Chapter Text
Jon scratches at hardened lava, despair rising in his chest. His fingers keep slipping from the wall. No matter how hard he pushes, no crevices are made.
He can’t get out.
Jon curls up his fist and he punches.
Once.
Twice.
Three strikes and still, no movement was made.
Water builds up behind his eyes. “Let me out,” he begs as magma sloshes around his platform. “Let me out, please! I’m sorry!”
His cries go unheard, the sky dark from the small vent above him. Jon turns against the wall, pressing back into the heat. His legs give out on him, sliding him down to the floor. His hair sticks to his skin, damp with sweat.
“Please,” he says as fear grips his heart. “I just want to go home.” Tears run down his cheeks, snot making it hard to breathe. He squeezes his eyes shut, desperately missing his father.
Why hasn’t he come to find Jon yet?
His eyes open to a desolate grey room, bare in contents. Jon inhales at the sight, memory sparking at once.
That’s right; he escaped. He isn’t in the volcano anymore.
Jon sits up, a thin blanket dropping from his shoulders. Cool air hits his skin, and despite the upgrade from scorching heat, Jon can’t help but bring the blanket back up to his neck. He swings his feet out, barely touching the ground before he quickly brings them back onto the cot he is on.
Freezing is the ground beneath him.
Jon makes a small noise in his mouth, swallowing back spit. His eyes scan the room, not much to be noted except for the vent near the door. The air loudly whistles as it passes through. Jon tightens his only shield against his form as the vent maintains the cold temperature.
Goosebumps rise on his legs, exposed due to his ripped clothing. Jon picks at a thread, grey string unraveling the jeans he’s worn for over a year. They were his longest-lasting pair compared to the other clothing Ultraman threw his way. The string detaches easily from the warped shape, and the action has Jon missing his caped jacket he wore when he was eleven. (Mamaw made it for him before he even knew he had powers. So obsessed with the hero of Superman - and wasn’t that crazy to learn? His own father - he pretended to wear a cape with a red blanket from childhood before she gifted him the jacket for his ninth birthday.)
Jon can’t help but mess with the string, wrapping it around his fingers as he waits. While the temptation to try opening the door is strong, Jon isn’t dumb. The dull noise of his surroundings made it clear he wasn’t in friendly territory. Whoever has him knows SuperUltraman’s weakness with lead.
He breathes in slowly. Jon can wait. He’s had enough practice with it.
Jon lays back down, eyes facing the door. The kryptonian brings his legs up to curl his arms around, trying to conserve heat. The blanket doesn’t cover his toes and he unfortunately has to let them freeze to keep his mouth covered. He watches and waits.
As time passes, his eyes droop with boredom.
No sound occurs other than the vent air and after a while, Jon sits back up. He places his bare feet on the floor and lifts himself off the cot. The floor is smooth, much easier to stand on than volcanic rock.
Jon keeps the blanket wrapped over his shoulders, a small parody of his long-lost jacket, and he walks towards the door. He brings one hand to the handle and with a turn, he pushes.
The door easily gives into his command.
Just a small crack of light from the other room has Jon pausing. Is this a trick? He clenches the blanket in his other hand and within a second, he makes a decision.
He pushes the door fully open. There is a toilet in the corner of the small room however, Jon is more concerned with the sink in front of him. The blanket falls from his grasp as he stumbles over. The bowl cracks under his strength but Jon could hardly give a care. How long has it been since he’s seen a sink? Does it have water? Jon goes to pull when he stops.
He can’t mess this up. His hand hovers over the sink, nerves buzzing in anticipation. His fingers gently curl over the right handle with the fading blue mark, and he carefully turns.
Water pours out the faucet, murky at first before clearing up. It loudly runs down the drain, and is more cold than the floor when it runs over his fingers. Jon cups his hand and lets it fill his palm, watching as it spills over after a few seconds. The first sip ends up with more water dribbling down his chin than in his mouth, but it’s perhaps the most refreshing drink Jon has ever had in his life. He cups both hands under the faucet to gather more water but his thirst has him bringing half-filled hands to his mouth.
He slurps till he is satisfied. When his stomach begs him to stop, his attention turns to his clothing. All too conscious of the filth on his body, he hastily rips off his shirt and shrugs off his jeans. He carefully turns the other handle, holding his breath as he holds back his strength. When he swipes his other hand under the rushing water, a noise of laughter escapes his throat.
The water is warm, the perfect temperature for what he is needing. He cups both hands under the faucet and this time, brings it down on his body. The shock of water hitting skin has him shivering, but he ignores it to bring another palmful over. A small puddle forms beneath him as he rubs his arms, his legs, and his chest with water. His hair takes longer to wet. Jon finds dunking his head, or as much as he could, under the faucet does the job much faster. His fingers get caught in tangled hair as he scrubs his scalp, strands of hair falling away to the floor.
It’s not as clean as he wished, this makeshift shower of his, considering he has no soap or shampoo, but it’s enough for Jon and his grimy skin. It’s more than he had in the volcano.
He removes himself from the sink and shakes his head, spraying the floor with water. He squeezes chunks of hair to get rid of any excess water before shaking his head again.
A knock interrupts him.
Jon snaps his head toward the sound. His lips fall from the stretched smile they were in, taking the ache away that was in his face. The knock comes again, and Jon walks out of the small bathroom to see the wall open.
Not the whole wall but a door-shaped hole that is disorientating. He lifts his fists up, ready for defense when a voice breaks out.
“There’s a shower in that room.” The person doesn’t show themselves, and Jon can hardly see them beyond the shadows. “You didn’t have to use the sink.”
Jon doesn’t answer. He’s not quite sure what to say to that. He wasn’t exactly looking at the whole room when the sink came into view. The person sighs before tossing a bag into the room. “There’s soap in there,” and from his deep tone, Jon can tell it was a man who was talking to him, “as well as some clothes. I don’t know your size so hopefully, they fit.” Jon however stops listening after the reveal.
He walks over to the bag and opens it up. He lifts up each piece in the artificial light for inspection. The first piece is a white tank, and when Jon brings it to his nose, it smells clean. He replaces the shirt with jeans and inhales the scent of detergent. It’s the best thing he’s smelled in seven years. He digs in the bag and pulls out more items: underwear, two towels, a small cloth, a bar of soap and two bottles: shampoo and conditioner.
“Take a shower,” the person commands, and Jon is reminded abruptly that he is not alone. Embarrassment floods his system as he stands, his bare body on display. He doesn’t loosen his grip on the bag. “I’ll bring back deodorant when you’re done.”
The wall door closes and Jon only waits a few seconds before turning back towards the small bathroom, bag in hand.