Nobody ever thinks that Bruce Wayne could be Batman, not even just because Batman only might exist. It's just that, also, whenever anyone finds out Bruce Wayne is Batman, they stare off into the distance for a little while having a moment not unlike thinking that Hannibal rhymes with cannibal.
Anyway, everyone who knows Clark knows he's Superman.
"I guess it depends on the size of the shark and the way weight distribution versus momentum works for them," is his completely serious answer. "Spines do most of the work, with horses, and sharks don't even have bones."
Two men who really like Godzilla could easily be so extremely annoying Arthur. It's probably for the best that he's not very Atlanean. Heaven forbid they get a hold of his brother.
A large hammerhead drifts by above them, its funny crescent moon mouth passing over them like a spotlight. Distorts, looking impossibly large in the warped reflection through curved tunnel glass, slips by back to normal size. Bruce is doing a lot of placid sight-seeing, hands mostly in his pockets, sometimes out, tapping against a display placard before he remembers himself. An extreme version of a very old therapy tactic. Redirection. How do I get out of the impending debilitating panic attack in front of Clark. Let's get the fuck out of here entirely. Aquarium. Sure. He's fine. This is actually really nice; good thing Clark didn't kiss him in the car, they probably wouldn't have made it.
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Anyway, everyone who knows Clark knows he's Superman.
"I guess it depends on the size of the shark and the way weight distribution versus momentum works for them," is his completely serious answer. "Spines do most of the work, with horses, and sharks don't even have bones."
Two men who really like Godzilla could easily be so extremely annoying Arthur. It's probably for the best that he's not very Atlanean. Heaven forbid they get a hold of his brother.
A large hammerhead drifts by above them, its funny crescent moon mouth passing over them like a spotlight. Distorts, looking impossibly large in the warped reflection through curved tunnel glass, slips by back to normal size. Bruce is doing a lot of placid sight-seeing, hands mostly in his pockets, sometimes out, tapping against a display placard before he remembers himself. An extreme version of a very old therapy tactic. Redirection. How do I get out of the impending debilitating panic attack in front of Clark. Let's get the fuck out of here entirely. Aquarium. Sure. He's fine. This is actually really nice; good thing Clark didn't kiss him in the car, they probably wouldn't have made it.