Summary: Peter and Mike get trapped in closets a lot more often than you'd think.
Pairing: Peter/Mike.
Warnings: I don't think there's anything warning worthy here.
Notes: It's not like there's a shortage of Torksmith fic out there, so I feel kind of guilty adding to the pile - but not guilty enough to actually stop myself from adding this to the pile, if that makes any sense.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Monkees, and this is done purely for fun. Please don't sue!
The plain fact of the matter was – sometimes things happened for no good reason Mike could think of.
Actually, that wasn't strictly true. Most of the time things happened for no good reason Mike could think of.
Okay, maybe you could draw a wobbly kind of correlation between Davy falling in love with some chick and chaos, or Micky unearthing an ancient artefact at the bottom of the cereal box and chaos, or Peter taking candy from a stranger and…
…well, all right, all roads seemed to lead back to chaos – which Mike might have figured was a pattern, if chaos wasn't by its very nature, pattern-resistant.
No – what Mike meant was – strange things tended to happen around the Monkees, and there was no point in getting hung up on those things, because most of the time, they didn't mean anything at all.
Which was why, the first time he found himself kissing Peter in a closet, he didn't worry overmuch about it. If he had stopped to think about it, he might have classified it as 'just one of those things' right alongside the fact that Davy's current divine goddess kept a taxidermied bear on her bed instead of a teddy. Odd, sure, but devoid of any deeper meaning.
But he really didn't stop to think about it, because it was happening – and, like most events that hit them smack out of nowhere, Mike figured the best response was to just roll with it. After all, no-one was in imminent danger, now that the goddess' father and his big stick had gloweringly retreated back to Mount Olympus (or maybe the tool shed).
Anyway, what it came down to was – it was probably better to hang tight for a while, just to be on the safe side.
It was a pretty big closet (with the noticeable exception of Davy, this week's goddess demonstrated a marked appreciation for the more sizeable things in life) so it wasn't like he and Peter were shoved up against each other or anything. As a matter of fact, their only point of contact was at the lips – their bodies remained chaste inches apart, and Mike's hands were pushed way down into his pockets. In the darkness, it could almost have been anyone Mike was kissing.
Except, of course, that it wasn't anyone. It was Peter, and Mike didn't know why he'd even want to pretend otherwise, because knowing it was Peter next to him, Peter whose lips were brushing softly against his – well that was what made the whole thing what it was.
Which was – very strange. And somehow, also, very sweet.
But probably not…important.
The second time he found himself kissing Peter in a closet, he still didn't pay it much mind. Again, mostly because it was happening, and it was hard to analyse and kiss at the same time.
Maybe he should've heard warning bells then, since everything (him, Pete, closet, kissing) added up to history repeating, but there were just enough differences to set this time apart from the last one.
For one thing, the closet was bigger – and not really a closet so much as a storage room. For another, there was light from the bare flickering bulb overhead. And finally, this time Peter had wrapped the fingers of his right hand around Mike's left wrist, and the occasional brush of his thumb over Mike's skin added an entirely new dimension to the whole making out process.
Sure, standing back and looking at it objectively, this set up was pretty similar to the first – but well, Mike wasn't exactly in the kind of position that could be described as 'objective' – and anyway, sometimes – sometimes, you just found yourself in a situation that smacked of déjà-vu. How many times had Davy been imperiled due to a pretty face and a bad case of love-at-first-sight? How many times had the Monkees had to foil an evil criminal who bore a suspicious resemblance to last week's evil criminal? Not to mention, you could set your clock by the regularity with which they found themselves embroiled in zany schemes.
There was nothing sinister about it. The way Mike figured it, there were times when the universe was as stretched for plot as a roomful of scriptwriters with a deadline. Sometimes, purely for the sake of convenience, it had to reuse scenarios – that was all. But that didn't mean the scenarios themselves had any deeper significance.
Plus, the lack of warning bells probably meant that Micky had successfully dismantled the security system - and that meant that Davy could switch out the fake, paste tiara with the real deal, and Princess Romalita would never have to know that the symbol of her country's proud independent spirit had spent the last couple of days on the head of a faceless mannequin in a high-end department store.
Really, everything was going according to loosely-conceived and sloppily-executed plan, and that was worth celebrating. And this kind of celebrating, with the soft, careful meeting of lips and tongues, and the electrifying sweep of Peter's thumb against his inner wrist – well, it sort of blew the alternative (a congratulatory round of milk and stale cookies) out of the water, celebratorily speaking (no offence to the milk and stale cookies intended).
It still didn't mean that this was important, or anything.
The third time Mike found himself kissing Peter in a closet, he – well, all right, that one did kinda make him sit up and take notice.
Or…at least, he would have sat up and taken notice if he could. But as it was, he was pretty busy worrying about the fact that he and Peter were squashed together like people-shaped sardines inside a black magician's box, and about to spend the rest of their lives in pieces, going by the look of the jagged saw he'd noticed in the Marvelous Barnaby's right hand just before he'd slammed the lid shut on them.
He managed to smack his palm awkwardly against the lid of the box, and call out, "Hey there! Hello! Um – I'm not so sure we oughta be in here, after all."
He took the muffled, "You're not?" as encouragement.
"No," he said. He attempted to turn his head, but ended up with a mouthful of Peter's hair for his trouble. He spat it out, before continuing, "It's a little cramped for what we need. We're looking for at least a three-bedroom property in a nice location."
"With better natural light," Peter chimed in.
"Why didn't you boys say so?" the Marvelous Barnaby tutted. "I'll let you out in just a minute – right after I perform my amazing Dismemberment Caper!"
There was a faint sound of cheering in the background, and then, all too close, a rough, serrated kind of scraping coming from the vicinity of the wood above their torsos.
"Wait!" Mike tried not to panic. "Just – wait a minute! Why do you need two of us for this –" he swallowed, " – Dismemberment Caper anyway?"
He sagged in relief as the sawing stopped and the Marvelous Barnaby said, sounding indignant, "Why do I need two – why to prove that I'm twice the magician my competitor is, of course!"
The sawing resumed, increasing in energy as the Marvelous Barnaby muttered, "The Slightly Unusual Udolpho! Huh! Who does he think he is with a title like that!"
"It certainly isn't the most audacious of stage names," Peter agreed.
"I'm glad you concur." The box shook with the renewed force of the Marvelous Barnaby's sawing. "Believe me boys, your reward will be great in Heaven."
They clutched each other. "Heaven?"
"Sure – you know Heaven. It's that little club around the corner."
They relaxed a little. "Oh man – for a second there, I thought you were trying to kill us," Mike said.
"Oh no. Of course not!" the Marvelous Barnaby said, saw falling into a semi-smooth rhythm. "Usually, it just happens. I never have to try."
Peter's hands clutched Mike's in panic again. "What are we going to do, Mike?" he whispered. Mike's eyes had adjusted to the darkness inside the box, so he could make out Peter all right, but he was so close that trying to actually focus on him made his eyes cross. He pulled his head back a little, thumping it off the side of the box, and tried to swallow down his terror.
"Oh, now, I'm sure everything's going to be just fine. Why, we're probably worrying about nothing. After all, the Marvelous Barnaby's a trained professional" –
"Actually, I'm entirely self-taught," came the voice from outside.
" – right. So, like I was saying, it's obvious what we need to do."
"What?"
"Take the closed casket option for our funerals." He stared up at the black lid of the box, bare inches above his eyes. He wondered if being dead would be anything like this. There probably wouldn't be the scraping sound of sawing in the background, and it probably wouldn't be as cramped, since he wouldn't have to share a coffin with Peter – but then, on the other hand, it seemed kind of churlish to insist on separate caskets at the last. Sure, this was a little crowded and uncomfortable, but it wasn't like he minded sharing with Peter – and he'd probably mind even less when he was dead.
"Mike," Peter whispered again. His left hand rested on Mike's chest, burning hot through Mike's shirt. "I'm scared. I don't want to die."
"I'm not exactly fired up about it myself," Mike admitted, kind of shaky, and suddenly, they were kissing.
It was hot and messy and awkward, given that they couldn't move much in the narrow space provided by the Marvelous Barnaby's black magic box. Mike craned his head forward, and Peter did too, and their lips clumsily came together, and they kissed desperately, like – well, like they were about to get sawn in half by a madman any minute, and this was their last chance.
Mike's heart pounded in his ears louder than the saw, he felt like he was suffocating under the wave of heat that rolled through the confined space, and even though he knew his legs were jerking against the inside of the box, he couldn't feel them. He thought maybe he wouldn't even feel the saw slicing him in half, if this crazy, shaky numbness lasted. He hoped Peter was feeling it too.
Luckily, however, he never got a chance to test this theory out, as the Marvelous Barnaby abruptly stopped sawing, and a commotion commotious enough to impinge on Peter and Mike's consciousnesses occurred outside the box. Mike guessed it must be serious, since the Marvelous Barnaby's audience had accepted the likely grisly death of two random young musicians with barely a murmur.
He and Peter pulled the scant inch away from each other that qualified as 'apart', while overhead, a welcome, familiar voice introduced the crowd to, " – the Thoroughly Mendacious Micky Dolenz – Master of Misdirection and Virtuoso of Verisimilitude!"
Appreciative applause followed, and another familiar voice said, "Thank you! Thank you! And may we have a hand for my lovely assistant – the Delightful Dynamo, Davy Jones!"
There was more clapping, and Mike found himself gripping Peter's hand inside the box.
"Hey – what's the big idea?" the Marvelous Barnaby's voice demanded. "This is my show!"
"Yeah, well, now it's our gig," Davy's voice informed him.
"Says who?"
"You know what – he's right. This guy's right, Davy," Micky's voice said.
"I guess it was a little rude of them to just barge in," Peter told Mike, who stared for a moment, then banged the flat of his hand against the lid of the box in disagreement, and called out, "Help!"
"I'm glad you see it my way," the Marvelous Barnaby said. "Now – where was I?"
Both parties inside the box tensed, but Micky's voice came again, as he said, thoughtfully, "I guess we'll just have to keep our prime example of prestidigitation to ourselves, then."
"Prime example of…?" the Marvelous Barnaby asked, sounding intrigued, before saying, in a slightly more bored tone, "But that could surely hold no appeal for me - an expert in sleight of hand!"
"Well, believe me, in our hands, this stuff isn't so slight," Davy informed him.
"Show me then. I demand that you share with me your secrets!"
"If you insist. Step right this way sir," Micky said. "Don't be afraid – yes, right inside. Now pull the door closed behind you…make sure the lock catches – annnnd….don't forget to write!"
"Ladies and gentlemen – the Magnificently Mendacious Micky's Disappearing Act!" Davy cried.
A few seconds later, and Mike found himself taking a bow with Peter in front of audience that clapped politely at their continued existence.
But this time, afterward, he found himself thinking of the Marvelous Barnaby's box, and Peter and the fact that this was the third time he'd found himself kissing him (Peter, not the Marvelous Barnaby) in an enclosed space within a pretty short span of time.
Despite the fact that the last couple of weeks had included a murderously angry father, a plot to steal the crown jewels of a small principality, and the very real and alarming possibility of life without a lower body…
…he was forced to admit to himself that there was a possibility that this situation with Peter wasn't 'one of those random things' he could just shrug off, after all.