Chapter Text
With a groan, Stiles sat up, hand to his head and wondering exactly when he had taken off his pants, but not his right shoe, when a overly sarcastic throat clearing happened to his immediate right. Stiles was staring at the general area of the summon circle incredulously. Of course, he was a bit hung over, so his focus was a bit off. He wasn't able to comprehend what was in front of his eyes.
The eyes staring back at him were slightly angry, feral-lite if Stiles had to put an Adderall (Register'd trademark) deficient adjective on it. Also a bit scared. Stiles knew the look; he had seen it on his friends for years now. The eyes were calculating and dangerous, but there was something familiar about them, like he had seen them somewhere. If only he could remember where...
Stiles couldn’t find his voice to speak, those eyes pinning him in place, unable to look away or move a single muscle. Or he was hung over. Or he was terrified that some huge angry man was standing in his HEAVILY warded room. But that didn't fix the situation, which boiled down to him gawking at an intruder's beautiful baby blues in his room, and he was pretty sure Isaac wasn't around to break in, or was that stacked. And the gawking, it wasn’t stopping. And oh, look at that, he just took stock of his mouth. It might just be open. While he's just staring at a man, in his room, in a summon circle. A circle that hadn’t worked the day before! There was a human - probably. And not just human, a very naked human. A naked man human - probably. An angry looking, probably scared but trying to hide it, man. Probably. And he was just sitting on the floor, just eye level with that angry man's junk.
But the man wasn't sitting, no. He was floating. His eyes riveted to Stiles eyes as if daring him to look away, but still, you can't really help but notice if a guy is naked even if you weren't hung over, really, so Stiles eyes looked all the way down to this feet, his bare feet, and noticed that they were about a foot off the ground. His hands came down from his head where they had been glued this entire time, and folded in his lap. Naked man was floating up and down, very slowly, not exactly comforting to Stiles, and definitely probably not comfortable for the other guy - probably not a human. He had to have been cold, even though it was summer, it wasn't that warm in the mornings, and what was he doing in Stiles’ room? So many questions, but his blue eyes were drawing Stiles in. And then he struck. His arms were punching the air, his eyes looked slightly red; a red that was very unlike when a certain alpha shifted. Stiles was confused. He probably looked it.
“Who are you and how did you capture me?” angry man growled, which, hey, flying alphas could be a thing. Or Stiles was going to be killed by Lydia when he finally got her over here to help him... oh crap, she was gone and he was going to die... "Who the fuck are you, and how did you capture me, kid in boxers?"
Stiles was confused. Very confused. He hadn’t captured anyone, not since that time with the banshee (the evil not good banshee that was trying to predict the death of the people she killed, twisted lady), which everyone was still a bit jumpy whenever they heard tires squealing, or Lydia had to fight and scream to stop bullets or whatever else her magic banshee powers could do. They were still learning that she wasn't just a banshee. But by now, the floating man, who's eyes had gone from blue to red to blue about 5 times in the silence, was just staring at him, angry looking. He knew he had to say something, but he didn’t know what. “Hi. I’m Stiles. And how did you get in my bedroom?”
Apparently it was the wrong answer, the guy, being naked and floating and just obviously out of place, looked livid, if a naked floating guy could kill with a look, Stiles knew he was screwed. “You brought me here! I just touched down at Titan Tower and then there was a flash of light from under me and I was here.”
Stiles looked at him blankly. replayed that in his mind about 12 times. He heard correctly, naked guy said Titan Tower. “Are you on drugs? Titan Tower? You expect me to believe you are, what, Superman?”
Of course, the angry floating man just looked at him with even more anger, reminding Stiles that he was naked by crossing two bulging biceps, and floating, and yeah, blue eyes... red eyes... kind of stacked... just... Stiles shouldn't be thinking like this, there was a floating probably not a werewolf? in his room. But teen-aged hormone brains don't care, go figure. The man just stayed silent, so Stiles decided to continue, “Listen, Clark Kent,” he said it with as much sarcasm as he could muster, but the guy in the circle fell down on his ass, with a very large thud. It sounded like it hurt. Stiles couldn’t say a word for a second.
“Shit.”
Whoever said it would forever be debated to the end of time, but Stiles was suddenly aware that somehow, he had summoned someone that didn't exist from somewhere that never happened, and he was very confused. “You’re Clark Kent? Kal-El? Man of Steel himself? Holy crap!”
The man looked at Stiles, visibly taken aback, “No.”
Stiles paused, “What do you mean no? You look just like the drawings of him; I mean sort of, I thought you’d be, you know, older.”
Superman looked at Stiles a bit longer, which, since they were now eye to eye, was less... freaky, except that his blue eyes were huge and scared and Stiles always hated scared big and muscled men, naked or not, so when he asked, “what drawings?” Stiles popped up as quick as possible.
Stiles shuffled over his bed, pulling out his old comic book collection from a plastic tub on the other side. Back when he collected this kind of thing, back when he was a bigger nerd, well before werewolves, he had loved comics. Reading them, enjoying each one for its story and its characters. He used to draw pictures of them, but they were never that amazing. He used to write stories about them, but they were never that good. He rummaged around for a few seconds, having to shift over some of his binders of fan fic, some wallpaper pin ups that he took down years ago still were there, and a few things he had printed off of the internet.
“Batman and Robin,” Stiles said, under his breath, figuring that if this was Superman that they'd hear him well enough “I totally thought that they were in love back in the day, you can tell me whether or not I was right.”
The man didn't move but floated up in the same position he had fallen into on the floor, which, neat, but also kind of showed off his dick and Stiles really shouldn't even be thinking about that right now, now when naked guy is looking at the comic book print outs and some really good fan reproductions (if not amazing), but he was silent for a long time. Stiles pulls out more, but leaves a live action movie poster on the edge of the bed. For some reason, Superman hasn't left the circle. In a voice that sound, almost broken when he says, finally, and Stiles wants it to be known that he has been quiet, “Batman’s cowl looks different, and that’s not the right Robin, that’s Nightwing’s old costume, but that's not a Robin I know.”
Stiles smiled, “Yeah, I know, but that’s not the point, I like the original series run, back from the 1950s. But every time they retell the story, they use different actors. I don't think you're supposed to be here, I'm sorry to put it that way, but... It's the truth.”
The man hummed, and was silent. Silence that wasn't being filled with Stiles seeing how much dust got into the storage container from his hands, because you know, he was trying to break the news to this guy that some how, some way, Stiles fucked yet another thing up. And then his brain
“And this is Wolverine, but you’d probably never have met him, he doesn't exist within... wherever you came from, but that’s one of the few Marvel characters I liked back when I collected comics.”
Another hum, but still silence.
“And this,” he said, pulling out a poster from its protective sleeve, “is you, Superman. See? Same blue eyes.”
The man stared a thousand miles away for a few minutes, unmoving and looking very strangely down at the cover.
“How do you know about Superman’s real name?”
Stiles snickered despite how freaked out that there was potentially a universal anomaly in his bedroom, and even though the Adderall (Register'd trademark) was long out of his system, didn't mean that he couldn't control his impulsive brain, he just needed to sober up. He straightened his face, trying for apologetic, but not sure “Everyone here knows about Superman's 'Secret Identity,' air quotes and sarcasm liberally applied. They have had too many TV shows and movies about him that the whole world knows. He was the last son of Krypton, he fights for truth and justice. He kicks ass and takes names. I mean, you kick ass. See? Because you’re Superman. I don’t know what happened, I really don’t. I'll fix it, you'll be home soon.”
The man sat where he had landed on the floor, still, eyes focused on the array of his world in front of him. And looking suddenly collapsed in on himself, “Superman is dead.” His voice croaked, which Stiles pointedly didn't look up at. He didn't need to see that face to know that sound.
Stiles head was going a bit loopy at this point, trying to wrap his mind around exactly what was happening. “No he isn’t. They just brought him back to life, with like a billion other people. Totally re-wrote the universe.”
The man scowled for a second, “what?”
Stiles sat on the foot of his bed, looking at the man’s eyes, trying not to look elsewhere, “The DC universe. They destroy it every once in a while. Comic book writers are cruel like that. They take people’s lives and ruin them until they decide that they will play god and restart it all.”
The man looked at Stiles, “Comic books? You learned this all from Comic books?”
He was back to angry again. “Well yeah, I mean, I didn’t know that you were real, somewhere out there, but I guess that’s the thing about magic, it surprises you. See that symbol there behind you?”
The man looked over his shoulder, too fast for Stiles to actually see him do it, it was a little disconcerting. “Why do you have the Symbol for the House of El?”
Stiles shook his head, “I think I might have messed up, I was trying to summon a hell cat to become one of my familiars.”
The man in front of him shuttered, “What would you want one of those things for? They are vile and vicious and deadly.”
Stiles shrugged, “I don’t know, I can’t believe I actually remember all of this, I was drunk last night, thought it would be cool. So, you aren’t Superman?”
The man shook his head, “No, I’m Superboy.”
Stiles looked at him, “Kon-El? I have Kon-El in my bedroom? Conner Kent?”
Stiles felt it, and so did Superboy, the tell tale signs of a spell being completed, and suddenly Stiles was against a wall, a hand at his throat. But instead of being merely annoyed by it, he was terrified, because this man might actually kill him.
“So you do know who I am!” Conner said, “Now send me back, I need to help my friends, they’ll die without me.”
Stiles looked down at him, he had really beautiful eyes, and he was super handsome. It made it hard to think, or maybe it was the lack of oxygen to the brain. He felt the pressure of the man’s arms holding him aloft like he was a kitten rather than a teenager. He was terrified, and suddenly he was crying. before his brain pushed in on him, he heard his own voice say "Fuck"
When he started to come back into some form of thinking, there were still tears streaming down his face, and he couldn’t stop them. And of course, just like 90% of the things that happened around Beacon Hills, this too was his fault. He tried to get his breathing under control, but he felt helpless, even without the weight of a hand on his throat, again. Of course, there were times when he felt hopeless before, the banshee for instance; he had felt hopeless for days before he accidentally captured her in his Jeep. But this was so much deeper because even if it was always his fault he was about to die, the biggest mistakes of his life would pale in comparison to what he would have left behind. Who would take care of his dad? Or who would take care of Scott and Derek? And Isaac was going to go with him to college in a few months; who would go with Isaac now? And don’t forget that he promised Allison to help with something; he wasn’t sure what that was quite yet. But there were so many different things that he wasn’t going to be able to do, including an not limited to sex. And he needed to be alive to tell Lydia it wasn't Superboy's fault that Stiles was a soft and squishy human who died from little things like lack of oxygen.
He found himself lying on the bed, the light from his window said that it wasn't much later than it had been earlier. He looked around his room, halfway hoping that this was all a dream. He always said that he had some of the weirdest dreams. His body didn’t hurt too badly, but he had a slightly sore throat, probably from throwing up last night before chugging even more booze, because he was drinking. Wait, he hadn’t thrown up. He remembered that much, and the summoning circle, but that didn’t work.
“Good, you’re awake.” Came the voice, it had authority and it had power behind it, but it wasn’t Derek. “Now talk.”
Stiles sat up too quickly, head spinning while he looked around and, there, besides his grimoire and his few other items of magic, including mountain ash, sat a much less naked, but barely so, Superman. Superboy, Stiles corrected, but didn't say “I was hoping that that was a dream," Stiles mused.
The man looked livid, “Explain what you did, and how you plan on undoing it,” he said, hand blurring for a split second, Stiles thinks, but he can't be sure, and suddenly his grimoire is in Superboys hands, "or this get's burned"
It's almost like he took a page out of Derek's 'How to be an Alpha: an Idiot's Guide to Leadership' course, but it helps to ground Stiles, that familiarity, that authority that he can buck. The tears that had been slowing stop as Stiles pulls himself together. “I don’t know how I did it. And I haven’t had the time to think about sending you back. So unless you suddenly have a spell casting for dummies book in MY boxers, I’d suggest you stop knocking me around and start giving me that book, because that’s about the only thing in this house that I know of that has any of the answers to our questions.”
Stiles had used his authority. Sure, he wasn't a werewolf, but he'd survived this long god damn it, and he wouldn't be subject to this kind of disrespect in his own home. Conner Kent was Superboy, sure, but Stiles had summoned him. This was Stiles’ world, not Superboy’s. Things would have to work Stiles’ way.
He stood up, and suddenly, one of the stray thoughts in Stile's mind came to the forefront and wouldn't stop, even though he knew he really didn't want to go here.
“You took my boxers?”
Superboy looked at Stiles with contempt, “Your spell dissolved my clothes. It pulled me into a vortex and my clothing just started flaking off. It was gross to watch. I had to put something on. And nothing else you own fits.”
Stiles narrowed his eyes a fractional amount, “Just because not all of us get buff and muscled when we have special powers, doesn’t mean that I am too skinny.”
Superboy smiled, a small smirk, “I never said you were too skinny, I just said that your clothes didn’t fit. Did I hit a nerve?”
Stiles walked over to him, looked down into his eyes, and grabbed his grimoire, but didn’t say a word.
Superboy just smirked.