Work Text
He is still himself. He has to convince himself of that, sometimes, on bad days, but he’s reasonably sure of it. He is still himself, in the ways that matter. The creature takes him, changes him, remakes him. He is fangs in a mouth not meant to hold them, eyes that flash beady and dark in the daylight, limbs that bend in ways they shouldn’t. He’s not human anymore, he knows. He’s some kind of thing, a creature, a horror. He just tries to be a good one. The nightmare who haunts the nightmares; he goes after Nazis and mobsters and monsters, the ones who gain power from fear, and he turns the fear back on them tenfold, a shadow in the night, movement at the corner of their eyes, something not seen until too late. But he is still himself. He still feels pain, still enjoys egg creams, still loves his aunt, still grieves his uncle. He tries to avoid killing, even the monsters, because Aunt May’s words echo in his head, telling him it’ll make him less human. He really doesn’t need to be any less human than he already feels. When he gets dropped in another world, meets the others, he knows they’re like him, but they aren’t… the same. They aren’t nightmares. But if they notice the difference, they don’t say anything. He goes home with more love in his heart than he’s felt in years, goes home back to the dark and the monsters and feels at peace knowing he isn’t alone. And he is still himself. There’s a knock at his office door. It could be anyone. “Peter?” Peni’s voice, hesitant and hopeful, and Peter, surprised, opens the door. She takes only half a second to recognize him without his mask-- he hadn’t taken it off, before, but he looks just about the same as Peter B, if younger, with his glasses set on his nose, his coat drawn tight around him-- and she grins, eyes lighting up, when she sees that she’s found him. She’s still cute as a bug’s ear, and just a little taller than he remembers. “What are you doing here?” Peter asks, happy to see her, but so scared of what it means. Her grin doesn’t slip, she just holds up her arm, proudly displaying the little device she’s wearing on her wrist. It’s… red, he thinks. Red’s the easiest to remember. “We figured it out,” she says. Then, “here, I’ll show you.” They keep visiting him. The others. Bursts of color he doesn’t know the names of yet open into doors for all of them to step through. They all get ‘hoppers’, himself included, and suddenly his world is not only his world. His world belongs to them, and his world is all their worlds-- they scuttle through the web with ease, sharing space, sharing reality, finding places for themselves in dimensions that did not ask them to be there, uninvited spiders making house in the corner of a kitchen ceiling. Spiders just hoping a broom won’t come along to undo their weaving. He doesn’t think it will. He doesn’t think there’s anything big enough to go against the Web they’ve built. (He’s happier, now. He has friends, family, who are like him. He has freedom and support and love he never had before. He is a horror, and he’s fairly certain he’s a good one--)There’s a knock at his office door. It could be anyone.The click of a pistol ready to throw lead, and Peter pulls his mask on, hits the lights, and jumps up to the ceiling right as the door gains a few new holes. The shooter opens the door after four bullets, grinning cruelly. He’s clearly hoping to find his job done. Instead, he sees tall shadows from the streetlights outside, and movement in the corners of his eye that he isn’t quite fast enough to track.A strand of black web draws the mobster into the dark. Another slams the door behind him.(--but he is still himself.)