Clark's voice comes to him as if through a dream, slightly muffled through the cocoon of blankets that he's built himself. He moans, softly. Tentatively tugs the pillow down from over his head as Clark's footsteps advance towards the bedroom.
"Lex, are you in...?" And halt, just outside. He slowly manages to raise his head, and glimpses his boyfriend - or whatever Clark is to him - standing in the doorway and frowning, "wow, you really weren't kidding in your text."
"Have I ever been known to kid?" He asks, raggedly, and is somewhat amused when Clark only arches an eyebrow in response, "I feel awful. An intern's boyfriend went to Italy last week and came back with a cold, which he then proceeded to give to her, which she then proceeded to give to me. Needless to say, that intern will be..."
"Given full sick pay?" Clark asks pointedly, and steps through the door. Shrugs his bag to the floor, still holding a thermos in his hands, "and a peaceful return to work, with no petty grudges hovering over her head?"
"...Of course," he's too ill to argue about workplace ethics today, all he can do is weakly flop back against the bed and sigh in the general direction of the ceiling, "Did you at least bring me what I asked for?"
A moment of slightly surprised silence, and then the sound of footsteps crossing the floor. He wants to warn Clark off, wants to snarl and snap and be the terrifying villain he was painted as for the first few years of their association, but the dip of the bed besides him feels so soothing that it's hard to summon even the slightest damn, "the store was all out of chicken soup, I'm afraid, but-"
"How?"
"It's illness season. And people other than Lex Luthor, terror of Metropolis, are allowed to succumb to it," Clark scolds , but does at least press a hand to his forehead. A warm hand, a soft hand, a hand so soothing that he doesn't know how he ever coped without it, "but as I was saying. The store was all out, but that was alright. I made some for you, and brought that over instead."
A long moment. He slowly forces open his eyes, and frowns up at Clark who is sitting so calmly at his side, "you made some soup?"
"I'm not that bad a cook," Clark says defensively, and flattens his hand again. A soothing motion, that relaxes every muscle in his body no matter how much they want to tense, "it's from my ma's recipe. The one I always used to have when I was a kid, if I ever felt- got ill, or anything. It's really good!"
He stares for a second, sceptical.
"...But if you don't want it-"
"No," he sighs, and expends the effort to reach out and grab Clark's wrist. Run his fingers over the warmth of it, the pulse fluttering just under the skin, "that's absolutely fine. I'll give your strange concoction a try, Farm Boy. After all, if it comes from Martha..."
Clark gives him a bright look for a long few moments. Fondness naked in his eyes, coming off him in obvious waves that he's never been quite sure what to do with.
"...I suppose it has a little less chance of poisoning me," he finishes, too tired to make it that convincing, and yawns as Clark gives his forehead one final stroke and stands up off the bed, "if it does, though, I can assure you that my lawyers-"
"Will hear about it, and throw me in jail forever, and absolutely ruin my life," Clark says fondly, and shuffles away. The brightness he always leaves behind him lingering, like a blanket, "I know, Lex, I know."
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Fill: Souperman [Superman: TAS, Clark Kent/Lex Luthor]
Date: 2016-03-22 12:54 pm (UTC)Clark's voice comes to him as if through a dream, slightly muffled through the cocoon of blankets that he's built himself. He moans, softly. Tentatively tugs the pillow down from over his head as Clark's footsteps advance towards the bedroom.
"Lex, are you in...?" And halt, just outside. He slowly manages to raise his head, and glimpses his boyfriend - or whatever Clark is to him - standing in the doorway and frowning, "wow, you really weren't kidding in your text."
"Have I ever been known to kid?" He asks, raggedly, and is somewhat amused when Clark only arches an eyebrow in response, "I feel awful. An intern's boyfriend went to Italy last week and came back with a cold, which he then proceeded to give to her, which she then proceeded to give to me. Needless to say, that intern will be..."
"Given full sick pay?" Clark asks pointedly, and steps through the door. Shrugs his bag to the floor, still holding a thermos in his hands, "and a peaceful return to work, with no petty grudges hovering over her head?"
"...Of course," he's too ill to argue about workplace ethics today, all he can do is weakly flop back against the bed and sigh in the general direction of the ceiling, "Did you at least bring me what I asked for?"
A moment of slightly surprised silence, and then the sound of footsteps crossing the floor. He wants to warn Clark off, wants to snarl and snap and be the terrifying villain he was painted as for the first few years of their association, but the dip of the bed besides him feels so soothing that it's hard to summon even the slightest damn, "the store was all out of chicken soup, I'm afraid, but-"
"How?"
"It's illness season. And people other than Lex Luthor, terror of Metropolis, are allowed to succumb to it," Clark scolds , but does at least press a hand to his forehead. A warm hand, a soft hand, a hand so soothing that he doesn't know how he ever coped without it, "but as I was saying. The store was all out, but that was alright. I made some for you, and brought that over instead."
A long moment. He slowly forces open his eyes, and frowns up at Clark who is sitting so calmly at his side, "you made some soup?"
"I'm not that bad a cook," Clark says defensively, and flattens his hand again. A soothing motion, that relaxes every muscle in his body no matter how much they want to tense, "it's from my ma's recipe. The one I always used to have when I was a kid, if I ever felt- got ill, or anything. It's really good!"
He stares for a second, sceptical.
"...But if you don't want it-"
"No," he sighs, and expends the effort to reach out and grab Clark's wrist. Run his fingers over the warmth of it, the pulse fluttering just under the skin, "that's absolutely fine. I'll give your strange concoction a try, Farm Boy. After all, if it comes from Martha..."
Clark gives him a bright look for a long few moments. Fondness naked in his eyes, coming off him in obvious waves that he's never been quite sure what to do with.
"...I suppose it has a little less chance of poisoning me," he finishes, too tired to make it that convincing, and yawns as Clark gives his forehead one final stroke and stands up off the bed, "if it does, though, I can assure you that my lawyers-"
"Will hear about it, and throw me in jail forever, and absolutely ruin my life," Clark says fondly, and shuffles away. The brightness he always leaves behind him lingering, like a blanket, "I know, Lex, I know."