Author's Note: I do not own the Monkees, any scenes from the music video from 'You Bring the Summer,' any of the music from 'Headquarters,' any of the characters from the television show, nor any of the song lyrics. I own none of it. This story was inspired by the scenes from 'You Bring the Summer,' and this is all from the point of view of the television band.
~PART I: YOU TOLD ME~
The aging musician smiled as his last visitor quietly shut the door to his room. Realistically, he was swimming in the over-sized bed that he temporarily lived in. Before falling ill he was a live spirit, determined to make music till his last breath. Now here he was; cold, shaky, and miserable. Over in the corner of the room a modern record player presented Peter Tork's ears with the music of Mozart. Peter smiled at the music, dozing off into another despondent nap that would leave him feeling worse off later. A soft knock woke him.
"Peter?" The aged voice of his wife called. The door to the room creaking open when she entered.
"Hm?" Was all he could reply with.
"I love you." She smiled.
"I love you," He replied, smiling. The old woman walked over to the other side of the bed, preparing herself to sit on it. "Dear?"
"Yes Peter?"
"Put on something from the band." He said, motioning towards the record player. His wife smiled. She enjoyed the moments when her husband relished in old memories from his youth. The band was what made him the man he was. It was because of them that she met her dear husband in the first place. She moved to the record player, kneeling to get a look at their collection.
"Ah, how about this one?" She asked, holding up an album labeled Good Times! Peter shook his head. "Earlier."
Peter's wife put the album back and browsed some more. After a moment she pulled another album out. "HEAD?"
"Hell no." Peter smiled, trying to laugh. His laugh ended in a rough, bitter cough.
His wife sighed and returned the album. For the third time she held up another album. "How about Headquaters?"
Peter smiled and nodded. His wife smiled too as she put the record on the record player. As she dropped the needle, the familiar ringing of a cell phone filled the bedroom. Once the record was set, Peter's wife dismissed herself to answer the phone. Peter smiled when he heard the faint rambles of his late band mates. His entire body relaxed when he heard an old friend's voice on the record declare, "You told me you'd always stay, you told me! You told me you'd never stray, you told me! All these things you said you said sincerely. Still I'm leaving you in spite of what you told me."
"Davy, how could this happen?" Peter asked, twiddling his thumbs. They were in the pad. He looked around at the other two Monkees in the room. They both shared the same look of worry.
"I don't know, Peter." Davy sighed. "Those words he said…"
"They hurt." Micky frowned, looking out at the cold, dark clouds rolling in. "Looks like it's going to rain." A crash of thunder roared in the small pad and all the lights blinked off. "Great. Power's out."
"I wish Mike was here." Peter sighed, lying down on the couch.
"I do too, Pete." Micky said as well, flopping down on the floor in front of the couch. "I do too..."
"How did this even happen?" Davy asked.
"I think someone got inside his head." Micky suggested, "Was it that girl he was hanging with?"
"Anna? No, I don't think so. Our boss on the other hand, he said some harsh things to him that sounded similar to what he said to us." Davy pointed out, sitting on the arm chair of the couch.
"What did he say to Mike?" Micky asked.
"He said stuff like how bad we were, how useless we are, and how we will not get anywhere in life the way we're going about it now." Davy sighed.
"And then Mike blew up and said the same thing." Peter said, tears filling his eyes. "I don't even understand what we did wrong. I mean, we were just practicing and he started yelling…"
"Peter," Davy sighed, walking over to the two Monkees. "I'm sure he just needs to cool off first. He'll be back. He probably didn't mean it."
"Davy, he said, and I quote, 'I don't know why I ever decided to live with the three of you in the first place. I don't ever want to see you three again.'" Micky sighed, rolling over onto his stomach.
The three men sat in silence for a moment, all revisiting that morning's terrible episode in their heads. Micky sat up, pulling his blue zip-up closer to himself, zipping it up over his black shirt and shivering. "Well, we can't dwell on this forever."
"Why not?" Peter asked. "We're down a band member and a friend. We're practically out of a job at this point."
"Peter, you can always teach me bass and you can play guitar." Davy suggested, pulling his black jacket over his black-and-white striped shirt.
"It's not the same." Peter frowned. "Micky, what time is it?"
Micky glanced down at his watch. "Almost five."
Davy and Peter groaned. "This is going to be a long night." Davy sighed.
Suddenly, the front door knob rattled. The three men jumped, all landing on their feet, ready to attack, or flee as the case usually is. They all watched as the door knob continued to rattle, but finally succeeding in turning. The door swung open, revealing the tall, soaked Texan that they had seen storm off earlier that morning. At his feet was a giant bag labeled, 'POPCORN.'
"Michael!" Davy, Micky, and Peter yelped, dropping their previous stances and running up to the man.
Mike gave them all a shy smile. "Hey guys… I'm sorry about this morning… I didn't mean it."
"I told you guys!" Davy said proudly.
"Why'd you come back?" Peter asked.
"I missed you guys." Mike smiled. "And they were giving away damaged products at the grocery store and I grabbed as much as this popcorn bag could carry." The four men smiled, happy that they were all reunited. All the lights in the pad suddenly flickered on, causing Micky, Davy, and Peter to laugh.
