Author's Note: This bit features a callback to one of my favorite childhood episodes of the show. Beware of sick leprechauns, boys.


The next few days had a feeling of near normalcy about them, which was welcomed by everyone. Mike had further tweaked the band's setlist to include more of their repertoire, while making sure any major vocal responsibilities were off of him for the time being. Pop Harper called them back for a couple of unscheduled shows. That meant there was plenty of food in the fridge and best of all, the rent could be paid on time for a change.

In his spare time, Micky remained busy trying to crack the mystery of a reversal potion. Davy continued his role researching the spell book and keeping tabs on the drummer to be sure he didn't improvise mixtures again. That corner of the living area was looking more and more like a mad scientist's lair each day.

Peter spent most of his time with Mike, doing his best to keep an eye on him. He was a little broodier than usual, it seemed. Mike sometimes went on those tangents, but this was much worse. If anything, he was becoming more introverted. He could say he wasn't worried all he wanted, but Peter didn't buy into that lie.

He had successfully gotten Mike to go with him to at least one movie, which made for a nice distraction…especially after the lady at the ticket window had referred to him as Peter's "girlfriend". It had taken a lot of persuasion to keep Mike from going back home right then.

Mike and Peter were on the deck, noodling out a little guitar and banjo ditty. After every few bars, Mike would stop and write some lines in his notebook. It felt wonderfully routine.

"I fink we may haff shomethin' here." Mike smiled around the pencil in his mouth. He stuck it behind his ear and nodded at his friend. "Wanna take it from the top again?"

Peter steadied his fingers on his banjo. "Sure thing."

Playing and writing felt normal, but Mike had not adjusted to the changes in his voice. He could still hear hints of his old self, though the tone and register was all wrong. It made him uncomfortable.

Yet here he was, singing a song about meeting a girl in Mexico. This one would have to be passed over to Peter, no doubt.

"I don't know why you won't sing anymore." The blonde adjusted the picks on his fingers. He began plucking out a Bach piece. "You sound fine to me."

"I don't sound like me anymore," Mike argued. "Frankly, I don't want anyone to hear it."

Peter looked at him, pity in his eyes. "What are you talking about? You sound lovely." He saw Mike cringe at the word. "Well, you do. I could sit here and listen to you for hours, either voice."

It was a sweet sentiment. Mike had known Peter long enough to be assured that when he doled out compliments like that, he was nothing less than 150 percent sincere. "Thanks, Peter."

"I hate to interrupt, but it's test time again." Micky sat a glass of purple goop on the patio table. He followed up with a smaller glass of pink goop.

Mike eyeballed the mixtures carefully. "What's the purple stuff?"

"New potion."

"What's the pink stuff?"

"That's for your stomach if the purple stuff doesn't work."

Mike propped his arms on the edge of his guitar. "There's no chance you know what may come out of my mouth this time, is there? Locusts? Frogs?"

"There could be frogs," the drummer said, fidgeting. "But I can't guarantee they'll come out of your mouth."

"Oh… Eww. I ain't drinkin' that."


The three boys stood outside the bathroom, while poor Mike wretched inside.

"I thought the pink stuff would help," Micky called through the door.

Mike emerged from the bathroom, sickly pale and hair a mess. "I've breathed fire, broke out in green spots an' puked rainbows." He curled up in the nearby lounge chair. "Please find some magic words or somethin', Micky, because I can't take much more of this."

"Our girl needs tea," Davy chimed, patting Mike's head as he passed through to the kitchen.

He snarled. "Tea's not going to solve my problem."

"It'll solve at least one right now."

Mike was glad when the phone rang. It broke the mood and made them all stop hovering over him.

Micky spun around, searching the room. "Has anyone seen the phone lately?"

Peter thought a moment. "Did you try the table?"

"It's not there."

"No, in it. Under the chess board."

"Last I saw of it, we had it on the cake platter," Davy called from the kitchen, "unless one of you moved it from there." He busied himself with the hot plate, still trying to brew tea.

Mike peered over his shoulder at the pullstring dummy in the corner. "Did anyone check with Mr. Schneider?"

"Wait! Found it!" Micky opened the jukebox and sure enough, there was their red rotary phone, jangling away. "Alright, who put the phone in with the 45's?"

Peter slouched, a bit ashamed. "Sorry."

Retrieving the phone, Micky finally answered it. He bumped the jukebox door shut with his hip. "Yes, you've reached the Monkees. We're available for weddings, parties, bar mitzvahs—"

"MAZEL TOV!" cheered the other three band members.

"—and pretty much anything else that pays. My name is Micky, how can I help you?" His corny fake smile gave way to a more genuine one as the caller spoke. "You saw us at Pop's? That's great! And you like the new girl…?" He pointed at Mike, who promptly stretched his hat all the way down over his face. "Of course! Hold on…" He put the phone to his chest, muffling the receiver. "They wanna talk to Shug."

Three sets of eyes locked onto the girl folded into the lounge chair. Mike shook his head fiercely, still hidden under his hat. "Nope nope nope nope—" The hat was yanked from his head and the receiver shoved into his face. The boys huddled around him; this could mean more work. "Who is it?"

Micky smiled. "Remember Toby Willis?"

Mike's eyes widened. "Oh no. No no NO. I'm not goin' through that again. No way, no how—" He suddenly found the phone against his head. "…Why, hello, this is Shuuuug… How is every lil' thing?" He bit his lip in a weak attempt to keep himself in check. "Ohh, yes, I've heard of your magazine, believe me." He rolled his eyes, then straightened up in his chair suddenly. "You want us where? …What? Uh…erhm… I'll have to discuss it with th' boys. Could you hold on for just a minute?" He clasped his hands over the receiver.

Micky was practically in Mike's face. "What is it? What does she want?" Mike pushed him away gently.

"You know that extra gig we picked up Sunday night? One of Toby's flunkies was there, checkin' out the talent. She put in a good word for us and now Chic Magazine wants us to play their company party next week."

Cheers and hugs went all around the room.

Mike continued. "Hold it! It's on one condition."

"What kind of condition?" asked Davy. If there was one thing he had learned from Mike, it was to be mindful of the details for any contract.

"They want to do a follow-up article on us, to sorta set the record straight." He let go a depressing sigh. "And they want Shug to be there, of course."

Micky pondered this rather carefully. "It's good money, Mike. You can't argue that."

"That's just it," the Texan groaned. "It's great money. But…"

"I think it's cute that Sugar has fans now." Leave it to Peter to try to find the bright side.

"Well… I…" Mike could not handle the pleading looks his friends were giving him. It was like a staring contest with three lost puppies. He uncovered the phone receiver. "Looks like we're in, Miss Willis. …Oh yes, dear, you too." He placed the receiver onto its cradle and put his head in his hands. "I can't believe this is happenin'."

Micky jumped up and down, punching the air. "We can eat! Woohoo!" Peter swung Davy around by the arms.

The only one not celebrating was, of course, Mike. A follow-up with a publication like Chic could go either way. Last time, it was near career suicide. At least the new editor was willing to make amends.

However, Mike felt that the world was already getting a little too comfortable with Shug Nesmith.


More notes: Everyone loves Shug. Except Mike. This puts him in both an identity crisis and an existential crisis, I'd guess. Also, awww Peter.

I miss boisterous, smartass Mike. Need to get him back on his feet somehow.

OH WAIT

THERE'S A PARTY COMING UP

OPEN THESE PRETZELS WITH YOUR DAINTY HANDS AND THIS MACHETE

Seriously, I am impatiently working toward scenes I want to write and ARGH MIKE YOU ARE KILLING ME.