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Jon didn't usually ask for backup, but sometimes the situation just called for it.
For example, the one he was currently on his way to deal with. A group of Boravia's underground "officials" had been searching Metropolis, trying to acquire a sizeable amount of uranium—no doubt for nefarious purposes—and since both Kon and Superman were currently off-planet, the job fell to Jon to investigate. But the idea of tackling such a thing alone felt… overwhelming, to say the least.
So he'd called Damian. Who had agreed in a heartbeat, and planned to meet up with him just before the deal and go in together. Damian's ride was supposed to drop him off at a coffee shop only a block from the seedy parking garage where Jon had arranged the deal with the Boravians. Jon landed just outside of The Joe Joint's back entrance, steering clear of the cameras, and stuffed his Superboy hoodie into a briefcase while putting on his glasses. He couldn't exactly fly across the city in a three-piece suit.
Damian was already inside waiting, similarly dressed up. He held a briefcase of his own. "Ready, Kent?"
Jon nodded.
"Good. I have formulated a strategy. Just follow my lead, and when I open the case, stay behind me."
That last bit was an… odd request. The only thing Jon could think of with directionality was a Claymore, or something along those lines. "It's not a bomb, right?"
Damian scoffed. "Do you take me for an idiot? I would not be so cavalier about such things if it were. Besides, I would surely be fired as Robin if I utilized deadly force in that manner. No."
"Okay." Jon followed him as they started for the parking garage. "Then…?"
"Trust me. I have it covered."
Easy enough. If Damian had a plan, Jon was happy to let him enact it. If worst came to worst, he could always fly the two of them away and regroup to try again later.
The Boravians were on the third floor of the garage, beneath a flickering dim light. There were four of them, an identical sour expression on each of their faces. They had their own briefcase, presumably filled with money for the deal. One of the men had a gun visible at his hip.
"Hello!" Jon said as he approached. Hopefully, they would recognize his voice and know it was time for business. They had called him to set things up, after all.
The leader—a man named Lyshakov—stepped forward. He did not return the greeting. Instead, with a heavy Eastern European accent, he simply said, "Do you have the supplies?"
The uranium. "We do," Jon replied with a nod, glancing at Damian. He really hoped Damian had accounted for this.
Damian lifted his briefcase with a shrug. "Yes. Right here."
"Okay. You two look a little… young to be representatives of Metropolis mafia, no? You sounded older on phone."
Jon's heart pounded. "It's, um, intentional. We get less suspicion this way. Rest assured that we know our job."
"Mm." Lyshakov seemed to be satisfied with that, at least for the time being. "I want to see the goods."
Damian placed the briefcase on top of a pillar meant to prevent cars from parking too close to the stairs, and flipped the locks on the lid. "Right here." He pulled it open. "Five hundred grams of pure processed uranium."
Jon caught a glimpse of the contents as he shifted behind Damian, trying not to draw attention with the move. No need to raise the Boravians' suspicions. But it did look legitimate. Glowing green and everything. Surely Damian wasn't actually giving them what they wanted? It would be so risky, and—
And—
Oh. It hit Jon then like a tsunami wave, nausea and weakness and a deep, aching pain washing over him all at once. He wanted to throw up, and collapse, and run away, and do anything to stop the horrible feeling inside him, getting worse by the second.
Damian's plan wasn't to use uranium.
It was to use kryptonite.
The briefcase must have been lead-lined, and that's why Damian wanted Jon behind him. But that wasn't doing much if anything to help, because he still felt every terrible particle of it eat away at his very bones. It took all Jon had just to remain standing.
And he couldn't let an ounce of it show. If the Boravians suspected they were being tricked, they might hurt Damian. Not to mention that Jon's secret identity was ruined if anyone found out he was Kryptonian. So he had to force himself to keep his face an emotionless mask, even as the kryptonite taunted him with malaise and pain.
Damian, Jon thought desperately, end this. Damian couldn't hear him, of course, but surely he must have known the risk. He was negotiating the price now, and it was fake, what did it matter, close the stupid box already, and even though Jon was well aware that they still had to keep up the ruse until it was done, and that giving in immediately would make the Boravians suspect something was up, he barely cared. This needed to end. Or Jon was actively going to pass out. Or maybe throw up. He didn't know which would be worse.
Finally—finally—Damian snapped the briefcase shut and traded it for the one the Boravians were holding. He said some parting words that Jon was still too out of it to understand, and stood there as the group of men left.
Jon watched as they faded from sight. As soon as they were, the last vestiges of strength left him, and he collapsed to his knees, panting. That had been torture.
Damian turned to him immediately, concern etched on his face. "Jon?"
"What were you thinking?" He leaned forward, supporting himself on his hands as well. Anything to avoid actually laying down on the dirty floor of a parking garage. "Kryptonite?"
"Did it hurt you?" Damian set the money-filled briefcase aside and crouched down beside him.
Jon shot him a look. "Of course it hurt me! It's kryptonite!"
"I thought it would be small and far away enough that it wouldn't. That's why I told you to stay behind me. I had the briefcase made of lead, and—"
"The briefcase was lead, but you had the lid off." Jon had finally caught his breath enough to stop feeling like he was drowning. "That was enough. And now… now you've put that kryptonite into the hands of an enemy. Who knows what the Boravians will do with it."
He tried to stand, then, and Damian was quick to help him upright. "They'll do nothing. They think it's uranium, and even if they figure it out, I embedded a self-destruct that I can remotely activate at any time. It's also got a tracker to locate the headquarters of their operation. As soon as they stash it, we'll know where they're based, and we can forward that information on to the Justice League before dissolving the kryptonite into nothing."
Jon crossed his arms, trying not to get upset. "If you were going to destroy it," he said slowly, "why not just give them the real thing?"
"Because I don't know their timeline!" Damian looked genuinely apologetic. "They could use real uranium as a weapon right away. Kryptonite is the only element that looks close enough to pass inspection, but won't have the same effect. It's only a threat to you and your immediate family. And they're taking it far away from here. It was the safest option." He looked down. "…I didn't expect it to hurt you so much, though. I'm sorry. Truly."
"It's okay." Jon was already starting to feel better—thank goodness for healing factors—and he didn't like it when Damian felt bad anyway. "I’m not mad at you. Just… can I have one thing, to make it even?" If Damian agreed, it would almost make all the pain he'd just gone through worth it.
Damian gave him a look. "I… suppose. As long as it's nothing too dangerous."
Jon grinned, shaking off the last vestiges of hurt. "Can I pet Bat-Cow?"