"Nothing," Dr. Chase sighed, running the cold, slippery wand over Clark's stomach. "I'd have thought this one would work!"
"Sorry," Clark whispered. All the barfing was making him really hoarse.
Chase smiled at him. He had a nice smile, but he looked tired. "I didn't expect the CT to work. Mr. Luthor told us you were immune to radiation. But an ultrasound scan is just sound. I've never heard that Superman was immune to sound!"
"I can hear it, actually –- the little noise the machine makes. Yeah, I didn't know that my skin blocked sound waves, either."
"Oh, well. House will think of something." Chase wiped Clark clean of the goo he'd squeezed onto him earlier.
"Delete the records the machine keeps, please?" Clark reminded him.
"I was just going to."
Clark's nausea was building again. It seemed to be getting faster and sharper, and he didn't know what to do. He closed his eyes and hoped he'd make it back to his room. There was a barf bowl on the gurney for him, but he didn't like the idea of throwing up in the hallways, in front of people.
He felt Chase's hand on his hair, soothing him. "It's all right," the doctor said. "You'll be okay. House will figure it out, and you'll be fine."
Clark nodded, but he didn't open his eyes. Wretched, that was the word. If he were writing this up for the paper, the word he'd use was wretched. He put a hand up to cover his eyes, and Chase caught it and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
"It'll be all right. Honest. Here, do you need to throw up again before we head back up to your room? There's no one to see."
Clark nodded miserably, and did.
