Tony's tie remains in place, occasionally straightened by helpful strangers, but doesn't quite convince anyone that he is wholly sober. Or at all. His attention span is distractable, his gestures taking on more flourish than usual, the rare laugh he indulges in a loud bark, and whatever filter exists between brain and mouth thin enough as to be see through. His thoughts dance in his eyes, frenetic, transparent, and it becomes progressively clearer, the more you talk to him, that you are the subject of a joke he has not shared.

And then he is in front of Gotham's favourite. "But look at him," Tony is saying, still talking to his latest companion as opposed to... actually... at Bruce, immediately. "He doesn't look like a total maniac. I have, for the record, burned down at least one property, just-- not according to the verdict, and look at me.

"Hi, it's Bruce Wayne, right. Right?" He twists a consulting glance to the German model who has way less accent than he remembered a moment ago.