[Vanitas watches him with the kind of wary skepticism reserved for wild animals- his gaze scrutinizes Bruce's face and lands on his hands in equal measure. Trying to determine how much of whatever he says might be true, how much it should be trusted, how much it matters. This doesn't trouble him; Bruce has spent the lion's share of his life under public scrutiny- watched by the social elite, watched by the press. It was an intensity he anticipated would increase with age and with the persona he'd decided to cultivate. And it's strangely irrelevant now.

But Vanitas pushes the earlier bottle forward with some small measure of petulance and Bruce lifts it off of the counter now that his companion's attention has been diverted. The bag opens and it too is lowered within.]

On a matter of taste that's simple; I don't really have a sweet tooth.

[The shot is swallowed and Bruce doesn't stare but he does watch- watches Vanitas pour the whole thing into his mouth, watches him lick the inside of the glass the way one might scrape the bottom of a bowl for icecream. There's a flush to his cheeks that didn't exist before, the warmth of alcohol making him pink. Inexperience, he thinks. A low tolerance.]

But you're right. I'm not here for pleasure.

Are you going to stay? [At the bar?]