I want to make something very clear because I've been getting a lot of confused reviews: THIS IS NOT A STANDALONE STORY. This story is the 8th installment in a series, but this site doesn't let me group stories together like AO3 does. I tried to make it as clear as possible in the opening author's notes that this is a prequel, but clearly not everyone paid attention to that. If you haven't at least read Gravesen, you will be hopelessly confused here.

For whatever reason, this is the first prequel where I've had a bunch of new people hop on board without realizing just how big this boat is. I think that's a testament to the size of the Peter Parker fandom more than anything. Anyway, now that I've hopefully cleared that up, on with the story.

Chapter 3: Unburnt Meatloaf

A year without Ben passed in the blink of an eye while also somehow lasting a century. May was always exhausted from a combination of overwork and grief, but without Ben to help support them she couldn't afford to take more time off. It was an unfortunate fact of life that the world waited for no one—and neither did the bills. Peter had never felt more isolated in his entire life, the only person who shared his life experience being his aunt who he only really got to see evenings and weekends. After the shooting, kids at school wouldn't talk to him, as if they were afraid of shattering him like a porcelain doll. Not that he'd had any friends beforehand. Peter spent too much time hyperfocused on classwork to be open to friendly conversation with his peers. Besides, most of them were so stupid that Peter didn't want to talk to them anyway.

Though it was hard, he reminded himself every day of things he could still be grateful for. May always topped that list. She did everything in her power to support Peter despite dealing with the loss of her husband, and he could always count on her to be there in a time of need. She also bought him his own phone not long after the shooting, more out of concern for Peter's safety than for his personal enjoyment, but he was thankful for it nonetheless. A few times, he almost considered telling her about his inability to even look at packaged food, but then he thought about the tons of weight already on her slim but strong shoulders and decided he needed to bear some of it himself. When it was just the two of them, they both needed to do their part to help the other out. Peter was old enough that he couldn't just leech off his guardian like a parasite; it was his responsibility to keep himself afloat as much as possible.

Peter never complained about her food anymore. Primarily because by the time dinner rolled around he was so hungry he could eat anything without even really tasting it, but also because Ben wasn't here to laugh with him. He also knew that May felt bad she couldn't provide anything better and he didn't want to upset her. Still, when May actually managed to make a meatloaf without running the risk of setting off the smoke detectors, Peter couldn't help but comment, "You didn't burn it this time."

"Nope," she affirmed. "I was extra careful this time not to let it cook too long."

They dug in, enjoying the freedom from having to pick through the piece in search of non-charred bits. Peter learned that a pink center tasted infinitely better than a black outside. "You should always make it like this," he remarked after swallowing his last bite.

"I'll certainly try."

Peter went to bed that night dreaming of unburnt food. He woke up early the next morning with the worst stomachache of his life and knew within five seconds of opening his eyes that he needed to throw up. Fortunately, he made it to the bathroom on time. Sometimes it paid to live in a small New York apartment. When the heaving finally ceased, he sat against the wall of the bathroom and tried to catch his breath. His stomach still hurt, but more of an ache than the urgent cramping of before. Hopefully, this one bout had gotten everything out of his system that needed to come out.

Just in case, he stayed in the bathroom for ten more minutes before emerging. He wandered into the kitchen and found Aunt May digging through the medicine cabinet. "Everything okay?" he asked her.

"Yeah. Just a bit of a stomachache," she replied. She found the box she was looking for and swallowed the pill with a sip of water.

"Me too," Peter admitted sheepishly. "But I think the worst of it is over."

"Did you get sick?" she asked, turning around to face him with her eyes suddenly full of concern.

"Yeah."

"How do you feel now?" She placed the back of her hand on his forehead to gauge his temperature.

"Better. But still not great."

"That's good. I'm thinking since we're both under the weather, it probably came from something we ate."

"You think so? The one time your food is actually enjoyable, it makes us sick."

"I guess I'd better keep burning everything, shouldn't I?"

"I guess so," Peter sighed. He stayed home from school that day, still nursing an aching stomach, but May dragged herself to work at the usual time and promised she'd call to check on him when she got a chance. Peter knew with her schedule, that was bound to be never, but he just smiled and wished her a good day. He spent the day on the sofa watching Star Wars, as he usually did on sick days. The occasional cramps came and went, but generally he felt better by the end of the day. He hoped that a good night's sleep would flush whatever-it-was out of his system for good.

It did, seemingly. Peter awoke feeling ninety percent normal, but he could hear the sound of someone vomiting in the bathroom and knew that May must've not been so lucky. He knocked on the door during a break between heaves and asked, "You okay?"

"Yeah," she called back. Peter didn't entirely believe her, because the one-word sentence was nearly cut off entirely by another retch.

"Can I get you anything?"

"A ginger ale?" she asked hesitantly. "I think there's some in the fridge."

"Okay." Peter wandered into the kitchen with his chest slowly freezing to ice. Why had he offered to fetch something from the fridge when he couldn't even open it without freaking out? He couldn't exactly lie to May and say they didn't have any when he didn't even check. Plus, she'd just look herself eventually and see that they did have it. Peter stared at the door, his hand hovering halfway to the handle. He took a deep breath and forced himself to remember that the shooting was over a year ago. There was nothing to be afraid of. It was just a ginger ale in his own fridge in his own home for his Aunt May. "You can do this," he whispered to himself.

He opened the door and instantaneously closed his eyes without even thinking about it and couldn't get them to open again. Deciding to just go with it, he started fumbling blindly at the spot on the door where he knew they kept sodas and things. His hand brushed against something that was probably ketchup or mayonnaise, so he lowered it a shelf and wrapped his fingers around what felt like a soda can. He placed the bottle on the counter and closed the fridge. Ever so slowly, he ratcheted his eyes open to look at what he'd snagged.

It was a Coke.

He closed his eyes again and grabbed it, putting it back in the empty slot in the fridge and fumbling again to find a ginger ale. Peter decided to go for the bottle one slot closer to him in the door and repeated the same process. This time, he succeeded. He held the bottle behind his back and returned to the bathroom to give it to May.

"Thanks," she muttered. She opened the lid and took a cautious sip. Peter noticed she looked paler than usual.

"You're not going to work today too, are you?"

"No. I called in sick."

"Good. You look like you could use some rest."

May spent the day on the sofa with her own sick day movie choices: Pretty Woman and Ferris Bueller's Day Off. Peter left a trash can close by, but fortunately she didn't need to use it. Neither of them felt quite well enough to eat dinner, and May certainly wasn't up for making anything, so they went to bed that night with hopes that things would improve by morning.

For Peter, they did.

May took another day off, and Peter grew worried. It had been three days since the dinner that supposedly made them sick. Why had Peter recovered so quickly when May was still so far under the weather? It didn't make any sense. He went to school that day and returned to find a pot of plain broth on the stove and May on the couch with her arms wrapped around her stomach in discomfort.

"How are you?" he asked cautiously, as if he couldn't tell by looking.

"Not great," she said. "If this goes on much longer, I might need IV fluids."

Peter trusted her on this fully; she was a nurse, after all, but he didn't want it to be true. Now that it was just the two of them, he hated seeing May sick even more. It didn't happen often. The only things that ever brought her down were the occasional migraine or severe head cold, but Ben had always been here to prepare her herbal tea and do all the things that a caregiver was supposed to do for their ailing spouse. Peter wasn't good for much when it came to caregiving. He was twelve years old and he barely managed fetching a ginger ale from the fridge. Forlornly, he wondered if being sick also made May miss Ben even more.

~0~

The next day was a Saturday, so Peter woke up later than usual. He first thought about May, hoping another day of rest had helped her turn the tables against this illness. Peter wandered through the apartment, but he didn't find her. She must've still been in bed. He peeked his head through the master bedroom door and found her curled up in the fetal position looking no better than yesterday, possibly even worse.

"Aunt May," he called quietly, not wanting to wake her if she was sleeping.

"'S that you Peter?" she asked blearily.

"Yeah. How are you feeling?"

"Been better."

"Do you need to go to the hospital?"

She hesitated, and Peter's heart rose into this throat. Then she sighed, "Probably." He nodded, fighting the tears creeping into the back of his eyes, and stepped back out of the room. His mind instantly filled with worst-case scenarios. May being sicker than they thought and having to stay overnight or even longer. Doctors finding some other underlying illness that required expensive treatment that bankrupted them. This mystery illness being severe enough to kill her. Peter knew that was ridiculous, that people went to the hospital for hydration when they contracted stomach bugs all the time and it was no big deal, but given that he'd lost three parental figures in his short lifetime, he was inclined to fear the worst.

He convinced May to get a taxi instead of attempting to drive to the hospital. In her state, he thought she might cause an accident. Car accidents were another thing Peter was paranoid about given his history. They sat in the waiting room for nearly an hour before May was seen, and in that time she took no fewer than four bathroom breaks. Peter did nothing but wish there was more he could do. When they eventually examined her, they found her blood pressure had dropped considerably, so they ran bloodwork and urinalysis before hooking her up to IV fluids to combat the dehydration and try to bring her blood pressure back up.

May, as a nurse, understood everything and calmly followed all their instructions. Peter was a nervous wreck in the chair next to the bed, bouncing his knee or drumming his fingers on the armrest. "Peter, it's alright," May assured him. "It's probably just a persistent norovirus."

"What if it's not?"

"Then they'll figure it out and get it fixed," she answered confidently. "It's their job."

Peter trusted her. He had no other choice. But as the hours passed, his faith in May started to dwindle. Her eyes grew glassy and her consciousness seemed to fade. She started not quite registering when Peter spoke to her. What they'd initially thought would be a few hour stay for IV fluids turned into something much more complex. Peter wished more than ever that Uncle Ben was still here. He could've wrapped a comforting arm around Peter's shoulders as they sat side by side in these uncomfortable chairs, instead of Peter sitting alone and wringing his hands to keep them from shaking.

One of the nurses offered him a snack and he nearly started crying at the prospect. He suspected that if he attempted to eat it would result in either another episode of panic or another bout of vomiting, so he refused with as much composure as he could muster. They ran more tests on May and discovered the cause of the illness: bacteria called E. coli O157:H7. At this point, May was coherent enough to hold a conversation with the doctors and she explained about the meatloaf and Peter's milder illness.

The doctors responded with an explanation of their own, about the risks of something called hemolytic uremic syndrome that sometimes resulted from this particular infection. The bacteria could produce a toxin that destroyed blood cells, leading to catastrophic organ failure. Peter wished he wasn't in the room for that conversation. The familiar feeling of dread rose in his stomach, the same one that had appeared during the grocery store shooting. He thought the universe was finally through with torturing him, that it had finally moved on to some other poor soul. But as it turned out the universe had saved the greatest horror show for last.

The course of this chapter and the next are based on the novel Toxin by Dr. Robin Cook. Yes, this is a real thing that can happen. If you ever need extra motivation to convert to vegetarianism for whatever reason, I suggest reading that book. Also, warning for graphic depictions of illness for the next chapter.