kate

It was probably nothing, he told himself, choking down bite after bite, letting out agreeable little hums after each one just to add to the sparkle in Ian's eyes.

Maybe lunch wasn't sitting well; he should have known not to eat anything offered by the Alibi, even under new management (especially under new management).  That had to be it.  There was no way it had anything to do with the dish Ian had painstakingly made from ingredients so fresh they had still been on the vine just hours before.

So Mickey swallowed his bile with the last bite on his plate, asked for seconds, and ate that too.  Then he made his excuses, ran down to the little restroom off the gym, and threw it all up where Ian wouldn't have to see.  He ignored the visible seeds and flecks of red tomato skin as he flushed the evidence away.

Just a coincidence, that was all.  Next time would go better.

The second time it happened, Mickey thought that maybe Ian was just a bad cook.  Ian's courage had been bolstered by his "successful" first attempt, apparently, because this time he went all out.  He'd even traded one of his precious tomatoes for some fresh herbs from the plot next to his in the community garden, just to make it special.

And special it was.  A special he'll, more like, when Mickey nearly voided his bowels an hour later on their new sofa.  He leapt up and made it to the bathroom just in time, and spent the next thirty minutes trying to quietly take care of things so Ian wouldn't hear.

Of course, Ian did hear, and he just had to ask about it.  They were getting ready for bed, Mickey tugging on a too-large sleep shirt from a pile of Ian's laundry, when a hand landed lightly on his waist.

"Feeling better?" Ian asked softly, rubbing soothing circles into the stretched skin of Mickey's sore belly.

"Uh, yeah," Mickey hedged, not wanting to reveal his lingering discomfort.  "It's nothing, really."

"You sure?" Ian asked, pressing closer against his back as his hand migrated to rest over Mickey's chest.  "You can tell me if something made you sick, you know," he said.  "I won't take it personally."

If he wasn't used to Ian hitting close to home while having absolutely no knowledge of what he was talking about, Mickey might have wondered then if his husband was catching on.

But it was an innocent enough question, after all.

"Nah, man," he said, pulling away to sit on the bed.  "Probably picked up a bug on our rounds or something."

Ian looked unconvinced, biting his lip, and Mickey rushed to reassure him.

"I'm be right as rain tomorrow," he promised.  "Just you watch."

Ian hesitated, but ultimately nodded, and joined him in bed.  He curled just a little tighter around Mickey than normal, hand resting carefully on his stomach.

It wasn't a lie, Mickey figured as he waited for sleep to claim him.  He would be fine by morning.  And next time, he'd do the cooking himself, just in case, and then this couldn't happen again.

By the third time, just the next morning, Mickey finally had to admit what he dreaded all along: it really was the goddamned tomatoes.

He’d made the omelets himself, using normal ingredients they got from the store, all things he had eaten before.  He’d mixed in some diced tomato, just for flavor, and because he knew Ian would like it.

And like it Ian did.  His husband was chowing down like someone might take away his plate if he didn’t eat fast enough, barely stopping to sip at his coffee, while Mickey sat silently across from him.

The first bite of his eggs had already almost done him in, the taste of the tomato now forever associated with stomach cramps and bile and bloating.  He knew there was no way for it to be effecting him already, but his stomach clenched when he tried to lift another bite to his lips, and he set down his fork with a clatter.

Ian stopped eating.

“Everything okay, Mickey?” he asked, concerned.  “You’ve barely touched your breakfast.”

“What are you lookin’ at my breakfast for?” Mickey deflected.  “Eyes on your own fuckin’ plate, you’ve got yours.”

Ian obediently ducked his head, but still managed to catch Mickey poking a chunk of tomato away from everything else on his plate.

“You don’t like the tomato?” he asked, ignoring Mickey’s exasperated sigh at his interference.  “I think they really add something.”

“Love them,” Mickey answered with a forced, toothy smile.  “Just saving the best for last.”  He stabbed at the tomato with his fork, spearing it, and lifted it to his lips to make a point.

“Yum,” he said around it as he chewed and forced himself to swallow.  “See?  Delic--”

Then he was up, away from the table, and running to the kitchen sink as it came right back up.

“Mickey, what the fuck?” Ian yelled, his chair sliding back with a screech as he hurried to join Mickey at the counter.

“Sorry,” Mickey managed, head still down, as Ian rubbed his back.  “Think something’s wrong with me; didn’t mean to waste it.”

Ian’s hand stilled.

“Waste it?” he asked.  “Mickey, what are talking about?”

“The tomatoes, Ian,” Mickey sighed.  “I know you’re fuckin’ proud of ‘em or whatever, but I just can’t keep ‘em down.”

“Can’t keep them...” Ian started, then stopped.  His hand fell away, only to reappear on the back of Mickey’s neck, forcing his to lift his head and look at him.

“Mickey,” Ian said firmly.  “How long has this been going on?”

Mickey didn’t answer.  Ian shook him, just lightly, then winced when it set him retching again into the stainless steel sink.

“How long have my tomatoes been making you sick, Mickey?” he asked again, quieter, and Mickey finally gave in.

“Few days,” he muttered, and Ian let go of him completely.

“A few--Mickey, it’s only been a few days.  And I’ve been putting them in everything.”

Ian sounded worried, almost distraught, and that was exactly what Mickey had been trying to avoid.

“No, it’s fine,” he insisted, pushing away from the sink.  He forced himself to swallow past the burning bile in his throat.  “I’m not some fuckin’ pussy-ass kid, Gallagher, I know how to work through a fuckin’ stomach ache.”

If anything, that only made Ian look more concerned.

“I know you do, Mick,” he said.  “But why the hell did you think you had to?  Terry’s gone, we’re doing good; you know you don’t need to do shit like that anymore.”

Oh.  

“You’re not upset?” Mickey asked, just to clarify, and Ian rubbed a hand over his face.

“Of course I’m upset, Mickey,” he sighed.  “You lied to me for days because what, you didn’t want to look weak?”

“No,” Mickey said.  “Cause I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

Ian took a deep breath.

“Mickey,” he said slowly.  “I promise my feelings aren’t hurt just because you can’t stomach tomatoes.  It really wouldn’t have been a big deal.”

Mickey shrugged.  “I should be able to, though,” he said.  “Ketchup, soup, fucking pasta--I eat all that no problem, and we just had extra sauce on our pizza last week.  It’s just...”

He hesitated to say it out loud.

“Just my tomatoes,” Ian finished for him.  ‘Right.”

Ian took a step forward, and took Mickey’s hand.  He guided him back over to the table, sat him down--moving his plate away so he didn’t have to look at it--and joined him there.

“Mickey,” he started.  “Maybe it’s not just that.”  Mickey bit his lip, figuring that Ian cared more than he let on if he wanted to find some other excuse, but what his husband said next surprised him.

“I mean,” Ian continued, “it’s not like either of us had a lot of fresh ingredients around growing up.”

Well, he was right about that.

“And really fresh stuff, not processed, none of the preservative shit we’ve been eating our whole lives...well, it’s not your fault that your system doesn’t know what to do with it.”

“Still wish I could eat it,” Mickey grumbled, feeling a little better in spite of himself.  “It makes you so happy, man, and I had to go and ruin it.”

Ian laughed.

“You didn’t ruin anything, you idiot,” he said fondly.  “But next time I want to try something new, maybe we’ll take it a little slower, yeah?”

Mickey nodded.

“And maybe,” Ian added, “You’ll tell me there’s a problem before you puke all over our dishes.”

Mickey looked over to the sink, where sure enough, the majority of their dishes were piles and waiting to be washed, now needing it more than ever.

Oops.

“At least they were already dirty?” he said, and Ian smiled.

“Yeah,” he agreed.  “At least there’s that.”

He leaned forward, and pressed a kiss to Mickey’s head.  Then he grabbed up Mickey’s unfinished breakfast and a fork.

“Really, Gallagher?” Mickey asked.  “You still wanna eat after that?”

“Why not?” Ian answered, mouth already full.  “Besides, if you don’t like it,” he added, a stray piece of egg clinging to the side of his mouth, “then all the more for me.”

It was Mickey’s turn to grin, even as he watched the gruesome show that was Ian trying to eat.