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𝐶𝐻𝐴𝑃𝑇𝐸𝑅 𝑇𝑊𝐸𝑁𝑇𝑌 𝐸𝐼𝐺𝐻𝑇 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝐹𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔?
☀︎︎
Spiderman blinked as he stared up at the ceiling of the container. Only seconds ago, he'd pulled himself from the heap on top of Split and laid on his back, letting out a breath he must have been holding for hours.
The newly-named voice of his suit rang through his ears. "Is that Split?"
"Yeah, Karen. He's cool. He can teleport."
What an underwhelming way to describe someone who- after Mr stark, of course, he must have admired most in the world. It was not simply his teleportation abilities that Spiderman was in awe of, but his composure, and the ease at which he could stride into a situation and handle it without panic. Earlier that evening had been a perfect example, in Spiderman's eyes at least. Split had popped up in mid-air, gained his footing, and began to fight immediately while he hadn't even passed the training wheels programming on his suit.
"He's on Mr Stark's systems, his real name is-"
"Yeah, I don't need to know that!" Spiderman said quickly, floundering to cover his ears with his palms as if it would make a difference. "I'd rather he didn't know who I was either."
"If I were him. I wouldn't be disappointed."
"Thanks, Karen." He let out a sigh, glancing over to the slumped figure of his friend on the floor, watching the steady rise of his chest. At least he knew he was alive. "It's all my fault. He's going to hate me for dragging him into it all."
Spiderman stood, narrowly missing the roof with his head as he kicked his feet around.
"I always make the cool guys hate me."
A groan erupted from the other end of the container. "If you keep babbling like that I might end up hating you, but not yet."
Split pulled himself to a sitting position, his hand cradling his head. The beating of his heart, the pounding of his veins, was loud in his ears. So loud that he almost missed the panicked words of the boy who rushed his way.
"Are you alright?" Spiderman said quickly, crouching down to his level. "You took a hit."
It was only as his body was hit with the warmth of another, that he realised how cold he'd been. The suit was obviously not frost-proof, as he'd imagined it to be. It didn't help that he was lying on the floor of a metal container, the doors opened into a large warehouse.
He closed his eyes and sighed. Split placed his hand against his head again, feeling the weight of it drop against the aid of his wrists, unable to support himself. His own body felt tender as if each touch against his skin was equal to the jabbing of tiny needles. Even his suit was uncomfortable- the mask even more so.
