Work Text:
The first thing Damian sees when he wakes up is a sickly green glow. It shines dimly on slick stone and, as Damian’s gaze drags dazedly across the cell, it reflects off the terrified whites of Jonathan Kent’s eyes.
Adrenaline snaps through Damian, followed by a splitting headache. A concussion, no doubt. Damian can feel it in the way his eyes struggle to focus and the dizziness that nearly knocks him back to the ground as he struggles to his knees.
“Kent, what are you doing here?” Jon takes a reedy inhale and that’s when Damian finally sees where the green glow is coming from.
Locked around Jon’s neck is a kryptonite collar. Damian can just make out flecks of green crystal embedded in the metal, the only source of light in their cell. However long Jon has been exposed, it’s already been too long. Now that he’s looking closer, Damian catalogs the sheen of sweat on Jon’s skin, the way his whole body is shivering. Clark has trained Jon, in his own way, but Damian knows that Jon’s father has never subjected him to this.
For a moment, Damian is grateful to Ra’s for ensuring that he can endure all forms of torture. He was trained to be the best. He was trained to be his heir, after all. Wherever they are, whatever happens to them here, Damian is confident that he can endure.
Then Damian watches a tear trail down Jon’s cheek and his traitorous heart spasms. Almost all forms of torture. It’s ludicrously common for allies to be pitted against each other, the suffering of one used to compound the suffering of the other. The easy answer, the League of Assassins answer, is not to form those kinds of exploitable attachments in the first place. Just another reason Damian can never return home.
“D-Da-mi… he-lp,” Jon begs and it’s only because Damian is already looking at him, following the shape of his lips, that he can make out the words at all. Jon squeezes his eyes shut and more tears slip out. He gives a pained, near-silent whimper. Damian has never heard Jon so quiet before. The collar doesn’t look tight enough to cut off airflow. Something else is wrong.
Damian moves towards Jon and finally feels the tug of cold chains around his wrists and ankles. It’s an annoyance but only that. Damian is still in his Robin uniform and while they took his belt, they didn’t complete a thorough enough search to find all the other lockpicks hidden in his seams. Damian squirrels one of his picks out of the lining of his pants and tries to soothe Jon as he insists, “Just stay calm, Kent, I’ll–”
As he angles his cuffs into the glow, his blood runs cold. There’s no keyhole to pick. There’s no clasp to be undone. No, the cuffs are welded shut around his wrists. Welded shut.
Damian’s throat is dry as he swallows. How long was he unconscious? Who has them? There are only so many people who would have access to kryptonite and would think to weld his cuffs shut. A quick look down shows the same for the chains around his ankles.
He searches his memory for the last thing he remembers. They were patrolling Metropolis, a chance for Jon to practice out in the field. They were only supposed to address petty crime. If they encountered something more serious, Jon was supposed to call Superman for help. Clark was supposed to be listening for them.
Damian’s eyes snap back to the collar around Jon’s neck.
Clark was supposed to be listening for them.
Unless there’s nothing to hear.
“They made it so you can’t call for help,” Damian breathes. Jon whines near soundlessly. More tears well in his eyes as the reality settles in.
Jon is not Damian. This may be the first time he’s ever felt truly, wholly alone, no safety net to catch him, no father to reassure him that everything would be alright. Superman is always listening for his son. Damian knows this, has imagined its oppressiveness before and counted his blessing that his own father was, for all his prowess, still human. But now he wonders what comfort Jon took in that, what courage it gave him, to know his dad would always be there for him. And what it feels like to have that so painfully stripped away.
“Did you see who took us?” Jon shakes his head. Damian isn’t surprised. Whoever has them was clearly prepared. “Has anyone come by the cell since they left us here?” Damian questions. Jon shakes his head again. “Alright, good,” Damian says through gritted teeth. It will be humiliating but he can lay his pride aside for Jon. A cold thought occurs to him a moment before he draws in a breath to scream. He asks, “If I call for Superman, will he come?”
Even in the dim light, Damian can see the despair on Jon’s face. “H-he… he’s–” Jon rasps, body curling inward with pain even as he still tries to speak. “–o-only s-su–”
“Don’t speak,” Damian cuts him off. Even the temporary rattle of his chains is enough to drown out the sounds of Jon’s whimpers. “If it pains you, don’t try to speak aloud. I’m practiced in reading lips. I will understand.”
Jon’s shoulders give a relieved slump. He nods once, catching his breath, before he mouths, ‘Dad is only supposed to listen for me. I’m the one who’s supposed to listen for you.’
They’re on their own then. Even though he expected it, Damian’s heart still sinks.
(And at the same time, his heart leaps. Jon is always listening for him. It may mean nothing to Jon but to Damian… it means something. Something he’s never given himself the chance to consider.)
His focus narrows back to the cuffs. There are other ways out of chains besides picking their locks. He needs to get over to Jon, get that collar off his neck. Then Jon can call Superman for help. That’s their best option without knowing who has them or where they are. Maybe the only option fast enough to rescue them before the kryptonite starts having more adverse effects. There’s enough room to slip a pinky between the cuff’s steel and his skin but not much more than that.
Damian clenches his jaw, thumbing over the welded metal once more like that will change what he needs to do. Pain is only temporary but this will hurt.
“I’m going to get out of these chains. Once I get the collar off, you call Superman for help. As loud as you can. Do you understand?” Damian isn’t waiting for an answer so he doesn’t look up at Jon until he hears a frantic tapping on the floor. Jon mouths a word and Damian squints. “Try to say a whole sentence,” Damian instructs. “It’s easier to decipher with more context.”
‘The collar,’ Jon gestures to his throat with trembling fingers, ‘there are needles.’
“Needles?” Damian repeats. He can’t see any on the outside which means…
‘On the inside. Sticking into me.’
Damian’s hands clench into fists. Jon isn’t supposed to be able to be hurt. That’s why Bruce introduced them in the first place. Initially, it was because his father didn’t trust him. Damian can admit that now. Damian had tested Jon when they first met. It always brings a familiar ache to his chest when he remembers how harsh he was to someone who saw so much good in the world. Maybe even more than harsh. Ra’s raised him to be cruel, after all.
But none of that mattered to Jon because, in the end, Damian could never really wound him. Boons of being the son of Superman. Unlike everyone else who Damian has harmed in his life, it was always easy for Jon to forgive him.
Jon might be the only real friend that Damian has.
He’s not supposed to be able to be hurt.
Damian takes a steadying breath, a technique Bruce has tried to teach him to center himself. On the other hand, he thinks with a guilty pang, maybe this is his opportunity to earn the forgiveness that Jon so willingly hands over. Or perhaps his opportunity to fail miserably at the one thing Jon needs to be protected from.
Damian exhales. “We’re going to get out of here, Jon. I promise.”
Jon trembles. ‘Okay.’ Damian’s eyes narrow at the wince that small word brings. Needles in his throat.
“Does it harm you even to mouth the words to me?” Damian demands. Jon hesitates but then slowly nods. “Be still, Kent. Conserve your energy. I will free myself and we will escape from this place.”
Damian rises to his feet as much as he can, pulling the chains taught. He’ll start with his wrists. Work himself up to his ankles. Those bones are so much harder to break.
He allows himself one shudder of anticipation before he yanks as hard as he can. He throws his whole body weight against one wrist until his skin starts to tear and the thumb he curled into his palm gives way with a sickening crack. Eased by newly drawn blood, his hand slips free.
The pain washes over him like fire alongside a feeling of grim satisfaction. Damian flexes the fingers of his freed hand but he doesn’t bother resetting his thumb. It won’t hold without a splint. He can only hope he won’t need it, as long as he can get the collar off Jon.
He starts to brace himself against the other wrist when he hears muffled cries behind him and the sounds of a palm slamming against the ground.
Damian whips around. “Jon, are you–”
“S-s-stop, D-Dami, d-d-don’t–” Jon croaks, palm still hitting the ground like he hasn’t already gotten Damian’s attention. “S-stop, stop, s-s-stop–”
“You’re injuring yourself. Stop talking,” Damian orders. Jon rails against the floor again. Damian can see beads of blood on the scraped heel of his palm. “Stop, Jon, stop!”
‘What are you doing?’ Jon pleads soundlessly.
“This is the only way I can escape from these chains. You have to trust me.” Damian pauses and then thinks to warn Jon, “It will get worse before I can get to you. But I will be fine. You need to not damage your voice further so you can call for Superman.”
‘You can’t.’
Damian turns his back on him. “I have to.”
With a heave, he slips from the other cuff, rough metal leaving gashes in his flesh. Both thumbs dangle broken and lame from his hands. Hot rivulets trace down his fingertips.
He means to ignore it, he should ignore it, but he can’t tune out the agonized whine and panicked breathing coming from the other side of the cell. He faces Jon to explain his reasoning, or maybe apologize, when he sees a dark line trail down the side of Jon’s neck. He takes a step towards the other boy before the cuffs on his ankles stop him short.
“You’re bleeding,” he says breathlessly. The distance between them yawns greater and darker. His own blood dripping to the floor is secondary to seeing Jon bleeding, to seeing Jon reduced to everything Damian is supposed to endure for him.
Jon raises a hand to his throat and flinches when his fingertips come back tipped in blood. His breathing gets faster and faster. Another drop of blood wells from under the collar, staining an awful, crooked line.
Damian needs to get to him. He needs to get to him now.
He doesn’t give himself time to shrink or dread as he positions his cuffed foot between the floor and his hands.
The snap of his breaking ankle echoes like a death knell around the cell.
Jon gives a suppressed shriek, the loudest sound he’s made so far but still not loud enough. Damian watches blood stream down his neck. Somehow that hurts more.
“Please,” Damian begs. “Please try not to make a sound.”
He reaches for his other ankle and with an awful crack, makes them a matching pair. A mournful keen answers behind him, desperate but weakening.
Damian doesn’t allow himself to make a sound as he works the cuffs from his ankles. The jarring motions send shooting pain through the broken bones. But he’s so close now. He needs to get to Jon.
He has to get them out of here. He can’t listen to Jon to hurt himself anymore. The knowledge that Jon is harming himself in his concern for Damian is far, far worse than the sight of his own blood slicking the stone floor. It’s unacceptable.
Between one minute and the next, he’s free. For a moment, Damian’s gaze just unfocuses on the pile of bloodied cuffs in front of him. Each one still perfectly intact. Each one still welded shut.
Hysterically, he thinks at least they’ll be hard pressed to force him back into those chains.
Then all he thinks of is Jon.
He stumbles over, the distance that felt so vast between them cleared in seconds, and falls to his knees next to the other boy. “Don’t worry, Kent. I’m getting you out of this forsaken place.” Jon doesn’t say anything back but his quaking hands clutch at Damian’s shirt. He lists towards Damian, eyes drawing closed. Damian feels the complete trust Jon puts in him as he gently tilts the other boy’s head to examine the collar.
Just like Jon told him, the kryptonite embedded into the metal is far from the cruelest part. The whole collar is held about an inch away from Jon’s neck, making way for needles that pierce into his throat directly above his vocal cords. Damian swallows back the sickness that rises up from his stomach.
This was deliberate, to ensure that Superman couldn’t find them. This was calculated with malice and precision. Whoever it is, they knew how to keep them here. Their only miscalculation was underestimating Damian’s will to escape.
Perhaps he was an afterthought. They were captured in Metropolis, after all. Bats are rarely seen in the city. If they had the means to neutralize Superboy, then adding Robin was probably an unforeseen bonus, or even a necessary inconvenience. The welding job had been messy. They clearly sought to ensure he didn’t break out of the cuffs, but that was the end of their plans for him. Eventually they would have taken Jon elsewhere and left Damian to waste away here and die.
An unsettling thought but worse still is the reality of what would have happened if Robin hadn’t been visiting Metropolis. This was a trap set for Superboy. Jon would have been in this cell leashed and mute. And alone.
Damian tells himself it’s the pain that makes his hands shake. He knows it isn’t.
He lets Jon lean his forehead on his collarbone as he reaches for the lock on the back of the collar. If that too was welded shut, he doesn’t know what his plan was. He would have figured out something. Thankfully he doesn’t have to as he reaches for his lock pick and gets to work.
Jon’s breath catches as the click of the lock rings off the stone walls. Damian feels Jon tremor against him, his whole body giving one relieved shiver.
“I’m taking it off,” Damian whispers, pulling back. “It may hurt. Try not to tense.” Jon nods almost imperceptibly and angles his chin up.
As carefully as he can, Damian starts to work off the collar. The needles draw out of Jon’s throat one by one. Tears join the blood slipping down Jon’s neck, even as Damian sees him squeeze his eyes shut. His hands twist in Damian’s shirt.
“Almost done,” he promises as he feels Jon shudder with the effort of repressing audible sobs. The last needle is pulled from Jon’s flesh millimeter by millimeter. Then it’s done.
Damian throws the collar to the other side of the cell. It clatters to the ground along with his own discarded chains.
Jon takes a deep breath and starts coughing. Something in Damian fractures. He’s hurt Jon. Ruined his voice forever. He had no idea how to safely remove something like this. He’s destroyed everything. Whatever he did permanently damaged Jon and now–
The loudest yell Damian has ever heard has him covering his ears as Jon screams, “DAD! SUPERMAN, HELP! Please, please, dad, help–” He breaks down coughing again, curling up against Damian. Damian’s ears ring and it’s the most blessed noise he’s heard since waking up in this cell.
He doesn’t have a second to wonder if Superman heard them before a sonic boom rocks their cell. The ceiling crumples away as Superman descends from the sky, eyes blazing red and every inch the Man of Steel. The sun shines behind him and warms their skin as that awful collar is buried beneath rubble.
Damian holds Jon closer and lets Superman save them.