Italics indicate dream world
Clark Kent is enjoying a peaceful sleep and has a dream. However, the dream turns dark and sinister.
Chapter 1: Stolen Moments
Clark basked in the warmth of the afternoon sun, the gentle breeze carrying the scent of blooming lilacs. He sat across from Bruce at a quaint bistro table, a contented smile gracing his lips. They were enjoying a rare moment of peace, a stolen lunch amidst their hectic schedules.
"This is nice," Clark said, taking a sip of his iced tea. "Just you and me."
Bruce nodded, his eyes twinkling with affection. "Indeed. It's good to have a break from saving the world."
Clark chuckled. "Speak for yourself. I'm pretty sure you were chasing down criminals just last night."
"A minor disturbance," Bruce dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Nothing that I couldn't handle."
They shared a comfortable silence, enjoying each other's company and the delicious food. Clark felt a warmth spread through him, a sense of belonging and contentment he rarely experienced outside of Bruce's presence.
Suddenly, the scene shifted. The warm sunlight turned cold and harsh, the cheerful bistro replaced by a sterile, white room. The delicious smells of lunch vanished, replaced by the antiseptic tang of a hospital.
Clark's eyes flew open, a gasp tearing from his lungs. The cold, unyielding metal beneath him sent a jolt of fear through him, a stark contrast to the phantom warmth of the bistro chair. He tried to sit up, his muscles protesting, his superhuman strength replaced by a disconcerting weakness. Panic clawed at his throat. "Where... how...?" he rasped, his voice raspy, his brow furrowed in confusion. He tugged at the leather restraints biting into his wrists, his panic escalating. "Let me go!" he roared, his voice echoing in the sterile, white room.
The only response was the steady beep of a heart monitor, the rhythmic whoosh of a ventilator, and the drip, drip, drip of an IV line snaking into his left arm. He tried to focus, to remember what had happened, but his mind was a jumble of fragmented images - the warm sunlight of the bistro, the taste of sweet tea, Bruce's concerned face, the sudden shift to this cold, sterile prison.
Then he saw it. His white T-shirt pulled up, the waistband of his light blue sleep pants rolled down and there between the fabric of his clothes; a circular sensor rested on his swollen abdomen, a thin wire leading to a monitor that displayed a pulsating image. It was a sonogram. And the flickering image on the screen was a baby.
Was that his baby?
The impossible sight sent a wave of nausea through him. He, Clark Kent, was pregnant? The reality of it, the undeniable evidence on the screen, hit him with the force of a physical blow. A tiny life, his child, growing inside him.
"But... how?" he whispered, his voice filled with disbelief. He looked down at his abdomen, he could feel it, the faint flutter of life within him, the sensation of ripples, of movement under his skin.