Barry to use as a balancing post. A lot of real estate, between his shoulders.

Pause. Stare. There's always a kind of film edit sensation when Barry does that, to Bruce's overclocked brain, not to mention the static feeling along the fine hairs at the back of his neck.

You know I busted you via shitty liquor store security cam, his gaze seems to say. ]

Everything's fine, though it all kind of tastes like the same cooking oil. [ A verbal shrug. No one's here because it's high class cuisine. ] I have it on good authority that the blueberry pancakes are 'excellent' but will turn to cement in your stomach.

[ With Barry, though, who knows. The waitress does appear, then, 'right there' as promised, and she slaps a menu down in front of Bruce. Having either noticed that Barry already had one, or managed to observe his zoom, through some kind of magic waitress power. Drinks? Drinks. Bruce gets black coffee, which smells scalded when poured from the carafe she snags off the counter, and presumably Barry gets something completely normal and not a gallon of Shirley Temple. (Maybe? Maybe.) In the distance, a siren, and nearby, another patron loudly playing Candy Crush on his phone. ]

Have you been spending any time with Victor?