Peter jerked awake. Another long night, another long dream. He got out of bed, so muddled that he nearly woke Gwen, but fortunately he didn’t quite manage it.
Moaning, groaning, he cracked his neck, rotated the stiffness out of his joints. He’d slept wrong. These days, it seemed like all he did was sleep wrong.
He went to the bathroom, still with that lingering aftertaste of spider-sense, as if he’d actually been in danger,
his nightmares real enough to ring in his ears like an alarm once it’d been shut down. He ran the tap, cradled cold water in his hands, splashed it on his bleary face.
Looked at his dripping reflection.
The envy of millions. Spider-Man. A mere human with a few tricks, a few surprises, but otherwise an evolutionary dead-end.
His fellow Muggles would’ve traded places with him in an instant, even if he wasn’t actually sleeping with Mary Jane Watson—just his loving wife, Gwen Stacy.
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