It was much later in the night when Peter chanced a peek into Shug's room. In fact, it was early morning, though it would still be a while before the sun even thought about making an appearance.

The door proved difficult to open; it was blocked by a half-empty dresser drawer and the pile of clothes dumped from it. Peter gently pushed it aside first, then neatly folded and returned its contents before setting it in front of the dresser frame. He was feeling rather proud of himself, until he got a better look at the room.

It was a wreck. Clothes were strewn everywhere, with some garments on the floor and others haphazardly hanging onto some of the framed pictures on the wall. Halfway across the room, Peter noticed another drawer, split at its seams. A third was jammed into the window frame and a few more shirts and socks clung to the windowsill, flapping in the early morning breeze.

As his eyes adjusted to the warm glow of the nightlight, Peter caught the shine off the slick pages of several of Mike's old car magazines. The pages littered the floor and most of them were either crumpled into little balls or shredded entirely.

His bare feet brushed against something hard, something with sharp edges. He stooped to recover it and felt his heart sink when he saw that it was half of a 45 RPM record. There were several of them scattered about, all broken into pieces. He felt even worse when he read the title of the scrap of vinyl in his hand: "Act Naturally" by Buck Owens.

Peter stood from the floor and happened to catch a glimpse of the closet, which had mostly been rendered bare, save for a few half-hung clothes and wire hangers now bent into abstract shapes. More than a few of them cluttered the floor, along with the rest of the mess. The closet piqued his interest in the most peculiar way, since it seemed that only Mike's old clothes were the ones thrown around the room. While still barely worn, the handful of feminine items that April had gifted to Shug remained on their hangers, safely pushed to the farthest end of the rack.

There were few things untouched by Sugar's wrath. One was a box filled with page after page of hand-scrawled sheet music and what looked like song lyrics. Peter recognized them as some of Michael's creations.

The other was her new bed, upon which Sugar herself was piled, a heap of misery in orange flannel. Peter reached to pull her hair aside, intending to feel her forehead again. She was sick! That fever had to go and fast. As he reached for her hair, his hand brushed against her face—It was wet.

Peter shook his head. "No one should ever be this sad, Sugar. Especially you."

He took a seat on the floor, propping his back against the side of the mattress. Since Shug's arm was partially protruding over the side of the bed, the blond boy propped his head against it, snuggling into the crook of her elbow. His head was close enough to her face that he could hear her low snores, punctuated with a few sniffles. It was still early—or late, depending on one's point of view—so Peter closed his eyes and allowed himself to doze off. "Please be okay, Sugarbear," he yawned quietly.

Sugar couldn't remember when she had fallen asleep. She also couldn't remember when they had gotten a pet, apparently, since she seemed to be stroking what might have been...a lion? Her fingers ran through its long, soft mane again and again, as it slept quietly against her. It seemed to enjoy the attention, only stirring enough to breathe.

The tingling sensation in Sugar's fingers brought her out of her twilight dream and back to her trashed bedroom. As she curled and flexed her hand to work out the numbness, she realized that the "lion's mane" she had been stroking in her sleep was actually Peter's hair. His head had fallen back against the side of the bed. He was still snoring rather softly.

Shug propped her head up on her opposite hand and ruffled the boy's hair. It fell back into his face. He didn't budge. Sugar repositioned herself enough to put both her arms over his shoulders and give him a gentle hug. Even though it still sometimes felt awkward, she managed to give him a little kiss on the cheek, then sighed and propped her head next to his. "Pete, why do you put up with me?"

"I dunno," Peter yawned. "Love, maybe?"

Shug sighed again, keeping her head against Peter's. He reached up and patted her arm.

"You don't... You don't really want Micky to go to Hell, do you?" His voice was quiet, timid, as though he were afraid of what her answer might be.

Sugar's head dropped and her shoulders slumped. She unwrapped her arms from around Peter's shoulders, pushing herself upright on the bed.

"Shug?"

"No, Peter," she finally responded, albeit very nearly silent. She cleared her throat. "Never in a million years."

Peter turned to face her, puzzled expression very clear. "Then...why did you say that?"

"I was angry." She buried her face in her hands. "I was angry and sometimes when you're that angry, you say things you shouldn't. Things you don't really mean."

The boy seemed to ponder this a moment before climbing onto the bed to sit next to his girlfriend. "Why are you mad at Micky?"

From six months' worth of new memories, Sugar could pinpoint the thing that bothered her more than anything else. One. "He forgets that I'm a person."

Peter looked confused, tilting his head as if maybe the meaning of what Shug said would slip into his brain. She patted his knee, comprehending his bewilderment. Sugar amended her statement.

"He can only think of me as a walkin' science project. Even worse is that I'm sure he figures I'm just a girl version of Mike and that's as far as it goes."

"You're his twin," Peter said very matter-of-factly, "but that doesn't make you some kind of...mimeograph copy." His expression brightened. "You're a better cook than he is."

"Thanks, Pete." Her face at last allowed a smile.

"And personally, I'd rather kiss you than him," he chuckled. He paused, again thoughtful. "Are you mad at Micky for making you?"

Sugar was caught so off-guard by such a question that all she could do was stare at Peter with a stunned look frozen on her face.

"I hope that's not the reason," he went on, "because if it is, you should be mad at me, too."

"Why would I ever be mad at you, Peter?"

"I wished that you could stay."

Shug couldn't react. She didn't know how. Instead, she hugged her knees to her chest and fell against Peter's side. There was an immediate electric spark between them and they both yelped, scrambling to opposite ends of the day bed.

"I forgot flannel does that sometimes," Peter said, clearly embarrassed.

"How do you wear these things all the time?" Sugar ran her hand down her opposite arm, igniting static sparks the length of her sleeve.

Peter shrugged. "I don't scuffle around as much as you do, I guess."

Sugar couldn't help the small giggle that escaped her.

"Feel any better?"

"Yeah. A little. ...Thanks, Pete."

"PSST!"

A noise came from the open door. Peter and Sugar both leaned forward enough to peer onto the landing. Shug caught a glimpse of a hockey stick. "Wuzzat?"

"CAW CAW!"

Peter rolled his eyes. "Excuse me a minute," he said as he scooted off the bed and headed to the landing.

"Micky, what are you doing?" The blond glared at his friend through narrowed eyes.

"There was supposed to be a signal, Pete. We talked about this." The drummer peered around Peter, catching a quick glimpse at the lanky girl seated on the bed. "If it's safe, you do a bird call. If not, you go 'moo'."

Peter put his palm to his forehead and rolled his eyes. With great resignation, he took a breath, puffed his cheeks and... "QUACK QUACK QUACK!"

Micky saluted, jostling the gold-colored football helmet on his head. He took Peter by the shoulders and looked steadfastly into his eyes. "Thank you for your bravery, soldier."

Peter just sighed while Micky shoved past him into the bedroom. As Micky barreled his way through, Peter seized the hockey stick from his grip.

"Hey!" Micky pouted and made a grab for the thing. Peter held it as far away from him as possible. Micky may have been taller, but Peter had the advantage of slightly longer arms. Not to mention that Micky had thwarted his own mobility by having a couch cushion strapped to his chest as additional "protection".

Peter's jaw was firmly set. "How do you think she'd feel if you went in there with this? It's bad enough that you're wearing a helmet."

Micky's shoulders fell and he doffed the sporting headgear. He presented it to Peter, though not without some degree of protest.

"Fine. Here."

Carefully treading into the room, Micky untied the twine holding the cushion to his torso. He held it under his arm awkwardly.

"You're really afraid of me, aren't you?" Sugar's voice was low and quiet. Micky felt ashamed.

"I've seen you pretty angry before, but nothing like last night." He fidgeted a moment with his pajama buttons. He did his best to avoid her gaze. It was too hurtful.

"I'm sorry, Micky."

The drummer's head shot up, curls falling in his face. "What?"

"I'm sorry."

Micky groaned and swept his hair out of his eyes. "You know somethin'? I'm the one who should be apologizing. I'm the one who did this to you."

"It is what it is," she replied. Shug patted the space next to her, offering as friendly a smile as she could. When Micky hesitated, Sugar held up both her hands, palms facing outward. "See? Nothing to throw. You're safe."

With a bit of reluctance, Micky took a seat next to her. He stared at her for a few minutes—The way her view was fixed into empty space; the sadness in those too-familiar brown eyes; her habit of picking the fabric of whatever she was wearing. She was still so very Michael. At least to Micky she was. "Is Mike still in there?"

"Micky..."

"No, really." Micky crossed his legs and propped his elbows on his knees.

"Why do you do that? I'm not him."

"Because," the boy answered quietly, "I still have a hard time believing I split you in half and—" he stopped, hoping he could choose his words carefully, which was something to which he wasn't terribly accustomed. For six months, he had watched her struggle to shake off her old life and redefine herself. There had been other, much milder tantrums, name mix-ups, a full-on identity crisis. He knew because he had kept meticulous notes on her. It was for science, he had insisted. However, the guilt that had settled into his stomach and grown over the past few months was getting harder and harder to ignore. She was a human being, not just some experiment. "I can't deal with knowing I hurt my best friend so badly."

Sugar didn't respond, although she turned her attention to Micky's hazel-green eyes, which were full of regret. She opened her mouth to say something, but the brunet stepped in again.

"I know what you're gonna say. You're gonna say, 'But Micky, Mike's just faaaaahne'." His jaw slid to the side a little as he imitated her Texan drawl. "And that's just it—One Mike is fine. He's downstairs with a pillow on his head, snoring up a storm. But the other Mike isn't." He poked at Sugar's arm and, never one for recognizing "personal space", he edged closer to her face, very nearly touching noses. "He's still in there. I can see him. And I worry about him all the time." His voice broke; his eyes looked sad. "I screwed up. Big time. I'm surprised I didn't kill you!"

He blinked, then squinted, and took a minute to wipe at his eyes with a pajama sleeve.

"Then," he went on, "hearing you felt like dying?" He didn't even bother hiding his emotions at this point. He threw his arms around Sugar, burying his face in her hair. "I'm sorry, Mike. I am so so sorry."

Micky could count on one hand the times he had been really and truly upset. Emotionally rattled. Nearly having Davy taken back to England by his grandfather was one instance. Completely losing his voice thanks to an unlucky charm was another. He was surprisingly resilient when it came to almost every situation thrown at him, unless it involved something or someone for whom he cared very deeply.

Sugar held onto him tightly, crying with him. Micky knew what she wanted, and, on the most basic level, he understood the fact that Michael and Sugar were two separate beings. Intellectually, though, he couldn't wrap his head around it, no matter how hard he tried.

As they sat there, and as Micky despaired of ever actually getting it, Shug sighed. He sat back, meeting her eyes again. Something was different about them; they were calmer, less anxious, familiar. More than he had in the past few months, he saw Mike there, and allowed the tiniest of smiles to creep onto his face.

"If you tell anyone else I said this, after all the work I've put in tryin' to get them to stop thinkin' of me as Mike..." She let the threat hang for a moment, but Micky already knew where she was going. Wrapping his arms around her again, he gave her another squeeze, until she squeaked out, "Little too tight, there!"

He loosened his grip. After taking a couple breaths, Sugar said, "It's okay, Mick. I'm still here. You're right. I always will be."

Micky eased up and sat back. He scrubbed at his face with his shirt hem. "It really was an accident. I didn't mean for all this to happen to you. You know that, right?" He saw her ears blush before she hugged him again.

"You should've had double the attitude," the boy sniffled. "This isn't what I intended."

Raising an eyebrow, Sugar grinned rather mischievously. "What would this world need with two Mike Nesmiths? Come on, he's so grouchy an' moody. Not to mention bossy..."

"And doesn't give himself nearly as much credit as he deserves," Micky added. "He needs to keep that in mind."

"Why don't you tell him that?"

The drummer paused and blinked, like he was processing the suggestion through a series of keypunch machines in his head. "I thought he already knew."

"If you've never told him, how would he know?"

"I thought you guys had magic twin powers."

Incredulous, Sugar pressed her palms into her eyes...and began giggling.

Micky angled his head under her chin. "You've cracked up, haven't you?"

The girl's giggles progressed into laughter. "We're not a shared entity, Micky. We're two people now. Two different people."

"What's it like? You've had to, I dunno, adjust to some weird stuff."

"You 'member that time we tried to run back the odometer on th' Monkeemobile?"

Micky's eyes brightened. "Oh yeah! We were flat broke and couldn't pay for the fix unless it was under warranty. So many miles." He wrinkled his nose. "How far back did we run that thing, anyway?"

"Well," Shug said thoughtfully, "since Peter put a brick on the accelerator, I practically had a new car, goin' by the numbers."

The unusual comparison registered with Micky at last. "New car. New person."

"New person," Sugar repeated. "Similar design, but...new chassis and the gear box is a different model."

"Four-speed or five-speed?"

"Five. Definitely five. ...Wait." Her eyebrows knit together in consternation. "The point is that while Mike and I are similar, we're not th' same anymore. It's like startin' life over at twenty-four, but you're a new person."

"The five-speed model." Micky grinned.

"Right," Shug agreed with a faint laugh. "It's kinda neat at times, then other times, I forget who I'm s'posed to be."

Micky's smile faded. Once again, he looked very ashamed of what he had done. "I ruined your life, Mike."

Sugar shook her head in adamant disagreement. "Mike's life is as normal as can be expected for one of us," she said. "Mine will be, too." She was suddenly quiet. She seemed rather guilty herself. "I'm sorry I lost my temper last night. An' I'm especially sorry I tried to cold-cock you with my alarm clock. If I'd actually hurt you, I don't think I could look you in the eye ever again."

Micky drew his knees to his chest and lay his head on them. He directed his view away from the girl, his heart still firmly seated in the pit of his stomach. This whole thing was such a mess and he was responsible. For a moment, he considered the fact that he had legitimately created life, that he had somehow cloned an adult via a very strange form of mitosis. He scrunched his nose and pushed the thought out of his head. Six months of thinking like that had resulted in a fight with someone he considered a brother. Well, sister, rather, considering the circumstances. Science was important, yes, but there were things much more valuable than his haphazard studies.

"How do we fix this, Sugar?"

"One step at a time, good buddy." She tilted her head enough to catch her friend's eye. "First step is clearin' the air. I think we've done that."

Micky nodded and shrugged his shoulders. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure we've got that covered."

"Next is forgiveness."

"How are we there?"

Shug put a hand to her cheek, pondering the question. After a brief lull, she tapped at Micky's head. "Are we still friends?"

The boy's eyes boggled, worried. "I...I sure hope so!" Sugar's smile put him at ease. "What comes after that?"

"Movin' forward," she answered. "So in a way..." Shug gave him a quick peck on the cheek. Micky sat up so fast, he felt a touch dizzy. His face began turning pink, then wasted no time blossoming into a full red blush. "Thank you for the new life, Micky. I'll try not to break it."