For What We Could Become

by: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

Chapter One:

The first time Micky had ever met Peter Tork, he'd been wandering down the streets of Santa Monica - if, by 'wandering', one meant 'casing the area out for easy marks with fat wallets'. It had to have been at least a week since he'd eaten anything that hadn't been left on a patio table at the local cafe, and he was pretty sure the owner was starting to catch wise. The little New Yorker seemed like a decent guy, but Micky had learned all-to-well that 'seemed' didn't mean shit in the real world. That meant that, no matter how much he didn't want to, he was going to have to start picking pockets again if he wanted to eat.

There were worse kinds of targets to cruise for, he thought to himself as he shifted up against the wall of a shop to avoid bumping into the man barreling past. He was, as Micky had noticed, wearing suede shoes and a guilty expression, and Micky ducked his head until his curls hid his eyes.

Granted, none of That Sort knew him in LA - he'd quit that scene as soon as he'd stepped off the bus from Frisco, and wasn't keen on going back. Still, even though he'd chucked his own markers into the first dumpster he'd run across, some over-blown sense of self-preservation had him crossing streets to avoid certain alleyways.

He was doing just that, in fact, when the strains of what sounded like 'Driftin' Blues' being sung by a dying whale reached his ears. That alone would have been enough to catch his attention (because, really, how many dying whales did you get to hear sing the blues, even in California?), but it was accompanied by fantastically rich, intricate guitar playing. The contrast between the guitarist and the singer was what ultimately distracted Micky from his work long enough to change his life.

On the corner of 4th and Broadway, surrounded by a gaggle of jeering onlookers, sat a young man in a kimono-style jacket over a tee shirt and jeans, playing a cheap, beat-up six-string with an absent-minded sort of brilliance and singing with great feeling, provided that feeling was 'intestinal distress'.

Micky rocked back on his heels for a moment, taking in the scene. The sun-bleached blond hair, easy smile, and bare feet screamed 'Californian' to Micky, but the trusting hazel eyes that were peering out at the audience definitely said 'tourist'. Another Free Spirit come to seek fame and fortune on the West Coast, then, and possessing of an unfortunately low level of street savvy.

Ah, well. It wasn't Micky's job to look out for all the easy targets in the world.

He was not, however, one to let opportunity pass him by, and it wasn't long before an onlooker became...aw, gee, a whole thirty-two bucks poorer.

Micky sighed as he carefully slipped the newly-emptied leather back into its owner's pocket. Let him think he blew it on souvenirs.

He should have scrammed as soon as he'd scored, but just as he was about to turn his back, the kid stopped singing and started really playing.

It wasn't a song Micky recognized. He wasn't even sure it was a song, per-say; for all he knew, the blonde could have been making it up as he went along. It arrested the pickpocket, though. He found himself entirely unable to look away from the nimble fingers as they flew over the strings, picking out melodies that seemed almost tangible. It was a sweet tune, very upbeat and Spanish in flavor, and it brought to mind white sand and crystal-clear seas.

It seemed to have a similar effect on the rest of the crowd. The sniggering faded away into absolute silence, like the whole neighborhood was holding its breath as the song was played. It would have been ridiculously easy for Micky to rob the entire lot of them blind, but aside from being a colossally stupid thing to do, he couldn't actually bring himself to move from his spot.

It seemed like forever before the last notes were fading into the air, and the blonde smiled around at his audience, who were still so mesmerized that not a one of them so much as twitched when he spoke.

"Thank you," he chirped, and Micky couldn't help but notice the distinct Northeastern accent curling in the vowels.

As the crowd slowly and dreamily dispersed, Micky approached the man, who was peeking into his upturned hat with a small frown. "I guess all the blues made them too sad to donate," he sighed, digging out the four pennies (and one hard candy) that had been tossed in at some point.

"I think 'sad' might be just the word for that," Micky put in, grinning when the guitarist glanced up. The grin faded somewhat at the remorseful expression in those hazel eyes.

"Oh, gosh, I didn't mean to upset anyone," he agonized, face flushing miserably.

Micky's eyebrows shot up. "Are you for real?"

"Well, I think so," came the honest reply. The blonde pinched himself a few times. "I feel pretty real, anyway."

Unable to help himself, Micky laughed. "Real enough for me, friend. Hey, listen, that guitar piece you did-"

"Oh, you liked it?"

"Liked it?" Micky shook his head, watching as the man packed up his guitar with a careful reverence. "Man, you could sell that sound to any record label and retire rich at thirty."

This brought a beatific smile to the blonde's face. "You think?"

"I know it, babe. That's a real neat groove you've got going on."

"It didn't sell so well today," was the despondent reply. The man tucked his pennies into his pocket, where they jingled in a lonely, hungry sort of way, and Micky noticed for the first time that the musician was a bit too thin to be healthy.

Digging into his pocket, he pulled out the purloined cash and dropped the two ones on top of the guitar. "Well, you've sold me, babe."

"Oh, wow!" Golden hair bounced as the man lunged forward, snatching up the bills as though they were gold pieces. "Thanks!"

"Don't mention it," Micky responded, backing away from the brilliant smile as though it might burn him. "Really," he added decisively.

He hurried away before the guy could express his gratitude again. He wasn't sure why, but the thought of being thanked for forking over two bucks and keeping thirty didn't sit right in his stomach.

Don't be stupid, he reprimanded himself. It's every man for himself in this world, and you can't go getting all bleeding-heart over some crazy troubadour just because he plays a mean guitar. He's lucky he got two bucks at all.

It wasn't as though Micky owed him anything.

Still, he couldn't help but think of the guy, probably out on another corner, trying his luck as night approached fast, while Micky sat in a diner eating dinner. And even though it was the first real meal he'd had in weeks, the burger kind of stuck in his throat a bit, no matter how much soda he tried to wash it down with.

The blonde was on the same corner the next day, drawing yet another crowd with an amusingly flat rendition of 'That's All Right', accompanied by some spectacularly lively finger-picking.

With everyone's bemused attention on the performance, it didn't take Micky long to acquire a nice little bundle of bills. He didn't even feel guilty at the pictures of small children in one man's wallet, because after all, the guy was wearing a silk tie, and fifty-four dollars would feed Micky for a while. That, plus the twenty he lifted off his other victim and the twenty left over from the day before, would mean he could wait another couple of weeks before he had to do it again.

He stuck around, though, and he was glad he did, because when his new friend caught sight of him, he launched into another impromptu guitar piece. Micky vaguely recognized this one, despite having no real knowledge of classical music, because he did have something of an education in cartoons. He had an instant vision of Donald Duck and Bugs Bunny dueling away on pianos and grinned a bit.

As the song progressed, though, the grin slipped as he contemplated the musician.

He was wearing the same jacket as before, a faded and worn thing in blues and yellows that had probably once been vibrant. His hair nearly brushed his shoulders in the back, and fell over his eyes in a fan of gold as he hunched over his instrument. It obscured his face somewhat, but Micky could see the tiny smile that seemed permanently stuck on his face when he played.

He really was stick-thin, Micky mused, trying to pretend that guilt didn't taste like ground beef and Coca-cola. The lump of cash in his pocket seemed ice-cold and red-hot at the same time, and he really, really didn't like the thought that was forming in his mind. It was too much like compassion for Micky's peace of mind.

When he approached the man this time, though, weaving his way through the murmuring crowd, he couldn't unsee the crestfallen gaze his new friend cast towards the fifteen cents in his palm.

"Another slow day, huh," Micky said lightly, shoving his hands in his pockets and grasping at his money tightly.

The guitarist quirked a smile at him. "I guess I keep catching them after they've finished shopping," he theorized.

No, Micky thought cynically, they're just a bunch of tightwad jerks who don't think twice about passing by a starving kid on their way to the bank.

"That's probably it," he said aloud.

When the guitar was packed up and the coins were deposited safely in musician's pocket, Micky held out a hand to help him up. "I'm Micky," he offered, trying not to notice how easy it was to yank the guy around. Far, far too thin, he thought.

"Peter," replied the blonde, shouldering his instrument and shaking Micky's hand civilly. "It's nice to meet you."

"Again."

"Mmhmm," Peter replied absently, tilting a bit on his feet. Micky reached out to keep him upright.

"Say, Peter, when's the last time you ate?"

Which was a stupid thing to ask, because there was no way he wouldn't feel terrible at the answer.

Sure enough, when Peter had managed to mumble, "A couple of days...like...maybe four," Micky once again found it hard to swallow.

"Hey," he heard himself say, far more gently than he'd realized he was capable of sounding, "how about I treat you to lunch?"

"Oh, that's okay," Peter hedged, shaking his head. "I've almost got enough for one of those chicken pies that went on sale."

"...you mean the frozen ones?"

"Yeah."

Micky couldn't stop himself from snickering. "And how are you gonna unfreeze it, genius?"

"Well, it's warm out here, I guess I thought if I left it out for a bit-"

"If you leave a chicken pie sitting out here, it'll be gone in five seconds flat," Micky pointed out. After all, they weren't the only hungry kids running around out here. "Come on," he insisted. "I'll buy you lunch, and you can tell me where you learned to play like that."

"Okay."

Linking their arms (partly to make sure Peter didn't wander off in a starving haze, and partly to keep him from toppling over), Micky led him towards Joey's. Sure, he was coming dangerously close to caring what happened to people who weren't him, but somewhere between the street corner and the corner booth, an idea started forming in the crookeder neighborhoods of the young man's mind. It wasn't a nice idea, it wasn't a kind idea, and it probably wasn't the smartest idea, but it made shelling out the cash for two big lunches a lot less painful.

After all, if Peter was going to be helping Micky out (even though he'd never know it), the least Micky could do was make sure he didn't waste away from hunger first.

A/N - I...have no idea. It got away from me. This was going to be an introspective one-shot. Now it's a Monkee Meeting story. WHAT EVEN AM I DOING.

The rousing tale of what Peter did with the two dollars Micky gave him, btw, will be told in CHAPTER TWO! =D

At the moment, though, it is one in the morning, and I am Monkee'd out. Leave your reviews, critiques, and immortal souls in my Inbox, please!

EDIT: I just realized Peter's eyes aren't blue. I AM A HORRIBLE PERSON I'M SO SORRYYYYYYY. ::grovels at the base of Monkees shrine::