A/N: just some fluff without a particular episode in mind.
It was that time of year again.
To be more specific, it was June 16th, 2015, almost 10 am. Dr. Henry Morgan, the best medical examiner in the New York City and probably a much larger patch of Earth's biosphere, was at his desk, making an important resolution:
Jo Martinez was getting a Christmas gift.
…
...
There. He made it. Now he only had to carry it through.
The problem with finding Jo a Christmas gift was very simple: he didn't know her preferences (besides high-quality liquor, but that was out of the question).
Henry did not want to ask Detective Hanson's opinion, or anyone's (that is, Lucas's or Abe's), for that matter. It was unlikely that he would ever guess the ideal present even with help, and without it, he could at least fail in his own manner and so fill the ritual with meaning. Still. It would be best if she liked it.
Now Henry Morgan was a gentleman. He did not leave the serious matter of gift-hunting 'til the middle of December. Middle of June was altogether a neat starting point, since he needed to deduce her favourite book, movie, piece of music, flower, perfume, gemstone and headdress, and then choose the most appropriate item. In the meantime, he was going to accumulate promising candidates.
You live long enough, hats evolve.
*****FOREVER*****
And that was how Henry found himself starting a separate journal of daily observations. If anything, it cheered his son up.
Abe's advanced expertise in some fields, such as Henry's own tastes, made him an ideal (or 'less finicky', as he put it himself) test subject. It was a perfectly logical shortcut.
'Dad,' Abe said one day, scratching behind his ear in mock thoughtfulness. 'I keep asking myself where'd you get a sample of her coat's wool. Because, ya know, stalking a police officer ain't the smartest thing you ever did.' He played with coffee beans in the bag in his lap. To keep older results from contaminating subsequent data, they both kept sniffing the coffee between tests.
'I am not stalking Jo,' Henry protested indignantly.
'Coulda fooled me.'
'I bought a coat just like hers, back in January, cut it into strips – like this, – and offered them to her, one by one, when her hands or ears grew cold.'
Jo had been stymied by his unending supply of mini-scarves, but they matched her clothes and also brought her welcome warmth, and he obtained examples of material with her scent on it, so it was a win-win situation. Unless one counted that time when she lent a piece to Hanson – an outlier, but several changes of water later Henry did wash the blood out of it.
Also, he'd acquired a working understanding of how Chanel went with Jo went with Gore, and Hanson got off with a 'fancy new scar', so there wasn't anything to complain about. (His bag might have grown a tad heavier for the additional rolls of gauze, but one can never tell with such a light fabric.)
'So, what do you think? A bit strong?'
Abe squinted at the rows of tiny bottles on the shelf, each holding a different aroma, and harrumphed.
'I think we're turning into coffee-snorting addicts. Is that even a thing?'