Author's Note: Full party scene. Difficult to write. Probably more difficult to read. :P

As Toby went through her list of announcements and thanks, the quartet lined up to take the stage. Davy peered through the curtains at the stage's edge. "That's quite a crowd out there."

"No sweat, right, guys?" Micky took in the worried faces around him. "C'mon, it's just like playing at Pop's… Maybe times twelve."

Peter went pale. "I think I may be sick." He felt a hand close around his with a reassuring squeeze.

…Mike.

"Hang in there, Shotgun," he said with a grin. "This ain't much different than anythin' else we've done, right?" Peter nodded, hesitantly at first, then finally in full agreement.

…And away they went.

It really wasn't any different than the past few shows at the restaurant, save for the formal wear. While their audience was a rather posh bunch, they were also, as Toby had said, "hip" and seemed to be enjoying themselves. A few of them had taken advantage of the open space in front of the stage and were dancing.

Halfway through the set, Micky waved Mike toward the drum riser. "Hey, Shug—Looks like you have an admirer." He nodded at an older man standing off to the side. "He's been staring at you since 'Clarksville'." The man gave Mike a goofy smile, followed by a wink.

Mike felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He shuddered. "Eeeurgh."

"Just ignore him," Micky advised. "He's probably about three sheets by now anyway." He watched the old guy another minute and sure enough, he was nursing a drink and swaying. Micky got Davy and Peter's attention and informed them of the situation. "Just keep an eye on him, okay?"

"Right."

This far into the show, the group had stuck to Mike's meticulously prepared playlist. Davy had taken on a surprise announcement about a double-parked car, but outside of that, Mike had only contributed a handful of harmonies, just as they had rehearsed. Between songs, Peter whispered something to Davy, which made the Englishman grin from ear to ear. He hopped onto the drum riser, passing the message onto Micky, who actually cackled.

Mike was not in on the joke. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing!" they all answered through snickers.

The girl didn't quite believe them. Mike stepped out of the spotlight a moment, checking his dress. He wondered if maybe that off-the-shoulder thing wasn't such a good idea with his guitar strap, but as far as he could tell, nothing naughty was showing. So, why were the guys smiling like idiots?

He shrugged and nodded for the next song on the list. Peter bounced out the opening bass line and everyone else fell into place.

And no one sang.

The Texan repeated a couple of chords, as Peter improvised a bass fill-in.

Still no singing. Mike glared at the boys, who were all staring at him in anticipation. "What are you doing?" he whispered.

"Waiting for you to sing," said Micky.

"I told you, I'm not singin'."

"It's your song," Peter argued. "You need to sing it."

"And we can play this game all night," Davy added, wickedly wiggling his eyebrows.

Mike's expression was that of absolute horror. "Mutiny, I swear."

Manners and professionalism went out the window. The three boys finally shouted at their leader: "JUST SING!"

They looped the opening couple of bars again. Mike hadn't felt this nervous since…well, since they had first become a group. If this would end the argument and make them happy, then fine, he would do it. He swallowed the knot in his throat and stepped up to the mic.

All men must have someone, have someone…
Who would never take advantage
Of the love bright as the sun…

As Mike sang and that new voice came out, he noticed his three friends seemed almost…giddy. Maybe it wasn't as bad as he thought? Micky jumped in with his harmonies, followed by Davy and Peter, and it sounded even better. The wriggling of nerves in Mike's stomach faded and at last, he stopped feeling so terribly stifled and embarrassed. For that moment, he almost felt normal again.

The song ended and the Texan sighed in relief. The smile he wore was heartfelt. Davy gave him a hug.

"I'm glad you're still in there, Mike. I was getting worried."

"Thanks for that, Tiny."

The group's little victory on stage had distracted them from the applause coming from the party audience. Toby Willis was cheering wildly from her seat in the front. It was easy to forget that as far as the outside world was concerned, this was the first time Shug had ever sung anything with the group.

"Wow, if you do 'Sweet Young Thing' with that voice, you'll have every man here asking for your number," Micky laughed.

The guitarist raised an eyebrow and a very mischievous look crept onto his face. Even with his features rewritten and a face full of makeup, that look was undoubtedly Mike. "Let's have some fun with this."

As the band played through the rest of their now-altered set, it was easy to see Mike was enjoying himself for the first time in what had been far too long. The silly on-stage banter had returned, all four band members mugged for the Chic photographer, and best of all, it looked like Mike had snapped out of his funk, if only for a little while. The new voice was definitely different, but not altogether terrible.

The group reached the end of the show and happily lined up to take their bows. Micky almost did a flying tackle at Mike, seizing him in a headlock and rapping his knuckles on the girl's head. "You! You devil!" He held Mike's head in both his hands and comically kissed him on the cheek. "Why didn't you tell us about that voice?"

"It's not permanent, y'know," Mike was eager to point out.

"I know, but…geez, man, you've been holding out on us the past couple of weeks." He smacked Mike in the arm. "Next time, share!"

With the show over, the crowd quieted down, focusing on their food and idle gossip. A few audience members made their way to the stage to congratulate the band on a job well done. Sure enough, a handful of men approached "Shug" with either a terrible pick-up line or a phone number scribbled on a napkin. Mike was sure he saw Davy and Micky exchanging money over this. Peter had apparently kept a scorecard.

As Mike began gathering up cords, Micky clapped him on the shoulder. "Davy and I are gonna do the meet and greet thing, then get some food with the ladies. You coming?"

"Just as soon as Peter and I put a few things away," he answered. "We'll come back to th' table once we're done." He nodded toward April, who waved happily and blew kisses of approval. Mike could only chuckle and shake his head. "Bless that gal's heart. She's so worried about teachin' me to be more ladylike. She's gonna be horrified when she learns where I keep my keys."

Micky's eyebrows knitted together curiously. Mike reached into the top of his dress, retrieving the dune buggy's key, as well as the house key from his cleavage. Micky's eyes boggled and he turned about three shades pinker. "Don't you DARE do that in front of me again, Michael Nesmith, or so help me, I'll…I'll…" He trailed off, realizing that any threats he had were useless against the girl in front of him, who was laughing so hard, she had tears in her eyes.

"Your face! Priceless!"

Micky's face remained warm. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

Mike held up a hand and pinched the air. "Maybe just a little." The laughing fit subsided. "At least maybe just for tonight, anyway. What have I got left, a week?"

"Ten days."

Mike gave a firm nod. "Ten days."

"Hang in there, man. I'll fix it." Micky hopped down from the stage, ignoring the stairs entirely. "Think you'll be alright for a little while?"

"Sure, Pete's up here, so we'll have most of th' simple stuff ready to go soon." Mike waved at Peter, who was carefully packing away his bass as he chatted with Davy. The blonde boy casually saluted. "We've got this. Now go! You got dates waitin'!"

"Yes, Mama Nez! I'mma gittin'!" Micky scurried into the crowd, with Davy not far behind.

"What was Mike laughing about? What'd I miss?"

"I'll explain it to you when you're older."

"Oh, come on, Micky!"

Mike returned his guitar to its case, then carefully set the instrument alongside Peter's bass. He stooped to tend to his amp when someone brushed him along the wrist. He was so focused on his work, that the unexpected touch made him jump. He turned to see the creepy old man from earlier, staring at him. He stood and took a couple steps back.

"Hello, dear!" The older man bobbed a little, clearly drunk. "You're a lot taller than I expected. I like tall women."

"That's…that's nice." Mike's stomach knotted up again. "I've got work to do now, though, so if you don't mind—" He turned his back to the creeper, hoping he would get the point.

"That's no way to be," the old man persisted. He saw an opportunity and ran a finger along the girl's ankle. Mike nearly jumped out of his skin. "Old Irving doesn't want to hurt you…"

"I don't wanna hurt ol' Irving, thanks very much," Mike stammered. He tripped on Davy's tambourine, trying to maneuver away from the man.

Peter's ears perked up at the rattling noise; he saw Mike moving backwards and some older man grabbing at the guitarist's feet. He was quick to step between them. "Whatever you think you're doing, stop."

The old man let go a drunken laugh. "Oh, come now… Can't an old guy like me have a little fun? How about it, sweetness? Can't you show an old man a little sympathy?"

Peter was firm. "That's no way to treat a lady, mister." He stood with his arms and legs apart, acting as a shield for his friend. "Go back to your seat and leave her alone, okay?"

"And if I don't?"

"Then you'll have to deal with me." The boy stood up straighter, trying his best to appear more imposing.

"Peter, you don't have to do this," the girl said quietly. "I'm sure I can kick him if I have to."

"I won't let him talk to you that way. It's not right." The blonde eyed Irving, daring him to take another step forward. The older man put his hands up and backed away from the stage. Once Peter felt it was safe again, he resumed packing away his things.

Mike retrieved Davy's instruments from the floor, carrying them in a heap against his chest. Davy kept a small case for them for easier transport; it was tucked behind the curtain at stage right. Mike took two steps in that direction before he felt something clamp around his ankle, pulling his feet out from under him. Percussion instruments flew everywhere; Mike's face hit the stage floor hard enough that he cut his lip against a tooth.

"I don't take lip from any woman or her long-haired freak friends," a grizzly voice hissed. It was Irving the creeper, hand still firmly around Mike's ankle.

"PETER!" That high-pitched wail sounded nothing like Mike and everything like a woman terrified.

Peter didn't even wait for Mike to finish calling him; he turned on his heels the moment he heard the crash of maracas and tambourines. He ran at the old guy, landing a fist against his jaw. It caught Irving by surprise enough that he let go of Mike. Mike was still on the floor, but quickly crawled out of reach. He huddled against the bandstand, trying to get his thoughts together.

By now, the crowd near the stage was rumbling. The wave of discontent spread to the back of the room, where Micky and Davy sat with April and Teresa. Teresa had been preoccupied with her work the entire evening, which didn't leave much room for her to invest interest in the patented Davy Jones "love bug". Sweet as she was, April seemed to be more focused on planning double dates and a "girls' night out" with Shug. She felt that the poor girl needed a role model, especially someone with whom she could see eye to eye quite literally. The commotion at the stage caught Micky's eye. He stood on his chair for a better look.

April was puzzled. "What's going on?"

"I think Peter and Shug are in trouble." He grabbed at Davy's hands, pulling him onto the chair with him, a delicate balancing act. "Something's not right. C'mon." Micky leapt off the chair and took a bow. "Excuse us, ladies. We'll be right back. Maybe. Hopefully." He chewed at his bottom lip, completely unsure of what he was about to walk into. "We'll make sure you get home." The drummer pushed his way through the crowd, winding between tables and chairs and fashion executives.

"I've got a bad feeling about this," Davy said, observing the fracas as they got closer.

"I really don't like violence," Peter whimpered. He stared at his hand, which had begun throbbing. "I really REALLY don't like violence." He knelt down a moment to clear his head. He turned, just barely looking over his shoulder at Mike. "You alright?"

"I'll live," came the weak reply. Mike could taste copper. A glance down at the front of his dress revealed a few blood stains on the bodice, as well as a rip in one of the decorative shoulder pieces where it had snagged on the stage. "Can't say as much for th' dress."

Irving took advantage of Peter's distraction and managed a solid punch in his right eye. The boy fell onto the stage, stunned. He clutched at his face.

Davy saw Peter collapse. "Some nutter just threw a fist at Peter!" He couldn't get through the sea of people fast enough.

One thing that had not been tested with Mike's change was his temper. He was generally level-headed, but if the right—or wrong—thing set him off, he could lose his mellow ways in an instant. Seeing Peter unfairly decked made something in his head snap. He made a run at the old creeper, kicking off his shoes in the process, and socked him square in the nose.

"You can mess with me all ya want, but I ain't about t'let you mess with mah friends!"

Micky knew that tone of voice, even in a different register. "Great, Mike's gone full Texas. This is bad." He found himself looking at one very angry beanpole of a girl, dress torn and face bloodied. She was in a perfect fighter's stance. "Oh my God."

Davy scrambled onto the stage, quick to tend to his friend. "Peter? Are you still awake?"

"They're coming in droves now, are they?" Irving wiped his bloodied nose on his coat sleeve. He looked at Mike and sneered. "Think you're tough, don't you, missy?"

"You jus' try me, you stinkin' ol' drunk," Mike hissed.

Irving grinned…and aimed a swing at Davy, who was still trying to bring Peter around. The boy winced, preparing for a hit that never made contact. He heard it clear as day, though. He also heard the crowd react with gasps and screams. When Davy opened his eyes, he saw Mike, halfway slumped over, arms up to block the little Englishman from a harsh punch in the face.

The crowd was incensed.

"What kind of cretin hits a woman?"

"Get him out of here!"

"Security!"

Finally, Irving was subdued by a few party goers and held in the coat check room until the police arrived. Witnesses were gathered, statements taken and emergency personnel called to tend to the wounded.

"Well, that escalated quickly." Micky took a seat beside Mike, who was sporting a very impressive black eye. He glanced at Peter, who had a matching injury. "Look at you two. Peas in a pod. A pod that should have called for help!"

Peter was ashamed of himself. Mike just looked angry. "It was self-defense against a drunk," the Texan said flatly.

"You did a bang-up job on his nose, alright," Davy laughed, impressed. Micky shot him a hard look of disapproval. "I mean…wow. Uh… What a shame such a sweet girl had to punch a bloke." He lowered his face near Mike's ear. "Nice block. Thanks."

The quartet spotted Toby as she walked through the main dining room, speaking with one of a handful of police officers at the scene. She made eye contact with each of the musicians, who all quickly looked away. There was an unspoken group wish for invisibility.

The editor threw her arms around Mike, holding him close. "Oh honey… You have no idea how sorry I am." She backed away, still holding onto the girl's shoulders. "Your poor eye." She turned to face Peter and repeated the ritual, with hugging and apologies. "You too? I feel just terrible. I had no idea Irving Class was such a…such a…"

"Pig?" Davy offered.

"Lowlife?" added Micky.

"Jerkface? Ow…" Speaking made Peter's face ache.

Mike straightened in his chair. "What'd you say his last name was?"

"Class," Toby replied. "He's part of High-Class Music Publishing."

Mike nodded. "Mm-hmm. Got a brother named Bernie?"

"Yes, you know him?"

He lowered his voice to a murmur. "I'll say that our paths have crossed." Boy, did his face hurt. His chest and arms felt pretty rotten, too. If he felt that bad, he knew Peter had to feel even worse.

Peter was fast becoming a whimpering mess. "I'm sorry we ruined your party, Miss Willis." He winced and quickly put a hand to his face.

"Don't be silly," Toby said. She took his hand in hers, patting it gently. "If anyone ruined it, it was Irving. What you did was wonderful, defending your lady friend like that. If she's smart, she'll stick with you." She gave him a wink.

Peter wanted to smile, but again, his face hurt too much. He wondered if he had sprained a dimple.

Getting home was as much a disaster as the party's end. Toby located extra staff to help Micky and Davy load the GTO with their instruments and equipment since Mike and Peter were both ailing. Davy offered to take April and Teresa home in the dune buggy. April was appreciative. Teresa, however, opted to stay at the restaurant to help Toby make sense of the chaos. Micky took on the responsibility of getting his injured friends back to the beach house.

Mike and Peter did what they could to help unload the car, though setting up the bandstand at the pad would have to wait at least until tomorrow. They spent more time bumping into things than they did actually helping, vision slightly skewed for both of them. Peter gave up and retreated to the balcony deck.

"What are you doin' out here by yourself?" Mike moved carefully, trying not to trip on anything. "Here." He handed the boy an ice pack.

Peter took the pack and put it against his face. "Thanks. What about you? We've only got one ice bag."

Mike sat down next to him and held up a little paper-wrapped rectangle. "Well, we have at least one ice cream sandwich." He held it against his own eye, cringing. "Anyway, like I was askin'… What are you doin' out here?"

Peter adjusted the ice on his eye. "You know how when you were little and if you were bad, your mom would say 'I want you to think about what you've done'?" He looked at the deck flooring. "I'm thinking about what I've done. I feel terrible."

"Don't beat yourself up over it. That won't make you feel any better." Mike put an arm over the boy's shoulder. "It's my opinion that what you did was pretty noble. It's not everyone who'll come to th' rescue like that."

"Mike, you broke his nose."

"Only after you cracked his jaw a good 'un."

Peter groaned and put his head in his hands. He hissed at the pain and was quickly upright again. "I hated how he was talking to you. He should have shown you some respect." He frowned. "Then he tried to hurt you…which he finally did because of me."

"I'm th' one who put my face in th' way, so I earned this." Mike gestured at his own black eye. The ice cream sandwich wasn't doing as much good as he hoped. He gave up on it and opened the thing, breaking it in half. He placed a piece in Peter's free hand. "Here, since we kinda missed dinner." He tapped one half against the other. "To best friends an' butt whoopin's."

Finally, a smile from the blonde. "Lousy date, huh?"

"I'm not exactly an authority on a gal's perspective," Mike answered, mouth half full of ice cream. He finished quickly. "But I'd say it was pretty fun."

Peter tilted his head curiously. "You're kidding!"

"No, now it's not all that bad. We had a great gig, right?"

"Well, yeah."

"Everybody loved us and we had fun." He wolfed down another chunk of ice cream. "Even if you count th' fistfight, we still came out on top." He nodded at Peter's hand. "You better eat that, it's meltin'."

"Michael, you got a black eye!"

Mike winked with his good eye. "When I used to tussle with my cousins back home, this kinda thing was common. Clara fought dirty, though. She used her elbow." Peter seemed taken aback. "My family's a little rough around th' edges."

Peter halfheartedly nibbled at his half of the ice cream sandwich. Truth be told, he didn't have much appetite, even after skipping dinner. "Have you thought about what you'll do if you can't change back?"

"I'm tryin' not to think like that," Mike sighed. He picked at the torn piece of fabric hanging from his dress. "Gotta stay positive."

"But what if you're stuck?"

Mike considered the question, rolled it around in his head a moment or two. If this accident was permanent, what would he do? He had spent all this time hanging his hope on Micky's chemist skills; there was no contingency plan. "I hadn't given it a lot of thought." He dwelled on the idea, 'what if', then something hit him. "Is that why you asked me to be your date?"

Peter nearly choked on his ice cream. A couple of pats on the back later, he was fine. "I just thought that if you really were stuck as a girl, it would be good if someone did something nice for you, like ask you out." He flung the remainder of the ice cream over the balcony for the gulls. "I don't know if anyone else would understand your problem, so…"

"So stick with my friends." It was a sweet and noble thought, Mike could give him that. The boys always made it a point to take care of each other.

"Right." Peter passed the ice pack to the girl. "You've had enough problems with this, I figured you needed a little kindness."

"Thanks, Pete."

Silence fell over the two of them. It was funny, the ocean sounded louder than ever right then.

Peter ruffled his own hair, then scratched at the back of his neck. He struggled to keep steady eye contact with his friend. "If you are stuck as a girl, um…you've always got me."

Mike gaped at him, blinking. "Peter…"

"You were willing to go to Hell for me, Michael. It's the least I could do for you." His eyes were sad. "I owe you."

"You don't owe me anythin'. I don't know why you think you would."

Peter fidgeted, rubbing over the back of his knuckles. His hand was still sore from the fight. "Can I at least try to do one more nice thing for you tonight? Promise you won't get mad?"

"Pshhh, please," Mike said dismissively. "There's no way you could make me mad. You're th' human embodiment of a puppy fer' cryin' out loud."

The puppy-eyed boy took a chance and landed a kiss on the girl's lips. He lingered there a moment, then smiled and skipped into the house. "Good night!"

Mike continued to sit on the bench outside, stunned. His heart felt like it had completely dislodged from his chest and was somewhere near his feet by now. He buried his face in layers of skirt in order to muffle a scream.

Why did it have to keep getting worse?

More notes: I may have warned you guys a while back that Peter would have a crush. Well, there you go. I'm actually not a "slash" person; I just think that things would be very confusing for an innocent like him. Shug is Peter's ideal woman. She just happens to also be Mike.

"To best friends and butt whoopin's" will be a toast I will use someday, I swear.

"You were willing to go to Hell for me, Michael. It's the least I could do for you." - I wrote it and even *I* got serious feels. ;;_;; PETER, LET ME HOLD YOU SWEET PUPPY BOY.