Work Text:
Thanksgiving, a time for family. A time to bond, give thanks, admire the ones you have around you, etc. But what actually happens? Lots of yelling—not necessarily because of anger, but loudness in general. Which was no exception for the ones we know as ‘The Monkees.’
Usually, how it would go: Mike makes the majority of the food, with Peter being the one to focus on desserts. Micky is glued to the screen for the parade, while Davy occasionally throws out snide comments about how he didn’t see the sense of the holiday.
This particular Thanksgiving was different. That was because no one other than Milly Rudnick burst through the door, followed by Larry.
“Oh, boys, I missed you all!” she exclaimed as she handed her hat and coat to Larry. She hurriedly rushed over to Mike, enveloping him in a hug. Mike stood frozen, brows furrowed. The other boys all looked over to Milly and Larry, just as confused.
“It’s nice to see you, Milly—but—well, why are you here?” Mike asked, awkwardly hugging Milly back.
“That’s a silly question. I’m here to cook!”
“Oh, you don’t have to, I’m—”
“No, I’ve got it. Go enjoy yourself,” she said, finally letting Mike go.
“Don’t try and stop her—none of ya. She’s been talking about doing this for ages,” Larry said, now shrugging off his own coat and hat after fumbling around to put away Milly’s.
Mike opened his mouth to protest again, but Milly was already taking over the kitchen and running it like the navy. Cabinet doors flew open while pots clanged.
“Milly—Milly, hold on—” Mike hurried after her, hands raised. “I’ve already got the turkey brining, and the green beans are—well, they were green before you—uh—started boiling them again—”
“I know what I’m doing, Michael!” she called over her shoulder, waving him off (lovingly) like a fly. “You can sit and have fun with your friends for once. Mother hen,” she added under her breath.
“I don’t ‘mother-hen,’” Mike muttered, reaching for the pot she was aggressively stirring. “I just—now hold on, that gravy base is supposed to simmer, not—”
She smacked his hand lightly with the wooden spoon. “Out!”
Mike ducked his head down with a frown, pitifully walking to go sit at the table alongside Davy and Peter.
“At least you tried?” Peter said with a wide smile as he pulled a card from the deck in the middle of the table.
“Gosharooney, look at the Linus the Lionhearted balloon!” Micky said, smacking the side of Larry’s leg from his place on the floor while pointing to the TV with his other hand.
“Micky, why are you so surprised? He was in the parade last year,” Davy said, shaking his head while handing Peter one of his cards.
“Well—I, I didn’t know he was in it last year,” Mike added.
“That’s because you were too busy cooking to see him last time!” Micky shouted, throwing his hands up in the air with a groan.
Mike looked back over to Milly, noticing her back was turned to the stove—that was his chance. With that, he snuck back into the kitchen, slinking around her quietly to grab the can of cranberry sauce from the cabinet.
Though his plan was foiled when he went to grab their can opener and Milly whipped around, hands on her hips.
“Now, Mike, what did I say?” Then she shook her head, a smile playing on her lips. “You can finish the cranberry sauce—but then out of the kitchen.”
He smiled, nodding happily, taking a small serving dish and can opener back to the table. As he began to slice it, placing it into the dish, Micky sprung from his seat on the floor.
“Whatcha got there, Mike?” he asked, leaning onto the table’s surface.
“Don’t, Micky,” Mike warned, still slicing the sauce.
“How else are we going to know if it’s poisoned or not? You should be happy that I’m willing to sacrifice myself for the better of my friends.”
Peter and Davy snickered at Micky as he monologued, while Mike just shook his head. Before Mike could stop him, Micky grabbed the slice and ran back to his spot on the floor.
“Micky.”
“What? Did you see that ghost steal a slice of the cranberry sauce? I’m scared, did anyone else see it?”
Peter perked up immediately. “Ghost?! There’s a ghost?! But it’s not Halloween anymore—and there’s still a ghost?!” he said, flailing his hands in a cartoon-like fashion.
“There’s no ghost, Peter, Micky is just kidding,” Mike said, getting up from the table to set the dish in the fridge.
“Oh, okay!” Peter responded with a wide smile as if he was never scared to begin with.
༄˖°.🍂.ೃ࿔*:･
“That was a beautiful performance. Have they done it before?” Milly asked, searching through the boys’ pathetic spice cabinet.
Micky, of course, was the first to answer, as he claimed to be the official expert on this whole parade.
“Nope! That’s new.”
Peter sighed, resting his chin in his hand. “Charlie Brown never responded to my letter.”
Mike, whose attention was once on the TV, was now on Peter, dazed. “You sent a letter to Charlie Brown?”
“Of course I did! He didn’t get any candy, so I sent him ours—” It was then Micky who once again got up, quick as a flash.
“That’s where our candy went?!” he said, wide-eyed, already walking over to the table.
Peter pouted. “He didn’t get any!”
“Boys, both of you,” Milly snapped, still facing the kitchen counter, adding a large chunk of butter to the bowl in front of her. Larry laughed from his spot on the couch, barely audible but still enough for Milly to catch. Before she could tell Larry to stop instigating, Micky leaned in over her shoulder. And before she could protest, his finger was already dragging through the bowl of mashed potatoes.
“You must be joking, Micky. That’s gross!” Davy exclaimed, scrunching his face in disgust. Micky readily ignored him and instead settled for making a funny face at him.
“Milly, you have outdone yourself with this one!” Micky said, turning away from her so as not to get whacked with a spoon, licking the food off his finger.
“Thank you, Micky. Now get on, you’re missing the parade,” Milly said, turning to him.
As Micky pranced away back to his spot, Mike decided to speak up.
“Micky, you should stay in one place; it’ll save you more energy,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, rubbing it slowly as Davy dealt out cards, one of the cards flying off the table. Davy sighs loudly and slides from his chair to retrieve the rogue card. He stretches his arm under the table, fingers brushing the dusty floorboard—and immediately recoils with a shriek.
“WH—Mike! Why is there stuff under here?!”
Mike raises an eyebrow. “What stuff?”
“Your boots! That’s what stuff!” Davy shouts, wriggling backward until he bumps his head on the underside of the table.
Davy rubs the top of his head with the back of his hand, wincing. “Ow! Brilliant. Just brilliant,” he said, smacking the card on the tabletop.
Peter gasped softly. “Do you need ice? I can get ice! Or—or a cold spoon! My mom used to do this—keep spoons in the freezer for my bumps.”
Davy waves him off. “No, no, I’m fine. Honestly, Mike, boots under the table and not on your feet? What are we, animals?”
Mike just snorts. “You done complainin’?”
Davy dusts himself off, smoothing down his hair as he shakes his head.
Before he can pick up his cards again, Milly calls him from the kitchen. “Davy, sweetheart, can you reach the serving tray for me? The big one!”
Davy blinks, stunned. “Me? Reach something?”
Larry and Micky cackle from their spots in the living room.
“I’ll have you know I’m taller than I look!”
“No, you’re not,” Micky says from the floor.
Davy stands from his chair, walking behind him to meet Milly. It’s then she points up toward the cupboard’s high shelf, then returns to chopping whatever was in front of her.
Davy follows her finger—and his face falls. “Oh, now that’s just cruel,” he mutters.
Milly glances over her shoulder. “You can get it. Larry usually helps, but he’s pretending to be tired.”
“I am tired,” Larry calls out, though he sounds far more amused than exhausted.
Davy inhales deeply through his nose, squares his shoulders, and reaches up. He goes onto his toes. Then higher onto his toes. He gives it a little hop—his fingers brushing the edge of the tray, nudging it just enough for it to shift forward.
“I got it!” he announces proudly.
Mike calls from the table, not bothering to turn and look, “Don’t drop it.”
Davy then gasps, scrambles his arms for a moment, and catches it with both hands. “I got it!”
It’s then the room bursts into weak applause. Milly turns fully, smiling warmly. “Thank you, Davy. I knew you could.”
He beams, posture straightening, as he brings the tray to the table, placing it next to Milly.
Peter grins up at him from his seat. “Good job, Davy! I like when everyone helps. It feels nice.”
Davy taps his deck on the table. “Well,” he says casually, “maybe Thanksgiving isn’t so bad.”
Peter gasps. “Did you just say you like Thanksgiving?”
“I didn’t say that. I just said it isn’t—bad,” Davy says, trying to hide his smile, but fails.
Micky points. “He’s smiling!”
༄˖°.🍂.ೃ࿔*:･
The parade began to wind down, Micky then joining the card game as it dissolved into giggles and arguments about who’s cheating (answer: Micky), paired with the smell of a beautiful, home-cooked meal.
Mike is trying, genuinely trying to sit still—keeps glancing toward the kitchen like it’s calling to him. He grips his knee, bounces the other one, straightens his hat, then straightens it again. Davy watches him, laughing to himself.
“Mike, you’re twitching.”
“I’m not twitchin’,” he mutters, then follows with another twitch.
Peter smiles. “Go help her, Mike!”
“No, I can’t,” Mike sighs. “She’ll whack me with the spoon again,” he then drops his voice to a whisper, “And she’s got the big spoon now.”
Then, with a huff, he stands. “I’m checkin’ on the turkey.”
“You’re going to get kicked out again,” Micky sing-songs from his chair, Milly completely unaware of their conversation.
Mike then turns around, seeing Milly busy herself with the fridge.
Yes, the turkey is in the oven, but a small pot on the stove is not bubbling correctly.
“Milly…”
She doesn’t turn. “Yes, Mike?”
He freezes, only his eyes moving. “H—how did you know it was me?”
“I just knew!” she says simply, smiling at him with a carton of eggs in her hand.
Mike clears his throat, swinging his arms by his sides. “I just wanted to, uh—check the turkey.”
“Nothing else,” she responds pleasantly.
Mike nods. “Right. Turkey. Not touchin’ anything else.”
He opens the oven; it looks good, all golden and crisp.
“Oh, wow.”
Milly hums, smug. “Little trick I learned from my mother.”
“It’s perfect.”
“Now close the oven, you’re letting the heat out, sweetheart.”
He does, very gently, then starts inching toward the stovetop.
“Mike.”
He jolts. “I wasn’t gonna stir it!”
“You were,” she says knowingly.
“I was just lookin’.”
“You don’t look at a pot like that unless you intend to meddle.”
Peter leans into Micky and whispers loudly, “How does she know?!”
Milly gestures to the table with the spoon—the big spoon. “Out.”
“But—”
“Out, Mike,” she says; her tone is firm, though her eyes are kind. “You’ve done enough for today. Let me take care of this.”
He hesitates—only for a second. A part of him feels guilty—as if he’s abandoned his post as the usual Thanksgiving general.
༄˖°.🍂.ೃ࿔*:･
As if a foghorn is in her hand, Milly announces dinner. The four of them—and Larry—nearly jump out of their skins.
Peter claps excitedly. “It’s time! It’s happening!”
Micky springs from his original spot in the living area, saluting the television. “You have served your purpose!”
Mike is already halfway to the kitchen before anyone else moves. They gather around the small table, the monkey, usually in his own chair, now sitting atop the fridge. For one singular, miraculous moment, everyone is silent as they look at the spread.
Then—
“Wow!” Peter shouts.
“That turkey’s bigger than Davy,” Larry adds.
“Hey!” Davy snaps, but Mike pats his shoulder.
“In a good way!” Mike admits.
Milly smooths her apron, smiles, motioning them all to come closer. “Sit, sit. Before everything gets cold.”
They all scramble to their usual seats—except Micky, who tries to sit in two at once because he “called both of them earlier.”
Davy elbows Micky. “Move your elbow, you’re in my space.”
“This is a community table, David,” Micky replies, stretching his arm wider.
Mike then facepalms, standing to forcefully move Micky from the chair.
༄˖°.🍂.ೃ࿔*:･
Milly raises her glass first. “I am thankful,” she says, “for being surrounded by lovely boys who made my life so much brighter.”
They all grin in response, then Larry lifts his glass. “I’m thankful she finally let me nap on the couch.”
Milly swats his shoulder.
Now they all look expectantly at Mike.
He swallows.
“Uh…” He clears his throat. “I’m thankful Milly saved me from ruin in that kitchen.”
She waves her hands, scrunching her nose lovingly. “Nonsense.”
“...and that y’all are here. And… that I ain’t stirrin’ pots right now.” He smiles. “So. Thanks.”
“Aww!” Peter squeals, stretching his arms to hug Mike for a split second.
“Your turn, Mick,” he nudges.
Micky stands and clears his throat theatrically. “I’m thankful,” he begins with an over-exaggerative, fancy announcer voice, “for friends who are fun, and holidays that involve food, and parades with giant balloons—”
“Micky, sit down,” Davy says.
“—and I’m thankful that everyone was safe from the ghost that stole the cranberry sauce this year.”
“There wasn’t a ghost this year—or last year, either,” Mike mumbles.
“That we know of!” Micky says, pointing accusingly.
Davy raises his glass. “I’m thankful that I could reach that dish.”
Then last but not least, Peter.
He lifts his glass reverently. “I’m thankful for pie.”
Everyone laughs.
“No, really,” he insists. “You guys too. But also pie. Both are good for the soul.”
Mike’s smile softens. “Hear, hear.”
༄˖°.🍂.ೃ࿔*:･
Larry decides to carve the turkey—because no one trusts Micky with a knife, and because last year Mike got too emotional.
Peter passes the rolls, in which Larry takes three at once. Davy tries to avoid the gravy touching anything else on his plate. Micky’s plate is a beige mountain, one that makes Mike tempted to switch seats with Davy.
When they finally dig in, every head lifts at once.
Peter’s eyes go wide. “This… this is the best turkey I’ve ever eaten.”
Stunned, Mike puts his fork down. “You can’t even taste that it was cooked in my oven.”
Micky is already halfway through the beige pile. “I’d eat this every day.”
They all eat for a while, the comfortable quiet—the kind that happens when everyone is content and safe.
Mike leans back in his chair, arms crossed, watching all of them with a soft, peaceful look that rarely is seen.
Milly notices.
“You okay, sweetheart?” she asks, gentle.
He smiles back, nodding. “Yeah, more’n okay.”
༄˖°.🍂.ೃ࿔*:･