Michael sat down hard in his chair. It is my chair; see it's got my name on it. He thought, a grim smile sneaking on to his face. He kicked off his leather cowboy boots, and they clattered loudly when they hit the floor. Throwing his head back and closing his eyes, he hardly noticed.

"Keep it down over there Michael, I have a headache." Peter said coldly from across the room.

"It's those stupid beads, they're too heavy." Michael replied.

"That would give me a neck ache. You should wear some sometime, maybe they'll remind you to respect your fellow man."

"For someone who's so into peace, you sure do argue a ton." Michael sat up, taking in his coworker with sleep-deprived eyes.

"It isn't arguing, it's solid reasoning. You're so high strung Mike." His brown eyes closed as he shook is head, wincing from the pain the small movement caused him. "We used to be such good friends, we really respected each other as musicians. What happened?"

"Don't call me Mike. It's Michael. Mike is a stupid TV character in a stupid wool hat. He can't play guitar to save his life, and he's the idiotic leader of an idiotic band who can't pay their rent. He's the one who gets the least votes in the teen magazines, and it's probably because of that dumb hat." Michael paused to catch his breath and light a cigarette.

"Are you finished venting?" Peter asked, a tiny smile playing around his mouth. Mike or Michael, Nesmith was still a hot-as-a-rocket musician from Texas who could kick anyone's ass. A small sigh escaped as he remembered the old Michael.

He had sauntered into the studio, a green wool hat perched on his head and a bag of laundry over his shoulder. An earnest but humble look on his face, he brushed his black hair of his eyes.

Peter was sitting in an armchair, his moccasined feet curled into lotus position. The boots were new, a gift from a fellow musician he had known in Greenwich. They were given to him as a going away gift and a good luck wish before he had hitchhiked to Los Angeles. He had trouble keeping them up around his knees, and he was constantly pulling on the fringe to keep them from slipping down to his ankles. I need a job so I can eat more, maybe gain some weight. He often thought. Well, now he had a job. He was the dumb one on a TV show about a band of struggling musicians. He would be able to eat again! He smiled at the thought.

It was that smile that caught Michael's eye.

"Hey there, whatcha smilin' about?" He had asked, trying to make conversation.

"Just thinking about eating well for the first time in months. Roadside musicians don't make much." He had replied. "I'm Peter, who are you?"

"Food? Really?" Here he had chuckled. "I'm Michael Nesmith, musician, songwriter, producer, and now apparently actor. Nice ta meetcha." He stuck out his hand. Peter noticed that one finger wasn't quite in line with the others.

"What happened to your hand?" He asked, taking it and giving it a firm shake.

"Smashed it with a hammer when I was twelve, didn't heal quite right."

"Oh."

"Yeah. You play anything?" Michael asked.

"Anything I can get my hands on. I'm the bass for the show." Peter replied, uncrossing his legs.

"Those are some groovy boots, man." Michael said, eyeing his moccasins.

"Thanks, where're you from?"

"Texas. Dallas. And you?"

"Originally, I'm from D.C, but I grew up in Connecticut and just moved here from New York."

"Dang!" A quick flash of smile twitched across the Texan's face.

"A musician's journey is never through." Peter's smile was big and honest, something Michael would come to appreciate greatly.

But now they could barely keep up a civil conversation. Fame and fortune had spoiled Michael, and his recently discovered affair wasn't helping his failing marriage. The Monkees now had their own friends. They weren't the newbies who stuck together for support anymore.

Davy chased girls all over the city and met up with old Broadway friends. Micky had his acting connections, and his spunky personality made him a hit at parties. Peter was a full out hippie, and his life resembled the life he had led in Greenwich, except now he had money.

Michael and his cowboy boots were moody and sometimes mean. He had threatened to burn his once-beloved wool hat if he had to wear it one more time on the show. He was a true rock 'n' roller, and stayed up to see the sun. If it wasn't extremely necessary to be at work, he would lie in bed until three. Usually, the studio had to send someone to go get him for filming.

"Yeah well, times change. People change." Michael was saying. Peter turned to look at him. The deep purple circles under his eyes matched his own.

"I know what it's like to lose friends, done it plenty of times before." Peter hauled himself to his feet and walked unsteadily to the door. The break room was too full of negative energy, he needed to go crash on a couch somewhere.

"I didn't mean to make you leave man, I'm sorry." He spun around in shock at Michael's sudden change of tune.

"AHHHHHHHHHH!" The shrill scream sent chills up Peter's spine, and was followed by a tremendous crash. Michael leapt out of his chair and as the dust cleared, Peter saw him kneeling by a figure on the ground.

"I'm dying! I'm dying! It's the end! The end, I tell you, THE END!" Micky was yelling his at the top of his lungs and choking on dust at the same time.

"Good GOD Mick, what did you do?" Michael asked, inspecting him for injuries. Peter squatted next to him.

"I think…I think I died…" Micky moaned.

"I doubt that. Where did you come from? You just fell out of nowhere." Peter lifted his head to the ceiling, rubbing his eyes to get out the tiredness and debris. There was a Micky Dolenz-sized hole.

"What's above this, Peter?" Michael asked.

"The attic. Ralfeson said something about them refinishing the floors up there. He told us not to…oh Micky! What did you do?"

"I uh, went exploring 'cuz I got bored…and there was some fuzzy pink stuff…" He replied sheepishly, propping himself up on one elbow.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you not to touch the pink stuff? That's fiberglass, and it may look fuzzy, but it ain't. It's full of little pieces of glass and it'll cut up your hands sure as a broken coke bottle!" Michael sighed. "You're too curious for your own good."

"Then why'd I fall through the ceiling?" Micky asked.

"Because the fiberglass was acting as insulation, and all there was between the pink stuff and this room was a little bit of plywood. Let me guess, you walked on it." Peter picked up one of Micky's hands. "There're all the little cuts. Are you hurt anywhere else?" He asked.

"Nope. I'm just shell shocked." He grinned widely. Micky loved making army jokes these days, relishing the fact that he had gotten around being drafted. Apparently, in spite of the fact that he consumed at least twenty pounds of food a day, he was underweight.

"Sure shotgun, you're gonna be feelin' this tomorrow. Up an' at 'em, let's see if you can walk." Michael took one arm, and Peter took the other. Together, they hauled him to his feet.

"MY ANKLE! IT BURNS!" Micky yelled. The sudden outburst caught Peter and Michael off guard, and Micky tumbled to the floor.

"Oww." He managed, holding back a sob.

"Oh Jesus, you okay buddy?" Michael knelt next to the younger man. Peter couldn't help but smile at his ability to be kind when it was needed. Of course he can be kind, he's got a little kid. He thought.

"What are you smilin' about, Tork? I need some help over here." Michael nearly yelled. Micky's lower lip was trembling, and his eyes looked curiously shiny. "Right, Mick, which ankle is it?"

"L-left."

"I'll try not to jostle that one too much. You holler if it hurts, okay?" Michael's voice was soothing, his Texas drawl smooth and sweet as warm honey. "Hang in there shotgun, this might hurt." Michael tucked one arm behind Micky's knees and the other behind his back. Grunting a little, he scooped the actor off the ground.

"Ha, I'm the princess, and you're my knight in shining armor." Micky tried to laugh as a tear escaped.

"I ain't no knight. Pete, go find Ralfeson or Schneider, anybody." Michael ordered.