A/N: Not sure how to explain this one except that it's emotionally experimental and was intended to mimic the entirely senseless, stream-of-consciousness structure of 'Head.' Try though I might, it didn't totally work. I did end up slipping some meaning in for coherency. :)

One day, plucked from reading a paper, Peter could only see white. No one was with him. No one could hear him. Not even himself.

~M~

The skin on Micky's cheek was white. Deathly white. It had just drained of color with the crack of the gun. And with the report, he was struggling again. Ferociously, but only in fear, never in anger. "No!" He jerked and kicked, disregarding the sharp digging of his cuffs into his back and the pain when his hair was pulled, clawing his way out from under the grasp he was in because of that gunshot. His cheeks had flushed red. His shoes only squeaked against the floor. He found no traction and when he pushed his body up an inch from the ground, he was slammed down again, and the hand in his hair picked his head up and turned it straight down where it was supposed to be, where he couldn't see. "No! No!" He screamed at the top of his voice. His chest was heaving now. His nose was surely broken. And he couldn't help. All he could see was the color red on the white floor below his face.

~M~

His view telescoped backward, distance developing between him and the blood. Then, he was transfixed by the small dot. Watching the manicured hand pull the syringe away, a twinge of dread formed in Davy's chest, but the drug took effect quickly and that was soon gone. He felt as if he had begun to lift off of the Earth again. A pair of lips twisted his. He laid his head down. The flashing started again. Lights, bright and colored. Her footsteps took an eternity to fade out of the room. With the sound of each shoe contacting floor, a new collection of colored images flared up, none reassuring if he ever processed them at all. He noticed the sounds were gone when he noticed the shiver in him. Then everything was hot. Unbearably hot. He couldn't open his eyes, but they moved back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. He couldn't stop them. The sweat on his face gained the force of gravity and began a trail downward.

~M~

Mike watched the trail move. When the moisture ended in a pool in Davy's ear, he looked away and closed the door behind him. The runt could work that out on his own. He rolled his head to the side, cracking his neck as he walked to the kitchen of the pad. He opened the cupboard and pulled out a glass, then filled it with water at the sink. The water felt good down his throat. He soon drained the glass and filled it again, taking it over to the leather couch. It hissed and creaked when he sat down, but soon he got comfortable. He slowly finished his second cup of water, taking his time. He checked his watch, sliding up his loose, blue sleeve to do so. Then, unsurprised, he stared straight ahead, watching the sun slide by the colors in the window panes.

The door opened. He looked to the side. A fuzzy head of brown hair, arched eyebrows above listless brown eyes. A small nose like a pug-dog, scraped and bloody, neck disappearing into a brown top, and green pants. Beat-up shoes. Mike blinked slow and drank the last sip he could from his glass. "Look who finally showed up," he drawled quietly. There was a thud. He had disappeared from Mike's peripheral vision. He closed his eyes in deep annoyance and stood up, walking over to stand above Micky. He looked down, a sneer faintly developing. "After this long... You know, I was beginning to think you wouldn't."

Micky looked up at him with reddened eyes. "Mike," he whispered. "You've got to help." A single snort of laughter escaped him. He kicked Micky clear of the door and closed it. Micky winced and rolled over. In surprise, his fear returning, he regained his feet. Mike watched him get up, belabored as he was handcuffed. He looked straight into Micky's stricken eyes as he talked. "What's wrong with you? Something t- terrible has happened. Come on! We've got to help."

Mike fixed him in a glare so he didn't move toward the door. It worked. He grunted. "Let's get this over with." He stepped forward and grabbed the back of Micky's neck strongly, kissing him. Micky half-resisted. Mike drew back. "There. Affection. Satisfied?" Micky stared at him, bewildered, and didn't answer. "What's wrong with you?" Mike challenged. Still nothing but those wide, scared eyes. Mike rolled his and grabbed Micky by the shoulder to drag him across the room.

"What are you doing?"

"I said, getting this over with." He shoved Micky in the corner between the base of the stairs and the floor and stood above him. "Something terrible?"

His eyes snapped back to panic, and he tried to push himself back up again. "Y-yeah! We've got to-"

Mike waited till he was almost upright before pushing him back down again. "No. Your time is wrong."

"What?"

"Or..." He narrowed his eyes in concentration. Then, he sat down beside Micky, getting to work starting with that neck. He used one hand to lever against his chin and the other to start ripping at the buttons.

Micky struggled and threw him off, kicking him away for good measure. "What are you doing?" he yelled.

"What has to be done. Now if you won't stay still-" Mike covered his eyes and when he took his hand away, Micky was alone in the desert.

~M~

Peter scanned the vast expanse. He couldn't tell if there was a horizon. If there was, it was between white ground and white sky. He could see only himself and couldn't feel the hardness of the ground beneath him, but he walked on it. He seemed to walk at least. He couldn't tell if he was getting anywhere or what direction he was going. Was he in a room or floating in space? One thing he could feel, though was the texture of the air, at one moment static and lifeless, at the next, whipping by as if running, at the next, flowing aimlessly and directionlessly. He didn't like any of them. When he got tired, he laid down with the Aimless air. It floated over the white.

~M~

Davy floated past a sound. He stopped. The sound came closer. He was on a long sidewalk. From a distance, something dark was coming at him, with the sound. A face flashed in front of him, Peter, serene, eyes closed. It flashed away. The dark thing was closer. It was a person. A shade of murky brown fell on everything, replaced by blue when the person was close. Mike ran by him, looking right through him. He was breathing heavily and his face was red. Davy thought he might fall over at any moment he was breathing so hard. But the look on his face, of terror, not at what he was running from but what he was running toward, must have kept him going. He heard the sound behind him when Mike passed, a desperate, "I'm coming!" Davy tried to turn around to see what he was running toward, but he couldn't turn. He tried to turn again and tried to turn and tried to turn.

~M~

Micky's last turn landed him right back on the floor of the pad. He was still dizzy from all of the turning around and around that had begun to occupy the majority of his time in the desert. Now, the ever-present sand was gone from his feet. The burn on his back had left. The heat disappeared. Mike was looking at him.

"How long?" he asked.

"A week."

"Fine."

Mike got back to work on the buttons. He went about taking Micky's shirt off without emotion. Without Micky struggling, he went about it at a reasonable pace. Not fast. Not slow.

The sour, flighty feeling in Micky's gut which had faded a few days ago with many of his thoughts in the whipping sand was quickly returning. He tried to pull himself away. He swallowed in concentration as Mike slid his sleeves down to his wrists.

"Why can't I move?"

"Don't ask me. Not my hang-up," Mike replied dismissively. He put his ear on Micky's chest as if listening for a heartbeat.

"What are you doing, man?"

"Sh!" The venom was still there. Micky looked at the top of Mike's head, then at the door. It was still the same time. He could still do something.

"Whatever won't let me move, make it stop."

"Tell me why," Mike mumbled.

"Why what?"

"Why you've got to move."

He wasn't helping him. He didn't understand the urgency. "I told you! Something terrible!" He couldn't bring any other words to mind. "We've got to help! I need you to help!"

Mike put his palm against Micky's stomach and lifted his head. He drew his hand up the length of Micky's torso to his neck where he tightened it right under his chin. He looked into Micky's eyes. "Say that again," he whispered. The malice had returned. It tried to hide under uncaring, but it was there, as strong as whatever had caused it. Micky tried to push something out of his throat, but Mike's grip was so tight, he couldn't breathe. He moved his mouth wordlessly. Mike rolled his eyes and released his grip. Micky fell the rest of the way to the floor. He breathed heavily.

~M~

Mike's heavy breathing had faded behind him. Davy still couldn't see. He gave up. He listened. He stared as he listened. The sheets in front of his face touched his lips.

"No!"

The voice was terrified. Where had that come from? He stopped shivering and forced himself to relax and close his eyes. He opened them and saw a new door in the room. He imagined going over to the door. He couldn't quite bring his limbs to move. As he got up and took a step, though, he seemed to get smaller and smaller. He couldn't see through the peephole - a proper lens peephole, not like theirs - and he couldn't even reach the handle.

"Help," came from the other side of the door. Help? Now Davy had to reach that door in reality. He tried to move - his legs, his arms, anything - but he felt so small and insignificant all of a sudden. It was like there was something holding him down, weighing him down.

"Help." He heard it in his voice, and he heard it in the voices of all of his friends. "Help. Help!"

~M~

"I need you to help," Micky gasped. Mike stared down at him for a long time, breathing in and out. Help.

Mike lay down on his stomach next to Micky and looked him in the eyes, now on the same level. "You don't get it, do you?" Micky, again - frustratingly - said nothing. Mike studied his face. He reached out and touched the bloody scrape on the tip of his nose and cheek and chin. He looked halfway down Micky's body. Mike rolled him over. He grabbed a handful of hair at the back of Micky's head.

"Ow!" Micky moved his arms and his neck tensed.

Mike saw it and muttered in disgust, "Oh. You're moving again."