Bonnie almost fell asleep in the shower, but managed to get her hair towel-dried and braided, and struggled into her tie dyed pajamas before falling into the fit-for-royalty bed in her super-deluxe room. This hotel was totally over-the-top for luxury, but she'd been able to get a deal. Even if the Monkees weren't well known in France (yet), Hollywood and American television were. The promise of future notoriety for ten days of "les Monkees ont dormi ici" was good for enough of a discount for them to be housed first-class right smack in middle of the city.

At the moment they could be in the bus terminal in Des Moines, for all Bonnie cared. She was clean, and there was a bed. Nothing else registered. She pulled the heavy drapes shut, and the room was flung into darkness. Feeling her way to the bed, she hauled down the coverlet, crawled to the dead center and passed out cold.

With a question from Pam, a little material guidance from Genie, and some direct assistance from the hotel concierge, Mike had things settled more quickly than he'd hoped, and far better than he could have managed on his own. By two p.m. Genie, with Pam in tow, had gone back to the modeling agency to finalize the costumes for the episode. Mike was left with nothing to do but get settled in the suite which would be his home-away-from-home for the next week or so. Intermittently of course, time and luck permitting. He sorted out his things in the bedroom he'd been assigned by default.

"It's not like you're gonna be spending much time here, mate, so you get the smallest one," Davy had announced when he arrived. He, Peter, and Micky were off to wander the streets for a while. The luxury of not risking life and limb by doing so in broad daylight was something they couldn't get enough of, and they intended to indulge as much as possible.

Mike's room was smaller than the others, sure, but still pretty high-end, with a huge bed and classy period-style furniture. He stacked his guitar cases by the mahogany wardrobe before hanging things up and putting things in drawers. He tossed his shaving kit on the bed without opening it, planning to leave that in Bonnie's room. If he was going to have to share a bathroom it would be with one other person, not three. And the "one" he had in mind was pretty nice to wake up to, as long as he stepped lightly until she got some coffee down.

His hotel room in order, Mike reached into his pocket and pulled out the key Genie had given to him in the conference room. It was a damn pushy thing to do, he thought, and smiled anyway. Usually the notion of people leaning into his private life pissed him off, but in this case he was actually grateful. Genie was really down to earth, and that teeny bopper reporter wasn't turning out to be too big a drag either. Together they'd really helped him out, for sure. Picking up his shaving kit, Mike left the suite and quietly let himself into the room a few doors down the hall. He knew Bonnie would be out like a light.

Speaking of lights… the room he entered was black as a tomb, at least until he stood still for a couple of minutes and let his eyes adjust to the dim light filtering through the drapes. Not wanting to risk bumping into things and making a racket, he set his shaving kit down on a nearby bureau and carefully approached the bed. There was a small lump in the exact middle.

Mike learned early that Bonnie curled up just like an armadillo when she slept, as if protecting herself from predators. Once in a while she'd stretch out and get snuggly up close to him, but more often than not he was left on his own while she snoozed in a scrunched up ball on the other side of the bed. If he reached for her in the middle of the night she came to him willingly enough, but sooner or later she'd be back in the Armadillo Pose and he'd be left to spend the rest of the night empty handed. He didn't take it personally, but damn sometimes it got to him anyway. The sex was great, and she was all over him like a sheen of sweat for a good while after they made love, but when it came to the mundane business of catching z's… well the truth was there was damn little charm in sleeping next to an armadillo, especially one that could punch his lights out without even trying if he woke her up too suddenly. Still, he'd come to prefer it to sleeping alone.

He sat in an armchair to slip off his boots and that dumbass belt that was wide enough to harness a rhinoceros. Whoever at JC Penney menswear thought of that little bit of hip style, he'd love to meet in a dark alley after midnight. Whenever he was wearing one of those "mod" extra-wide things he felt like he couldn't bend over without lacerating his liver. Thank you Jesus, Genie would have him wearing mostly jeans and buckskin for the week. He'd have thanked Bob for hiring her, if the thought of thanking Bob for anything didn't make him gag.

Relieved of boots and belt, he padded to the bed otherwise fully clothed, and crept to where he could stretch out next to her on top of the covers. He'd gotten a decent amount of sleep on the flight, but a little more shuteye wouldn't hurt. Here with her, it would hurt even less. He didn't risk waking Bonnie by kissing her, instead just lying down on his side next to her so she could continue her much-needed sleep.

"Armadillo mama," he whispered with a smile. "There's a song in there somewhere..."

"Sugar."

She must be dreaming, he thought. He was about to close his eyes when she said it again in a sleep-fogged voice: "Sugar."

This time it was closer to a whine, and she slowly uncoiled and rolled back toward him as far as the pinned-down covers would allow. "Gimme."

"Well now when you sweet talk like that, how's a guy to resist." He stretched over a little and kissed her. "How's that?"

"Mmm-hmm." She bunched up in a ball again, leaned her head back against his shoulder, and went back to sleep.

He lay watching her for a while. She wasn't much like the women he'd gone for, on the road or off. There had been some stunning beauties, for sure, women with big tits and shiny smiles that would tell him anything he wanted to hear, and bodies built for speed. His wife had been purely gorgeous, and her smile (until he killed it) could light a room. Lying next to him here and now was a dishwater blonde with a short nose and strange blue-grey eyes, an honest mouth that smiled a little darkly, and a body that was built for… this. Armadillo sleeping, and hold-nothing-back loving that didn't even try to pretend to be every man's fantasy. Not to mention the number of years she had on him... which put her far ahead of his usual easy-to-impress teenybopper preference.

That's what made it such a powerful thing; this time and space with an unremarkable woman was remarkable in its reality. In a world that had become marked by more fakery than even the cynical Michael Nesmith could have predicted falling into, here he was in this still small space defined by quiet conversation and laughter and comfortable silence, completely uncolored by judgment or disappointment. He felt like himself, or maybe as he should be, when they were together. Everything felt like it should be. And if right now that warm and welcoming unremarkable body was shaped kinda like an armadillo, that was fine too. He'd always had a soft spot for armadillos... they reminded him of home.

"les Monkees ont dormi ici" : "the Monkees slept here"