Kryptonite and Scooter Ankles ||J. Kent ||

Part 18:

A/N: okay, so, this is my official
⚠️Trigger Warning⚠️
There's attempted suicide, and even if I think it's not bad enough to elicit a warning, my definitions of bad aren't universal so here it be. This is the warning.

Take care of y'allselves, drink some water, and say hi to a friend

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Every time blood was drawn, Jon felt as though he was going to be sick. Every few hours a person in a hazmat suit would come in to take more. He thought the hazmat suits were woefully unnecessary, but of course, the scientists inside them didn't know that. It was almost as if they expected trace amounts of the shmackalakin drug to be lingering around their little half alien squeaky toy.

Or perhaps they thought Jon would either fry or freeze them to death.

It would be a blatant lie to say it never crossed his mind — but then, the thought of what Luthor would do to him outweighed the option.

The first few times he'd resisted, of course. Jon had never been partial to needles, regardless of who was giving them. He liked to think he resisted, but in all reality, all he could do while restrained to the metal table was go tense and struggle fruitlessly until he received a nasty shock from the inhibitor collar. After that he squeezed his eyes shut and disassociated until they were done, and the blood was out of sight.

As it turns out, seeing entire vials of his own blood made him want to puke. Seeing it from a wound, that was fine; that was natural. But seeing it collected in a clear, controlled case just seemed wrong.

At the end of the day — or what he assumed was the end of the day, he had no way of knowing how long he'd been unconscious, or how long he spent restrained in the sterile room — Jon was moved to a different room. Calling it a cell would be over exaggerating, because it had a decent bed and a separate tiny bathroom. That much was good, because if there was one thing that really stuck with him from being tied down to that medical table, it was that he really needed to pee.

There weren't any windows, obviously, and the prolonged lack of sunlight made him particularly drowsy.

The meals he got came three times a day, and he used their arrival as time stamps since his captors weren't nice enough to leave him a clock. But they were pretty fulfilling meals for a half kryptonian his age; that was honestly expected, if Lex intended to keep taking blood from him.

Lex himself hadn't shown his face since Jon had woken up on the table.

Keeping track of meals, Jon sat two days alone in his little prison room with nothing but artificial lighting to keep him occupied. The inhibitor collar restricted his abilities, and because of that, Jon felt woefully de-powered and utterly bored out of his mind. He took to sleeping, and found that he was able to fall asleep quite quickly if he wanted to. It was a good way to ignore the anxiety that followed every passing second of waiting for someone to come busting in to save him.

The longer he waited, the more he was convinced that they'd just abandoned him. Which was funny, because he thought that was what he wanted ... His family deserved to live life unrestrained by him, but the moment something took him away from them, he prayed they didn't actually feel that way.

That was one thing about sitting alone in a small room, your only company hazmat suited scientists who only wanted more blood samples — you're forced to realize just how much you want your family to love you enough to come burning down the world to find you.

And with all the tears and bellyaching he'd been doing all month, Jon was bone chilled terrified of them finally agreeing with him.

So what if he was a disaster of a human being? A useless little alien spawn that only brought about trouble and made everyone's lives just so gosh dang harder? The thought of his mom agreeing with that and leaving him to the wolves was terrifying. Jon didn't want to be so screwed up that his own dad — that Super-heccin-man — didn't see anything worth saving.