Turkey Day

Written by Maggie the Cat

Author's Note: Please disregard the wonkiness of this case--I wrote it in, like, half an hour, okay? Don't be expecting quality or anything. ;p


"I hate this."

"*You* hate this?" Frank glanced at Tim incredulously. "Do *you* have a wife and daughter waiting for you at home, patiently keeping the turkey from drying out while *you* drive all over town searching for some semen-addicted crackpot who may-possibly-*might* be any *one* of seven otherwise unrelated clinic workers?!?"

Staring steadfastly at the road, Tim spoke through clenched teeth. "In case you don't remember, Frank, Mary invited me to Thanksgiving dinner at your house. So *I'm* suffering as much as you are, maybe even more--"

"More?" Frank exclaimed.

"--maybe even *more*, Frank, because they get to wait for you at home and I have to ride around in this car with you, listening to you yelling at me!"


They were silent for the next three red lights, Frank's irritation and Tim's sulking doing mute battle for dominance. Finally, Tim gave up--although he preferred to think of it as "being the bigger person."

"I bet Mary makes good turkey," he ventured.

"The best," Frank affirmed immediately. "She does something with melted butter, white wine and cheesecloth that makes it come out perfect every time."

"Mmmmmm." Tim leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes blissfully. "Stuffing?"

"Whaddyou mean, 'stuffing'?"

"Stuffing, Frank. Bread, celery, uh...seasoning, whatever, all mixed up and shoved in the turkey's hoo-hah. Stuffing."

"We don't have stuffing." Frank pointedly ignored Tim's agape mouth and gripped the steering wheel a bit tighter. "We have *dressing*."

"Pssssh." Tim relaxed again, flapping one large, languid hand in dismissal. "Same thing, then."

"Stuffing goes *inside* the bird, Tim. Dressing's on the side." Although still being argumentative, Frank had likewise calmed down. He enjoyed his and Tim's car discussions, and this was shaping up to be an interesting one.

"Only Victorians and New Englanders call it 'dressing' anymore," Tim stared out the window at a young couple making out on a bus bench until they were out of sight. He faced front again, snugging his coat tighter. "As long as there's cranberry sauce, I'm happy."

Frank made a face. "I can't stand cranberry sauce," he declared. "I'm not a big fan of fruit and meat together in general."

"Not even on pizza? Like, ham and pineapple?"

"Nope. Well, porkchops and apple sauce, but that's about it."

"Hmmmmm." Another stretch of silence, but a companionable one. That was one of the reasons Bayliss and Pembleton liked to go out together; they had some of their best and deepest talks in the car, but they didn't *have* to talk. Not like having Meldrick or Munch along. Those two only shut up if they were physically forced to.

"What d'you suppose she's gonna do with all of the sperm samples?" Tim wondered aloud.

Frank raised an eyebrow consideringly. "Turn them loose and let the best man win?" he guessed.

"I still don't see why she had to kill all those other samples. I mean, that's *dozens* of babies denied a chance at life."

"Hmmph." Frank gave him an amused sidelong glance. "You must weep over your condoms."

"No, no--that's different." Tim sat up a bit, getting into the topic. "The whole *point* of a sperm bank is for procreation, right? Those samples are there for the sole purpose of impregnating a woman. Come on, Frank--you're Catholic. The whole thing must piss you off."

"I'm Catholic, not Byzantine. Sperm banks serve their purpose. But I still don't see why we're calling some spilled seed 'murder'."

"Well, she didn't murder all of them. She saved the ones she liked."

Frank made a noise of agreement. "Convenient season to try and get pregnant, I guess."

"What with the turkey basters already out and all."


Frank pulled up in front of a respectable-looking brownstone and turned the engine off. The two of them sat there for a minute before he said, "Well, this is the first address. Do you want to ask her--"

"Connie Wagonhoffer," Tim supplied, checking his notebook.

"--ask Miz Wagonhoffer if she's reaping the fruits of the season, or shall I?"

"Oh, *you* do it, Frank," Tim huffed, smiling, as they got out of the car. "And remember to wish her a happy Turkey Day."

"I hate that expression," Frank muttered, stomping up the steps with his partner.

"You hate everything."

"Touche, Timmy." Frank grinned briefly, then rang the doorbell.