Chapter Summary: Ranma Saotome, 22 years old. He's been the husband of Akane Saotome for two years, but they've known each other way longer. His goal? Buy enough antacids to pillow the upcoming blow of his wife's meal to "celebrate" having the dojo to themselves. Short term damage: stomach ache for the whole weekend. Long term damage: at least six months shaved off of his life.

Chapter 1: Antacids

"Shucks..." Ranma mumbled to himself, pilfering through the medicine cabinet for the fifth time in the past three minutes. There was an avalanche of first aid kits, unraveled bandage wraps, and a few stray Band-Aids that fluttered around as he continued searching. What a rookie mistake, he mentally admonished with a sigh. Antacids became a staple of his diet as a grown man, so it wasn't too surprising that his stock was depleted, but he'd known this weekend was coming.

Creeping out into the hallway, Ranma took care to tread on the balls of his feet. If he tried–really tried–he'd leave without Akane noticing. That would be for the best. As he made it to the entryway, the martial artist dared sniffing the air. The regret was instantaneous and he scrambled to bury his mouth in the crook of his elbow. Ranma hoped the trusty red shirt would be enough to muffle his unstoppable coughing fit, but he'd been sneaking out. Everything was so much louder when a person was attempting to go unnoticed. He leaned back onto the wall to steady himself. Whatever Frankenstein creation Akane was whipping up was unidentifiable. And, it already had the potential to send him flying from the Tendo and Saotome Residence to a hospital bed.

"Ranma, where are you going?" Akane asked, stepping out into the hall and wiping her hands on his apron. The man in question felt his spine straighten, his shoulders tensing so far they touched his ears. Over the years, Ranma put blood, sweat, and tears into convincing his wife that instant ramen was her deal and home cooked meals were his. But, as luck would have it, she still experimented when the opportunity presented itself. An opportunity like a husband and a wife having the entire home for the entire weekend entirely to themselves. She wanted to celebrate... Ranma blanched. There would be nothing to do after he knocked back that disastrous medley of a meal except for curl into the fetal position and let his organs writhe in agony.

"Uh, j-just to the store. Realized I need to uh... get some nails for the roof!" He lied, but Akane was in such a good mood that she hadn't sensed the hesitation, hadn't heard the hitch in his voice.

"Could you pick up some jalapeno peppers for me while you're out?" She asked with that smile that could send him to his knees in the best way but now left them quivering in the worst.

Don't run for the camping packs, don't grab the backpacks in Pop's room, don't think about how they're already stuffed with supplies to flee from Akane's fever drea–

"Ranma?"

Ranma swore his life was flashing before his eyes. He gulped, big. I think I just remembered the first time I took a breath. "Uh, yep, I'll pick it up for you."

He'd buy his wife a bell pepper. A green sweet pepper. She wouldn't know the difference. After all, nine out of ten times she couldn't even tell heads or tails from motor and vegetable oil.

"It's for us!"

"Oh, oh man..." Ranma mumbled before squaring his feature into focus and offering his wife what had to be an unsettling smirk. Not that she bothered to analyze it. "I'll be back!" He announced, offering her a parade caliber wave after he slid on his black flats.

"Take care," Akane said, turning back to the kitchen.

-x-

The bite of winter snuck through his blue jacket and Ranma shivered. Guess it was better for winter to nip at him than whatever was simmering at home. The martial artist shoved his hands into his pants pocket, kicking at the sidewalk as he made his way to the nearest convenience store. "Aw geez, why'd I have to fall for a tomboy who cooks like Ryoga reads a map?" He grumbled, knowing that his excellent skills in the dojo could never help him dodge Akane's cooking.

Of course, he hadn't been expecting an answer, but the universe always seemed to be listening. The light of the 7-11 sign was his answer. It felt like salvation. Ranma'd storm in there and clear the entire shelf of its antacids, splurge now so he'd never have to come back. That was his fever dream.

When the bell tolled, signaling his entrance, Ranma swore he'd found nirvana. The martial artist beelined to the small produce freezer first, sighing in relief at the sight of a single bag of mini-peppers. They were illuminated perfectly under the lights, and sure, they didn't match the color of a jalapeño, but they were close enough in size. Akane probably wouldn't think anything of it. Ranma greedily snatched them up into his hands. Nirvana, salvation, and now a living Buddha. The gods came through for once.

Next, his feet walked him to the antacids. Ranma visited this place so often, he knew the isle they were in by heart now. Although he promised to buy out the store's supply, Ranma resisted the urge and picked up three bottles instead. If Akane saw him walking in with so many all at once, he'd have to grit his teeth and eat dinner without knocking 'em back. Akane wasn't below that kind of stunt. Ranma shook his head.

"Good evening," the cashier stated as Ranma all but slammed his items onto the checkout counter. The kid looked sharp enough. Skinny, brown eyes, black hair. The lucky bastard probably never ate a burnt piece of toast let alone an entire fiesta of flavors that somehow tasted the way painful was spelled. "Heartburn bad lately?" He asked, naively.

Ranma clenched his fist, closing his eyes and letting a rogue tear fall. "Listen pal, my wife and I've got the house to ourselves this weekend. You've never had her cooking and you don't want to." Ranma reached below the counter and threw an extra travel sized bottle of antacids onto the counter for extra measure.

The cashier blinked a few times, making Ranma scowl. He knew it. Pulling out his wallet, the cashier quickly bagged his items. "I'm so sorry to hear that. Your total is 4,237 yen."

Ranma placed the money into the styrofoam tray, more tears filling his eyes. They glistened like dew under the harsh yellow lights. "These might not even be enough to save me."

-X-

A/N: Did I show up twenty years too late for Ranma 1/2 fanfiction? Probably. Do I give a shit? N O P E. Someone left a tag on one of my Ranma posts saying that Ranma and Akane were a matching set of idiots and I just wanted to explore that. I'm here to try my hand at bringing them to life, keyword: try. Nobody does humor like Takahashi does.