Michael quietly plucked out "Pleasant Valley Sunday" on his guitar, as he and Micky sat out on their balcony deck. Every once in awhile, Micky would sing along for a couple measures, then fall back into silence, his eyes staring at nothing off in the distance. While Michael sat on a folding chair, Micky was sprawled out on the deck's surface, leaning upright against the rail. He looked sad, worn out, and tired… Mike hoped that a little bit of music would help him, but so far, it just seemed to drive Micky farther into absent contemplation.

"Here in status symbol land… Mothers complain…"

Unable to let the verse continue unsung, Mike finished, "…about how hard life is… And the kids just don't understand. C'mon, Mick. You keep zoning out."

"Sorry, I'm just thinking."

"Yeah, that's the problem. Hang on a sec…" Mike set the guitar aside, carefully propping it against the bay window, before dropping out of his chair so he could sit next to Micky. "Care to talk a little, instead of internalizin' everything?"

If Mike knew one thing, it was that Micky loved talking. That he'd managed to go this long without talking about the argument between him and Davy seemed very unlike him, and it was worrying. After all, it had been a couple days, and things still weren't back to normal. It was unprecedented. "Look," Mike said. "Y'don't have to be mad at yourself or anything. You didn't do anything wrong."

"I know," Micky said. "I'm not. Actually, I'm kinda worried for Davy."

Surprised, Mike sputtered, "After what he said you you?"

Micky shrugged. "Think about it for a sec. We all know what he's like. When he's scared, he gets mad. I dunno why." He re-situated himself, sitting up so he was more comfortable. Still, his eyes remained blankly fixed, although he managed to turn them in Mike's direction. "Don't get me wrong. What he said still stings… I mean, I didn't know he was quite that angry."

"He shouldn'ta been angry at all," Mike grumped, pulling up his knees so he could rest his arms on them. "I mean, if he broke his leg or somethin', we'd all help him. Wouldn't yell at him 'cuz… Haha, you can't walk anymore!"

Micky snickered, his hand reaching out for Mike's shoulder. It missed, so Mike grabbed his friend's wrist and placed the hand on his own shoulder, so Micky could give him a shove. "It's not like that, Mike. I can't explain it to you, except that I kinda know how his mind works. Uh. Let's say you feel helpless about some situation. What do you do?"

Mike shrugged. Since Micky's hand was still on his shoulder, he felt the gesture would be interpreted well enough.

"I'll tell you what you do," Micky said. "You get mad at yourself. Me? I joke about it, 'cuz laughter makes the bad go away. And Peter just goes out of his way tryin' to help everyone. Davy has to find someone to be mad at. He needs someone to blame. That's how he deals."

"It ain't right, Micky."

"It's not. But neither's getting mad at yourself. Or cracking jokes. Or setting the Guinness world record for most people helped in one hour." He smiled, finally dropping his hand to his knee. "I had nothing to do but study you guys. And we all did what I expected us to do. You don't show it as well, 'cuz you're sneaky. But I know you were blaming yourself."

Michael was silent for a moment. Micky hadn't ever really been the most observant of them all, but like he said, with nothing else to do but pay attention to the others, he'd pretty much hit the nail on the head. "If I'd insisted on cash instead of tickets…"

Micky cut him off. "Ah, there it is."

"Hah, you're right, it does sound kinda silly. Like I'm supposed to be able to predict the future or somethin'."

Unfortunately, despite how ridiculous it sounded, Mike continued to believe he could have done something to prevent the accident, even if logic told him otherwise. It felt as if he'd failed them all, and now there was a split between two people who were previously as close as two friends could possibly be. Maybe if he'd said something sooner, or dragged Davy off before any real damage was done…

"You're doing it again, aren't you?" Micky asked, smirking.

Michael laughed. "Nah, you're imagining things."

"Look. Davy and I will be okay. I promise. Maybe not tonight or tomorrow or the next day. But we'll be okay. We'll just have to connect again, make it work out, you know? A little argument isn't gonna rip us apart forever."

"So, why don't you go in there and talk to him?"

The smile fell from Micky's face immediately, and he turned his face toward the ocean. Mike had to admire his bandmate's tenacity, and the almost unwavering positive outlook he always showed to the world. But what Davy said cut so much deeper than just the surface, and for the first time, Micky was feeling something he couldn't joke about. The helplessness was too severe. Quietly, Mike said, "You dunno how to start, do you?"

Silence followed. Leaning back, Mike got a hand around his guitar and dragged it away from the window, resting it in his lap. "Look, if I start playin' again, will you get out of your own head and sing along for awhile? I think it'll do you some good."

"Yeah," Micky said, voice distant. "Take it from the top, Fearless Leader."

—-

"You know," Davy said. He stood up for a moment, adjusting the stool downward a little, before sitting back at the drums. "You're the only one who's talking to me at the moment."

Peter didn't usually get too angry at people. His friends back home used to think he was a little too slow to feel such things, but that wasn't true at all. He just didn't like to waste his time being mad. Consequently, if he ever reached his breaking point, Peter was usually quick to forgive. Smiling, he said, "Well, I guess someone needs to help you with the drums." He paged through one of Micky's books - an old, worn volume - as Davy got himself situated.

"I'm glad you are," Davy went on. "You can pretty much play anything, can't you?"

Peter shrugged. "I just pick things up quick, is all." He flipped through the book, before rolling his eyes and tossing it aside.

"Hey! I need that!" Davy complained, but Peter shook his head.

"Nah, you aren't gonna be able to read about it. That all just complicates things. I dunno what half those words even mean."

Davy slumped, reaching for the drumsticks. "Well, I don't even know where to start, other than …"

He trailed off, feebly tapping out a beat on the snare drum.

"Go on, add the crash," Peter encouraged. He had to admit, despite the fact that Davy had no previous training at the drums, he had a sort of natural rhythm. It was enough that Peter could tell what song he was trying to play, just by the beat.

Of course, that being said, his current ability wouldn't endear them to anyone at a gig. They had some work to do.

"Uh, look. Okay." Peter stood, repositioning Davy in a more natural position for playing. "Start out simple.

"I don't know what simple is, man!" Davy whined. "Look, I've seen Micky do it a thousand times, but I can't exactly copy 'im if I haven't been askin', 'Okay, now what're you playin'? I mean, this is the opposite of the tambourine. This stuff is complicated as— as…"

"Something really complicated. C'mon, we can do this." Peter pulled his stool behind the drum kit, sitting down next to Davy. "You remember how he warms up, right?"

Davy nodded, stepping on the pedal for the hi-hat cymbal. "He just taps this thing. One-and-two-and-three-and-four…"

He continued on, eyes fixed on the cymbal for a time, until he felt comfortable adding the bass drum every other beat. It certainly didn't sound anything like Micky's wild, careless drumming, but it was a start, and Peter hoped that it would develop into its own unique sound with time. Or, with any luck, Micky's eyes would recover, and Micky himself would take back his seat behind his kit. Even Peter found his thoughts waxing negatively on that front, though. If there was to be improvement, wouldn't they have seen it by now?

Davy added in the snare, this time with more control. The sound was still slow, but it had come together with the signature eight-note pattern that Micky usually used when he was getting ready to play.

"That's good," Peter said. "That sounds good, okay, now…"

"No," Davy said.

The rhythm stopped, and Davy set the sticks down on the floor tom, standing up. He glanced out the bay window, where Mike and Micky were sitting together, playing the guitar.

"Mike's going out tomorrow to try and book us somewhere," Peter said, gently reminding Davy that they had rent to pay, without outright saying it. "We need someone who can play."

"At best, I'd just be limping along," Davy muttered. "Micky should be doin' it. These are his drums, mate. I'm not a drummer, I'm the pretty face. You know that."

Sighing, Peter wrapped his arm around Davy's shoulders, pulling him back toward the drums. "You're the pretty face with really amazing natural rhythm."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Usually, Davy would be encouraged by such ego boosts. Peter expected him to pick up the sticks and get right back to learning how to play. After all, he already seemed well on his way to at least nailing down the basics, and that's all they needed to start out with. The rest could come later.

But Davy continued to sit there, staring at the toms in front of him. "I kinda feel like we're pushing Micky out."

The blond glanced backward again, out the window. Mike met his eyes and shook his head.

"You guys are going to need to talk eventually," Peter said. "You both said some hurtful things…"

"All Micky said was that playin' the tambourine was easy, really. And he was right. Why the hell should I get mad at that? Naw, Peter. It was me. I said some hurtful things, and he didn't deserve any of it. Not a word."

"No, he didn't," Peter agreed. "But things aren't going to get better if…"

"I can't talk to him right now. It'd be like spitting in his face or somethin'. I don't even know how to apologize after sayin' what I did." Davy drew his knees up, nearly folding himself in half as he sat on the small stool, and buried his face in folded arms.

"Well, 'I'm sorry' is a good start," Peter encouraged.

"That's just what he'd be expecting," Davy grunted.

Struck speechless, all Peter could manage was, "Uhhhh…"

"I mean, what would you do, Pete? If I'd said to you what I said to Micky?"

Peter, quite good at empathy and putting himself in other peoples' shoes, tried to imagine a situation where someone would say horrible things to him. Before he met the other Monkees, most of his friends would call him slow. Stupid. He didn't mind it, because he never felt a real connection with any of them, but here in their Malibu beach house, Peter felt a strong bond with all of his housemates. He loved them. Trusted them. If any of them called him stupid, he'd be absolutely heartbroken.

His eyes widened, and he looked at Davy.

Davy nodded, picked up the sticks, and started again on the simple, eight-note rhythm.

—-

The days passed without any sign of improvement from Micky. Unfortunately, as guilty as he felt about the whole thing, Michael needed to move everyone forward, and get hold of some sort of gig that would pay their rent. Not only that, but Micky had some pretty steep medical bills to cover in the realm of thousands of dollars. With all of them having made a promise to help out with said bills, they needed work, and fast.

After searching for most of the day, Mike returned to his "Home Base," also known as the nearby record store. Whenever he couldn't find anything around town, he'd take what he could get from the bulletin board just inside the door. Normally, these gigs didn't pay too much, but at least it would be something. At the end of the day, something was always better than nothing.

But as he looked through the scores of fliers that said things like 'Wanted - Band to Play for Free at Teen's Birthday Party,' something caught his eye. A sheet of paper, obviously printed on a newer mimeograph, beckoned him, promising the answer to all of their prayers.

While the cashier wasn't looking, Mike grabbed it off the board and stuffed it in his pocket, before quietly sidling out the door and running toward the Monkeemobile.

It was a long shot, he realized as he drove home, but if they really wanted to… They could make this work. They had to.

He pulled into the driveway, parking sideways. Really, he shouldn't have left the car in such a position. One of their fellow neighborhood tenants would doubtlessly say something to Mr. Babbitt about the rock-and-rollers down the street who had no respect for the quiet look of the neighborhood, but that was the farthest thing from Mike's mind at the moment.

Throwing open the door, he ran into the house. "Guys! Guys, c'mon, I found somethin' you're all gonna want to see!"

He stood in the middle of the living room, hopping from foot to foot as he waited for the others to gather. Davy came in from the kitchen, while Peter ran down the spiral staircase and into the downstairs bedroom to fetch Micky. Once they were all there, Mike read the flier. "Radio station KRIX, in conjunction with UCLA, is holding a band competition. Top prize is ten thousand dollars. That'll more than cover Micky's medical expenses!"

Micky's face lit up, and he asked, "How're they doing it? How's it work?"

"There's… um. Hang on." Mike took a moment to read the fine print. "There's three rounds. The first two are elimination rounds. Uh… You have to live within a certain distance of Los Angeles… Guys, we can do this. I mean, even if we come in second or third, that's still something!"

He was very rarely so excited about anything, but he knew his bandmates well. He knew that when something like this - an opportunity so golden - was presented to them, they'd overcome any differences they might have and pull together to win.

Except none of them were looking at each other. Davy seemed particularly interested in the floor, and Micky's smile and dimmed so much that it was barely noticeable.

"Guys?" Mike ventured.

"We'll… We'll work it out," Peter said, voice warm and encouraging, despite Davy's and Micky's silence. "Look, when's the first round?"

Mike continued reading down the flier. "It was just posted, so it'll be some time off yet… Here we go. We got a couple weeks. I'll have to get our registration in tomorrow."

He met Peter's eyes again, like he had when he was out on the deck, talking to Micky. They had a lot of work to do in two weeks.

And with two members of their band at odds, their setlist was the least of their concerns