Mike's fingers clenched into a fist.

Amid the cheering crowd and the excited contest winners, Felix continued climbing awkwardly onto the stage. When questioned by a security guard, he fished some sort of plastic pass out from under his suit coat and dangled it as best he could in such an awkward position. As he started to topple backward, the guard grabbed his wrist and tried to hoist him the rest of the way up, almost unbalancing both of them completely. Meanwhile, Michael felt more sure than he ever had in his entire life that he was about to punch someone as hard as he possibly could. On stage. In front of hundreds.

"I'm really sorry, guys," the DJ continued, looking almost perplexed as Michael stared past him. He turned to look over his shoulder, but by now, the burly security guard and the wiry Felix had completely disappeared from the stage. That was probably all for the best; Mike certainly didn't want to face assault and battery charges on top of losing so horrendously at something so very important.

As Alister hurried off to re-join the Gargoyles, Peter grabbed Mike's arm, giving his shoulder a pat, which effectively pulled him out of his thoughts. "C'mon. Let's go."

But Felix, who'd already proven his horrible determination in baffling ways, was proving yet again that he just wouldn't give up. As Mike stared at the edge of the stage, the man's wild hair reappeared, followed by a pair of confused brown eyes. Using his elbows as leverage, he started pulling himself up again, and Mike nodded in his direction, feeling his fingernails cutting into his palms.

It was all Peter could do to pull him, one inch at a time, toward the stage door and away from the awkward display. Mike couldn't get it out of his head, though, that Felix being here at the precise time the DJ announced the winners was too convenient to be mere coincidence. Any doubt in his mind disappeared; his face burned, and his eyes stung. Through his teeth, he hissed, "He wrote those letters, guys."

"I know," Micky muttered, voice similarly tense. He reached out once, then again, his hand missing Mike's arm twice before it found a perch against one shoulder. "But don't ruin it for the rest of 'em, Mike. It'll be okay. Good on them for winning."

The other bands were slowly filing off the stage, leaving only the winners behind with the host. Someone said something mildly encouraging to Mike as they walked past, but he wasn't really paying attention. Actually, he began hoping that the stare he was leveling on Felix might cause one or two of the man's organs to spontaneously combust or something.

When Peter finally did manage to guide him to the stairs, Mike narrowed his eyes one final time, but no fires erupted from Felix's ears. Disheartened, he turned and stomped down to the backstage area.

Davy followed, helping Micky as much as he could with the press of people all around them. Honestly, though, for not being able to see, Micky was doing quite well on his own. On each step, he slid his toe forward until he felt open air, then took a step down. Once they made it to the landing, Davy quickly pulled Micky out of the way of the other fleeing bands, and they made their way back over to their safe haven by the old speaker.

"I can't believe it," Davy said. "We did good, guys. Best we ever played." He looked over at Micky then, smiling despite the shared dour mood. "At least some good came out of that whole mess. We got you playin' again, Mick. And you were amazing." He elbowed the drummer gently. "You missed playin' in front of a crowd, eh?"

Micky offered a half-hearted smirk of his own, and shrugged. "You don't think it was the false start that killed our chances, do ya?"

"Nah, couldn't a' been," Mike replied. "I read the rules cover to cover. Ain't nothin' in 'em about starting a song over."

"Well, we tried." Peter hopped up onto the speaker again, sending a couple wisps of dust flying. Despite the optimism, Mike could already see the tears working their way down Peter's cheeks, leaving several damp spots on his shirt where they'd fallen. "Look, Micky," Peter went on, swiping a hand across his face. "We'll figure somethin' out. There's gotta be some way…"

The smirk on Micky's face faded, and he sighed. "There's always ways, Peter. The problem is, this was the easy way." He held his hands an arm's length apart, one drumstick in each. Nodding to one side to indicate the 'easy way,' he then looked over toward his other hand. "Waaaaay over here is the hard way, which is pretty much every other way we could possibly come up with. There's just no middle ground. Not unless someone wants to dump ten grand into our laps."

"What about your parents?" Davy asked quietly. "Or, you know, Jody?"

Micky shook his head. "My parents would help me until they had to sell their own house, and I can't let 'em do that. And Jody's going to college, so she's already in debt, I'm guessin'."

Speaking of, Mike heard a loud, metallic /clunk/ as a black-shirted security guard pushed open and then held the heavy rear access door. He stepped aside, admitting a handful of people, including Micky's sister. As she searched for them, the guard hurried to close the door again.

Mike managed a tired smile, raising his hand, and gave a quick wave so that Jody could find them. As she hurried over, shouldering past other people in the small space, Mike leaned over and warned, "incoming."

Micky barely had a chance to say "Huh?" before Jody threw her arms around him and nearly knocked him right over. As he awkwardly yelped and tried to right himself, Peter caught and steadied them both, from atop his perch.

Once standing, and once Micky seemed to confirm that the person with her arms around him was his sister and not some random stranger, he gave her a quick hug in return.

"What happened, guys?" she asked. "You were amazing! The audience really seemed to like you. I mean, I thought you were the best, but I might be biased…"

"Disqualified," Davy interrupted, crossing his arms.

For a moment, Mike was sure Jody had become a statue, as she stood there with her jaw slack, staring at Davy. Grimly, he inwardly acknowledged that he both loved and hated seeing moments such as these, when a person has just received such a staggeringly impossible piece of news that their response centers completely shut down. Perhaps she was waiting for one of them to say "just kidding!" and conjure some hidden GRAND PRIZE trophy that didn't actually exist. Realizing that Davy spoke truthfully, all she could say was, "What did you do wrong?"

Her confusion turned to pity, and Mike couldn't help the slight curl of his lip. He hated that look, even though, for once, the Monkees might have actually deserved it. Despite not being a conceited person, Michael knew that no other band handled the stage better than the Monkees, and not one other person played with more heart than Micky Dolenz. If they'd actually messed something up, he could at least turn his anger inward, but as he went over their setlist over and over in his mind, he always came up with nothing. They broke no rules in the execution of their four song. There wasn't a time limit, so they couldn't have gone over it. And since Micky was a registered member of the band, leading him up on stage to play couldn't have counted against them, either.

Something stunk about the whole thing.

"Maybe we shoulda cut I'm a Believer off early," Davy said. "We could have struck the last verse. I'm thinkin' it must be a time issue."

"No…" Peter said, drawing out the syllable in thought. "No, I'm sure it wasn't that. 'Cuz we weren't timed - Mike said so." As if confirming this as fact, Peter looked to Michael, who nodded.

"Then, maybe they just didn't like us," Davy said. "Hell, I dunno, as far as I'm concerned, we didn't do anything off."

"It's our shirts," Micky said, tugging at his collar. Not a second later, his face fell in confusion, and he asked, "Say, what am I wearing, anyway?"

That question actually did cause Michael to allow a half-smile. Just before they all left, Davy, in executing his grand scheme to get Micky up on stage, switched out the drummer's garish patterned shirt for their red eight-button polo. Sure, it seemed like a bit of a crime to fool Micky in such a way, but the intent was to have them all match.

…And maybe spare the audience from a very loud article of clothing.

Hearing a commotion over by the stage door, Mike allowed his gaze to wander there, where he immediately saw Felix Macleod trying to worm his way between some of the people hanging out at the bottom of the steps. As Micky, Davy, and Peter continued trying to suss out their costly error, their words became a meaningless pounding in Mike's ears. His vision constricted into a narrow tunnel, concentrating intently on the prey, the prize, the reason for which everyone was searching. His only thoughts turned to attack. Attack, attack, attack.

Without even bothering to discern why Felix even followed them down here, Mike struck, grabbing Felix by the shirt collar and fully lifting him off the floor. Only after slamming him into a cinderblock wall did Mike's senses return enough for him to shout, "what more do you want from us!?"

Every single person in the backstage area went silent.

Felix squirmed and kicked his feet, brown eyes wild with something beyond fear. He found Micky, and gasped, "Micky, tell 'im to put me down!"

Mike turned, eyes daring Micky to say something. But the drummer was silent, his arms crossed, scowling.

Encouraged by Micky's anger, and acting on his best friend's behalf, Mike turned back to the Scotsman, trying not to allow a smirk to creep onto his face. After all the hell the Monkees went through, it was about time they got a little payback.

But Peter, ever the calm voice of reason, muttered, "Mike, this isn't like you."

With those five little words, the righteous rage began to leave him, and Michael found himself struggling to hold their betrayer off the floor. Before the surge of adrenaline left him entirely, though, he growled, "It was you. You got us disqualified! How'd you think we'd react if you showed up down here? 'Here's your reward for being a jack-ass! Sorry, we forgot to bring your dozen roses, and I left my congratulations in my other pants.'"

Before his strength left him completely, Mike released Felix, who fell roughly to the floor.

Jody and the four Monkees stared down at him as he rubbed his neck. At least at this point, he had the decency to look properly horrified. Still, Mike couldn't figure out why he was here. To gloat? To deny the whole thing?

He surprised them all by saying, "You couldn't possibly know! Geez, I tried to call ahead, but they'd already started the show…" He picked himself up, brushing himself off. The dust, however, clung to his suit like fresh paint, and his hands only caused the dirt to smudge all the way across the expensive fabric. He chanced a look up into Mike's eyes before continuing. "I just got the go-ahead. There's no way you could know! I mean… I'm starting to think we're on different pages here!"

"Speaking of pages," Micky said, "If you're going to try to rip us apart in the newspaper, you're going to have to try a lot harder. At the risk of soundin' sappy, we're a lot more than just some old band. It'd take a lot more than a couple letters in the paper to keep us off the stage."

"That was a little sappy," Davy asided.

Micky shrugged.

Felix, however, could only shake his head slowly, eyes wide with confusion. "Letters?"

"Letters to the editor! In the damn Times!" Mike spat. "Sayin' we were usin' Micky and all. C'mon, you remember! You wrote 'em! Now ain't the time to play dumb."

Out of the corner of his eye, Mike noticed one of the Gargoyles stop mid-stride as he sauntered down the stairs from the stage. Let him hear the argument. So what? Mike couldn't possibly care less who knew what happened.

Mike's temper continued to slowly dissipate, though with every passing moment that Felix looked totally lost. "I didn't write any letters. I mean, not to the paper, anyway. To the head of the department, sure, but those're private. Y'wouldn'ta read 'em."

Now it was everyone else's turn to feel lost. After a shared glance among them, it was Micky who finally spoke up. "Uh, look. Maybe we better start from the beginning. Felix, we were DQ'd up there, after we totally aced an entire set. Best we ever played. I think Tex here's just hoping for some sort of explanation."

"Well…" Felix started, looking away. "The disqualification was my fault. But— " he held up his hands as Mike took a threatening step forward. "Look. Okay. I'm a medical student at UCLA. In order to graduate, I have to do a project. A year-long study. When I met Micky at that restauranty… thingy… uh… It kind of all came together. I wanted to study… Well, the whole blindness, sight-loss, hit-on-the-head thing that you had going on, but I needed a grant to do it. I wrote the proposal to the head of my department."

"You didn't write to the paper?" Mike asked.

"No," Felix replied. "Why would I?"

"Why were they disqualified?" Jody asked.

"'cuz I… I made a mistake. The grant… Look, I requested in the grant that if it was approved… If the board said yes… All of Micky's medical bills from the time of the accident to the end of my study would be covered. And the university considered it a conflict of interest and disqualified you before they even let me ask if you'd do it. I was coming here to tell you, I… I promise. Really. But I couldn't get through to anyone. Not on the phone, they wouldn't let me onto the stage…"

As Mike stared at the young man before them, he tried to put things together in his head. It was hard to re-evaluate all the misconceptions he'd already formed, because his brain still wanted Felix to be the fall-guy. The one they could all blame. But… Then he remembered one very important fact about the contest rules, which he'd read way back before they even started on the long road of competition. The contest was sponsored almost entirely by the UCLA medical campus. "It was a study on … music…" Mike stammered.

"Well, it was supposed to be a psychological study. I was taking my psychology elective this semester, so I thought I'd attend the concerts." Felix idly tried to brush more dust off his clothing, without success. "But I saw the opportunity for a grant proposal and took it. It was my second proposal. The first one went down in flames, unfortunately."

Mike didn't really know what to say. He'd spend so much time being angry at the concept of this man writing horrible things about them in the newspaper, that he honestly couldn't reconcile with the fact that Felix was innocent. "So it wasn't you. You didn't write to the paper about how you thought we were using Micky and how we should be disqualified?"

Felix's look of confusion said more than words. Still, he added, "Why would I? The ability for someone to keep functioning without one of their primary senses is fascinating! I mean, my entire thesis is based around that very fact."

"I told you guys it wasn't him," Micky said. He reached out, pawing at the air until he found Mike's sleeve. Winking at the taller man, he pushed him gently aside, before reaching for Felix. Smiling, the Scot reached out and took Micky's hand.

"What did you say?" Micky asked. "About the grant?"

"It would cover all your medical bills, one hundred percent. You'd just have to let me do a study on the cause of your blindness." Felix's other hand grasped Micky's shoulder. "There'd be some tests involved. Nothing dangerous. Any experimental therapy we'd use would be run by you first. It's a unique injury. I just wanted to study it. And write a thesis paper on it, hopefully get it published."

They both stood there for a while in the low light, just staring at each other. Micky appeared to consider this for a moment, then he looked back and said, very quietly, "Mike, I don't think we lost."

"Is that a yes?" Felix asked, hopeful.

The progression of emotion on Micky's face before he eventually nodded threatened to make even Mike cry. The stunned silence was followed by a smile, then the smile broke down into a tearful giddiness, which continued into a strange, relieved laughter.

They didn't win. They wouldn't have their time in the spotlight like they wanted, and maybe the Monkees would go on to fade into obscurity. But the entire point of this thing - the only reason Mike even considered subjecting himself and his friends to the competition, was to try to recoup the costs of their dear drummer's hospital stay. Now, it seemed that their goal was well-met, which meant they could all stop worrying about it. Moreover, they'd been so quietly disqualified that they didn't even have to worry about bruised egos. Arguably, the Monkees won the best prize they could have possibly hoped to achieve.

Even so, Mike thought, as Micky turned away from his benefactor and hugged his sister, it would have been nice to actually get some sort of public win. The recognition would have done them good, and possibly led to a more steady source of income. As he contemplated that, he noticed that the Gargoyles' lead singer was still staring at them, smirking.

That look said so much.

Mike stepped forward and hissed, "It was you."

The other man shrugged. "Look, what can I say? All's fair, man. When you're on top, you have to do a few things to keep yourself there. If you would have dropped out of the competition, it would have been easier for us, that's all. No hard feelings."

"You coulda made him stop playin'!" Mike returned.

The other singer merely shrugged.

Though flattered that one of the best amateur bands he'd ever heard play considered the Monkees a threat, Mike still had some unspent anger to unleash. His mind told him it was a bad idea, but his arm apparently wasn't paying attention, because his fist crashed into the Gargoyles' lead with just about as much force as he could muster.

The man staggered backward before falling into the arms of his other bandmates. As Mike shook out the pain in his hand, he growled through his teeth, "Enjoy your victory."

—-

Later, they sat in the same Santa Monica diner where they'd originally met Felix. The med student sat at the end of the booth, nursing a plate of fries and a Coca-Cola. "Honestly, I thought you were gonna kill me, Mike."

"I thought I was, too," Mike replied. He briefly lifted the ice pack off his knuckles, wincing at the bruise slowly spreading across his skin. "Good thing the other Gargoyles thought those letters were a bad idea, 'else I could be spending the night in jail."

"He deserved it," Davy said.

They all looked at Peter, who shrugged. "Usually, I'm all for settling things without, you know. Punches being involved. But with what he said about Micky…"

"I would have done it myself," Jody said, "if Mike hadn't gotten there first."

Micky chuckled, hands working over the table until he located his napkin. He idly started worrying the corners of it, allowing little flecks of paper to fall to the table. "Don't know how I lived without you for all those months," he said, glancing up at her.

"Not to break up this touching moment where we all discuss how much we all woulda liked to have decked the guy," Davy started, "but I'm kinda curious about how all this is gonna work. The grant and all."

"We'll have some papers for Micky to sign," Felix said. "And I'll read 'em all out loud before you do, so you know what you're signing. One of them's a waiver allowing us access to your hospital debt, so we can pay it off. Ideally, we would have been doing one MRI a week, but it took a while to get this all approved."

Still somewhat embarrassed that his usually accurate judge of character failed him, Mike frowned. "Look, Felix. I'm sorry I jumped to conclusions and all. It just seemed awfully suspicious."

"Now that you've explained it, it all seems to fit. Coincidence is a pretty nasty villain."

Mike nodded.

"It woulda been nice to announce the prize on stage. There wasn't enough time to run it past the proper channels, though. Some people thought it'd be unfair - favoritism and all." Felix continued playing with his fries for a moment. "I should have told you what I was planning earlier. I didn't want to get anyone's hopes up, though. I asked for a lot of money for the grant, and the board easily could have said no. So there's really no need to apologize."

As their waitress brought their main courses - which really just consisted of a couple hamburgers and another couple plates of fries - they lapsed into a comfortable, exhausted silence. Mike could honestly say he was pleased that the whole thing worked out, even if he still felt uneasy about the Gargoyles' attack on Micky. It shook their foundation. In the end, though, they pulled themselves together, which they always seemed to accomplish. A brilliant rescue at the eleventh hour.

"Uh, look," Felix said when they were just about finished. He pulled a camera out of his bag, fiddling with the controls. "This is my first grant and all, so when I graduate and get my own office somewhere, I kinda want to have a picture of you guys all framed up next to my diploma."

"I can't guarantee I'll be looking right at the lens," Micky said with a chuckle.

Felix stood, pushing his chair out of the way, and took a few steps back to get everyone in the picture. Jody quickly moved out of the way as the boys posed.

Actually, "posed" wasn't quite right. They goofed off long enough to give Jody time to say, "Hey, you should be in the picture, Felix." She held out her hand. After a moment of thought, he handed over the camera with a quiet thank you, before going to sit back down with the others.

She counted to three.

The flash went off, and it seemed everyone was ready for it, except one.

With a yelp, Micky nearly jumped right out of the booth, rubbing at his eyes. Everyone turned to stare at him, silent, holding their breaths. Mike tentatively set a hand on his friend's shoulder; eventually, Micky slowly dropped his hands from stunned eyes, and stared. He was still obviously sightless, but maybe…

"Jo, can you do that again?" he asked.

She didn't even bother to line up a proper shot. After waiting for the flash to charge again, she just pressed the button. Like last time, Micky startled, although not with quite as much enthusiasm.

In a rare moment of speechlessness, all Micky could do was cry. And as the tears began to pour from his eyes, the restaurant filled with the sound of a very happy, very relieved laugh.

EPILOGUE

"MICKY! Cut it out!" Davy shouted.

Micky looked up, squinting, as he made out his friend's blurry form at the top of the stairs. "C'mon! It's not every day you start to see color again!" he exclaimed. Turning back to the wall, where swaths of color now streaked across it in a beautifully-confused rainbow, Micky smiled at his handiwork.

His sight returned, at first, with frustrating slowness. In the beginning, days passed where Micky would only be able to see a bright flash of light now and then, which he would report to Felix with increasing despair. After Micky's first scan following the competition, though, the aspiring doctor told him to have heart, for the damage seemed to be relenting.

After the first week, Micky started discerning lights and darks with relative ease. Distinct shadows started to form out of brightness, and pinpoints of light would meander through shadow. The shadows and lights eventually became shapes. And today, those shapes finally resolved into color.

"That's what paper is for!" Davy stomped down the stairs, pulling the crayons out of Micky's hands.

"I tried paper!" Micky returned. "It's just too small. And c'mon, look at all this wall space."

"Oh, he's already drawn all over it," Mike muttered from the living room. "Let 'im keep goin'. We got some mineral spirits in the garage. It'll take all that right off."

"It'll take off the paint, too," Davy muttered. Almost reluctantly, he handed the crayons back. Micky wasted no time in drawing a green line from one corner to another, before putting his face a mere inch from the wall so he could see it. It was so brilliant! So beautiful! And it didn't just feel good to see again, but he couldn't quite describe the euphoria he felt. It went far beyond gladness or relief or joy. Color! Color existed for him again!

"Just keep 'im away from the ceiling," Mike drawled, flipping a page of his magazine.

Through it all, Felix was particularly interested in every single minute detail. At first, Micky feared that the return of his sight would ruin the study and cause him to forfeit the entire grant… On the contrary, though, the recovery had the young med student more excited with each passing day. Though the blindness itself was of interest, the literal light at the end of the tunnel kept the study interesting. Micky answered what he could, and participated in whatever tests were asked of him, despite the fact that he was so distracted by seeing the world around him that he could barely sit still anymore to do anything.

"Where's Peter?" Davy asked, as Micky whirled past him again, this time trailing a handful of all the blues and yellows he could find.

"Buyin' paint," Mike replied, dryly.

He flipped another page, and sighed. "Micky, I just bought this book."

Micky looked over and shrugged. "It wasn't colorful enough. I had to improve it."

"You drew beards on all the girls!"

Squinting, Micky asked, "That's a girl?"

With another sigh, Mike tossed the magazine aside. "Right. Well. I'm gonna go lock up my sheet music before he gets hold o' that, too."

As Micky continued doodling on the walls, a pained shout came from the vicinity of Mike's room. Abruptly turning, Micky handed the crayons to Davy, and, laughing, ran out the front door.