Peter breathed into his hands to warm them.

At some point, his little sanctuary became a bustling mini-metropolis. The squat, dark little building didn't look so uninviting anymore with a few lights turned on inside, but the uneasiness Peter felt from the hardly-imposing structure was replaced by the uneasiness he felt from being surrounded by so many people he didn't know. Strangers, all of them. He should have told Mike and Davy — but no. They would have tried to stop him, and it was high time he actually did something to help.

Everyone else was trying to fix the situation by putting a bandage on it, but Peter knew a bit more about healing than the others liked to give him credit for. He couldn't say he always went about stuff like this in precisely the right way, since he'd found himself in a sort of roundabout loop all night long, but here and now, Peter could honestly say that he was proud of himself for what he accomplished. All the correct ducks were in a row, so to speak. Or, most of them were, anyway. There were a few problems remaining, which he couldn't find a way to resolve. Briefly, he thought this would all be much easier if he had some sort of phone he could carry around with him.

He laughed at the thought of a world full of mobile phones, with people trailing along cords behind them everywhere they went. The world would be positively full of little grey wires! Chaos! And what a mess, too.

Yeah, mobile phones would never catch on.

He finally stood up, stretching the cold out of his joints and muscles. Even though the temperature wouldn't get warmer for another couple hours, he found the cold a little easier to tolerate now. Maybe it was the nervousness… Yes, that must be it, he thought. His heart seemed to be beating a little faster, and his knees were a little weaker. It was almost time.

The others must have been anticipating it, too. They looked back and forth, toes stepping just a bit too far over some invisible line. The old man with the pocket watch passed through their ranks several times, with sterner and sterner warnings for every instance he had to chastise them. Like a flock of geese, they kept returning to their vigil. Stubborn. Perhaps calling them 'goats' or 'jackasses' would be better.

Peter liked goats, though.

He didn't like geese. They pooped all over the beach.

He paced far out of the way, because he felt restless and couldn't bring himself to sit any longer. A quick check of his watch revealed that he had just a little time to burn off some of that energy. Mike would have told him to stay in the lights if he were here, so Peter decided that he wouldn't wander too far into the very, very late night that surrounded him. Of course, Mike also would have told him never to hitchhike to get here in the first place, because hitchhiking could be dangerous.

Strolling away from the crowd, Peter carefully avoided the shadows, purposely skirting past the dark halo around a lamp with no glow.

"You runnin' from somethin'?"

Whirling around, feeling the cold, prickly sensation that the voice was directed at him, Peter was completely surprised to find that it was only some father, playing with his little boy.

But the words were so clear. It almost seemed —

Amid all the chatter, why did he pick that up? So many conversations swirled around in his head that he couldn't keep track of any of them, let alone a single statement spoken from the center of a crowd. And besides, he wasn't running. Sure, he was skittish and a bit nervous, but just because he had to get here so quickly that he hopped into a car with a perfect stranger didn't mean he was running.

He supposed it would be okay if he was, though. A lot of people had to run at one point or another in their lives, even Peter, who'd run all the way to California once upon a time. But no, it wasn't quite like that. It was more like…

…Waiting.

Put more at ease by that decision, Peter allowed himself to relax just a hair. Leaning against the dark, squat building, he picked at the buttons on his shirt, eyes scanning the assembled throng every once in a while as if he would see someone he recognized. After a time, it became a game - he would think about how he would describe the people he saw to Micky, because Micky sure liked hearing about colors. He'd get a wistful, distant smile on his face when a color came up in conversation. Don't eat that banana - it's still green. Are we wearing our red shirts or the black ones to the next round? That song only ever comes on the radio anymore once in a blue moon.

There were all kinds here that Peter could describe, like the father in the weathered but well-kept suit, chasing after his little boy in mis-matched, hand-me-down clothes in bright blues and greens. Or the woman in the pink dress who'd been sitting almost motionless on a bench for the past hour. A heavyset man held a suitcase, the leather of which glimmered and glistened in the cold, unwelcoming light of the lanterns.

Frowning as he pondered over the descriptions, though, Peter realized that he would never be able to string enough words together to accurately convey to Micky the beauty of the world around him.

And that, Peter knew, was why he was here.

He resumed pacing. Right foot up, down. Left foot up, down - squeak in the heel he never had fixed. Turn — what if he closed his eyes? Tried it all without his sight? His attempt ended in failure when he crashed directly into an older lady in a dingy teal overcoat.

"Sorry. I'm so sorry," he said.

The lady didn't reply, but gave him a scathing look and continued on her way.

How did Micky do it? Over the past couple weeks, he'd gotten so good at navigating himself around without his eyes! Peter - who, despite being a man, realized that he often thought like a child - couldn't wrap his mind around the complexity of Micky's achievement.

"That's why you're here," he reminded himself again.

He stared back at the crowd, trying to put all his other senses together to come up with a more accurate picture. The people were rushing along the invisible line, always looking for something, wearing their coats and fancy boots. Some of the ladies had pretty hair decorations, which were all different colors, woven into braids. Bright colors. Colors! No!

Despite the fact that Peter played music by trade, he found the sounds around him dull and boring, only worth the effort it took to ignore them. The conversation sounded like a dull thrum, never ending and droning on and on and on. Now and then, he'd hear the bright note of a giggle, or the deep bass beat of hurried footsteps along the pavement, but it all seemed so very bland.

But then, he detected a sustained whine underneath the aimless chatter. The old man with the pocket watch rushed past the crowd again, this time taking their shoulders and pushing them backward, where they stayed. At the same time, a light hanging from the awning changed from green to red, and then Peter heard it. "The train!" he said to himself, smiling for the first time that night.

Peter hurried forward, joining the waiting people in front of him. Since he'd hitchhiked to the station all those hours ago, so many more arrived to stand between the line of benches and the sheer drop off the platform onto the tracks. It seemed almost dangerous - there should be gates or fences or something to keep people safe. Despite his worries, though, the crowd wasn't too densely grouped, which meant they all stood little chance of being accidentally pushed to their untimely demise. Even so, he warily looked down at the tracks, then to the North, where he could make out the lights on the front of the oncoming train.

"All right! For the last time, step back!" the man with the pocketwatch shouted, passing in front of everyone again. Peter wondered if it would, indeed, be the last time, or if he'd go on shouting the same thing over and over. "Four-forty-five train from Berkeley'll be here on time!"

Instead of waiting in the crowd, Peter retreated to the row of benches, pacing along behind them as the giant locomotive's brakes squealed, bringing the entire train to a very slow halt. It wasn't anything particularly special. The cars were old, and its silvery finish was chipped and dulled with age. As it coasted into the station, the people waiting on the platform finally took the advice of the stationmaster and backed away from the tracks.

It sat there for some time before the doors opened, and the occupants began to trickle out. At this point at night, the people who appeared on the platform were bleary-eyed and tired, each of them hauling their suitcases along as if they were infinitely heavier than they looked.

Unfortunately, Peter had no idea as to the appearance of the person he was looking for. He couldn't do much with a name, after all, and the mental image he created in his head was likely way off. Perhaps, after many of the gathered people left, he would be able to find her by process of elimination.

With his hopes resting on that one single idea, he still paced, looking into their faces for some hint of connection or recognition. Peter always felt that two people who were destined to meet would at least have some sort of attraction to each other, like that 'sixth sense' he heard about on television sometimes. After all, he met his fellow Monkees in such a way - when he looked at them, he knew they were the ones. His band. His brothers.

But time and time again, he met the eyes of total strangers.

Beginning to panic as the train pulled away from the station, he wondered if he had the time right. He wondered if maybe she hadn't come; maybe he should have been at home, near the phone. The entire thing was really all done on a whim, coordinated from a payphone outside a beachfront gas station.

Urging himself to concentrate, and reminding himself that he'd double and triple-checked the times, Peter continued his search.

He almost passed right by the young woman with the glasses. In her hand, she held a piece of paper, the writing upon which Peter didn't initially process in his quasi-panic. Something about her, though, caused Peter to double-take, as his eyes fell upon the somewhat wild, curly brown hair. It was then that he looked at the note, which read, simply, "I'M LOOKING FOR PETER TORK."

She saw him smiling, and smiled back.

Relieved, he sighed, and wrapped her in a hug. He liked hugs. For a moment, she seemed just a little confused by the somewhat forward affection, then she returned the embrace, chuckling.

—-

Felix Macleod hesitated outside an ornately-carved oaken door, before taking a deep breath and pushing it open.

He liked this office. It seemed roomy, while being full of little interest pieces - maps, old books, toys, photos on the walls… Since the same man occupied this office for the past thirty-some years, it made sense that he'd want it to be as homey as possible.

Without introduction, Felix set the collated stack of papers on an old oak desk, which, he noted idly, matched the color of the door. As the old gentleman sitting at the desk lowered his newspaper and looked up at him, he nervously ran his fingers through his hair.

"It's all there, Sir," Felix said.

The man flipped through the pages, as if considering them carefully. "This isn't like the last one," he said, a smile working at the corner of his lips. "This one has actual promise. This one could really— " He trailed off, continuing to page through the stack. "This is exactly what I hoped I'd get from you, boy. I'll submit it immediately."

Unable to help it, Felix broke into a grin. This would almost certainly lead to his big break, and all because of a chance meeting with a blind musician in an old, run-down diner.

—-

Expecting a rather severe backlash for disappearing earlier, Peter cautiously opened the door, purposely keeping as quiet as humanly possible. Peering in through the crack, he saw Micky, sitting on the edge of the couch, nervously bouncing his feet against the floor. As the drummer's shoes subconsciously tapped out the percussion part to "Last Train to Clarksville," Peter, still reluctant to enter, pushed open the door just a little bit farther.

The hinge squeaked.

Immediately, Micky jumped to his feet, his head swiveling in all directions. Noting the unfocused eyes, Peter bit his lip, looking back at his companion, who curiously waited in the shadows.

"Whozzat?" Micky asked. "Mike? Davy? Didja find him?"

Feeling a little guilty, Peter finally stepped into the house and said, "It's me, Mick."

First, Micky's shoulders relaxed, then, he tensed again. Feeling his way around the couch, then ducking down so he could reach for the end table and feel his way around that, too, he headed for the door. Again, Peter looked back at the girl, whose curiosity had turned to hurt. Reaching out, Peter gently took her hand.

"Peter! You've been gone for hours! What time is it?" Micky demanded. His hands gently wove through the air until they found a walk upon which to anchor themselves.

Wincing, Peter looked at his watch. "Uh. Well. It's — technically it's tomorrow. I mean, if I left last night, I'd be— " He paused when Micky narrowed his eyes, then supplied, "Quarter after six."

Micky ran his fingers through his hair, eyes still staring, unfocused, even as the girl sneaked into the pad and shut the door behind her. "Davy and Mike are out lookin' for you, Pete. You can't just run off and— Jesus. C'mere." He held out his arms, one hand finding Peter's sleeve, and pulled his blond friend into a hug. "What were you doing out there? We thought you'd been eaten by sharks or something!"

Perhaps for the first time ever, Peter struggled out of the hug, and took Micky by the shoulders. "Look, Micky, I had to go somewhere, and it was important, because…" He stopped mid-sentence, looking back at the girl again, who stared at Micky with an unreadable expression. "Because I wanted to fix… I wanted to fix you, and Mike, and me and Davy. Please don't be mad, okay?"

He hated the look on Micky's face, because the blindness robbed the drummer of a certain spark. Instead of meeting Peter's eyes, he stared somewhere off to the left, fixated on empty space. "There's someone else here," he said quietly, ear turning toward the girl.

"Don't be mad," Peter repeated.

Remaining still for a moment, Micky appeared to concentrate on the slight rustling of the girl's jacket. His head turned this way and that, as if the extra twitches would give him some advantage toward figuring out the mystery person's identity. He turned his chin up, jaw set, frustration evident on his face.

Peter looked at her, while she stared at Micky. Her mouth was slightly open, one hand poised in the air in front of her, as if she meant to reach for him. She knew, though. She said she knew. Why was she acting so hurt and confused? Maybe it was the way Micky was looking through her, instead of at her, without even a hint of recognition. She looked horrified, or crushed, Peter couldn't really tell which.

"Who's here?" Micky said suspiciously.

She reached out and took his hand. At first, he tried to pull away, but she held on. Eventually, he worked his fingers over hers, then up her arm and to her face, his expression remaining one of concentration. He felt her hair, then concentrated on her glasses for a little while. The whole time, she continued staring into his eyes, as if expecting him to see her.

But he never did. He couldn't.

Micky continued touching her face, disbelief evident in his expression. He would feel her ears, then her nose, then her ears again, as if he couldn't quite believe what his sense of touch told him. When his fingers brushed across her cheek again, though, he pulled back as if stung, and Peter could see that she was crying.

"…Jody?" Micky asked.

"Yeah, Mick. It's me," she said, a smile finally appearing on her face as he threw his arms around her.

All things considered, Peter felt that his unplanned trip to the train station ended up being perfectly justified.