Even over his own retching, Bruce could hear the *tone*. The tone that said Clark possibly considered drowning a fitting punishment for getting them into this mess.
On his hands and knees, gut cramping, lungs aching, salt water streaming from his nose, Bruce contemplated depositing the next batch of ocean vomit on Clark's boot.
"You don't *touch things* that look like they came from outer space," Clark continued. The red boot took a step back, making a squishing noise and ruining Bruce's plan to barf on it.
"Clark. Shut up." Bruce crawled away from the puddle he'd made and leaned against the wall, listening to his stomach gurgle. He flexed his arms and legs gingerly, wincing when he hit a sore spot here and there. Getting Hoovered into a space ship with enough ocean water to float Shamu was very, *very* painful.
Actually, the Hoovering hadn't been the worst of it. The loss of the re-breather had been a bitch, but the water had been purged early on in the whole experience. What *had* hurt was when the pod-ship thing rocketed into space with them inside, bouncing around in something that looked a lot like a giant spaghetti strainer.