[It's- slightly more than that. Bruce had grown up with someone to care for him, to make all of his meals, if they're going to stay on that subject. And he'd at times chosen to live the live of a stoic- he'd chosen to stay on the streets with Selina for a time. He'd gotten through the annexing of Gotham the way everyone else had, with the same limited supplies. But there's a significant divide between the expectation of what eating out of cans every day would be like, and the reality. This, the bowl in Clark's hands with mystery meat and bits of potato and what once might have been vegetables- is the reality. It doesn't smell terrible, but it doesn't look great either.

The matter is quite literally out of his hands regardless. Clark takes the bowl and Bruce notes silently that in their brief touch that there's a reassuring warmth to his skin. It's a good sign. He withdraws and moves back out of the room, but his voice carries.] Have you considered that your standards are too low?

[It would probably be best for Clark to stay the night. There are beds upstairs but Bruce can really only ethically offer his own, besides- he rarely uses it anyway. Though he's admittedly less concerned about the pair of them making it up the stairs than he is about convincing him to stay in the first place. There's a line between chivalrous and self-sacrifice that's easier to address in others than in himself.

When he returns a short while later its with his long sleeves gathered up around his elbow, just enough to bare his wrists. And most importantly, it's with two mugs of coffee in his hands.]

I'm your host, for all intents and purposes. And I can think of one person from home that would never forgive me otherwise.