As it so happened, the waitress behind the counter at the small Santa Monica diner was exactly Davy's type. Granted, anything female happened to be Davy's type, so Micky remained unsurprised by the revelation. As Peter tried to pry him away from the counter and back to the table, Micky sipped on a coffee that was just a bit too strong for his taste. Next to him, Mike sat with his head down on his menu.

"We did it, Mike," Micky said.

Mike snored in response.

"I mean, I was kinda nervous, but you really pulled us all together in the end there."

In his sleep, Mike grunted something about ponies.

"Yeah, that's about what I meant." Micky chuckled, looking down at his coffee. With a quiet "hm" to himself, he felt around on the table until he found a small bowl in the middle. Pulling off the top, he held it up to his nose and was rewarded with the sweet scent of the sugar within. Smiling, he added a generous spoonful to his coffee, and returned the bowl to its home. He leaned back in his chair to enjoy the small victory, but before he could raise the mug to his lips, an unfamiliar voice interrupted him.

"Hey? Hello? Hi!"

Despite his inability to see anything, Micky automatically looked up toward the voice. Whoever it belonged to stood directly in front of him, maybe a couple feet away.

"I've been wavin' at you. Thought maybe you were asleep like your friend here. Can't tell through your dark glasses there."

The male voice carried an accent. Like Davy's, but not… This one had different pronunciations. Different idiosyncrasies. Friend. Frrriend. Herrrre. The man rolled his R's softly, almost imperceptibly, but the sound existed, separating its owner from the friend Micky had known for years. It was almost certainly from the United Kingdom in origin. North. North! Way north.

"Y'can't see, can ya?" The man said. Micky heard the sound of metal on tile floor as the man pulled out the chair directly across from him and sat down.

Uncomfortable and tired, Micky still smiled, raising his sunglasses. "What was your first clue?"

"Amazin'," the man said. "I saw you on stage at the Flanahan Auditorium. Never woulda know'd it. Uh…"

Micky heard the table squeak softly, then, the man took his hand and shook it. "Felix Macleod. Er… Sorry, maybe I shoulda asked. I'm not really familiar with the whole shakin' hands with blind people thing. Can I call you blind? I mean, it's not rude to— "

"You can call me Micky," Micky replied, finding himself amused with the man, despite the sudden handshake. "Micky Dolenz."

He could almost feel the excitement radiating from the man. Felix seemed to have an energy to which Micky could certainly relate, though. After all, before he had to learn to be careful, he could almost literally find himself bouncing off the walls at the most inappropriate of times. Felix gave his hand another shake, before sitting back. Mike, meanwhile, muttered something about wishes and horses.

"He's stuck on ponies, poor guy," Micky said.

"Does he do that often?" Felix wondered. "Talkin' in his sleep, I mean?"

"Nah, he's just been awake for a long time. All night," Micky said. "Makin' backup plans. He's a worrier. Surprised he doesn't have grey hair already." Micky smirked, looking from Mike and back to Felix. "This is Michael Nesmith, by the way. Our fearless leader."

"Backup plans for what?" Felix asked. When Micky didn't answer immediately, he quickly added, "Just… sorry, it just seemed like you really had it together up on stage. Don't see why he'd need to, uh, keep himself up all night if…"

Micky glanced toward the counter, wishing he could see Davy and Peter, and hoping they might notice the uncomfortable situation in which he'd found himself. It wasn't that he didn't like Felix. Micky was, after all, incapable of not liking anyone. Having already determined that the man sitting across from him shared the same manic energy and seemed quite genuine about his questions, Micky actually felt a sort of kinship with him. Still, Felix unwittingly had him backed into a corner.

Sighing, the drummer rubbed at his eyes. Taking the sunglasses from their nest in his hair, he set them on the table. "Well, I haven't been blind all that long is the thing," he said. "Me and the other guys…" He gestured toward the counter, hoping he was gesturing in some semblance of the proper direction, "Went to an Angels game a few weeks ago. I got konked on the head by a foul ball. Haven't been able to see since." Wincing at the memory, Micky rubbed the back of his head, biting his lip.

"Oh, man! I remember that!" Felix exclaimed, his voice almost giddy. "I read about it in the papers, yeah? Did you know you were in the papers, Micky?"

Smiling, Micky said, "Honestly? If it meant losing my eyes, I'd rather not have been."

Suddenly somber, Felix muttered, "Oh, yeah, of course."

As he thought about it, Micky realized that Felix really was the first person outside the other Monkees and a handful of doctors and nurses that he'd spoken to about the blindness. He'd always been afraid that people would pity him - Oh, poor Micky. Let me help you with that, Micky. How terrible, Micky. But Felix, completely breaking the expectation, almost seemed to think the whole thing was rather interesting. Cool, even.

A connection was born.

"Nah, it's okay," Micky said. "Thing is, last night, we came to see the other bands play. You know, checking out the competition. The seats filled up, you know? As more people got there, I started to remember the ball game. It was crazy! I actually thought I was there. Remembered the whole thing."

"Remembered it?" Felix said, perking up again. "You couldn't before? Oh, man. That's classic post-traumatic stress disorder. Your mind shuts out the whole thing! You're right, that is crazy."

"You read a lot, don't you?" Micky asked, smirking. Oddly, discussing it caused an uncomfortable weakness in his knees. He felt a weird sense of offness in his mind, and a tightness in his throat. He looked toward the counter again, hoping to catch Davy's or Peter's attention…

"This stuff is just really interesting to me. Sorry, I didn't mean to— "

Micky felt Mike stir next to him, sitting up. The tall young man, who'd managed to fold himself into a rather small chair, at a rather short table, grunted as he stretched. "Who's this?" he asked through a yawn.

"This is Felix," Micky replied. "He saw the show."

"Just came over to say how great you guys were. It was amazing. Glad you made it through to the next round. I'll definitely be there."

"Good," Mike said, his voice still groggy. "Now git outta here."

"Y— yessir. Sorry— Nice to meet you, Micky."

Micky heard the chair slide out awkwardly, the legs of it tapping against the tile several times as if it were almost tipping over. Immediately after, he heard a series of quick footsteps, before the door opened with a squeak of old hinges. A bell tapped against the metal surface, just before it slammed shut again.

Next to him, there was a thud as Mike set his head back down on the table.

"Whatja do that for?" Micky complained.

"He had buggy eyes," Mike said. "I didn't trust 'im."

Figuring that was all Michael planned to say on the matter, Micky went back to his coffee. Not only was it too strong now, but it was also cold.

Not even a minute later, someone else slid into the chair across from him. Micky hated not being able to see who it was, as, even without his vision, his first instinct was always to look. The strain of trying to see often led to headaches… And being in the dark - literally and figuratively - was really starting to irritate him. "Please tell me that's Davy and Peter," Micky muttered.

"Of course," Came the familiar Manchester accent. "Who else would it be?"

Micky sighed, rolling his eyes. "So, did you at least get her number?"

Peter laughed. "I think he tried everything. She grabbed a napkin and finally wrote something down…"

Micky heard the soft crinkle of paper as Davy unfolded the napkin. "It says, 'go away.' I thought I'd finally worn her down. I swear, guys. I'm losin' my touch."

Peter chuckled again, the sound welcome and comfortable. Davy's voice also put Micky at ease, as did Mike's soft snoring just next to him. Frowning, he angled his face down at his coffee again, and tried to figure out when meeting new people became such a scary thing in his life. He used to love making new friends. In fact, he met the Monkees by complete random chance at different times, and that was great fun! Now, he almost wanted to curl up at home and pretend the rest of the world didn't exist.

What was wrong with him?

He had to get out of this funk. He could do it. After meeting Felix, he even felt just a bit more hopeful.

"You okay, Mick?" Peter asked softly. Leave it up to Peter to figure out that something was wrong, even though Micky still wore a very gentle smile on his face. The boy definitely possessed some sort of empathic gift when it came to the emotional well-being of his bandmates.

"I'm all right, Peter," Micky said quietly. He twitched a little when Peter put a hand on his shoulder, having not anticipated the touch. Still, he scooted his chair over a little so he could lean his shoulder up against the blond's. It felt better to know that he wasn't sitting alone, and since he couldn't actually see the others, touch was his next best option.

Another new voice jarred him from his thoughts. Female, this time. "Here you go, boys. Plate of pancakes."

He heard a quiet 'tp' in the vicinity of the center of the table. Suddenly realizing that he hadn't eaten all day and was therefore starving, Micky made a grab for one of the pancakes and stuffed it in his mouth.

"You know, Micky," Davy said from around a mouthful of his own pancakes. "This is just a thought— " He paused and offered a quick "Thanks, luv," which was probably to the waitress, before continuing. "Me and Peter were talkin' about maybe gettin' you one of those white canes so you can kinda get around a little better."

The statement was almost passive, just a conversational suggestion that may have meant nothing to anyone listening in. And yet, Micky could hear the collective intake of breath from the other three as they nervously waited for his response.

Agreement equaled an admission that he didn't necessarily want to make.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Yeah, maybe in a couple months we can look into getting a service dog. Babbitt can't say no to that, y'know!"

Peter squealed in delight. They'd always wanted a dog.

Strangely, Micky didn't feel quite as hollow as he thought he would upon admitting that he may never see again. All the stress over his hesitance to say it simply evaporated in the face of the task that now faced him. Up to this point, he'd been operating on the assumption that his vision would return - but no more. Too much time already passed. He had to start accepting the cold truth.

"One thing, guys," he said quietly. He felt around on the table until he located his sunglasses, and perched them back on his nose. "No hiding things from me 'cuz I can't see. I mean it. If I'm gonna do this, you really gotta be there for me, okay? If there's somethin' I gotta know, you tell me."

"Sure, Micky," Mike said. "It's a promise."

Micky sighed.

Really, he'd miss color most of all.

—-

Two days after they made their appearance in Santa Monica, Micky seemed to be making improvements. He was more confident, for example, and much less frightened of the outside world. It was hard for any of them to admit that their bandmate's sight probably wasn't coming back, but while none of them would outright say it, they had to start thinking about how they were going to manage it.

At the diner, Mike made a promise he intended to keep. Looking at the letters to the editor in the daily paper, though, made him wish that he hadn't.

He rubbed his face, delaying the inevitable by idly scratching at the stubble on his chin. He read the column over again, noting the lack of an attached name. He even thought about getting another cup of coffee and accidentally spilling it on the paper, but Micky's words trickled back into his mind: "If there's somethin' I gotta know, you tell me."

"I'm a man of my word," Mike grumbled to himself. Folding up the paper, he trudged toward the bandstand, where the others were playing around with the drum kit.

"Hey," Davy said. "Micky's tryin' to make the sound better on the bass drum— "

"Kinda hard just doin' it by touch and sound," Micky muttered. He was lying alongside the drum, feeling along the rim on the outside. "Izzat Mike?"

"Yeah, it's me, Mick," Mike muttered.

"I'm thinkin' of taking over the drums again." Micky's smiling face appeared as he sat up, hazel-green eyes looking happier than they had in weeks. "If it's okay with you, I mean. I think I can do it." He turned his head a little, so that his ear faced Michael, who'd taken to fiddling with the paper in his hands. It made a distinct crinkle, a sound Micky immediately picked up on. "Is that the news? Who made it from the third night?"

No one said anything. Finally, Peter asked, "What's wrong, Mike?"

"Look, Micky, you asked me to tell you if… I mean, this…" Collecting his thoughts, he trailed off for a moment. "Someone wrote a not-so-flattering opinion about the Monkees as a letter to the editor."

Sliding out from behind the drum kit, Micky sat up, cross-legged. He frowned, asking, "What's it say?"

"Read it, Mike," Davy added.

Reminding himself that he had promised, and he wasn't doing anything other than fulfilling that promise to Micky, he took a seat on the step and cleared his throat. "Okay. You guys aren't gonna like it, though."

Straightening out the paper, he started to read.

"As a music connoisseur and a concerned citizen, I find it to be my civic duty to attend certain get-togethers - such as the current competition being held by KRIX and UCLA - to keep up to date on the current trends in musical entertainment. As most of you know, the grand prize at stake is a cool ten thousand dollars, and any and all of the groups up on the stage will do anything to get it.

For starters, several nights ago I was treated to the sight of a poor young man, panicked out of his mind, fleeing from the theater seating. I followed to see if I could help, only to find that his companions were already there, comforting him. Thinking I'd stand by - just in case - for just a few minutes, I quickly discovered that the fellow who'd fled was blind! The poor boy. Still, the man's friends seemed to have him in good hands, so I went back to my seat to hear the other bands play.

Imagine my surprise when, on the very next night of the competition, that poor young man was up on the stage in front of a crowd of thousands! Surely he couldn't have been there on his own free will. And then I remembered back to the conversation in the theater lobby the night before - how encouraging his friends were. How they crowded around him, clearly forcing him to agree to do something he didn't want to do. No wonder the poor boy panicked. Blinded and cut off from all visual reception, he was pushed onto a stage, unable to see the people looking at him, staring at his handicap even through the dark glasses he wore on his face… I couldn't bear it.

I cried for that boy. His companions call themselves his friends - ha! They ought to protect him. Keep him safe from the people who will stare at him for his blindness. Clearly he didn't want to be there. Clearly, they needed his voice so they could win their prize. Moreover, they're using his debilitating, crushing handicap to win the pity vote from all you poor saps who can't separate your hearts from true talent. And what will they do with the boy once the competition is over? That is the question.

I urge you, fellow readers, to take note of the name of the group. They call themselves The Monkees. For the sake of their poor, blind singer, I believe they should be immediately disqualified. And if for some reason they aren't, I further urge you to speak out against their use of this poor young man to accomplish their own ends."

Mike lowered the paper to his lap, looking at the others - especially to Micky, whose face was, for the moment, unreadable. "Micky, you wanted me to— "

"I know," the drummer snapped. "That's not… That's not what you guys are doing. Is that what everyone thinks? Is that what they think?"

"Well, if they didn't, they do now," Davy sneered. "Who's this jerk who's writing this tripe, anyway?" He made a grab for the paper, searching over it with his eyes until he found the column. "Anonymous. Cowardly. Micky, you know we don't think like that about you."

"I know you don't," he said, voice clipped. "It's not you I'm worried about."

Peter stood up, placing his hand on Micky's shoulder, but Micky quickly shrugged it off. "You're gonna have to do round two without me."

"Micky!" Mike shouted. "You can't let somethin' like this get to you. I only read it 'cuz I made a promise. If I knew you'd react this way, I wouldn'ta bothered! Startin' to wish I hadn't. This is all for you, Micky, so you oughtta have a part in us winnin' it!"

Micky stood, too, and shouted back. "It's about integrity, Mike! You of all people should know that. I can't— " At a loss, he almost aimlessly shook his head, fingers tangling in his hair. In the midst of all this, Peter, noticing that Micky wasn't quite facing Michael, helpfully turned him just a little bit so that they were eye-to-eye. "I can't let us win because someone's voting for us out of pity. 'Oh, geez, everyone! Look at all these obstacles the Monkees have overcome! Look at how brave their lead singer is!' Doesn't matter if I sing the alphabet backwards and off-key, does it, guys?" He turned to face each of them in turn. "That thing in the paper. Now everyone knows. Everyone. And the only reason we'd move forward in this competition now is because I'm blind. They feel sorry for me."

"No," Davy said. "That's not it at all. We're great, Mick. All of us together— "

Mike couldn't find words. In a way, Micky was precisely right. One anonymous jackass in the paper alerted people to the very truth they'd been hiding from the world. They shouldn't have had to hide it, but, unfortunately, the public just loved a good sob story. They ate it up. And either the public would turn on the Monkees for apparently using their best friend, or they'd cheer Micky on simply because of his disability.

It had come to a point where his talent no longer mattered.

They could still win, but at the cost of the very thing that made them great. And Micky didn't want the money if it meant cheating it away from someone who may have been much more deserving.

Peter stood behind them all, pouting and confused. He looked just about ready to cry. Then again, so did Micky. Davy just looked angry.

Reaching for the paper, Mike took it from Davy, staring at the letter for a couple more seconds. Swearing loudly and profusely, he marched to the front door and threw the cursed thing out onto the lawn.