Big Damn List has a sequel to the space flu.
Title: What Do You Mean, Contagious?
Fandom: Green Lantern Corps
Characters: Kyle Rayner, Connor Hawke, various JLA
Prompt: 065 - Passing
Word Count: 2465
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Space flu is contagious. Methods of transmission involve dance clubs.
Author's Notes: Direct sequel to Prompt 39 - Taste. Contains slash (m/m relationship).
Connor moaned against Kyle’s touch.
Kyle swore and plunged the not-so-cold cloth back into the bucket of ice water, wringing it out and placing it back on Connor’s forehead. Despite the heat in the apartment and the blankets, Connor was shivering. “C-cold,” he muttered through clenched teeth, and tried to shake the cloth off. Kyle held it on, wondering exactly when this had gotten quite so out of hand.
Seventy-two hours earlier:
“Promise?” Kyle asked. He didn’t think Connor would actually tie him down, regardless of the reason, but trying to make his boyfriend blush was an easy game that he never failed to win. Much to his surprise, it didn’t work this time, but Connor did give him a proper - if somewhat chaste - kiss.
“Go back to sleep,” Connor told him. “You still have flu.”
“Tease,” Kyle grumbled, but while he felt better than he had in weeks, he wasn’t about to argue. Not when he could feel gravity pulling down every square inch of his skin.
Forty-eight hours earlier:
“I don’t see why we had to use the teleporter.” Kyle rubbed Connor’s back; none of the Arrows apparently did well with the whole molecule disassembly thing, but the trip down usually seemed to be better than the trip up. Connor had been particularly hard-hit by it this time nonetheless; he’d been praying to the porcelain god for what seemed like an inordinately long time. “I could have flown us.”
“Shut up, Kyle,” Connor choked out. Kyle grimaced and went to get him a glass of water; by the sound of it, there wasn’t anything left in Connor’s system.
“I thought I was supposed to be the sick one,” he said, but under his breath. Finally getting out of the Watchtower infirmary - had it been nearly three weeks? - felt like the best day of his life. Mentally cataloguing a to-do list (work was pretty high up there, given his lack thereof for the better part of a month and rent was due), Kyle returned from the kitchen to find Connor sprawled over his couch. He proffered the glass, and Connor took it gratefully, holding up his other hand to shield his eyes from the morning sunlight.
“Now I know why my father hated that thing,” he said. He looked absolutely pathetic; if Kyle hadn’t know what he’d been doing not five minutes earlier, he would have given him a consolation kiss. As it was, there was nothing for it but to nod sympathetically. Kyle had never had much trouble with the transporter himself, but he almost never used it. Being able to fly through space had definite advantages.
Thirty-six hours earlier:
“See? Not dead.” Kyle presented himself to his mother for inspection. “Can I come in now?”
“You could have called,” she replied, standing aside from the door and opening it wider.
“I was on the moon!” he protested. The door didn’t quite close properly behind him, and he turned to shove it back over the lintel. “I didn’t even know the news reports said I was dead!”
“Still,” she said. She had her arms crossed when he faced her again, that one eyebrow quirked up in that special way that said she was not happy with him at all.
“Look, someone from the JLA should have contacted you as soon as they knew I was going to be stuck up there,” he told her.
“Superman was very polite,” she allowed. “But it still would have been nice to hear from you.”
“I - Superman?” Kyle buried his face in his hands. “I’m sorry I didn’t call, Mom.” He looked at her with wide eyes. “But I’m okay.”
Moira patted her son’s shoulder. “I worry about you.” Her eyes narrowed. “Have you lost weight? Come here, I’ll make you a sandwich and some milk.”
“I’ve eaten already,” he said. “But thanks.”
“Are you sure?” She reached out and pinched his side. “Good lord, Kyle, what happened to you?”
“I just spent three weeks with the worst case of flu I’ve ever had in my life,” Kyle said. Her expression changed to over-protective mother-mode, and he backed up, hands out in self-defense. “I’m all better now! I swear. J’onn said I could go home and everything. Except no costumes until next week.”
“I’d better not see anything about Green Lantern on the news until then,” Moira said.
Twenty-four hours earlier:
Significant progress on the to-do list having been made - rent, work, and the visit to his mother - Kyle crawled into bed. Connor was already there, sound asleep, so Kyle just curled around him. When he woke several hours later, Connor was still there.
“Mmrr?” Kyle asked.
“Just watching you,” Connor said.
“I don’t know if that’s endearing or creepy.” Kyle started to slide out from between the sheets, but the heat from Connor’s skin registered. “Are you feeling okay?”
“Little tired,” Connor admitted. “I think it’s the transporter.”
Kyle put a hand on his forehead, checking it against his own. “I think you might have a bug. Just stay there and I’ll bring you some tea.”
“You’re just glad it’s not you being fussed over,” Connor retorted.
“Damn straight,” Kyle said. Finding no tea in his apartment, he eventually resorted to Radu’s coffee house downstairs. Connor was asleep when he returned with it, so he just left it by the bed and went to work on one of his assignments.
Twelve hours earlier:
“Ugh,” Connor said, sprawled on Kyle’s couch again.
“Huh?” Kyle looked up, eyes threatening to refuse to focus on anything farther than six inches away. He finally got them to cooperate and realized that it was getting dark. He put down his pencils and switched on the light over his drawing board. “What’s up?”
“You gave me your flu,” Connor complained.
“Oh, no, you’re kidding.” Kyle was across the room in seconds, uniform on. He reached out and pulled Connor into his arms. “Watchtower it is.”
“Yes, yes, I’m kidding! It was a joke!” Connor said hastily.
“Are you sure?” Kyle put Connor down and laid a hand against his forehead. “You’re warm.”
“I probably caught something from one of the kids at the hospital,” Connor said. “There was a man with a chemical bomb and a list of demands as long as my arm.”
“And when was this?”
“About the time you were trying to pay your rent. You didn’t notice I was gone, and it didn’t even make the news,” Connor said.
“Uh huh.” Kyle vanished the uniform and rummaged through his bathroom. He knew it was in there somewhere - the cupboard under the sink was filled to overflowing with bottles in various states of empty, but he finally emerged in triumph, waving a tiny bottle of cold medicine. “There it is.”
“I’m not touching that,” Connor said. “Do you know what’s in it?”
“I’ll take you to the Watchtower and tell J’onn you caught my flu,” Kyle warned him. “Take it, sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning, and if you don’t, I really will drag you to J’onn.”
“The Martian Manhunter is not a doctor,” Connor said, but when Kyle approached him with a spoon he opened his mouth obediently. “Kyle, that is the worst-tasting…” He stopped and coughed, grimacing.
“It’s cherry! I like cherry.” Kyle recapped the bottle and left it on the counter.
“Of course you do,” Connor muttered and pulled him down for a kiss. Not wanting to either catch Connor’s bug or to overtax him, Kyle tried to keep it as chaste and quick as possible, but when Connor’s tongue flicked against his lips, he parted them willingly.
“You’re right,” Kyle said a few moments later. “That does taste terrible.”
“I told you,” Connor said, but it didn’t seem to bother him so much now. Kyle left the couch to him and started trying to make soup. Connor had kept trying to feed him while he had been sick; it was only fair to return the favor.
As he was rather lacking in the soup-making department - Kyle, to be honest, was not a particularly good cook and admitted it - the majority of his preparations involved a can opener. He did add some fresh vegetables which had mysteriously materialized in his refrigerator (he suspected Connor) and remembered at the last second that Connor wouldn’t eat the chicken noodle. A brief search turned up a can of minestrone that looked promisingly animal-product-free, so Kyle put the vegetables into that instead and brought a bowl out to the living room.
Connor was not in the living room. A brief search - minus the bowl of soup - showed him to be in the bedroom, with several of Kyle’s shirts on the floor and a pair of leather pants that Kyle had bought some years ago and never actually worn currently hugging Connor’s really very nice legs and ass. “They’re yours,” Kyle said without thinking.
Connor turned around, a silvery gray shirt in his hands. “Hmm?” he said.
“I mean, what are you doing?”
“I want to… dance,” Connor said. Kyle blinked. Connor’s face was a little flushed, but he didn’t feel warm to the touch, and he looked otherwise fine.
“Dance,” Kyle repeated, just to make sure he’d heard properly.
“Yessss.” Connor slipped the shirt on, fastening the various bits and pieces. It always took Kyle far too long to put that particular shirt together, which was why he never wore it either, but Connor was finished in seconds. “Aren’t you ready yet, lover?”
Dancing it was.
Apparently an upbringing at a Zen Buddhist temple and the accompanying skill set included a perfect sense of rhythm and grace, or perhaps Connor came by it naturally. His movements were more and more fluid, sliding through styles with increasing rapidity until Kyle couldn’t keep up and begged a rest and a drink. Connor ignored the drink, but he leaned against Kyle with a complete disregard for the sidelong looks from people around them.
“Kiss,” he said, quietly enough that Kyle was the only one who heard him.
“Not here,” Kyle hissed back.
“The hell’s wrong with you?” Connor pushed himself off Kyle, stumbling and catching his balance on a nearby chair.
“With me?” Connor was visibly swaying on his feet, and Kyle was pretty sure he hadn’t actually been drinking, unless he’d gotten something while Kyle hadn’t been paying attention. It would explain a lot - Connor didn’t normally drink, and if he’d gotten something by accident, it would wreak havoc with his system. “What’s wrong with you?”
“You act like… like… like there’s something dirty,” Connor said, loudly enough that people really were starting to notice and turn around. This was not a discussion Kyle wanted to have with half of the New York club scene looking on; it wasn’t that he was ashamed of being attracted to or sleeping with men, it was just that there was a time and a place for conversations like these and this wasn’t it.
“Maybe I should take you home,” Kyle said, and Connor threw a punch. It was way off target, worrying enough for an Arrow, but Connor overbalanced behind it and Kyle barely caught him before he hit the ground.
“Thank you,” Connor said calmly. “Go to hell,” he added, just as calmly, but since Kyle was supporting most of his weight, he chose to ignore that second utterance.
“Going home now,” he said. “You’ve had enough fun for one night.”
“Fuck you,” Connor said, and Kyle thought he must have misheard him until they got outside the club and Connor’s angry half-struggle to detach himself from Kyle turned into a clinging vine impression instead. “Fuck me.”
“What did you drink?” Kyle said. There was an empty alley with no lit windows and he took advantage of it to ring a mostly opaque transport. This probably counted as personal misuse of his powers, but right now he didn’t really care.
“You hate me,” Connor said, and the automatic flare of anger that Connor could even think that died when Kyle saw the lost-puppy look on his face.
“I could never hate you,” he said, and cupped Connor’s face between his hands. “Never.” Connor tasted like cherries and alcohol. Kyle started to move back, but Connor made a little mewling noise and leapt onto him. Kyle had bare seconds to put the transport down onto the nearest tall rooftop and fix it there as firmly as he could before Connor all but ripped his shirt off.
Eight hours earlier:
“Well, this was clearly a bad idea.” Kyle kept the sentiment as quiet as possible. Not only was gravel digging into his back, his favorite shirt had been ripped to shreds, and Connor had not been drunk no matter how he’d acted. Hangovers, in Kyle’s experience, didn’t usually come with high fevers. He gathered up the clothes and carried Connor back to his apartment, making sure to keep him warm. Connor snuggled against him and smiled, so he couldn’t have been feeling that bad, Kyle reasoned.
Now:
“Hold still,” Kyle said. The thermometer, once he managed to get Connor to hold it under his tongue long enough, read 102. “That’s it.” He ringed his uniform on and picked Connor up. “Watchtower, two to transport. Green Arrow requires medical attention.”
Once in the medical bay, J’onn again took charge and kicked Kyle out. Waiting in the hallway for the wrath of J’onn to fall on his head didn’t seem particularly wise, but Kyle wasn’t going to run away, either. It didn’t take long for J’onn to emerge, and he didn’t look happy.
“Green Lantern,” he said, in a deep rumbly sort of voice.
“Yes?” Kyle did not squeak.
“I was under the impression that you would have more of a sense of responsibility than to impart bodily fluids to a teammate while still in the contagious stages of recuperation,” J’onn said.
“That’s my flu?”
“It is not flu,” J’onn said, fixing him with a glare that was somehow more frightening than the look he’d had while telling Kyle not to screw his teammates when sick.
“I’m sorry, J’onn.”
“Fortunately, his tenure will be far shorter than yours,” J’onn said, changing the subject abruptly. “I estimate three days at most.” He swept past Kyle, turning once to add, “He is your responsibility, Green Lantern. Take care of him.”
Kyle nodded and entered the infirmary. Remembering how he’d felt with this flu, he was deeply glad Connor would only have to put up with it for three days. Remembering how he’d acted with the flu, he supposed turnabout was fair play and resolved to be as patient with Connor as Connor had been with him. At the sight of his lover’s sleeping face, it didn’t seem like such a difficult resolution to keep at all.
FINIS
Fandom: Green Lantern Corps
Characters: Kyle Rayner, Connor Hawke, various JLA
Prompt: 065 - Passing
Word Count: 2465
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Space flu is contagious. Methods of transmission involve dance clubs.
Author's Notes: Direct sequel to Prompt 39 - Taste. Contains slash (m/m relationship).
Connor moaned against Kyle’s touch.
Kyle swore and plunged the not-so-cold cloth back into the bucket of ice water, wringing it out and placing it back on Connor’s forehead. Despite the heat in the apartment and the blankets, Connor was shivering. “C-cold,” he muttered through clenched teeth, and tried to shake the cloth off. Kyle held it on, wondering exactly when this had gotten quite so out of hand.
Seventy-two hours earlier:
“Promise?” Kyle asked. He didn’t think Connor would actually tie him down, regardless of the reason, but trying to make his boyfriend blush was an easy game that he never failed to win. Much to his surprise, it didn’t work this time, but Connor did give him a proper - if somewhat chaste - kiss.
“Go back to sleep,” Connor told him. “You still have flu.”
“Tease,” Kyle grumbled, but while he felt better than he had in weeks, he wasn’t about to argue. Not when he could feel gravity pulling down every square inch of his skin.
Forty-eight hours earlier:
“I don’t see why we had to use the teleporter.” Kyle rubbed Connor’s back; none of the Arrows apparently did well with the whole molecule disassembly thing, but the trip down usually seemed to be better than the trip up. Connor had been particularly hard-hit by it this time nonetheless; he’d been praying to the porcelain god for what seemed like an inordinately long time. “I could have flown us.”
“Shut up, Kyle,” Connor choked out. Kyle grimaced and went to get him a glass of water; by the sound of it, there wasn’t anything left in Connor’s system.
“I thought I was supposed to be the sick one,” he said, but under his breath. Finally getting out of the Watchtower infirmary - had it been nearly three weeks? - felt like the best day of his life. Mentally cataloguing a to-do list (work was pretty high up there, given his lack thereof for the better part of a month and rent was due), Kyle returned from the kitchen to find Connor sprawled over his couch. He proffered the glass, and Connor took it gratefully, holding up his other hand to shield his eyes from the morning sunlight.
“Now I know why my father hated that thing,” he said. He looked absolutely pathetic; if Kyle hadn’t know what he’d been doing not five minutes earlier, he would have given him a consolation kiss. As it was, there was nothing for it but to nod sympathetically. Kyle had never had much trouble with the transporter himself, but he almost never used it. Being able to fly through space had definite advantages.
Thirty-six hours earlier:
“See? Not dead.” Kyle presented himself to his mother for inspection. “Can I come in now?”
“You could have called,” she replied, standing aside from the door and opening it wider.
“I was on the moon!” he protested. The door didn’t quite close properly behind him, and he turned to shove it back over the lintel. “I didn’t even know the news reports said I was dead!”
“Still,” she said. She had her arms crossed when he faced her again, that one eyebrow quirked up in that special way that said she was not happy with him at all.
“Look, someone from the JLA should have contacted you as soon as they knew I was going to be stuck up there,” he told her.
“Superman was very polite,” she allowed. “But it still would have been nice to hear from you.”
“I - Superman?” Kyle buried his face in his hands. “I’m sorry I didn’t call, Mom.” He looked at her with wide eyes. “But I’m okay.”
Moira patted her son’s shoulder. “I worry about you.” Her eyes narrowed. “Have you lost weight? Come here, I’ll make you a sandwich and some milk.”
“I’ve eaten already,” he said. “But thanks.”
“Are you sure?” She reached out and pinched his side. “Good lord, Kyle, what happened to you?”
“I just spent three weeks with the worst case of flu I’ve ever had in my life,” Kyle said. Her expression changed to over-protective mother-mode, and he backed up, hands out in self-defense. “I’m all better now! I swear. J’onn said I could go home and everything. Except no costumes until next week.”
“I’d better not see anything about Green Lantern on the news until then,” Moira said.
Twenty-four hours earlier:
Significant progress on the to-do list having been made - rent, work, and the visit to his mother - Kyle crawled into bed. Connor was already there, sound asleep, so Kyle just curled around him. When he woke several hours later, Connor was still there.
“Mmrr?” Kyle asked.
“Just watching you,” Connor said.
“I don’t know if that’s endearing or creepy.” Kyle started to slide out from between the sheets, but the heat from Connor’s skin registered. “Are you feeling okay?”
“Little tired,” Connor admitted. “I think it’s the transporter.”
Kyle put a hand on his forehead, checking it against his own. “I think you might have a bug. Just stay there and I’ll bring you some tea.”
“You’re just glad it’s not you being fussed over,” Connor retorted.
“Damn straight,” Kyle said. Finding no tea in his apartment, he eventually resorted to Radu’s coffee house downstairs. Connor was asleep when he returned with it, so he just left it by the bed and went to work on one of his assignments.
Twelve hours earlier:
“Ugh,” Connor said, sprawled on Kyle’s couch again.
“Huh?” Kyle looked up, eyes threatening to refuse to focus on anything farther than six inches away. He finally got them to cooperate and realized that it was getting dark. He put down his pencils and switched on the light over his drawing board. “What’s up?”
“You gave me your flu,” Connor complained.
“Oh, no, you’re kidding.” Kyle was across the room in seconds, uniform on. He reached out and pulled Connor into his arms. “Watchtower it is.”
“Yes, yes, I’m kidding! It was a joke!” Connor said hastily.
“Are you sure?” Kyle put Connor down and laid a hand against his forehead. “You’re warm.”
“I probably caught something from one of the kids at the hospital,” Connor said. “There was a man with a chemical bomb and a list of demands as long as my arm.”
“And when was this?”
“About the time you were trying to pay your rent. You didn’t notice I was gone, and it didn’t even make the news,” Connor said.
“Uh huh.” Kyle vanished the uniform and rummaged through his bathroom. He knew it was in there somewhere - the cupboard under the sink was filled to overflowing with bottles in various states of empty, but he finally emerged in triumph, waving a tiny bottle of cold medicine. “There it is.”
“I’m not touching that,” Connor said. “Do you know what’s in it?”
“I’ll take you to the Watchtower and tell J’onn you caught my flu,” Kyle warned him. “Take it, sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning, and if you don’t, I really will drag you to J’onn.”
“The Martian Manhunter is not a doctor,” Connor said, but when Kyle approached him with a spoon he opened his mouth obediently. “Kyle, that is the worst-tasting…” He stopped and coughed, grimacing.
“It’s cherry! I like cherry.” Kyle recapped the bottle and left it on the counter.
“Of course you do,” Connor muttered and pulled him down for a kiss. Not wanting to either catch Connor’s bug or to overtax him, Kyle tried to keep it as chaste and quick as possible, but when Connor’s tongue flicked against his lips, he parted them willingly.
“You’re right,” Kyle said a few moments later. “That does taste terrible.”
“I told you,” Connor said, but it didn’t seem to bother him so much now. Kyle left the couch to him and started trying to make soup. Connor had kept trying to feed him while he had been sick; it was only fair to return the favor.
As he was rather lacking in the soup-making department - Kyle, to be honest, was not a particularly good cook and admitted it - the majority of his preparations involved a can opener. He did add some fresh vegetables which had mysteriously materialized in his refrigerator (he suspected Connor) and remembered at the last second that Connor wouldn’t eat the chicken noodle. A brief search turned up a can of minestrone that looked promisingly animal-product-free, so Kyle put the vegetables into that instead and brought a bowl out to the living room.
Connor was not in the living room. A brief search - minus the bowl of soup - showed him to be in the bedroom, with several of Kyle’s shirts on the floor and a pair of leather pants that Kyle had bought some years ago and never actually worn currently hugging Connor’s really very nice legs and ass. “They’re yours,” Kyle said without thinking.
Connor turned around, a silvery gray shirt in his hands. “Hmm?” he said.
“I mean, what are you doing?”
“I want to… dance,” Connor said. Kyle blinked. Connor’s face was a little flushed, but he didn’t feel warm to the touch, and he looked otherwise fine.
“Dance,” Kyle repeated, just to make sure he’d heard properly.
“Yessss.” Connor slipped the shirt on, fastening the various bits and pieces. It always took Kyle far too long to put that particular shirt together, which was why he never wore it either, but Connor was finished in seconds. “Aren’t you ready yet, lover?”
Dancing it was.
Apparently an upbringing at a Zen Buddhist temple and the accompanying skill set included a perfect sense of rhythm and grace, or perhaps Connor came by it naturally. His movements were more and more fluid, sliding through styles with increasing rapidity until Kyle couldn’t keep up and begged a rest and a drink. Connor ignored the drink, but he leaned against Kyle with a complete disregard for the sidelong looks from people around them.
“Kiss,” he said, quietly enough that Kyle was the only one who heard him.
“Not here,” Kyle hissed back.
“The hell’s wrong with you?” Connor pushed himself off Kyle, stumbling and catching his balance on a nearby chair.
“With me?” Connor was visibly swaying on his feet, and Kyle was pretty sure he hadn’t actually been drinking, unless he’d gotten something while Kyle hadn’t been paying attention. It would explain a lot - Connor didn’t normally drink, and if he’d gotten something by accident, it would wreak havoc with his system. “What’s wrong with you?”
“You act like… like… like there’s something dirty,” Connor said, loudly enough that people really were starting to notice and turn around. This was not a discussion Kyle wanted to have with half of the New York club scene looking on; it wasn’t that he was ashamed of being attracted to or sleeping with men, it was just that there was a time and a place for conversations like these and this wasn’t it.
“Maybe I should take you home,” Kyle said, and Connor threw a punch. It was way off target, worrying enough for an Arrow, but Connor overbalanced behind it and Kyle barely caught him before he hit the ground.
“Thank you,” Connor said calmly. “Go to hell,” he added, just as calmly, but since Kyle was supporting most of his weight, he chose to ignore that second utterance.
“Going home now,” he said. “You’ve had enough fun for one night.”
“Fuck you,” Connor said, and Kyle thought he must have misheard him until they got outside the club and Connor’s angry half-struggle to detach himself from Kyle turned into a clinging vine impression instead. “Fuck me.”
“What did you drink?” Kyle said. There was an empty alley with no lit windows and he took advantage of it to ring a mostly opaque transport. This probably counted as personal misuse of his powers, but right now he didn’t really care.
“You hate me,” Connor said, and the automatic flare of anger that Connor could even think that died when Kyle saw the lost-puppy look on his face.
“I could never hate you,” he said, and cupped Connor’s face between his hands. “Never.” Connor tasted like cherries and alcohol. Kyle started to move back, but Connor made a little mewling noise and leapt onto him. Kyle had bare seconds to put the transport down onto the nearest tall rooftop and fix it there as firmly as he could before Connor all but ripped his shirt off.
Eight hours earlier:
“Well, this was clearly a bad idea.” Kyle kept the sentiment as quiet as possible. Not only was gravel digging into his back, his favorite shirt had been ripped to shreds, and Connor had not been drunk no matter how he’d acted. Hangovers, in Kyle’s experience, didn’t usually come with high fevers. He gathered up the clothes and carried Connor back to his apartment, making sure to keep him warm. Connor snuggled against him and smiled, so he couldn’t have been feeling that bad, Kyle reasoned.
Now:
“Hold still,” Kyle said. The thermometer, once he managed to get Connor to hold it under his tongue long enough, read 102. “That’s it.” He ringed his uniform on and picked Connor up. “Watchtower, two to transport. Green Arrow requires medical attention.”
Once in the medical bay, J’onn again took charge and kicked Kyle out. Waiting in the hallway for the wrath of J’onn to fall on his head didn’t seem particularly wise, but Kyle wasn’t going to run away, either. It didn’t take long for J’onn to emerge, and he didn’t look happy.
“Green Lantern,” he said, in a deep rumbly sort of voice.
“Yes?” Kyle did not squeak.
“I was under the impression that you would have more of a sense of responsibility than to impart bodily fluids to a teammate while still in the contagious stages of recuperation,” J’onn said.
“That’s my flu?”
“It is not flu,” J’onn said, fixing him with a glare that was somehow more frightening than the look he’d had while telling Kyle not to screw his teammates when sick.
“I’m sorry, J’onn.”
“Fortunately, his tenure will be far shorter than yours,” J’onn said, changing the subject abruptly. “I estimate three days at most.” He swept past Kyle, turning once to add, “He is your responsibility, Green Lantern. Take care of him.”
Kyle nodded and entered the infirmary. Remembering how he’d felt with this flu, he was deeply glad Connor would only have to put up with it for three days. Remembering how he’d acted with the flu, he supposed turnabout was fair play and resolved to be as patient with Connor as Connor had been with him. At the sight of his lover’s sleeping face, it didn’t seem like such a difficult resolution to keep at all.
FINIS