Honestly, he's pretty sure that if he tries to handle food in the next ten minutes, he's going to puke from pure anxiousness, which would be a new experience because he's never spat out anything but blood before.

The glamorous life of a superhero.

"Call for Chinese."

He is so goddamn tired.

"At this rate, you'll end up with the knife in your ceiling, honestly."

And he knows none of them gave a first month's deposit or anything, but it's the principle of the thing. His nerves are absolutely shot, his muscle control is currently at code yellow to seriously questionable, and he has simultaneous, contradictory urges to kiss Bruce again or lock himself in the bathroom.

"And the word is quiche," he clarifies, providing the Kryptonese for it. Or at least the nearest local substitute to such a thing.