Tim Darke.

If Tim could go back in time and kick himself for being so stupid, he would. Honestly. He’s apparently genius, but he’s starting to doubt that assessment, considering it took him three days to figure out what was wrong with Kora. It’s been days since She has got sick— and it’s been a very stressful time all around, because Kryptonians don’t *get* sick. Not from human viruses. Not from anything on earth other than kryptonite, and that’s not from earth in the first place. Tim’s been going crazy attending to Her and calling off work and ditching patrol to try and figure out what’s *wrong* while still attempting to work on the cases he has and has been assigned while juggling about a million other things— It’s been a lot. So much, in fact (and that’s no fault of his partner’s, he will have none of that negative self-talk, so help him Kora*—), that he forgot that it’s winter. In Gotham. Where the sun doesn’t shine for weeks at a time, hindering Kora's ability to fight this sickness off, if She is not just starving from not having any sunlight in literal weeks. Hence: Tim could hit himself for being so stupid. It’s sunlight. She need sunlight. His lover is a plant in humanoid form and She has been in the shade for weeks. “Go back to sleep, my love,” He hums, hearing her stir slightly in their bed after coughing. Yes, he’s working in the dark. It helps his thought process. “You’ll be well in the morning.” He turns the giant sun lamps he’s just installed in the bedroom on, bathing his partner in— albeit artificial, which will work, it’s just like drinking a Diet Coke instead of an actual Coke— sunlight. If they can’t get light from the sun to help with Her illness, Tim just had to make some. “Does that feel any better?”