Bruce smiled, raising an eyebrow. "I know you are, my friend. Although you realize, you're calling Captain America rude." Taking the slice of pie, he shot Clark a faux-glare. "Don't be jealous." He tried to hide a smirk.
Looking up as Tony came through the longcase clock in the entrance hall and down the ramp they'd replaced the staircase with when Barbara became paralyzed, Bruce snorted at Clark's comment. "Don't encourage him," he said. "The last thing he needs is an entourage.
"Besides," he added, smiling his more natural, faint smile at Tony as he joined Clark in pouring two more small glasses of Kryptonian Ale and passing one to Tony. "He's not Iron Man tonight - he's Tony." His mouth twitched with a private joke. "The Bingley to my Darcy." Clark would probably get that, he wasn't sure about Tony. "And Kal, the Jonathan to my King David..."
Bruce raised his glass, suddenly serious. "And I couldn't ask for two better friends. I appreciate you both being here. I know I don't say it often, or well, but... thank you." Gesturing to Tony, he warned, "Drink slowly," before following his own advice and taking a small drink.
Alfred came down with a cart bearing the steak sandwiches, fries, cookies, brownies, Tony's cake - evenly sliced on the prognosticated silver platter, water, coffee, and an array of plates, napkins, and utensils.
"There you are, gentlemen - I trust this will suit your purposes?"
"Thank you, Alfred," Bruce said, clearing off the table in the conference area, where couches ringed a large circular coffee table, and the Batfamily often met to discuss strategy (and others to play poker).
Pointing Tony toward the Crays, Bruce waved casually at the array of pictures displayed on the computer screens. "Damian," he explained.