Chapter Text
Plumes of fire exploded up along the horizon, sending dark clouds of smoke towards the sky. Stiles bounced his knee anxiously, staring at the smoke in the distance. Nobody else seemed to notice the explosion – he could barely see it himself, given the stained glass windows. He could feel a drop of sweat rolling down the back of his neck before disappearing into the three layers of fabric at the nape of his neck. The red graduation gown wasn’t helping. The slippery fabric seemed to be trapping his humid heat in, especially when combined with his dress shirt and his skin-tight suit below that.
He’d already given his speech as salutatorian, and he’d already gotten his diploma, and the only person between him and the outside aisle of the massive church they’d used for graduation was Lydia. A year ago, just sitting next to her would have sent his already-sweaty pores into overdrive, but at this point, after the whole lizard fiasco of last year, she was about as scintillating as Scott. Everyone stood to clap as the last graduate returned to their seat, so Stiles clutched his graduation cap and slid past Lydia, squirming out of her immediately grasping hands.
“Duty calls,” he said.
She pursed her lips, yanking his cap off and throwing it viciously into the air along with everyone else’s.
“Fine,” she snapped. “Don’t die.”
Part of him did wistfully yearn for some kind of romantic interest so that he’d at least get a more passionate send-off than “don’t die” in times like these, but he knew Lydia just wasn’t the type of girl to get her eyes all glistening every time he marched off to battle. He reached up and caught his cap, jogging down the aisle and only stumbling on a few of the graduation caps strewn over the hardwood floor.
“Stiles!”
He knew it was his dad's voice he was hearing, above the cacophony of the crowd, but he gritted his teeth and continued on, bursting out the large double doors into the June heat. He’d think of an excuse when he got home for dinner.
A particularly overgrown corner of shrubberies nearby functioned perfectly well to do a quick change, and he stripped off his layers before slipping his mask and gloves on. He sent off a text to Scott to have him pick up the pile of belongings later, pausing to admire the new touchscreen-enabled fingertips of his gloves. Allison, who Scott had accidentally let slip to about his arachnidy secret within about a month of their relationship’s beginning, had thought of the idea and fixed his suit for him. She was responsible for most of the suit’s capabilities. Before her, he’d been stumbling around half-blind in head to toe Lycra, with absolutely zero traction on linoleum. He still wasn’t quite sure where she was always getting the fancy tech she constantly was procuring for him.
He spent a mile or two sprinting before finally reaching tall enough buildings to start swinging, and laughed in glee as he rounded a corner to see a straight shot to the fire, perfect for extra fun swinging adventures. The burst of cheer flooded out of him, however, when he realized that the building lit up in flames was the Hale Cancer Center.
“Fuckity shit,” he said, speeding up.
Cars were stopped dead in the streets as he approached, bumper to bumper with their drivers standing outside them, staring with their mouths dropped open at the blaze. He could hear some of them clap and cheer as they saw him overhead, along with a few that jeered, probably assuming he’d do more harm than good.
The fire seemed to start at the fourteenth floor and rise up to the twentieth, the top floor, so Stiles crashed in through a window on the thirteenth. It was the tallest he could reach, anyway, since the hospital was surrounded by relatively short buildings. Smoke instantly filled his nose and mouth, and he scanned the densely gray room for people before climbing through a hole in the ceiling to the next floor up. Still nobody. The hospital wings were barren and blackened, but he couldn’t find any evidence of bodies.
He continued until he finally reached the roof, still not a single person having crossed his path.
“What the shit is going on here?” he muttered, stomping to the edge of the roof and peering down at the crowds of hospital evacuees.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Stiles turned slowly. The voice was low and monotone, and reminded him far too much of the supervillainy voice Doc Ock tried to intimidate him with the year before.
From the dark and soot flooding the roof, black enough that even with his enhanced vision Stiles couldn’t quite see through, emerged a man. Or, rather, Stiles thought, as he coughed into his elbow, lungs stinging, a superhuman. A dark cape flickered behind him, and Batman popped into Stiles’ mind before he scratched that, not seeing any kind of gas mask on his face. He’d assumed for a while that Batman had superpowers, but after working with him in a subway sarin gas attack a year and a half back, he knew that the man was just an ordinary human.
The man came closer, and Stiles pressed his lips together. The dude was hot. Like too hot. Like your parents wouldn’t approve because they’d assume the dude was so far out of your league he must be a scam artist hot. And it wasn’t just because of the fire.
“Who the hell are you?” Stiles demanded, putting his hands on his hips. Crap. What a first impression for a goddamn smokeshow.
“I should be asking you the same thing,” the man replied, putting his own hands on his hips. Which were just above his big, muscle-wrapped thighs. Just below his clearly visible abs. All wrapped in dark navy material that was definitely way tighter than any of the prototypes Stiles had ever considered for his own super-suit. The giant “S” on his chest was a bit much, though. Not to mention the cape.
“You must have seen me on the news,” Stiles said. “Wall climbing boy rescues kitten? Creepy crawly nuisance terrorizes theater performance? Police beg man to stop making petty thieves wet themselves?”
“I don’t watch the news,” S said tersely.
“I’m Spiderman!” Stiles said, indignantly despite himself. “I thought I had command of the market on superheroes starting with S, but apparently I’ve got company.”
The building shifted beneath them, probably beginning to collapse, and Stiles closed his eyes, grateful for the mask to constantly be hiding his emotions behind. He would probably survive the building collapse, but he’d probably have to spend a few days in the hospital for his efforts.
“How are you planning to get down?” S demanded. “Why did you come here?”
“Geez, sorry, I thought I was needed to save a bunch of hospital patients, didn’t realize that someone was already on the job.”
The man muttered something under his breath.
“Shouldn’t you be wearing a mask or something?” Stiles asked. “Preserve your delicate anonymity and all that? Keep any death threats limited to your super self?”
“I’m all set,” S said.
“Do you have a cool superhero name?” Stiles asked eagerly. “What’s your power, anyway, other than obvious imperviousness to smoke inhalation.”
“Invincibility,” S said. “Flight. Strength. Speed.”
“Alright,” Stiles snapped, having the sneaking suspicion that the list would continue for a while. “This isn’t a job interview, you’re just bragging. What are you called, Stuck-up Man? Siberius? The Strutter?”
“Superman.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Stiles said. “You–”
He bent over himself, coughing violently. He was starting to really empathize with poor Scotty and his ever-present wheeze.
“I guess I should count imperviousness to smoke inhalation off your resume, then?” Superman remarked.
“I have a limit,” Stiles wheezed. “I’m still human, unlike someone over here, Snideman.”
“Well I’m not,” Superman said. “Do I really have to save your sorry ass?”
“I’d live,” Stiles said, stumbling as one side of the building sagged. “You can go off and attack whoever bombed the building instead, if you feel like it.”
“I’ll find them,” Superman said. “I’ll fly you to the nearest Chuck-E-Cheese.”
“How old do think I am?” Stiles yelped. “I’ll have you know I have my GED!”
Superman strode closer. He was clean shaven, with bright blue eyes and slicked-back hair. His pecs were a national monument.
“Carry me bridal style,” Stiles simpered, draping a hand over his forehead and wilting towards Superman. Instead, he felt rock-hard arms grab him around the middle and violently flap him over a shoulder in a fireman’s carry.
Stiles would complain, but his face was pretty close to the guy’s ass, so. The cape was a bit annoying, but it would do.
“This is not going to be good for my public image as a hero, you know.”
“Neither would being comatose,” Superman said. “And just know, if you puke on me, I will drop you.”
“I did puke on that Boomerang ride last week,” Stiles said. “And Tower of Terror, once. Also airplanes most times.”
With that, they were suddenly in the air, and Stiles’ stomach – and his dignity – were left behind on the rooftop.
“Holy G force, Batman,” Stiles whimpered, as the ground whipped closer.
They were a few hundred yards up the road, just past most of the crowds, and as Superman dropped Stiles like a rag doll to the pavement, Stiles finally got a good look at the guy.
“You know,” Stiles said. “You’d look great in glasses.”
Superman glared down at him for a moment.
“Go on,” Stiles said. “Shoo. Back to your home planet, weirdo.”
He took off with a whoosh, and Stiles stared up at the sky, squinting to keep the tiny blue dot in his sights for as long as he could.
He picked himself up off of the sidewalk and started walking back from where he came, saluting wearily the civilians he passed by.
Stiles started to work on a good ship name for them. They couldn’t split fifty fifty since they both ended in man, so the options were bleak. Suderman? Supiderman? …Spuperman?
“Damn,” Stiles said, shooting a web to take to the sky as his lungs started to feel clearer. “Spuperman.”