The first time it happened, Clark could admit that he hadn't exactly… noticed.

.

[3 months prior]

He hummed along to 'The Passenger' by Siouxsie And The Banshees as it played on the radio, white apron secured around his waist as he stirred the pot over the stove.

Lois was supposed to be joining him for dinner tonight, but she'd gotten a last minute call into the office and had to cancel on him. He couldn't help but be a hair disappointed since it would've been their second real try at a date, but he understood the life of a reporter. He was one too, after all!

So, he'd adjusted his portions to be made just for one, but he decided to still make his mother's special spaghetti and meatballs recipe. He has been craving a taste of home.

So there he was, humming and stirring and keeping a careful eye on the sauce so that it didn't risk bubbling over, when a sudden recollection hit him, making him snap to attention and immediately take the pots of the heat. The food was almost done, anyways, so he was thankful that he wouldn't be ruining the process with his sudden errand he'd recalled.

He'd forgotten all about checking on poor Ms. Sachrine's dogs!

She lived a few floors down from him, and they'd run into one another on more than one occasion when he was either going off to or coming back from work as she went or returned from walking her dogs, and she was a conversation opportunist, to put it strategically.

Eventually, all the small talk in their building's stairwell or by the front entrance led to them trading contacts on the elder's insistence that he call her if he ever needed anything - 'Anything at all,' she'd staunchly insisted, gray curls bouncing on her shoulders with a spryness that belied her age.

In the end, though, it'd been her calling him for assistance, as she'd broken her hip going down the stairs and needed someone to watch her 'precious babes' for the few weeks she'd be holed up in the hospital.

Of course, he was more than happy to help! The only issue was that Ms. Sachrine had insisted her pups stay in her apartment so that they didn't get 'homesick,' so he had to stop by there at least twice a day to make sure they were all right and to take them on a walk.

Now, he winced. He'd been doing well on that front up until this point, at least.

He hurried out the door and to the stairwell, bounding down the steps two at a time and pulling the keys to her apartment out of his pocket preemptively, reaching her floor in no time at all and dashing over to her door, finagling the key into the lock on his third try.

Two small balls of yipping fur heralded his entrance, and he bent down to give them both friendly pats, greeting, "Hello to you too," with a pleasant chuckle, wiping some nonexistent sweat off his brow.

Thankfully, he'd already walked the dogs in the morning, so he only had to fill their food and water trays, which meant he could get back to his unit in time for his food to still be warm.

As he filled said dishes, he let his mind drift in thought, senses expanding as they tended to do when his concentration slipped, and he titled his head as his ears pricked. There was a scuff, somewhere above and outside. It sounded like someone was on his porch landing, now that he was listening in, but they were quickly scaling their way past it and down the building.

Clark contemplated for a moment, then mentally shrugged. Maybe they were a free-climber who was passing by.

He finished with the puppies, went back to his room, and set out a generous portion of still steaming spaghetti and meatballs for himself.

He inhaled deeply as he carried the plate to his dining table, reminiscing in the familiar scent. Except -

He frowned.

There was just a little of something else mixed in with it all. It was so faint that it was almost imperceptible even to his own super-senses, and taking another whiff hardly made it any clearer, either.

He squinted his eyes down at his plate, poking his fork into the pasta and giving it a swirl that laced it around the metal. His food didn't look any different than how he'd left it.

His stomach grumbled.

Hm.

Well.

He was sure it'd be fine.

He raised the fork to his lips and took a large bite, a smile alighting on his sauce covered lips.

Deeelicious.

.

*Unbeknownst to him, now several buildings away and viewing in past his window through a long range scope*

"But - how?" the masked assassin muttered, a morbid horror filling them with dread as they watched their target continue to happily munch on his poison-laced meal.

It was impossible. It had to be. They'd been using a highly deadly neurotoxin said to be the equivalent of cyanide except untraceable in both the matter it was put into as well as because no signs of it showed in an autopsy report.

Yet this man - this Clark Kent - had ingested likely five times the lethal dose over the past ten minutes without any reaction.

Either they'd made an error in the initial retrieval of the poison - somehow mistaking it for another - or Clark Kent was a monster.