If Constantine brought alcohol, Bruce wouldn't have any; he's not the sort to be agitated by what other people do, like that. It's only what his own head does to him. What he'd do is make him drink it just to get the ashtray taste out of his mouth. Ginger ale probably won't cut it.

Sometimes he wonders if every jump through time creates a perforation in reality. If these leaks let something worse in. He wonders if they pull a thread loose on those that jump through, bit by bit. They aren't insulated from it like Barry Allen, who can trip over a can and find himself in last week. Bruce closes his hand over Constantine's, stilling the click of his lighter and holding there. He sips his ginger ale unenthusiastically, and watches him.

"Are you alright?"

His are hands that never fidget, or shake. Everything but steadiness has long been exorcized from him. That board wouldn't last a moment, but will you. Bruce is close enough that he could bridge the gap and kiss him, but he doesn't. Plastic soda bottle between them. An unusual brand, in-house from whatever terminally posh grocery store services orders from Gotham's elite. Constantine will have to rip his hand out from under Bruce's solid hold if he wants to back away, answer (flippant or hostile, he anticipates) with more feet of empty insulation between him and a too-observant gaze.