NOTES: Oh thank GOD! It's done! This started off as a story. It quickly turned into a lumbering behemoth. Apologies for spamming anyone with this.

This was written for the Monkeesfest on tumblr/livejournal, in response to elvira_was_here's prompt: "Davy/Bandmember – any rating – Davy falls in love with a different girl constantly. So often that it already feels a bit unreal… What if it is just that? What if he is just faking it? And why would he do that?"

Title is from Jonathan Coulton's 'Mandelbrot Set' :)

Feedback is, as ever, really appreciated.

Summary:

Pairing: Eventual Micky/Davy

Warnings: Zip. Nada.

Disclaimer: I don't own The Monkees - this is done purely for fun. Please don't sue!

To begin with, it wasn't much.

A niggle.

A naggle.

A nitpick.

A cavil. You couldn't even call it a carp – it was probably a more minor species of fish…like a minnow, or a sardine. It wasn't much, but it was there, causing the barest ripple of disquiet in Micky's mind.

And it had to do with Davy.

Sure, on the surface, everything looked fine. Better than fine, even. Davy was Davy – their regular pocket-sized Lothario, their amorous adventurer, the original starry-eyed romantic. Micky had often figured that if they could just release Davy instead of an LP, their success would've been so inescapable, not even Houdini could've wiggled out of it. The universal libidinous appeal of one Davy Jones could not be denied.

That was…provided you didn't look too close. Because once you did, then all these tiny little details started snagging on your subconscious, and before you knew it, your entire perception of Davy was chock-full of pulled threads and holes.

Sure, the size of the girlish horde trying to claw its way to Davy dispelled a certain amount of suspicion…but then again, the size of the girlish horde trying to claw its way to Davy also inspired suspicion. Because as tireless an advocate for romance as Davy was, it just wasn't possible to go through girls at the rate he did.

See, Davy had a different girl for every day of the week…but…it didn't seem like he knew what to do with any of them. Sure, there was some chaste hand-holding, or maybe some innocent kissing on the beach, but that was about as far as it ever went before Betty or Barbara or Brianna skipped along the sand and tripped out of Davy's life forever.

Davy himself seemed happy enough with this state of affairs, but that was another red flag, right there. Sure, Micky knew that a lot of the time there were extenuating circumstances standing in the way of true love, like crazy fathers, or villainous uncles, or kidnappings, or even occasionally the myriad demands of running a frozen dessert empire…

…but it was a little weird given Davy's obvious penchant for damsels in distress, that in all the time Micky had known him, he had yet to wrangle even one damsel into a state of dis-dress.

Micky wasn't saying there should be a constant parade of nubile chicks trooping in and out of the downstairs bedroom, but…well, shouldn't there be? He'd seen the way those girls looked at Davy, right down to the most well-brought up ice-cream heiress. All bashful yearning, aimed at him from under half-lowered eyelids. Disinterest was not the problem, here. At least…not on the girls' side. And there was a difference between being a gentleman, and winding yourself up so tight steam started coming out of your ears. But Davy'd gone past that point maybe fifteen girls ago, and there was still no sign of him turning into a sexually frustrated fog machine.

It was an anomaly, an irregularity…a kind of black hole of ignorance that, once noticed, continued to swirl and drag at Micky's attention, demanding more and more thought and consideration.

Sure, Micky could theorize. He could come up with any number of potentially valid reasons for Davy's puzzling reluctance to deal with a girl when she was laid out on a flat surface.

Like…maybe Davy had the opposite of vertigo – so he got jittery whenever things started moving in a more horizontal direction. Horizontigo. Or…horizonti-no-go.

Maybe there was some kind of language barrier, and every time a girl said, "Ravish me, Davy!" he took it in an antiquated sense, and started discussing the history of British expansion, which couldn't be considered 'pillow talk' by any stretch of the imagination.

Or maybe as the lone representative of jolly old England in 1334 North Beachwood, he felt like he needed to set a good example, which meant a life of self-defeating chivalry, a bed devoid of chicks or crumbs, and no noise after midnight.

But the thing was…Micky didn't know. Not for sure. Therefore, the scientific process demanded a methodical study of the situation, with extrapolation to follow from only the most rigorously determined and carefully monitored tests.

Sure, the scientific process seemed abnormally interested in Davy's circumstances vis-à-vis chicks and the bedding thereof, and the scientific process could have thrown a 'please' in there, but at the end of the day…who was Micky to deny science?

Also, he was bored.

Like all good systematic procedures, Micky began with –

OBSERVATION

It was not difficult to observe Davy with girls. It was like watching…well, watching a Monkee in his natural habitat. Except for the noticeable fact (made even more noticeable by documented surveillance) that Davy only ever skirted the perimeter of the jungle.

Evidence: Situation the first – Olive Wintergreen.

"She's beautiful, heavenly, fantastic…" Davy said to no-one in particular, as he watched her retreat. Mike and Peter made vague 'here we go again' noises in the background. Micky wasn't entirely sure how Davy'd come to such a strong conclusion based on the five lines of dialogue they'd exchanged as she hired them to play at her father's retirement party. Still, he ignored Mike's raised eyebrows and dutifully noted the words in the small notebook he'd acquired for the purpose of monitoring Davy.

Micky also noted that for someone who was 'beautiful, heavenly,' and 'fantastic,' Davy sure didn't seem all that cut up about it two days later when she retreated out of his life forever.

Outcome: one emotional thank-you hug for rescuing a retirement party from chaos, two shy kisses (one doorstep, one beach) followed by the inexplicably sudden departure of one beautiful, heavenly and fantastic girl, resulting in…

…a sanguine Davy.

Confirmation: Situation the second – Sabina Santuzza

"She's breath-taking, angelic, wonderful…" Davy opined.

"She also doesn't speak a word of English and she's being followed everywhere by those two bodyguards," Mike pointed out, as said bodyguards grimly hefted Sabina away, still blowing kisses at Davy.

"Well…nobody's perfect," Davy said, catching the incorporeal kisses in his hands, and absently stuffing them into his pockets.

"How do you spell angelic?" Micky asked, as he jotted this development down in his notepad. Mike frowned at him.

"S-A…hang on a minute – how d'you spell Sabina?" Davy asked.

But, even after rescuing Sabina from the attentions of a rival – whose wooing had less to do with romance and more to do with uncovering the secret recipe that made Santuzza Kitty Chow taste so good – it seemed that 'breath-taking, angelic,' and 'wonderful' were not sufficient incentives for Davy to pursue a long-term relationship, and Sabina departed, with a final Ciao for Davy, as well as a final bag of Chow for Peter.

Outcome: many extravagant air-kisses, one exuberant embrace (post secret-recipe retrieval), one sick-as-a-cat-after-eating-an-entire-bag-of-Santuzza-Kitty-Chow bassist, and the incomprehensible disappearance of one breath-taking, angelic and wonderful girl, resulting in…

…a mildly wistful Davy.

Overkill: Situation the third – Jane Grayson.

"She's gorgeous, celestial…er – clean," Davy told them with bright-eyed enthusiasm.

"Clean?" Peter queried.

"S'an important quality. Next to godliness, that is," Davy said.

Everyone waited for Mike to chime in, but he was blinking at Micky. Micky suddenly realised that he had been mouthing the adjectives in concert with Davy.

"Um," Mike said. He shook his head. "She was wearing a veil, Davy. How do you know what she looks like?"

"She had a certain 'je ne sais quoi.'"

"What does that mean?" Peter asked.

"It means 'I don't know' sounds fancier in French than it does in English," Mike told him.

Of course, Davy was right – and under the veil Jane Grayson turned out to be a tiny knockout. She also turned out to be as transitory as the rest of Davy's girls, in spite of her celestial cleanliness. After they'd helped her out of the veil and away from the stranglehold of her goldfish trafficking cousins, she had just about enough time to make her gratitude known before she was whisked away.

Outcome: several longing looks, one farewell cheek kiss full of suppressed passion, an aquarium full of goldfish that no-one knew what to do with (until Peter inadvertently solved the problem by cleaning the tank with dishsoap and laundry detergent – while the goldfish were still in residence), and…

…a jarringly upbeat Davy.

Afterwards, sitting on the stairs, Micky recorded every little detail, from the first starry-eyed sparkle to the final dimming darkle of disinterest, with some brief diversions into the effects of alkylbenzenesulfonates on gilled organisms.

He snapped his notebook shut with a sigh of relief…

…only to jump as he raised his head and met Mike and Peter's eyes.

The others did not share his enthusiasm for applying the scientific process to Davy, even after Micky explained about systematic investigation, controlled conditions and dependant variables. Especially after Micky explained about systemic investigation, controlled conditions and dependant variables.

Mike flat-out said, "Man, you are just asking for trouble, capital T, heavy on the rubble." He stopped. "What do you even want to do a thing like this for, anyway?"

"I want to figure out how Davy works," Micky explained.

"Well, that's easy – he doesn't," Mike said. "At least, not unless we get a gig anytime soon."

"But don't you think it's a little weird – he has all those chicks, man, but…they never hang around."

"Why would they hang around," Mike asked, "when he's got all those chicks?"

"Well, yeah, but – he never seems to get hung up on any of them."

"No point in getting hung up if you know you're gonna get taken off the hook again in a couple of minutes," Mike said.

It was strange – what he was saying made a certain kind of circular sense, but there was something in the way he said it…a kind of bright briskness that discouraged further questioning.

But then he gave a shoulder-loosening sigh, sounding much more Mike as he said, "Look, it's just…poking through people's minds is a lot like going through the garbage. You don't do it unless you've got a pretty good idea of what you're going to find. And if you already know what you're going to find…then why are you poking around in the garbage in the first place?"

"Science demands a hands-on approach?" Micky hazarded.

Mike closed his eyes.

Suddenly Peter said, "If you're experimenting on Davy…and Davy's a Monkee…doesn't that make this an animal rights issue?"

Later that night, out of nowhere, Mike's sleepy voice floated over to him. "What about that society girl? You know, the one who ended up marrying the Prince?"

Micky jerked back toward wakefulness. "Hmm?"

"Prince Ludlow – you know, Davy's double? Short, brown hair, pathological fear of females?"

"That does sound like Davy," Micky agreed with a yawn.

"No – he just looked like Davy. Or sometimes, when they were both in the same shot, he looked more like the back of Davy's head. But remember – Davy ended up wooing that chick for him and convincing her to marry him? Remember?"

Micky blinked up at the ceiling at this sudden insistence on strong-arming him down memory lane. "I don't think now's the best time for a flashback, Mike. It's a lot of expense, and it's just the two of us here…"

"I just mean – you said Davy never gets hung up on girls…well, he seemed pretty hung up on that one."

"Oh yeah," a vague memory stirred. "Whatever happened with that?"

Mike paused, then added with unfortunate honesty, "Well…he found a girl who looked like her, and that seemed to take care of things. But my point still stands!"

"Yeah. Like the Leaning Tower of Pisa."

There was the sound of a sigh. "You know, I still don't get why you want to do this."

Micky thought about the look on Davy's face when he first spotted a girl, that absorbed, dreamy kind of focus, and then, just as quickly, Davy's unaffected expression post-girl flashed through his mind. Like she didn't matter to him anymore. Like she'd never mattered to him.

"Scientific curiosity," he said, though that didn't quite seem to describe the itch he felt, an incompleteness that only knowing could satisfy. It was the kind of drive that made him take transistor radios apart, and then put them back together again. Because if you could do it – if you could do it…then – why not?

"Yeah, well, curiosity killed the cat, but scientific curiosity stuck the cat in a box and now nobody can figure out if it's dead or not," Mike said grimly. "If you're not careful, you're gonna end up with a paradox on your hands."

"You really think it's such a bad idea?" Micky asked. Mike didn't answer, and the itch kept twitching under his skin, like a fire ant, ready to sting. Still…Mike was their fearful leader. Generously, Micky offered, "I guess I could always just study you, instead."

A brief, thoughtful silence followed before Mike decided, "Go bother Davy." He turned in the bed, and in a voice muffled by blankets, he added, "Just don't say I didn't warn you."

And, just before they both fell asleep, he mumbled, "Wendy Forsythe. That was her name."

"See – it's a pattern," Micky said, the next morning. He waved his notebook in Peter's face.

Peter squinted down at the thick lines of text in front of his eyes. "I guess if you turned it on its side, it would look a little like plaid," he offered.

"No, man," Micky said impatiently. "I'm talking about the fact that every time Davy gets a girl – and I mean every time – something comes up. And not the usual thing you might think would come up. It's persistent, it's pernicious, it's perfidi" –

"What does it mean?" Peter interrupted.

Micky deflated. "I don't know. I mean – I can guess, but it's just conjecture, you dig?"

"Is that what Mike calls 'idle speculation and mean-spirited rumor-mongering'?"

Micky brandished the notebook. "Does this look 'idle' to you?"

"Why don't you just ask Davy?" Peter asked. "If you really want to know."

"Ask Davy?" Micky stared at him. "Ask Davy? Yeah, right. Use your head, Pete – it's not like I can just march up to him and say" –

"Davy! David! Mr Jones! Hey, over here!"

Davy jumped at the sound of Micky's voice. "What're you doing?" he hissed. He seemed kind of agitated and off-balance, which Micky noted with interest.

"Any comments, Mr Jones?" he called, several decibels louder than necessary. "Statements, announcements…on the record of course – our inquiring readers want to know."

Davy winced as the too bright light of a camera went off in his face. "Yeah," he said. "Just one. Why're you following me into the bathroom?"

"That's a question – not a statement," Micky told him, then, as he pulled a pencil from its resting place behind his ear, "and there's nowhere I wouldn't go for a chance at the scoop of the century."

"Scoop of the century?" Davy repeated. He flicked wet hair out of his eyes and hoisted the towel around his waist a little higher. Micky watched him with interest, because you never knew when small details might become important in a wide-ranging investigation such as his.

"Olive Wintergreen? Sabina Santuzza? Two days ago – Jane Grayson? 'Davy Jones Has Girls – Davy Jones Loses Girls,'" Micky proclaimed, one hand traveling from left to right, as if envisioning a headline. "It's lower on the scandal-scale than the caption makes it sound, but it'll sell," he said. "So…what went wrong?"

Davy blinked at him. "What – nothing went wrong."

"So it all went according to plan, is what you're saying. Davy Jones: Heartless Heartbreaker – I can see it now! Extra! Extra!"

"Hang on a minute," Davy said. "That's slander, that is. You can't put that in a paper – it's not true!"

"Isn't it? You don't seem too broken up to me."

He raised his eyebrows at Davy, who looked taken aback at being challenged, before rallying. "Well – that's because I'm the – strong, silent type."

Micky reached out and poked him in the stomach. He had a half-second to appreciate the warm firmness of skin against his index finger before Davy flinched, saying, "Ow! Hey – what d'you want to do that for?"

Micky didn't reply, just licked the stub of pencil and began to write in his notebook. Absently, he toyed with the idea of further tactile experimentation on Davy's anatomy. When this thing was cleared up, obviously. Sure, there didn't seem to be any pressing need for it, but Micky could dig some interesting avenues of exploration in trying out–

"What're you writing?" He twisted his body to prevent Davy getting a look at his notes.

"What about the rumors that your wild lifestyle drove a wedge between you?" he asked.

"Wild…" Davy repeated, before he suddenly laughed. He smiled at Micky, a wide, appealing flash of white teeth, and sank onto the side of the bathtub, palms held open. "Well, they must have me confused with someone else – because I 'aven't got a lifestyle. Can't afford one."

Their eyes met and Micky couldn't help but grin back, because there was an empty refrigerator downstairs that testified to the truth of that. He released the pushy lead-reporter persona and gave up, sitting down next to Davy. Their legs touched through the layers of pants-fabric and towel and it gave Micky this jolt of warmth – friendship, and probably the residual steam from Davy's shower – in his chest. And it was that combination that made him turn to Davy and ask, honestly, "Davy – what happened with those girls? For real?"

Davy looked at him, then away. "I don't know. Things just – didn't work out."

"But why?" he persisted, voice quiet. His arm bumped against Davy's. "Why didn't they work out, Davy?"

There was a long silence, and when Davy turned back to face him, Micky held his breath. He could see every fleck in Davy's irises, and it felt like there wasn't any space for secrets between them, not when they were so close.

But then Davy shrugged lightly, and said, "Maybe I just haven't met the right girl yet."

"Maybe," Micky said, non-committal. It was a theory. It made some amount of sense. But…as he watched Davy get to his feet and head for the door –

"Hey, Davy," he called. Davy turned around. "You ever think about that Wendy Forsythe chick?"

Davy frowned. "Who?"

– Micky just didn't buy it.