Clark's hand arcs a little into Bruce's, ever receptive.
"There's nothing romantic about their reproduction," he agrees, a little wry.
A little sheepish, on behalf of however many billions of dead Kryptonians, and their hollowed planet. Production and evolution, all without purpose. He remembers Zod's sense of superiority, and he remembers thinking: why? To what end?
They haven't even talked about the Codex.
And Clark doesn't want to. He rests his chin on Bruce's head because he's pretty sure he can get away with being annoying today, which does make it awkward to say anything, but says anyway, "How's the song going?"
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"There's nothing romantic about their reproduction," he agrees, a little wry.
A little sheepish, on behalf of however many billions of dead Kryptonians, and their hollowed planet. Production and evolution, all without purpose. He remembers Zod's sense of superiority, and he remembers thinking: why? To what end?
They haven't even talked about the Codex.
And Clark doesn't want to. He rests his chin on Bruce's head because he's pretty sure he can get away with being annoying today, which does make it awkward to say anything, but says anyway, "How's the song going?"