Peter sinks into the shower and gets new clothing for himself.

He can't remember the last time he showered or got new clothing. The last- How ever long it's been, it's been this blur. There's still all this anger inside of him. There's still all this grief too, but the need to lash out against the world- his own world, against himself gets so strong. He slides a hand back into the wet mess of his hair. The towel's strewn over his neck as he steps out into the room again, watching her. Mary Jane. She carried that grief for so long, and here she is trying to take care of him.

"You usually don't like the greasy food."

It's a soft comment. His voice sounds rough like sandpaper.