Michael Nesmith was no stranger to bad news. His mere existence was bad news to his family and since then, his life had been one bad thing right after another.
That was before he met Micky, and before he met Davy and Peter. Over the years when they were still close, they had taught him to try and look for the light at the end of the tunnel, rather than just the darkness.
Look where that got him. Where it got all of them.
He didn't even know why he still bothered to care at this point.
He sighed and stood, grabbing a glass of water before going down the hall to check on Peter. He stepped into the bedroom and sat down right beside the bed, surprised to see Peter awake.
"What're you doing up?" Mike asked quietly. Peter shrugged and looked down.
"I-I couldn't sleep..." he whispered, rubbing his arm. "They kept me up."
"Who kept you up?"
He didn't answer, only rubbing his arm more. Mike frowned and reached out, grabbing his friend by the wrist and turning his arm over, studying it carefully.
"Your arm still bothering you?" Peter nodded shamefully and Mike let out a sigh.
"Well, I think you're in luck my friend," he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a white and blue box. "I found this at the store earlier. Thought it might help a little."
Peter's head pokes up and tries to peek as Mike opens up the box, pulling out the bottle.
"Alright, you ready for this?" Mike asked opening up the bottle. Peter frowned and nodded hesitantly as he held out his arm. Mike poured a blotch of white cream in the center of Peter's arm. With one hand, he grabbed Peter's wrist, holding his arm in place and the other hand began to rub it in. Peter yelped and tried to pull his arm away, it stung. Mike's grip only seemed to tighten more every time he tried to pull away. Eventually, he just gave up and closed his eyes whimpering.
"I-it hurts..." Peter whispered.
"That's 'cause it's doing its job," Mike sighed, trying not to get frustrated. "It's supposed to fight infection so it'll probably make your arm hurt a little less-"
"By making it hurt more now," Peter began to cry.
Mike frowned and took a few deep breaths before he said anything.
"I'm sorry..." was what he said. Peter closed his eyes and threw himself back down into the bed, crying into his pillow.
"Do you need anything from me?" Mike tried again. Once again, Peter didn't respond to him.
Mike closed his eyes and sighed.
"Okay, Peter," he said heavily as he stood. "If you don't want my help, then you don't have to have it."
Peter looked at him with tears in his eyes and that's when Mike saw it. It was the first time he had seen his friend behind those eyes, rather than a dull and soulless being. The look quickly faded as Peter quickly sat up and threw up over the side of the bed.
Mike frowned and rubbed Peter's back as he did. Eventually Peter stopped coughing and flopped back down on the bed, his face pale and eyes barely open. It didn't take long for fatigue to get the better of Peter as he fell asleep not long after.
Mike peeked over the bed and let out a sigh. Peter had missed the trash can. Mike went out of the room and into the closet, pulling out a kit of cleaning supplies and put on a pair of rubber gloves. He was practically on his hands and knees as he cleaned up the carpet.
Michael Nesmith was used to bad news. By this point, he was practically waiting and expecting something bad to happen. That's why he wasn't the least bit surprised when he got the call. He didn't even bat an eye when he saw it all happen on the news. It was just another day. It didn't feel any different from the rest of them anymore.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Nesmith," the voice on the phone said.
"For what?" He asked with a shrug. "You didn't do anything."
"Yes, but your wife..."
"I'm not gonna go after you for telling me. You're just doing your job," Mike sighed. "I get it."
And he hung up, going back to tend to Peter, who was calling out to him.
There was no time to process or grieve when he had to care for Peter. He didn't mind that fact very much.
Mike sighed and laid himself down on the couch, staring up at the ceiling. Bad news was just white noise at this point. Nothing, not even hearing the news that his wife was dead, seemed to matter anymore. After all, it was just like any other day. And the way things were going, he probably wouldn't have many more days to deal with left.
