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Johnathon tried to keep his visits to dimensions outside of his own as brief as possible.
Once he found a good grasp over the power of his holes (he was not going to stop calling them that, actually, the term was starting to grow on him), it was pretty simple to pinpoint a location near the Alchemax of that dimension that would allow him to get in, sneak away some dark matter research, and slip out before the security alarms even had a chance to go off. Very few, if any, opportunities for things to go wrong. Johnathon disliked uncertainty in his plans at the best of times, which tracked, really, since the last time he was uncertain where his holes were taking him, he'd been accosted by that little old lady and her weirdly heavy purse. After a few practice runs, he felt much better about dimension-jumping with the newfound power of his holes.
Then. Well.
It was supposed to be simple, he thought. Manifest a hole in the data research center big enough to squeeze through and grab some of those classified documents that had been lost in his universe's Alchemax explosion. Perhaps this universe got a bit further in the research, Johnathon thought, or had some more successful trials, something that he could undoubtedly use. Ten minutes, tops. No uncertain variables. It was supposed to be simple.
In the void of himself, Johnathon slipped into a hole just big enough to fit his upper torso and arms, pulling himself up through the floor until he finally stood, squinting the hole covering his face at the harsh fluorescents. It was easy to recognize his surroundings as the (empty) quantum research lab he'd spent many a sleepless night in while he was still employed at Alchemax. Even though he was sure he didn't even have a traditionally functioning digestive system underneath his warped exterior, Johnathon still found himself swallowing down a pang of seething bitterness. No matter how many parallel universes he passed through, the Alchemax buildings he visited all carried an undercurrent of similarity--enough for Johnathon to recognize it as...well, as his home. The pain of exile was still fresh, after all, and only getting to see the company that he'd given so much of his life to through skulking and stealing was, at best, insulting, and at worst, infuriating. On the desk in front of him, inked-out blueprints of a supercollider similar to his were spread out and filled with cramped notations in the margins. Out of habit he flexed his hand into a fist and felt the paper crumple under his fingertips, then vanish into the small portal on his palm.
Johnathon knew for a fact that there were more documents on Liv's computer--if this universe even had a Liv, and if not, maybe on some central database--so he rounded a corner towards that particular hallway that led to Liv's office in his reality, the action bringing with it yet another pang of nostalgia. It had been two minutes so far, he thought. Get in, get out. No uncertain varia--
He rounded another corner and bumped right into himself.
Well, not himself, himself. This man was slightly different, a little shorter, moles in different places, different lenses on his glasses, and thank goodness this version of himself decided not to get that godawful shave and trim--
Oh, yeah, and this version of himself was very much looking at Johnathon with an expression that could only be described as pure awestricken terror.
"Oh my god," said Other-Johnathon, and moved to pull the hallway security alarm, at the same time that Johnathon said, "Wait, wait, wait," waving his hands uncomfortably, and oh, actually, trying to speak was probably not a great idea after all, because Other-Johnathon definitely recognized his own voice coming from the strange spotted man in front of him. In a split second, Johnathon made an executive decision to open up another one of his holes and get the hell out of there at top speed, but not before he caught sight of Other-Johnathon's expression changing. He decided not to bother wondering if that was confusion or pity reflected on his other self's face.
---
Ever since that day, Johnathon found himself filled with a sort of morbid curiosity. Of course there were multiple Spidermans (Spidermen? Spider...folk?) across every dimension, so it would make logical sense that there were other versions of Dr. Johnathon Ohnn that existed on these separate planes. Other versions of him that looked different, that led different lives, that didn't look like this. It didn't further his plans one bit, to follow himself across the multiverse, but... It didn't exactly hurt, either. When he had a spare hour, or two, he would open one of his holes and drift across dimensions, chasing those thoughts of what could have been.
In about 30% of the dimensions he encountered, Dr. Johnathon Ohnn was dead. It turned out that there was always a chance that being caught in, you know, a powerful collider explosion, more often meant you didn't survive.
Did this mean he was lucky? Himself, of course, this version of himself. Was he lucky to be alive, removed from society as he was? He could have died, sure, but... would it have been better to have died as himself, as Johnathon Ohnn, than live on as The Spot, as something a far cry from whatever had made him human in the first place?
Huh, Johnathon thought, glad I became a quantum physicist and not a philosopher. And went to therapy.
About half of the dimensions he visited had their own Spot, too. Not quite as powerful, but they were still Johnathon Ohnn all the same. He found quite a bit of comfort in that, offsetting the existential crisis from before, knowing that he wasn't quite as alone in the multiverse as he had thought before.
Then there were the few universes that differed markedly from his own, which delighted him to no end to discover. Universes where he had left Alchemax for a different path in life, or universes where Alchemax didn't exist altogether. Deep in the void inside himself, he would chronicle these discoveries with delight, bouncing on the balls of his feet and worrying his hands as he made notes on each universe that excited him--where he did experiments on the ISS in zero-gravity, the universes where he wrote textbooks or joined a band out of high school, even one universe where he was an ostrich, of all things--he would make detailed observations in the margins where his notes on dark matter and the supercollider ran together like old inkblots.
In most universes, Johnathon Ohnn lived out these lives alone. He would be celebrated, memorialized, sure, but his home remained dark and empty when he returned home in the wee hours of the morning, and in those universes where he no longer existed, his obituary remained stark and brief compared to others.
But in some universes, there was a You.
You were a constant that Johnathon noticed during his first few investigations into his alternate counterparts. The first universe he saw you in, you were an Alchemax employee that ate lunch with Other-Johnathon sometimes. You would talk. You would laugh. Other-Him would awkwardly bump elbows with you and then blush so hard there was no way you didn't notice it.
If you did, you were kind enough not to mention it.
Johnathon looked forward to visiting a dimension where his path intertwined with yours. Sometimes you would be coworkers, both in different departments at Alchemax but still making time to see each other. Sometimes he would come home at the end of the day to you and sleep with his arm curled around your waist, a gentle smile on your faces even in sleep. Johnathon would lose track of the time he spent watching you, tangled up with himself, and tried not to feel a strange pang of emptiness in his already mostly-empty chest at the sight of his own former face so content.
Sometimes you were a Spiderman, and he was still The Spot. In one instance, you were both Spiderman. In an alarming amount of universes, you were enemies. You fought. You became lovers anyway. Johnathon made notes of all of these instances. He kept statistics. It was all he could do. It was all he knew how to do.
In some universes, you would come home and he would not be there. You kept a memorial of him on the wall that got the most sunlight and kept an anniversary of each year since the collider explosion.
Sometimes he lost you. Johnathon chose not to make detailed notes of these universes. Instead he kept a small tally on the last page of his notebook.
More often than not, your paths never crossed, and Johnathon began to find those particular universes no longer interested him. His notes on the collider were now fully whited out, scribbled over with small observations on the curve of your smile and the shape your hands made while fitting into his. He wondered if there was a version of you in his own universe, and if you would smile at him or make the same expression of fear and pity that Other-Johnathon, back in that first universe, had peered at him with all those weeks ago. The uncertainty of not knowing certainly kept him from seeking you out, all the same.
He had a favorite universe he kept coming back to from time to time. He had it saved in his notes as Earth-4521D: one where he had left Alchemax to teach quantum mechanics at a local university. You taught in a different department and brought him coffee every morning. You had moved into a decently sized brownstone together and adopted a cat. It seemed like the perfect universe to live vicariously through, in a way; something domestic and tranquil and warm in a way he knew he would never be again.
That universe's Johnathon was late coming home; some project he was leading with grad students on campus dragged out long past midnight again. You had fallen asleep in the meantime, so Johnathon felt comfortable enough to open a hole in the wall above your bedroom door frame, only his head and shoulders visible beside the smoke detector if you were able to look up and pinpoint him in the darkness. He took the time to observe how you slept without your Johnathon there, curled into your side with the cat warm and solid against your middle, a poor substitute for the man who usually occupied your bed. A lone police siren howled outside, but it wasn't enough to make you stir.
It was a peaceful scene, and Johnathon made the mistake of sighing and shifting a bit, which caused the cat to sit up, shake itself off, and jingle its way out of the bedroom. You stirred in your sleep, rolled over, and groaned, rubbing at your eyes under your sleep mask.
Johnathon held his breath.
"Johnny? You home?" you mumbled in your half-asleep state, turning your head in the darkness towards the door frame.
Johnathon shifted uncomfortably, even though he knew you couldn't see him. This was too far. This was way too far. He should definitely just leave back through his hole, the way he came, and go back to his work on harnessing dark matter. He should.
"Yeah, uh. Sorry I'm late," he found himself answering before he could stop himself. Shit. He absolutely, positively, definitely shouldn't have done that, of course, he knew that. It was just... You. He wanted to, had to talk to you. What other chance could he have?
You smiled softly, something that made Johnathon's heart skip dangerously in his chest, and you rolled in your bed so your face was turned towards his voice. "'S okay, honey. Hurry up and come to bed, okay?"
Johnathon knew he should stop now, turn and leave right now so that hopefully you would wake up in the morning thinking this was all just a strange and vivid dream. He knew he should. He couldn't. Your voice, filled with affection for only him, was intoxicating. When was the last time someone addressed him without fear, without pity or disgust? He couldn't remember what it felt like to be regarded as a human. He couldn't remember what it felt like to be loved. This masquerade was temporary, sure, but where there was once the cold, alien feeling of the void of his holes within his body, warmth began to spread.
"Okay. I'll be right there," he heard himself saying. So many uncertainties in the next few minutes. Your Johnathon could be back any minute, of course. You could remove your sleep mask, let your eyes adjust to the dark, and surely scream once the low light revealed the beast lurking in the corner of your room. Your cat could howl and hiss at him, letting you know this was obviously an intruder. Each moment he spent here was becoming more and more destructive, and yet...
You were here.
A beat passed, and then another. Johnathon shifted a bit, and wondered idly if you had fallen back asleep. His voice was quiet, tentative in the darkness.
"Darling?"
You raised your head, still not seeing him there. "Mm?" You were still half-asleep, then.
Another beat. More silence. Another siren, this time further away down the street. "If something happened... Would you still love me?"
You snorted, abrupt and sharp in the darkness. "What, like if you were a worm?"
"Something like that."
He heard you laugh, then, longer and louder than the snort from before. "Sure, Johnny. As long as you're still you, and I'm still me, I'd still love you." A pillow came hurtling towards the doorframe and you giggled again. The sound made something tighten inside his chest again. "Now hurry up, I'm cold."
---
Johnathon stayed there for a while, making sure you had fallen back asleep, something smoldering inside him from your interaction. You were a constant presence near him in so many universes; twin particles orbiting each other, sometimes colliding, sometimes collapsing. Meeting you, his you, was an uncertainty he was hardly prepared for. There were so many ways it could go wrong; he had seen that. So many people were scared of him now, or amused by him, or pitied him, and he didn't blame them. There was a possibility, however slight, that you could want nothing to do with him.
But even after the collider, even after everything, he was still himself.
And you were still You.
Johnathon was gone before the key clicked in the lock.