Peter coughed suddenly, knocking over his coffee. Swearing as he cleaned the mess up, he swept his hand through his now white hair, coughing again.
"I've really let go of myself," he grunted. Rising he walked to a picture frame hung on next to the mirror.
Glancing in the mirror, he smiled grimly at the old man who looked back at him. Looking now at the picture, his smile became sad to see the red headed woman grinning at him, a small baby in her arms.
"What would you say, MJ?" He muttered.
Get a hold of yourself, Tiger. He heard in his mind.
"I do try, MJ. I swear. But I'd say I'm failing damn miserably." He said, touching the frame.
All those years as Spiderman… for nothing. In the end he'd be no more super than the squashed remains of a fly. Dead, cold… inside a grave.
He roughly opened his wardrobe. Spiderman looked at him.
The costume was hung on hooks, but to Peter's eyes Spidey stood there, looking at him with disgust.
"Look at you. Cowering inside an underground bunker for, what, three years like a bloody coward. You disgust me."
Peter punched the mask of the man he'd once been. A hollow sound warned him that the wardrobe's back was cracked.
Slamming the door shut, he went back to his coffee, before remembering that he'd spilled it.
Throwing himself onto the sofa, he sought purchase in sleep.