It began with one sneeze.
And then another.
And then they were all coming in multiples, two to four sneezes every time he took a breath, and within five minutes Martha Kent knew that there was something very, very wrong with her son.
She'd thought Clark had looked miserable, before, when he'd first realized his powers were gone; but now he looked downright dejected, hunched over the table and sneezing in staccato bursts into his elbow. When he finally looked up at her, eyes streaming and nose pink, Martha leaned back against the counter and settled a hand over her breastbone, fingers tapping her collar.
"You say it first," She teased.
"I think I have a cold," Clark sounded just like Chloe Sullivan when he said it, like he'd just stumbled across something inexplicably odd, utterly indefinable. And it had him so puzzled Martha had to laugh when he sneezed again.
Jonathan came in from mending fences an hour later, and Clark had migrated, albeit sluggishly, from the kitchen table to the couch. He was sprawled there, in an unceremonious, gangly heap, and that was what Jonathan noticed first when he stepped in the door, toweling his hands off on his dust-whitened jeans. For a teenager, Clark never seemed amiss of his limbs, always carrying himself with so much more composure than his peers; it was as if he'd taken no time at all to grow into being comfortable with his lanky teenager height.
For the first time, he looked like a mess in himself, an alien in his own body. Not to mention he was an hour late for the Sunday morning pep rally that he'd been anticipating all week.
"What's the occasion?" Jonathan poured himself a cup of coffee and raised an eyebrow at Martha as she passed him, carrying a tablespoon cup of red syrup into the living room.
"Our son's caught his first cold." Martha's tone was rift somewhere between amusement and concern, and Clark eyed her like a wounded hound dog when she pressed the cup into his hand. "Drink it. It's cough syrup, it won't bite."
"I'm not coughing," Clark protested.
"Well, hate to break it to you, son, but you will be before long." Jonathan ruffled up Clark's dark hair and felt the fever-heat that made his scalp tacky. He left his hand where it lay, watching as Clark eyed the syrup. "Summer colds have a nasty habit of packing a wallop. Better catch this thing while it's still in its infant stages."
"Y'know, Chloe tells me there's no actual cure for the common cold." Clark sniffed at the cup and cocked his head back suspiciously.
"She's right about that." Martha met Jonathan's eyes over Clark's head, amusement winning out for a moment before the disquiet leeched back in. She rested her hand on Clark's cheek. "But it's better to fight the symptoms right when they start, or you'll be under the weather a lot longer."
"I guess you guys would know better," Clark heaved a beleaguered sigh, and tossed back the cupful in one swallow.
The coughing fit that followed was impressive, and Jonathan took his hand back while Clark gagged and handed the measuring cap back to Martha.
"Ugh, people actually drink that stuff every time they have a cold?"
"You'd be surprised what people will drink when they're sick." Jonathan kicked off his workboots and walked around the couch, lowering himself onto the cushion at Clark's feet. "It's better than taking a cough drop every five minutes, though, believe me."
"I'll bet." Clark made an effort to sit up, his face a rictus of discomfort. "Man, not having powers isn't always basketball games and sunshine. If it's just in my throat and sinuses, why does my whole body hurt?"
"First time's always the worst." Jonathan clapped him on the knee. "We'll call Principle Kwan, let him know you're indisposed and can't make it to that pep rally this afternoon. I'm sure you're real broken up about it." He nodded to Martha as he said it, and she reciprocated, setting the used measuring cup on the counter while she lifted the wall-mounted phone from its cradle.
"It's not that. Chloe's gonna skin me alive," Clark rearranged himself on the cushions, giving Jonathan more room. "I was supposed to help her take pictures and rearrange them for the article in the Torch."
"Well, you could have her over after the rally if you want," Jonathan offered, and Clark paled at that, making the hectic flush of fever on his cheeks stand out like a double-punch. "What is it, son?"
"I don't want them seeing me like this. My friends." Clark propped an elbow on the back of the couch and dropped his hand down, fingertips resting on his disheveled brow. "They've never seen me get sick before. It might, I dunno…freak them out?"
"No more than any of the other impossible things you've done." Jonathan's repartee tone softened when Clark's head tilted in silent plea. "All right, no visitors. It's a promise."
"Principle Kwan said he'll let the others know about your absence. They can fill in your spot." Martha joined them again, kneeling at the head of the couch and resting the back of her hand against Clark's forehead. "Sleep, Clark. You've earned it."
"Being sick earns me sleep?" Clark's eyes fluttered shut and he rutted his head deeper down against the armrest.
Jonathan draped his arm along the bowed back of the couch, giving Clark's elbow a firm but gentle squeeze. "Finally being human enough to feel these things sure does. Your mother's right, Clark. You get a chance to rest—make the most of it."
Clark was as compliant as ever, no trace of protest in any contour of him, and he was asleep in minutes. His elbow slid off the cushion, sprawling a corded forearm across his chest, and Martha noted with her usual bemusement that her boy, young and lithe as he was—barely fit to play football, by most standards—could normally lift a tractor with one hand. Seeing him now, a shadow of that power, made him seem helpless and more in need of their protection than he'd ever been, even as a child.
"Jonathan, what if it's worse than we think?" Martha stroked the sweaty hair from her son's forehead with the backs of her fingers. "What if his body doesn't have the immunities to fight off a cold, since he's never gotten sick before?"
"We'll keep an eye on him. Take him to the hospital if it gets serious." Jonathan propped one foot up on the coffee table. "He's a strong kid, Martha, and I don't just mean his powers. There's something tough-as-nails about him. Our Clark can pull through anything."
Clark stirred, then, his head listing sideways. "Mom…"
"Still here, honey."
"I'd still take this over the meteor rocks any day."
And he sank back into a less fitful slumber.
The day passed in lurches and pulls, Clark sleeping through most of it while Jonathan did the chores. With Clark not even pulling half his usual weight, the work seemed to lag on forever; until, eventually, Martha had to join him in rounding up the cattle from the pasture. It was while they were gone that Clark came around, feeling like his head had been stuffed with cotton.
The first thing he knew was that he wasn't alone.
The dark shape blocked the sunlight through the port window over the sink, and Clark sat up with a violent snuffle, raking the back of his hand across his eyes. He coughed, groaned, and squinted, his eyes abnormally shy of what light he could still see.
"Who's there?" He punctuated the question with a cough, and as the man turned to face him Clark felt a relaxing effusion of relief seep into the marrow of his bones.
"Well, you look awful." Lex Luthor separated the words with crisp enunciation, strolling in from the kitchen with his hands casually hidden in the pockets of his long dark coat. "I went by the school, but Kwan said you weren't there. Something happen?"
"Something huge," Clark pushed down the blanket that someone, Jonathan or Martha, had spread across him while he slept. "I caught a cold."
"Shocking." Lex perched on the coffee table, hands clasped and elbows resting on his knees. "I'll alert the media."
"Just don't let Chloe get her hands on it. Knowing her, she'll do a total background check on my medical history and find out I was never vaccinated as a child."
"Never?" Lex's curious eyes were twinkling.
Clark flashed a hangdog smile and quickly changed the subject. "So, why were you looking for me?"
"What, I can't drop in on a friend?" Lex's mouth twitched into a fleeting smile.
"At school? During a Sunday pep rally?"
"Touché. To be honest, I'm killing time." Lex admitted. "I have a…deal going on with a very important business partner in Metropolis, but let's just say it's a bit stifling at the mansion right now. Thought I'd get away, see what kind of solace I could find in the company of my younger peers."
"'Fraid I'm not much company right now." Clark sat up further, with some effort, his esophagus throbbing. "Man, these colds come on quick. I felt fine when I went to bed last night, now it's like I can't even keep my eyes open."
"Wouldn't know. I rarely get sick, myself." Lex sat back. "But if it's any consolation, I hear these things are usually twenty-four-hour bugs. You should be back to normal in no time."
Clark studied his inscrutable friend, and nodded. "Yeah, that actually does help. Thanks."
Lex checked his watch. "I've still got twenty minutes to kill before I have to leave for Metropolis. Anything I can do to help?"
"Well, I take back what I said about how you could hit me with a hammer. Or your car," Clark joked, weakly. "So other than that…"
"C'mon, Clark, I said I was sorry about all that." Lex looked him over with a critical eye. "You've got enough trouble on your plate right now without me adding to it, anyway."
"Yeah, tell me about it." Clark said ruefully. "Hey, you mind grabbing me a glass of water?"
Lex obliged, and there was something funny in having a billionaire's son bringing him a drink; but Clark didn't dwell on it. He tended to see Lex less as an icon of wealth and power and more as a friend these days, despite the eternal dance of suspicion and suspect that they played around each other.
Lex handed him the glass of water, and Clark drank, breaking away long enough for a few sneezes and a dry cough; it wasn't so much that his chest felt congested as that his throat felt thorny. It was enough to drive anyone up the wall.
"I'll sure be glad when this is over." He complained.
"You know, for someone who's so dedicated to farm chores and a solid lifestyle, you have a lot of mouthing off to do when you're under the weather," Lex commented, scooping up a farming magazine from the coffee table and lowering himself onto the arm of the couch next to Clark's head. He thumbed through it, idly. "Had any visits from pretty girls?"
"You mean Lana?" Clark slid a cautious look sideways, which Lex left unmatched. "No. I don't want her seeing me like this. Or catching my cold."
"It's not like you're a freak just because you have a sore throat. Everyone gets sick sometime, Clark."
"Yeah, everyone except for you."
"Guess that makes me the freak." Lex sounded less offended and more amused as he shook the magazine out. "Wow. A scathing article about my father's corporation. Surprise, surprise."
Clark watched Lex, trying to get a read on him; he seemed as unflappable as always, though his smile was less easygoing when he tossed the magazine onto the table.
"Lex…"
"Clark." Lex cut him off. "If I let my feathers get ruffled by every bad public word against my family, I'd be completely psychotic." His tone was mild. "You're sick, you look like death warmed over; stop worrying about the world taking bites out of the people you care about, and worry about yourself for a change."
Clark dropped his eyes to the magazine, trying to reconcile Lex's viewpoint to his own. "That's what I've got friends like you for."
Lex snorted. "Look, I'd better go. Just wanted to see how you were doing after my conversation with Kwan." He clapped Clark on the knee. "Take care of yourself, get some rest." He was halfway to the front door when he added over his shoulder, "By the way, Clark. Lana might've been in earshot when Kwan told me why you were out for the day. Imagine that."
Clark groaned, "Great," and he sank back down into the cushions. The curtains on the door had barely settled from Lex's fleet exit before it opened again, ushering in Martha and Jonathan both dusty and scuffed from their labor.
"Was that Lex's car we saw leaving?" Martha stripped off her work gloves and set them on the table.
"Geeze, interrogate me before you even ask how I'm feeling," Clark twisted around to watch them from his station on the couch. When Martha's eyebrows lifted with subtle curiosity, he sighed. "Yeah, he was just looking for a place to kill time before he had to go to Metropolis."
"I find it hard to believe someone like Lex Luthor can't find a better place to kill time than on our family's farm," Jonathan grunted. "How're you feeling, son?"
Glad to have dodged the bullet of his father's animosity toward Lex, Clark shrugged. "Better, I guess? My head feels kinda fuzzy, though, and my throat hurts."
"Mmm, that'll pass." Martha started rummaging in the cabinets. "I'll fix some soup for dinner."
"Wow, one common cold turns us into the Bradys." Clark ducked his head to avoid getting cuffed as Jonathan passed him, heading for the stairs.
The evening passed mostly quiet, with Clark's throat bothering him in passing whenever he swallowed; the chicken stock, made of all home-grown, home-raised organic ingredients, helped to soothe the needling ache—proving, once and for all, that soup really did work wonders on illness. Clark waited until both Jonathan and Martha retired, with stern instructions that he not stay up too late; and then, despite all achiness and orders to the contrary, he went out to the barn.
Being in his familiar loft-space made Clark's crowded mind feel somehow clearer from the moment his bare foot crossed the threshold. Ignoring the prickling of gravel and sharp straw particles on his way up the wooden steps, he went for his telescope, then stopped.
Not tonight.
He reclined on the couch instead, pulling one of the throws off the back across his hips and stomach and laying just so, just enough to see the spray of stars and moonshine across the velvet-black sky outside the half-door hatch on the far wall.
Clark was startled and immediately guilty when a throat cleared behind him; he shifted, half-expecting that his mother had caught him, and chagrined that he hadn't adjusted yet to his lesser-tuned hearing enough to pick up on someone moving through the barn beneath him.
Chagrin quickly became subdued delight when he saw Lana standing at the top of the stairs; her hands were folded behind her back and she looked sleepy and worn-thin. But all her concern was turned outward, in classic, caring Lana fashion. And it was honed in on him.
"Hi, Clark."
"Hi, yourself." Clark folded one arm behind his head. "You can come on up, just…sorry if I'm not exactly rolling out the welcome wagon. Don't wanna get you sick."
"Thanks for that," Lana's nose crinkled when she smiled and mounted the last few steps to the loft; she perched on the corner of his study desk, her hands still folded behind her back. "I noticed the house was dark. Are we hiding out?"
"Something like that." Clark tipped a smile her way. "Nah, my parents wouldn't really mind. But I think this whole sick thing is getting to them. They're not used to seeing me like this."
"You seem pretty normal to me." Lana's tone was faintly reassuring. "Just a little…"
"Infected?"
"I was going to say froggy."
"Yeah, maybe without the high jump." Clark propped himself up on one elbow. "Lex told me you might drop by—what are you hiding behind your back?" It occurred to him, finally, that Lana's entire posture was secretive: shoulders hunched, head ducked, hands tucked out of sight.
Lana's lips turned up into a dazzling smile, and she produced something white and rectangular from around her back, bejeweled with glued-on beads of fake gems and inscribed with his name.
"What's this?" Clark sat up to accept it from her, and Lana laughed. It was among Clark's favorite sounds.
"A card, what's it look like? Go 'head, open it." As Clark shredded the lip of the envelope, Lana went on: "Casey from the art department did the decorating, but it was all Chloe's idea."
"You mean she didn't want to skin me alive for skipping out on her?" Clark tilted the card this way and that, studying it in the low lightning.
"On the contrary. After she heard you were sick, she practically jumped every person who walked in and out of that pep rally who'd ever shared words with you and forced them to sign it."
"Sounds brutal. Should I expect some death threats?"
"Not really. I read it over Whitney's shoulder and it seemed pretty cute."
Clark scanned the card briefly, growing increasingly amused with every comment, small or large, spread across the sheet. "It's not like I have cancer. It's just a cold." He tilted his head to read Pete's cramped scrawl.
"In high school? If it's enough to get you out of classes for a day, it's the plague." Lana shifted to Clark's swivel chair as he finished reading. "Anyway, I think it was sweet of Chloe. She wanted to do something to make you realize you'd be missed if you were gone." Hands resting on her knees, Lana shrugged expressively, a sweet smile creasing the skin beside her eyes. "And you were."
Clark looked up, quickly, caught her gaze; he dimpled a smile back. "Thanks, Lana. For bringing this over."
Her expression softened. "No problem," She nodded, and started to rise. "I should probably let you get some sleep."
"No. Stay," Clark set the card aside. "Please?"
"Okay." It was a simple as that, and Lana moved toward the half-door. She rested her hands on it, staring out into the balmy night. "I love seeing sunsets from up here. But, you know, I think it's just as beautiful after the sunset. It's just different."
"Sure is." Clark regarded Lana in the lamplight, his heart doing an irregular, uncomfortable squeeze not unlike the first plunge that caught him unawares when he was exposed to meteor rocks. "How are things with Whitney?"
Even with his perceptive senses dulled, he didn't miss the slump of Lana's shoulders. Yet her smile remained, firmly in place, when she turned to face him with her hands still gripping the door. "He's better. Still shaken up, about everything. And who could blame him, right? But he's hanging in there."
"Glad to hear it. He's a strong guy." Clark replied with sincerity. "What about you? You holding up okay?"
"It's tough, but, um." Lana blinked, looked away suddenly, and when her smile shifted it was to something wry. "I can't believe it. I came all the way out here to see you, and you've already asked how Whitney is, and how I am. I haven't even asked you how you feel with this cold mess."
"Don't worry about it," Clark assured her. "Think I already turned a corner. It's just a cold, Lana."
"That's true," Lana moved toward the couch suddenly, and to Clark's surprise she slid her hand under the fringe of his bangs and laid her cool palm on his forehead. It was a relief to the warmth Clark hadn't known still lingered from his fever, his body acclimated to it already. "You're running pretty warm, Clark."
"I feel fine. I mean it."
Lana regarded him in close proximity, her eyes soft and warm and thoughtful, and her thumb stroked his brow for a second before she took her hand back. "I'll let you be the judge of that." She took up residence on the spinning chair again, kicking it in a slow revolution. "Did I ever tell you about this stupid story Nell used to read to me whenever I got sick? I swear, I had that thing memorized by the time I was six…"
Somewhere in the middle of an awkwardly spun tale about a rabbit with giant ears, Clark dropped off to sleep, his overtaxed body losing the fight against sore throat and strained muscles. Lana finished telling the story anyway, and when she was done, she padded to the couch and looked down at Clark again.
He seemed younger than his years when he was sick, or just when he slept, and Lana felt a stirring of affection for him that was nothing like her feelings for Whitney—but nor did her fondness err toward her friendship with Pete Ross or any one of the boys on the football team. Her feelings for Clark were as many and varied as the angles he presented: impossible and mysterious and warm and kind and sharp on a few corners. A constant puzzle being pulled apart and stitched back together.
"Sleep well, Clark." Lana hooked her hair behind her ear and bent to kiss his forehead, tucking the throw blanket up to Clark's chin before she let herself out and started the short walk home.
Clark woke in the morning rejuvenated, barely a trace of the sore throat left. The first thing he saw was the card on the low table, and his first thought was of the people who had orchestrated that much for him. For the girl who'd told him a story, the man who'd brought him a glass of water, and the parents who'd ever cared enough to take an anomaly like him into their lives in the first place.
Clark stretched into the morning sunlight, pleased with the way his head felt clearer and his muscles, while rubbery, weren't paining him like they had the day before. He vaulted down the steps from the loft and jogged into the house, slipping through the front door and nearly crashing into Jonathan on his way in.
"Well, well," Jonathan steadied him with one hand on his shoulder. "Up early, or out late?"
"Kind of both," Clark said. "I slept in the barn last night. Don't worry," He added at Martha's chiding glare. "I'm fine. Actually, I feel great. Like I'm barely sick anymore."
"That's a relief. Sick is the last thing you need on top of this tight spot we're in with your powers." Jonathan clapped him on the arm. "Be that as it may, you're still off the hook for chores. But just for the day."
"No complaints here." Clark swirled around Martha, plucking a section of toast from the heap of them she was removing from the toaster.
"What's got you in such a good mood? Yesterday you were the picture of pitiful," Martha watched as her son retrieved the orange juice from the fridge and poured himself a generous glass.
"Lana stopped by last night," Clark explained succinctly.
"Why am I not surprised?" Jonathan pushed open the screen door. "I'll see you two later."
"'Bye, dad!"
"Be careful, Jonathan."
Clark slid in at the table, swirling the orange juice in his glass. "You know, it's funny, but I think when you're hurt or sick is when you figure out who really cares about you. Like you and Dad. And Chloe, and Pete, and Lana, even Whitney—they all signed my card. Lex came over and hung out for a while. It's like being sick brings out the best in people, you know?"
"Don't flatter yourself, honey." Martha dropped a kiss on top of his head on the way to the trashcan with paper towels, soaked in bacon grease, clutched in her fist. "We love you all the time, not just when you're an invalid."
"Good point." Clark sipped his orange juice, his expression thoughtful. "Still. You know, as long as I've known about my powers, I've always tried to use them to help people. Like with chores around the farm, or that time I pulled Lana's horse out of the river. It's like it's a part of me, a part of who I am."
"And that's noble."
"Maybe. But does it make me less noble, if…" Clark looked down, shrugged emphatically. "Maybe I liked having people take care of me, instead of the other way around. It was kinda nice."
"Clark," Martha said, softly, slipping a hand under his chin and tilting his head back. "Wanting people to show they care about you isn't selfish. And if it was Pete, or Lana, if it was any one of your friends in your position, you would've done the same thing. I'm sure if it was Lex, even, you would've thought of something to show him how much you cared."
"I guess." Clark's smile broadened at the thought.
"You're not selfish to want to be the one being looked after every now and again, sweetheart. You're human."
Clark nodded, and Martha turned away, her rusty-red hair tickling his face. Clark sniffed, nose twitching.
And then he sneezed.
Martha whipped around to peer at him, narrowly, as Clark wiped his nose on his wrist; they stared at one another, each waiting for the other to react.
And then Martha leaned back against the counter, and Clark folded his arms on the table; and they laughed, for a long time.