Observation (with a brief and futile detour into direct inquiry) was like the first step on a ladder – it led neatly onto the next rung…

HYPOTHESIS.

Davy didn't like girls.

Well, that wasn't strictly true…Davy seemed to like girls just fine, given how much of his time he spent in their company. Maybe it would be more accurate to say that – Davy didn't want girls.

It was a wild claim, but all the available evidence seemed to support it. After all, Davy had the female of the species eating out of the palm of his hand (along with Peter…but that had happened while Davy had been holding some Kitty Chow. Micky was writing that incident off as an outlier) – but Davy had never, not once, ever tried to take advantage of that. Not even when Jane Grayson tried to show him the Dance of the Seven Veils while she was six veils short.

And sure, you could put that down to chivalry, propriety…good table manners…but at the end of the day, there had to be a point where the red-blooded American in Davy just snapped, no matter how cold-bloodedly British he was.

Unless Davy didn't want girls.


Micky kinda got stuck on HYPOTHESIS for a while, because it was like Peter's cooking…hard to digest.

Davy didn't want girls.

He thought it in The Kaleidoscope Club, when Davy sang soulfully down at Lori Morris, an act that would ultimately involve them in a scheme involving forged fossils and yet another museum break-in.

Davy didn't want girls.

He thought it while he and Lori's sister (the one who had been dating the crooked paleontologist) watched Lori kiss Davy. In the background, the curator tried in vain to reassemble the dismantled dinosaur skeleton (with what could charitably be called 'assistance' from Peter and Mike). Micky noted that Davy's hands were on Lori's elbows, keeping a certain amount of distance between their bodies. It might have just been coincidence.

Unless Davy didn't want girls.

He thought it, almost defiantly, while staring across the kitchen table at Davy, the day after he and Lori broke up.

"You all right?" Davy asked, tilting his head to the side as Micky studied him.

"Oh, I'm fine," Micky said. He didn't mean to, but he laid a little bit of stress on 'I'm'. Next to Davy, Mike stiffened, and shot him a warning look.

"You sure about that?" Davy said. "You ate all of Peter's chicken jelly."

"You didn't even have any gravy with it. Or cream," Peter added.

Micky looked down at his disturbingly empty plate, then up again at Davy, whose unsuspecting, concerned gaze suddenly made him feel like his blood was laced with chili powder.

Davy didn't want girls.

He swallowed. "Fine. I'm fine," he said again.


Davy brought it up again later, so Micky guessed he hadn't played it off so well at dinner. The ensuing food poisoning might have had something to do with that. Micky had a cast-iron stomach, but all too often Peter's cuisine had a worrying tendency toward the corrosive.

"It's just – if something's wrong, you know you can tell us, right? I mean," he added, sidetracked into conscientious honesty, "probably Mike's right, and we won't want to hear it, but…" He shook his head with vigor before returning to his original point, "I'm your friend, and you can tell me anything."

The thing was, Micky already knew that. The problem was that Davy didn't seem to. "Nothing's wrong," he said instead, because hey, if Davy wasn't going to take his own advice, well then, neither was he. See how Davy liked it.

Still, lying to Davy's face, which was an attractive face (made almost more so by the faint air of worry…concern really brought out the warm brown of his eyes) – was difficult. No wonder girls felt the compulsion to unburden all their life-woes. He tried evasion, just for the sake of comparison. "What does Mike say?"

"That you're working on some new fixation, but you'll tire yourself out soon enough."

He drew himself up. "Hey! Does he question my commitment and staying power?"

"No, he didn't have any questions about that," Davy reassured him, mouth twitching. "Statements, I think you'd call them."

Micky made a face at him. "I don't get why he would think that." He looked around the floor of his and Mike's room, strewn with the remnants of experiments past, "…other than…all those times it might have been true. But that doesn't mean it's true this time!"

"All right," Davy said agreeably. "So something is wrong." He leaned against the doorframe. "C'mon man, you can tell me."

Micky stared down at the floor again, where the component parts of what had once been an old camera mingled with those of a cassette recorder, waiting to be made into something else, something better. He frowned at them and asked, "What are you looking for in a girl?"

"Depends on what I've los" –

He shut down the familiar patter. "No – straight up. For real."

"For real?" Davy echoed. He looked at Micky for a moment, seeming to really think it through. "I dunno, really – I suppose, when it comes down to it…I'm looking for the same thing as everyone else."

"Right. Of course. And that would be…?" Micky pressed.

The barest of pauses. "You know – the real thing, the whole deal."

"You mean, you're waiting on happily ever after?"

"Yeah. I guess," Davy agreed. "Not so keen on 'The End,' but…" He shrugged, then grinned, lightening the mood, "Anyway, there's no law saying I can't enjoy myself while I'm waiting for tall, dark and handsome to show up."

The surprise was like a sudden jolt of static electricity. It made him jerk. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

Davy frowned. "S'just a joke. Y'know, girls always say they want someone 'tall, dark and handsome'? Don't you have that over here?"

Micky persisted. "But that's what you're looking for in a girl?"

"I told you – it's a joke. Still…I suppose it'd be nice to meet someone who could reach the top shelf…"

Micky scrabbled for his notebook. Sure, Davy said it was a joke, but who was to say that the subconscious didn't have a sense of humor?

"And there's another thing – you're always writing in that diary now. Every time I turn around, you're scribbling in that thing," Davy trailed off before continuing in a different voice, "It's like you're keeping notes on" –

Micky's pen stilled.

He looked up, into Davy's thoughtful face (thoughtfulness was also a flattering look for him, drawing attention to the softness of his parted lips), and braced himself as Davy said, slowly, "That diary" –

"It's not a diary," he interrupted.

" – and the way you've been acting lately…and all that stuff in the bathroom the other day, asking me about…" he stopped, and Micky could see the exact moment that his eyes lit up with understanding, "Is this about some girl?"

It was good that Davy hadn't figured it out. It was hard enough managing an experiment without having to factor in the biases of the subject. Still, for some reason, Davy's conclusion made him feel something akin to annoyance. Not quite annoyance itself, but more like a distant relation – a third cousin, or something. "It's not about a girl," he said.

"Because if it is, I'd be happy to" –

"No," he said, maybe too loud, since it made Davy stare at him. "You don't have to. Because it's not about a girl. So I guess all that expertise of yours just – isn't going to be any use here."

He smiled so wide it made his jaw hurt, and stayed very still under the weight of Davy's gaze.

"All right. I suppose not," Davy said eventually, and turned away.


The big issue Micky had with HYPOTHESIS, was that it led so smoothly into –

PREDICTION/INFERENCE.

That wouldn't normally be a problem – except that in this case, the fact that Davy didn't want girls immediately invited the question – who did Davy want?

Only it wasn't much of a question…since according to the whole girl-guy divide, if Davy didn't want girls, it stood to reason that he must want…

…guys.

Davy wanted guys.

The idea sat there in his mind, with an undeniability that was almost radioactive. He half-expected Marie Curie to show up with an electrometer to measure it. Sure, he couldn't say that the concept of Davy digging guys was one hundred percent airtight, since Micky'd never seen him with a guy (even though there was that time he'd had Peter eating out of the palm of his hand), but there was something…compelling in the idea. Like gravity…initially overlooked, but kind of obvious, in retrospect. He was on the right track – he just knew it. He had a – a hunch, the kind that hit with an apple-to-the-head kind of force, telling him so.

Which wasn't to say that Micky was going to abandon scientific objectivity. No. He had a theory – an attractive, persuasive, toe-curlingly seductive theory…but Micky wasn't going to get into bed with it on the first date. He wasn't that kind of scientist.

Because the case regarding Davy's sexuality was still an open one. A hypothesis was just a hypothesis at the end of the day, and until he proved that Davy didn't want girls…or that he did want guys, Davy and his sexuality were stuck in a box, with only a cat (that might be alive or dead – the jury was still out on that one) for company.

Davy deserved better than that, and it was that - or at least, Micky told himself that it was that – that made him suddenly surge forward towards…


4) EXPERIMENTATION

The way he saw it, this Davy thing was a two-parter, a double feature. Firstly, he had to put the whole 'girl' thing to bed, once and for all…not an easy task given the notebook he'd filled with details of Davy's reluctance to do just that…

And then, after that, there was the 'guy' issue. Which wasn't going to be a piece of cake either, since from the looks of things, Davy seemed to have booked a lifetime cruise down Denial.

Still, Micky was committed.

"You mean you oughta be committed," Mike muttered, when Micky mentioned it. "Seriously man, can't you just drop it? You're worse than my old dog Fido – and he got lockjaw whenever we played Fetch."

But, much like Fido, Micky found that this was a stick that he just couldn't drop. Because…well – when you cut to the heart of it all...they were just four guys who'd stumbled on to a pretty good thing, and Micky didn't even mean the band. It took a special kind of something to stick with three other people through thick and thin (mostly thin). Micky wasn't a tree, so as a habit, he didn't produce sap, but – 'best friends' barely even scratched the surface of what this was.

But…here was Davy, holding back from them. Fronting, like whatever he was hiding could be worse than kidnapping, or mobsters, or a lifetime on the wrong side of the poverty line.

Well, it wasn't. It couldn't be. Man, they'd faced worse than this before breakfast. They'd faced worse than this during breakfast, if Peter was cooking. The point was, Davy didn't need to enact the same dumb, repetitive farce and expect them to keep swallowing it. It was unnecessary.

Even Peter agreed. Well. Kind of. "I guess, in comparison to tragedy and drama, you could argue that comedic genres such as farce have been shortchanged historically – if not critically, then at least in the mind of the everyman," he said thoughtfully.


As was so often the case, EXPERIMENTATION required a girl. And not just any girl, but the kind of girl Davy didn't usually go for – the kind who wouldn't take no for an answer.

Micky spotted her outside the record store, ostensibly flicking through a magazine, but in actuality sizing up every guy that walked past with a merciless, long-lashed gaze.

He stopped dead in front of her, because she was perfect. "Hey," he said.

"Hey," she echoed, eyes raking dismissively over his form.

She even looked like the kind of chick Davy might go for (tiny and blonde and deceptively wholesome) – once you overlooked the fact that she was nothing like the kind of chick Davy tended to go for.

"You're blocking my light," she informed him, craning to see over his shoulder.

"Sorry," Micky said. "But – listen…I've got a favor to ask you."

"You're not really my type," she said. "But – just a hint? You should work on your presentation. That's really not the best way to lay yourself on the line."

"No, I didn't mean it like that. Just – what's your name?"

She pursed her lips before deciding to humor him. "Clarabel Jenkins."

"I'm Micky," he said. "Micky Dolenz" –

"You're still not my type," she said, ignoring his outstretched hand.

"No – I'm a musician, but right now, I'm working on this experiment. How would you like to donate your body to science?" He attempted his most winning smile.

"It's original. I'll give you that," she said – though the way her nose wrinkled indicated that she was only giving partial credit for this.

He ploughed ahead regardless. "See, I've got this friend, and I need a girl to date him. Well, pretend to date him, for the purposes of" –

"Science," Clarabel Jenkins finished. "Thanks, but no thanks. I've got better things to do than play Bride of Frankenstein."

"No – it's not like that. Davy's – a great guy. Really."

"Yeah. He's so great he needs to send his friend to beg strange girls for dates."

"You're not that strange – and for your information, I have not yet begun to beg," Micky told her. He shook his head. "Anyway – Davy doesn't need any of that stuff. Trust me, he's the whole package."

"Oh, I bet he is," Clarabel agreed. "Let me guess…it's just the wrapping that's the problem." She pushed off from the wall, rolling up her magazine as she did so. "Listen, fun as it's been, I've really got better things to do than" –

"I'll pay you!" Micky said, as she brushed past. She stopped, abruptly seeming more interested. But before he had a chance to relax, her head tilted back and she demanded, suspiciously, "Oh yeah? And just what are you gonna pay me?"

His reply was the only one a down-on-his-luck drummer could give. "My…respects?"

She drew herself up to her full height (which didn't take long), and said, "I can't believe you. You think I'd just up and date some guy I've never even met on your say so? Especially without any kind of remuneration for my time – like I got nothing else I could be doing? What kind of girl do you think I am?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but was spared the necessity of doing so when Davy poked his head out of the record store to say, "Micky – what's taking so long? Come on!"

"Just a second, Davy," he said. Clarabel's head whipped around just before he disappeared again. She blinked, then continued her tirade, "We are going to have to have a serious talk about that…"

She smiled sweetly, "…right after you introduce me to your friend."


Of course, it wasn't as simple as boy-meets-girl. It couldn't be. After all, if there was one thing Micky knew about Davy, it was that he was attracted (in the loosest possible sense of the word) to girls-with-problems. He was like a mobile Agony Aunt, dispensing solutions to all of life's little and not-so-little problems.

Accordingly, he and Clarabel cooked up an appropriate first meeting. When Micky and Davy came out of the record store, he nodded at her and right on cue, she turned and laid a hand on a passing guy's arm and said, "Can I ask you the time?"

The guy pushed up his glasses before looking down at his watch and telling her, "It's three thirty." He made to move away, but Clarabel gripped his arm tightly and said, in a loud voice, "How dare you!"

Like a moth to the flame, Davy's head jerked toward her, and from behind him, Micky gave Clarabel an encouraging thumbs up.

"Okay! Okay! Maybe it's closer to three twenty-seven!"

"Stop pestering me! Can't you take a hint? Just leave me alone!" Clarabel hung fast to his shirt as the man tried to break free.

"I would if you'd let me!" the guy said, now struggling in earnest.

Davy charged in, like any groovy knight errant would, marching forward and addressing them. "I think you need to listen to what this young lady's saying, here," he said, gesturing to Clarabel, who immediately let go of the guy's now fingernail-marked arm.

"All right! All right! With pleasure!" the guy said, taking a couple of graceless steps backwards.

Davy frowned as he watched the guy retreat. "Well…that was…easier than usual."

He was distracted by Clarabel throwing her arms around him. "Thank you!" she breathed, looking at Davy with wide, blue eyes. "You – you're my hero. How can I ever thank you?"

"That's all right," Davy said gallantly, though he did nothing to extricate himself from her embrace.

"Well, I insist," she said, clasping his palm between both of hers. "Clarabel Jenkins."

"Davy Jones." Davy left his hand in hers.

Things were, Micky considered, off to a good start.


Clarabel was skeptical when Micky unveiled the terms of the experiment. "You want me to date your friend…to prove that he doesn't want to date me?"

"To prove that he doesn't want to date girls," Micky explained, twisting around in his seat. Davy was still at the counter of the soda shop, paying for their drinks.

"By making him date a girl. Not that he needed all that much convincing…"

"You're not just any girl – you're my controlled variable," Micky told her.

She frowned. "Hey – you're no peach yourself!"

"You're going to allow me to measure Davy's reaction as accurately as possible – ultimately proving my hypothesis that you're not Davy's type."

She waved over Micky's shoulder, smile flashing across her face. "Oh believe me – I'm his type all right. I'm everyone's type."

"Exactly. That's what makes my experiment so conclusive."

She narrowed her eyes at him, and Micky was reminded of the rat he'd once trained – having spent hours building it a small car, and teaching it how to operate that, it had come as a shock to find that in the middle of the night, Nitro had loaded up the boot and backseat with edibles, and absconded without so much as a goodbye, or even an explanatory coded note. Clearly, Nitro had had an agenda of his own, right from the very beginning.

But Micky shook off the nagging feeling of déjà vu, because there was an experiment to plan.


"But I thought you said there wasn't a girl," Davy said. He kept his gaze on the mirror as he brushed his hair.

"There wasn't, I mean, there isn't. See – that's the problem," Micky said, with sudden inspiration. "It's been so long since I've dated a girl that…I'm rusty! I creak whenever I try to ask a chick out – Pete'll tell you. Why, I can barely remember which end of a girl is up. Which is why I need you to show me!"

"If I go around showing you what part of the girl goes up, we're going to get arrested," Davy told him.

"Hey, we can start small. Why don't you just show me how you act with a girl on dates?"

Davy put down his comb. "Why me?"

"Well, you're the expert on girls, aren't you?" It was a feat of Galilean proportions, to say that without rolling his eyes or coughing, but in the (surprisingly prurient) interests of science, he managed it.

"Thought you said my expertise wasn't wanted." It was said lightly enough, but Micky thought he could detect the faintest aftertaste of hurt lingering in the air.

He hadn't meant to hurt Davy's feelings in all of this, and he tried to babble it better. "What? No. No, man – I, I always wanted it. I mean, I always wanted you. That is – your expertise. Maybe – maybe I was just afraid of how much I wanted it. You. The uh, the expertise, that is."

The words fell like ball bearings, scattering everywhere, refusing to coalesce into anything approaching coherence…but Davy didn't seem to notice anything odd. He just smiled and clapped Micky on the shoulder and said, simply, "All right."

Weirdly, this easy acceptance and unquestioning trust made him feel, if not exactly guilt, then something very closely akin to it. Maybe guilt's identical twin sister. He wondered if Pavlov had ever had second thoughts about ringing that bell.

"Davy" –

But when Davy turned toward him and their eyes met, the idea of not knowing – never knowing, needled him, made something catch in his chest.

"Yeah?" Davy asked. "What is it?"

Micky shook his head. "Nothing," he said.