Chapter 2:

Clumsily rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, Clark groggily stumbled into the kitchen. "Good morning," he yawned as he sank into a chair.

"You mean good afternoon," Jonathan corrected, swallowing a bite of his ham sandwich. Martha placed a large glass of orange juice in front of her son, which he drank feverishly, trying to relieve his dry, sore throat. Clark took one look at his own left-over ham sandwich and any thoughts about eating were instantly repelled. Unable to stand the smell of the salty meat, he hastily pushed the plate away from his sight. Jonathan curiously watched his son's behavior in silence. It wasn't until Clark slightly shivered despite the Indian summer's heat that the farmer decided to speak up. "Clark, you feeling okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," the boy instinctively answered, as he wrapped his arms around his stomach. Slightly hanging his head, his mass amounts of thick, dark hair fell, covering most of his face.

"Clark, look up," Jonathan instructed, knowing better than to trust his son about his health. Agitatedly sighing, Clark raised his head and cocked it to the side. He was quickly growing tired of his father's 'know-it-all' attitude. He wasn't sick, because he couldn't get sick. It was as simple as that. Yet, when his father looked at him with a worried expression and said, "Martha, come over here," Clark couldn't help but to second-guess his own genetics.

"What is it?" the mother questioned as she rounded the table. Martha had no idea what her husband was so worried about until her eyes fell on Clark's face. His complexion was pale, and there were dark circles surrounding his eyes as if he hadn't slept in days. Yet, the most disturbing feature were his red, puffy eyelids that gave the illusion that he had been crying for hours. "Oh, honey," she whispered as she placed hand over her mouth in surprise.

Completely oblivious to how terrible he looked, Clark anxiously raised his eyebrows, wondering what all the commotion was about. His mother quickly made her way towards him and gently placed her hands on his flushed cheeks. Her eyes only widened more as she placed her palm against his forehead. "Jonathan, he has a fever."

"No, I don't," Clark stubbornly replied as he moved his face away from his mother's hands.

A plan already formulating in his mind, Jonathan stated, "There must have been meteor rock somewhere by that fence."

Hearing enough of his father's assumptions, Clark stood up. "No there wasn't Dad. Kryptonite feels a lot worse than this." He couldn't believe how worried his parents had become just because he was a little tired. Granted, his muscles ached a bit, but that could easily be because of the hard labor yesterday. He received his powers a couple short weeks ago, it could take a while for him to get used to them again. That made a lot more sense than a hidden source of Kryptonite that suddenly appeared out of nowhere on the farm.

"There could be a couple tiny particles left over from the last meteor shower," Jonathan hurriedly explained. If Kryptonite was involved they had to get rid of it quick, before Clark gradually became worse.

"Or I could just be getting used to my powers again," Clark angrily declared as he slammed his fist against the table, luckily not hard enough to break it.

Becoming increasingly frustrated with his son's denial, Jonathan ran a hand through his short hair. "Clark, you have a fever, there's something more behind this."

"I don't have a fever!" Clark meant to yell, but his hoarse throat wouldn't allow it.

Martha placed a calm hand on top of his. Gaining his attention, Clark looked down at his mother. "Yes, you do, honey," she softly stated, never breaking eye contact.

His adrenaline spent, Clark sank back down in the chair. He couldn't be sick. It wasn't possible. The boy shakily placed his head against his hands, wondering what was happening to his body. All he wanted was a normal life, a normal day even. Just for one weekend, all he wanted to worry about was the farm and his friends. Yet, fate deemed that unfeasible.

Setting his plan back in motion, Jonathan instructed, "Martha, go outside by the fence, and see if you can find anything." His wife only nodded as she made her way towards the door. She stopped for a second to look back at her son before walking outside; certain he was in safe hands. Jonathan slowly walked towards his son, unsure of what the day had in store for them. "Clark," he said as he placed a strong hand against the boy's shoulder. Not waiting for a response, he continued, "Why don't you go upstairs and take a shower. If I'm right, any meteor rock particle should fall off of you and go down the drain."

Clark looked up at his father with large, nervous eyes. "What if you're wrong?" he breathed.

The question sent a chill down the father's spine. He hadn't thought about that. Only one thing could make Clark sick, yet Clark wasn't nauseated like he usually was around the damned rocks. Keeping his composure, Jonathan knelt in front of his son and whispered, "Then, we'll figure something else out."

Regaining his confidence, Clark nodded and made his way upstairs. About halfway up the steps, he grabbed the rail, his sore muscles screaming for help. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally reached the second level and entered the bathroom.

The hot shower was rather soothing to Clark. The warm water cascaded over his tired muscles, relaxing them momentarily from the strain of standing. Clark couldn't remember a time where he washed himself so vehemently. By the third lather, his skin was becoming red and irritated from the constant rubbing, but it was a small price to pay for his health. By the time he moved onto his hair, his biceps were screaming in pain from the constant movement. He could barely see anymore from the steam that was filling the small bathroom, yet it seemed to reduce the severity of the bright light that hurt his eyes.

As he reached for the conditioner, Clark found it hard to see through the rising steam. He narrowed his eyes, trying to locate the creamy white bottle. As he reached outward, all the colors of the shower stall seemed to blend together in some type of melted portrait. Blinking fervently, Clark placed his hand against the slippery, wet wall. As if deciding to join in on the boy's torment, the water no longer felt relaxing but hot and suffocating. Unable to take the sudden onslaught of torture, Clark stumbled out of the stall and grasped the wall for support. Yet the steam that blended the bright colors of the bathroom held no relief. Becoming disorientated and confused, Clark placed a hand on his aching head. Unable to focus anymore, he grabbed the towel rack as he fell forward, ripping the bar out of the wall.

Jonathan was startled out of the menial work of tightening the valves under the sink by a loud thud coming from upstairs. "Clark!" he called. Still hearing the shower running, the father was sure it was impossible to hear him upstairs over the water. Yet, there was a sinking feeling in his gut that something horrible had happened. Listening to his instinct, he jogged up the stairs and knocked on the wooden door. "Clark!" he called as he pressed his ear up against the door. "Clark, can you hear me!" Becoming increasingly worried, he shouted, "Clark, I'm coming in!"

Not waiting another second, Jonathan opened the door and was slammed with an onslaught of steam. "Clark?" he said as his eyes searched through the foggy room. He felt his heart leapt out of his chest at the sight of his only son unconscious on the floor. "Clark!" he shouted as he sunk to his knees. Gently placing his son's face in his lap, Jonathan lightly patted the boy's flushed cheeks. "Clark, can you hear me?"

Clark could hear his father's voice, yet he couldn't understand the words. It seemed as if his father was a million miles away. Trying to call out to his dad, he softly moaned, his mouth unable to form the words his heart was shouting. He wanted to tell his father that he was okay, and that he shouldn't worry, but his body wouldn't respond. He tried to push through the fog in his brain, but something was restraining him.

Terrified for his son's life, Jonathan placed his hand on Clark's forehead. "Dear God," he whispered as he felt the intense heat radiating off of it.

To Be Continued...

AN: Thank you for all the AWESOME reviews everyone!