Tomatoes are the first thing she makes him gives up.

It's not that she objects to tomatoes in general – she likes them in ketchup, salsa and spaghetti sauce, but she can't stand the salty-watery-sour taste of them when they're fresh. She'll pick them off her salad and sandwiches no matter how small they cut up the pieces. She let's Perry steal them from her plate, in rare moments of mercy she lets him, since he likes them so much.

She's wrong though – he doesn't just like them, he loves them.

They're spending a rare day in at his apartment, watching hockey (there was going to be blood on the ice tonight, she can feel it) while he studies like the boring science geek he is, looking up only when there was a potential goal or a fight going on.

"I'm heading to the kitchen, you want anything?"

"Get me a Tab," She mutters, eyes focused on the game.

He obediently hands her a soda, before taking a seat beside her and popping the top off his own drink – She looks over as she hears a soft squelch.

In his hand Perry's got a tomato – a whole fresh tomato that he's taken a bite out. Some juice dribbles out of the corner of his mouth, and his tongue slips out to swipe it away before he takes another large squelching bite of the red flesh. He moans softly, sucking on the vegetable before pulling away and swallowing. A seed is caught on his upper lip and that tongue sneaks out again to pull it back in.

He runs his tongue along the gash, catching more juices and seeds with his tongue before taking another large bite, a slightly louder groan emerging from around the tomato. Another line of juice escapes from his mouth and drips down his throat.

Torn between arousal (he was just as thorough in the bedroom) and disgust (she's going to have to kiss that mouth)– she snatches the tomato out of his mouth and throws it in the waste basket.

"You can't eat tomatoes if you're with me."

He gives her a faintly surprised look, but doesn't say anything.

***///***///***

The ponytail is the next thing that she rids him of.

It's not because he has the prettiest hair for a boy she's ever seen. Prettier, she'll admit, than hers. It's long and lies in almost perfect thick ringlets (she's seen the curling iron he hides under the bathroom sink) around his shoulders when it's loose. It's streaked with red, brown and gold completely naturally. It's soft to the touch and she like to run her fingers through it.

It also makes a convenient leash; she's not going to lie.

It's not because he looks like a 70s rock star (Roger Daltrey, he keeps insisting), and he needs to join the eighties. He'd look excellent with some mousse in his hair, maybe some highlights –

No, it's both of these reasons together, plus one more:

"C'mon Rita, hack it off. I'm sick of people thinking I'm a lesbian."

He sighs and mournfully begins cutting his hair.

***///***///***

" – is that so. That's unfortunate – Mom, I called – really? That's a shame. No, he shouldn't have thrown your wedding plate, I'm surprised it's lasted this long – no, I'm not being sarcastic. Mom, they – okay. Okay. Mom, I called to – okay, I'll let you finish… No – No, I – fine. Mom, they named me Chief Resident, that's why I called… what does that mean? It means I was the best resident of my class – no I don't get paid more – yes, I know it doesn't mean anything if there isn't money in your pocket at the end of the day – it's a big deal – I don't think I'm better than you – Mom… Mom! Fine, I'll let you go, I know you're busy."

His carefully blank expression as he hangs up the phone hits her heart in a way she doesn't like.

"Stop calling your mother, if she needs to get a hold of you she will. They don't deserve you."

He blinks at her in surprise, eyes wide, and impulsively she kisses him.

She makes him stop calling his mother for his own good.