Notes: Should probably have mentioned this story is mostly based on the little conversation Mike and Peter have in 'Hillbilly Honeymoon. Concrit gratefully accepted :)

With Peter, it's easy. Peter's working his way through the world without any protective layers – like a kid wandering out in a rainstorm without a coat. Thanks to his years in Texas, Mike's got more armor than an armadillo, so all he can do is look at Peter with equal parts exasperation and fascination.

Peter wouldn't last five days in Texas. But then again…

An image of his mother flashes across Mike's mind, just standing, the way she does, shoulders up, perpetually tensed -

…maybe Peter would.

He wouldn't belong there of course, and he'd get dried up and wither into a husk of the person he used to be in no time at all…but maybe, in spite of all that, he could last it.

Some people do.

Mike's just glad Peter'll never get the chance to find out, most likely.

So he's kind to the guy, because if there's one thing Texas has taught him, it's that if someone's sweeter and more trusting than the average, then the very last thing a person ought to do, is trample them into the dirt.

Besides, Peter plays. Better than that – he's downright fluent in Music…the very same language that Mike speaks. Maybe that sounds a little obvious, but Mike's found that even here, in California, where a bunch of people play instruments, and some of them even play them well…that's still no guarantee that they speak a solitary note.

So, together, it's no surprise that he and Peter get this harmony going.

With Davy…it takes a little longer. Davy plays too (well…the maracas) – and he sings. Peter gets him going one night, and Mike has to admit, he sounds good. More than that, his voice fits with them. It almost irritates Mike, because that club-owner's daughter looks at Davy like he hung the moon, and whenever Hilary sits down with them, Davy's fingers lace with hers almost absently. As far as Mike can see, for a beginner Davy Jones has got a real knack for Music, but no bones about it, his first language is Love.

At least, that's what he thinks until the whole business with the racketeers and the club is sorted out, and Hilary and her father decide that Malibu's got too many bad memories and move back to Phoenix. They all help her father get the trailer loaded up and hitched to the car, and when it comes time to leave, Hilary looks at Davy with this wobbly smile and tears in her eyes, and he doesn't look much better…

…but he touches her cheek and lets her go.

Afterwards, Mike feels compelled to say something, because even if Davy's just fooling around with this whole Music business – Mike likes him. He can't help it – Davy just radiates likeability.

"Hilary was a – she was a nice girl," he says later that day, a little inadequately, as he accompanies Davy to the store.

"Yeah," Davy says. It's just one word, but that's all it takes. Davy's so obviously hung up on her, his voice sounds just like a dial tone, and Mike can't stop himself from saying, "You coulda asked her to stay. Or followed her."

As far as he can see, Davy's got nothing keeping him in California – plus he's got the kind of charm that's acceptable currency just about anywhere.

Davy darts a sidelong look at him and says, "I still haven't got the vocals right on that new song you showed me."

Mike frowns. "The new – that's why you're staying?"

Davy shrugs and says, lightly, "It's not like Micky's gonna sing lead on all our songs."

We.

What do you think we should do?

It hits him then that Davy's been speaking Music this whole time – Mike just never realized it until now. Maybe the accent threw him off.

As for Micky…well, Micky's the simplest of all.

Mike doesn't even need to think about where he fits in – he's the drums, the pulse, the backbone of the whole operation…and he's the voice, too. See, Micky grew up in Los Angeles…he is California, and everything Mike's spent his whole life waiting for – sunny and sweet, and with just enough pith to make him real.

The four of them move in together. It makes sense, no matter what way you slice it. It cuts down on cost, and it increases the amount of rehearsal time they have.

The landlord shows them around 1334, this ramshackle beach-house, and announces, "Boys – you can't afford not to rent this place!"

"Oh, that's a relief," Peter tells him. "Because we weren't sure we could afford to rent it!"

Mr Babbitt doesn't seem to hear him, and continues in grandiose style. "This house is a steal!"

Micky looks interested. "A steal, huh? How'dja fit it in your bag?"

It's funny. Even though Mr Babbitt's endorsement of the house is so passionate it makes his ears ring, and his mother's voice in his head is the faintest whisper – she almost drowns Mr Babbitt out completely when she says, soft and low, and with that hint of a sigh behind every word, "It's…not quite the sort of place I would've picked for you, Mike."

He has to close his eyes for a second before he turns to face Mr Babbitt, and says, decisively, "We'll take it."

Davy and Peter end up in the downstairs bedroom, and Micky and Mike get the upstairs. Everything just falls into place as easily as that.

Mike thinks that's good, because even though Micky likes Peter, sometimes exasperation makes his jokes skate a little too close to mean. Anyway, in Mike's experience, you shouldn't room a white rabbit with a mad March hare. It's not fair to the rabbit.

Besides, Micky doesn't just need mindless appreciation – sometimes he needs someone to steady him, balance him out a little bit, and Mike guesses he can do that. From the way Micky smiles at him when they move their stuff upstairs (that slow secret curve bursting into a full-fledged grin), he figures Micky's got a similar mindset about the whole thing.

They're there a week when they book their first gig. They're set to play at the Coconut Grove, a replacement act for the group the manager really wanted to hire, but couldn't reach.

"I musta left a thousand messages. I called by their place. I even hired a psychic to track them down…nothing," the Davy-sized manager frets.

"Well, don't worry, Mr Tootley-Oswald," Mike reassures him. "We're gonna play our hearts out for you."

"We might even play some of our livers and spleens," Micky agrees. He grins at Mr Tootley-Oswald and assures him, "The Monkees don't hold anything back."

"Oh boys…it's not that I doubt your commitment," he says, patting both Peter and Davy on the arms, "Just your talent."

Mike can feel it fizzing up in his blood, the drive to prove Mr Tootley-Oswald and his whole damn club wrong, and looking around at the others, he can see their faces are set along similar determined lines.

"Well then," Mike says, "Let's show this crowd what we're made of."

Except they never get the chance to, because ten minutes before they're due to go on, The Bone Yard Dogs show up, full of apologies and excuses (broken answering machine, malfunctioning doorbell, psychic flatline).

Mr Tootley-Oswald almost collapses from relief. "Oh thank goodness! Look what you boys almost reduced me to!" and he gestures toward The Monkees.

And that's the end of their first gig – written off before they have the opportunity to play a single note.

Understandably, this casts a shroud over the rest of the night. Depressed, they make their way home and unpack their instruments in almost-silence. They can hardly meet each other's eyes. A couple of mumbled excuses later and everyone's heading for bed on leaden feet.

It isn't until they're upstairs that Micky breaks the pall by saying, wryly, "Talk about a night to forget."

Mike manages to dredge up a small smile at that. "Yeah. That's for sure." Tomorrow morning, things will look better. He hopes. It'd be hard for them to look worse.

Micky goes very still for a moment, before abruptly, his head tilts and this look spreads across his face that's this mixture of amused and daring. He steps forward, too close. "Of course," he says, "We could always turn it into a night to remember."

"What're you talking about?" Mike asks. His heart trips in his chest.

But Micky steps even closer, and places one hand on Mike's waist. Warm. Deliberate. "No?" he asks.

Mike moves back, clumsy and startled by how upfront Micky is being. "What're you" –

"Come on – you know," Micky says. Even now, his eyes meet Mike's, unabashed. He shrugs, "But it's okay if it's not your scene. Just forget it."

"Forget it?" Mike repeats. He knows the script for this sort of thing (the hard-headed, fist-thumping Texan version), but it's difficult to work up to the appropriate indignation. He tries, but shock keeps deflating his outrage. "Forget it? You – you come along and…and do a thing like that, and I'm supposed to just forget it?"

"It's no big thing," Micky says. His words come out readily enough, but Mike gets the feeling they're a tad more considered and careful than usual. "At least – it doesn't have to be."

If you don't let it be, goes unspoken.

Except…

It is a big thing. It can't not be a big thing, even in California – and Micky ought to know that already. Mike does, and he's fresh off the hay-cart.

"I asked. You said no. It's not your scene – hey, that's just how it goes, sometimes," Micky tells him, and he sounds like he actually buys it himself.

"Just how it goes," Mike repeats, disbelievingly. "Do you – are you even listening to yourself?"

Micky doesn't say anything, and Mike shakes his head, unable to drop it. "So I'm supposed to – what? Just say, 'Sorry, man, it's not my scene,' like…like it's just…" He stops. "Not my sc – what in the world would ever make you think I'd be into that kind of thing?"

Micky holds his eyes for a second, reminding him of all those nights in darkened clubs, keeping tabs on each other, trading smiles and appraising glances. And how, no matter how close and crowded it got, he always knew, with unerring accuracy, exactly where Micky was. His heart spasms in his chest, and it feels like the balance in the room has suddenly shifted.

But Micky doesn't press his advantage – just says, with a hint of a rueful grin, "Blind optimism. Mostly."

It makes Mike mad, so mad that it's hard to make his mouth even shape the words, because this thing's straight up, for real, and Micky's not taking it anywhere near seriously enough. He laughs, harshly. "Man, you – you're just looking to get beat up."

Micky looks up at the ceiling and points out, "That's not exactly what I'm after."

"Well, it's exactly what you're going to get, if you ask the wrong person," Mike says, uncompromisingly blunt.

Micky shifts his gaze away from the ceiling. After all that, the corners of his mouth still curve upwards a little. "It's a good thing I'm not asking the wrong person then, isn't it?"

He raises his eyebrows at Mike, and Mike has to look away, because his eyes are amused, but kind of hard, too. There's a 'take no bullshit' forthrightness to them. If this is how he acts in this kind of situation, Mike doesn't know how he's lived this long and somehow avoided getting beat to flinders.

If he has avoided it, that is.

"Man – you say that…you say anything like that to the wrong person and – and all of a sudden, we're a three man band," Mike continues, dogged, even if the words seem to echo hollowly in their room.

Micky considers him for a moment. "Then I think I've got the perfect solution," he says, face ridiculous with a manufactured, gee-willikers kind of earnestness. It's maybe then that Mike realizes that Micky's just…undentable, and there's no way of forcing him to take this seriously, if he doesn't want to.

He takes a step closer. Mike tenses, but Micky lays a hand on his arm like he doesn't notice. "If you're so worried about it, maybe you oughta throw yourself on the sword. You know – for the sake of the band."

It's a joke, of course it is, except…except it makes Mike think that maybe Micky's got some kind of strategy when it comes to this stuff after all. It's only a mockery, of course, but it makes his stomach turn that Micky'd lay that kind of line on him.

But then…maybe it's fair, since it wasn't like he'd been one hundred percent honest with Micky either. Because the way they'd been looking at each other since the very beginning – well, he could dress those glances up all he liked with fancy, frilly intent…

"No," he says, through the sour taste in his mouth.

Micky shrugs, a very little. "Just a suggestion," he says brightly, withdrawing his hand. Immediately, Mike's arm shoots out, fingers wrapping around Micky's awkwardly.

…but what those looks all boiled down to in the end was – naked awareness.

And he knows that.

He's known it right from the start, even if he was real careful to tuck that knowledge away in the bottom drawer of his mind without examining it too close. But Micky's called his bluff, and Mike's never been very good at pretending.

"No," he says again, with a shake of his head. He doesn't release his grip on Micky.

Micky tilts his head to the side, studying Mike. He doesn't seem particularly sympathetic, or particularly worried – even though Mike's fingers are squeezing his pretty hard by now. He just keeps looking at Mike, eyebrows slightly raised, with calm, almost-serious eyes. Mike looks back, because…

Because…

Because even if Mike's got all of Texas trying to pull him back (and he can practically feel Uncle Robert's hand on his collar) –

– honesty's better.

Not perfect, not easy, and not even comfortable. But – better. He didn't come all the way to California to lie to himself.

Not for convenience. ("You know, Dwight says California's just full of the strangest people. Regular weirdos. But…I guess you must know all about that. Since you're moving there and all.")

Not for protection. ("You know what some people might call that? That hat of yours? An affectation. You know what that is? It's something queers do.")

And not – not even for love. ("It's – not quite…what I was thinking of, for you.")

He uses his hand, the one gripping Micky's, to haul him in. It's awkward, because it means his arm is in the way, kind of a barrier, keeping them apart even as he pulls Micky closer. He wraps his other hand around the back of Micky's neck, and because he's committed himself to this, he doesn't allow himself to hesitate for even a second, just mashes their lips together.

His teeth scrape against Micky's bottom lip – but Micky doesn't seem to mind, pressing back, opening his mouth without hesitation and twining himself around Mike like ivy. The fingers of his left hand (the one Mike's still fot a grip on) slide under the cuff of Mike's shirt, stroking – an unexpected hint of sweetness that just about undoes him.

For all that, it's not tender. It can't be – Mike can't let it be. Not when it's just as much vendetta as it is courtship. If queers fuck, well then, that's what he does. No excuses, no prevarications – and no way back. He flat-out goes for it, wrestling Micky over to the bed and down, hot and clumsy with a mixture of anger and want.

Micky's lean and flat and strong-jawed and narrow-hipped and not quite Betsy Aiken, and Mike probably isn't doing so hot considering it's his first time and he's running on a mixture of white-hot defiance and instinct. But Micky doesn't object and Mike guesses that's how it works when you're into this kind of scene – you have to take whatever you can get.

It's just – not quite what I would have wanted for y–

He hauls his own clothes off with awkward fingers, eyes fixed on Micky as he does the same. Micky unbuttons his shirt, wriggles out of his pants, and lies back on the bed with a crazy, face-stretching grin, and suddenly Mike wants to slow things down a little – just put a palm on Micky's ribcage and feel him breathe in.

Except he can't – because it's not like that, or it can't be like that, not when he's hell-bent on confirming every narrow-minded prejudice he's ever picked up on back home. So he stays focused, fights the urge to get distracted by the clean lines of Micky's body, or the warmth of his mouth.

It comes as a surprise then, when Micky suddenly pushes up, rolling them over (and almost off) the narrow bed. He looks down at Mike, now pinned underneath him, and Micky's hands press down on his shoulders. "No?" he asks, almost casually, but there's a trace of mockery in his smile. Maybe Micky's got his own things to prove.

Mike just blinks up at him, thrown, and Micky considers him for several moments before deciding, "Okay," with a shrug. He flops back onto the bed. It's strange, though – when Mike leans over him, and Micky grins up, shoulders relaxed and legs coming up without hesitation to wrap around Mike's hips…

…Mike can't help but feel that somehow, without even trying, Micky's done a better job of defying expectations than he has.

Afterwards, in the dark, he says aloud, "I didn't do it for the band." He doesn't have to say it – he knows Micky's too smart to buy an obvious crock like that. But he doesn't want Micky to think for even a second that he believes it – that he's like any of the deluded desperates Micky's had in his bed before. He doesn't want Micky to laugh at him.

He presses his forehead against Micky's cheek, voice half-muffled by the pillow underneath. "And you can do me, next time."