Secrets of a Monkee
Summary: Micky meets his best friends during his darkest hour. Years later, his past comes back to haunt him. Can his friends help pull him back again?
Note: This is set in modern day, but the Monkees are still in their 20s. I just moved them forward in time because I cannot write 60's lingo or technology. With the exception of maybe cell phones, you may not notice though cause I don't use a lot of technology in here. This is also dark. As the summary says, the story starts with Micky's darkest hour. I am testing the waters here to see if anyone would be interested in reading this because I don't see any other real dark fics in this category. Please review to let me know if you want more.
Special thanks to my friends Miki and Emilio for input and proofreading.
Chapter 2: Saving Grace
Peter stood at the door, terrified. He had gone down there to give Micky some money that Mike, Davy, and Maria had gathered after witnessing his boss stealing it. It wasn't much, since none of them had a lot of money, but Peter felt very bad for Micky. Now he felt even worse. Micky had tried to tell him he was ok, but Peter knew he was just trying to get rid of him. As soon as Micky closed the door on him, he heard a horrible retching and knew that Micky was throwing up.
"Micky!" Peter called through the door, hoping the boy who risked his life for his was ok. His heart sank when he was answered only by another retching sound. Peter was contemplating what he should do next when he heard a thud. Peter threw the door open, knowing something must have happened to Micky. Sure enough, Micky lay on the ground in a pool of his own vomit. Peter's heart nearly stopped beating. Micky's face was slack and pale, his eyes closed. Peter dropped to his knees next to Micky and rolled him out of the puddle.
"Micky!" he pleaded, hoping Micky would open his eyes and respond. But he didn't. His face stayed slack. His eyes stayed closed. Peter shook him a little, trying to wake him. Nothing. He continued to call his name for what seemed like an eternity. But nothing happened. How could Micky have gotten this sick this fast? He was fine just 45 minutes ago when he had walked down here. Sure he looked depressed and upset, which is why Peter and the others had spent 45 minutes talking over how to cheer him up. Maria had said that nothing would work, and that Micky was very sullen as of late despite all her best efforts to cheer him up.
"Davy! Mike! Maria! Help!" he shouted up the stairs. Within seconds, Mike and Davy clamored down the staircase and both froze when they saw the young man passed out on the floor. "He….I don't know what happened. I knocked and he….he was so pale when he answered the door. And he was so sweaty. Then he closed the door and threw up. I heard a thud and found him like this….Where's Maria?"
"She had to go home," Davy said as he too knelt down next to Peter. Davy felt Micky's forehead. "He's cold." Davy then reached for his wrist. It took Peter a moment to realize he was looking for a pulse. Peter swallowed hard, terrified. "His pulse is good. A little slow, I think, but I'm not a doctor."
"A doctor!" Peter said. "We need to get him to a hospital. Someone should call for help." Mike nodded and ran up the stairs. Peter and Davy waited there for Mike to return with news of an ambulance. But when Mike came down, it was behind Robert.
"Oh jeeze, boy!" Robert yelled when he saw Micky. Robert was possibly the coldest man Peter had ever met. Peter was the type of person to find good in everyone, thinking everyone deserved a chance and that the world would be a lot more peaceful if everyone just loved one another. However, Peter was finding it difficult to find anything to love about this man.
"He needs a doctor," Davy said.
"That's what I told him," Mike said. But Robert wasn't listening. He was searching for something in the room. Peter was appalled at this man's lack of concern. "Please, sir, he's really sick." Mike pleaded. Apparently Robert wasn't going to call for an ambulance. Robert ripped open Micky's small refrigerator sitting on the floor and pulled out one half empty and two full bottles of beer.
"The boy isn't sick," Robert said very angrily. Peter almost argued with him, but Robert crossed the room once more to a large trash can and tipped it over. About half a dozen more empty beer bottle spilled out onto the floor. "He's drunk. He'll be fine by morning after he sleeps it off. And these are my beers, which means he stole them from me. I want him gone."
"Drunk or not, he's out cold!" Davy yelled jumping up.
"Want me to call the police? I will. Underage drinking and thievery. He'll get his hospital stay, but as soon as they check his blood, they'll arrest him. I really don't have a problem with that. In fact, that's just what I'm gonna do. The police can take his shit and deal with him."
"You're just throwing him out?" Mike said. "Just like that? While he's unconscious?"
"Yes, I am!"
"Well, hold on a minute! What if we took him? Packed up all his stuff in our car and let him sleep it off on our couch?" Peter looked at Mike gratefully. He didn't want Micky to end up in jail for a stupid mistake.
"I really don't care what you do! As long as he's out of my hair!"
"Ok. Then we'll take him. Do you at least have some boxes so we can pack his stuff?" Robert grunted something that Peter didn't hear, but assumed it was a "yes" as Mike followed him up the stairs.
"Wow…." Davy breathed. "That is the world's ugliest man." Peter silently agreed, deciding this was the one man in the world he hated.
"You really think he'll be ok if we don't take him to the hospital?" Peter asked.
"Yeah, but we'll keep an eye on him just in case. Robert kind of has a point. If Micky's drunk, they'll charge him with underage drinking." Mike came back downstairs with boxes in his arms. Peter didn't want to leave Micky's side and was thankful that neither Davy nor Mike said anything as they moved to start gathering everything of Micky's and throwing them into various boxes. Mike paused when he reached the dresser.
"Hey, look at this," Mike said. "He's a musician? There are old drumsticks and a guitar pick sitting here."
"I think I know why he's so depressed," Davy said, picking up a shattered picture of a beautiful girl.
"She must be an ex-girlfriend or something."
"Do we pack it?"
"Better. Just in case, but throw all the broken glass away." Once they were done packing, Davy began carrying the boxes up the stairs and out to the car. Mike walked over to Peter and Micky with a large blanket and wrapped it around Micky. The two of them lifted Micky and carried him up the stairs together in silence. Peter held him under his arms and Mike took his feet. On the street, Mike led them over to a bright red Pontiac GTO. Davy had lowered the top down already and Mike and Peter set Micky down in the last row. Peter climbed in next to him, still not able to leave the man who had saved his life just hours earlier. Davy and Mike ran back for the rest of the boxes and packed them in the second row with the other two Davy had already brought down. Mike's guitar lay next to Peters on the floor behind the second row of seats. Peter sat down and gently placed Micky's head in his lap while Mike took a seat behind the wheel and Davy got into the passenger seat.
"Keep an eye on his breathing," Mike said before starting the car. No one said anything else the rest of the way. The drive to Peter's new home seemed longer than it actually was, but that was because he was so worried about Micky. Mike also made a point to take turns and bumps as slowly and gently as he could so as not to jostle Micky. They finally pulled up to a large looking house overlooking the beach. Peter couldn't appreciate it, though. Mike and Davy jumped out and helped Peter carry Micky into the house.
"There are two rooms upstairs that are empty," Mike said. "Davy and I both prefer downstairs. One's yours and Micky can stay in the other tonight." Peter nodded, but wondered how they were going to get him up the spiral staircase without knocking his head on it. At the bottom of the stairs though, Mike grabbed Micky from Peter and began lifting with a strength Peter didn't expect from him. "Just hold his head." Peter did as he was told and followed Mike up the stairs with one hand holding Micky's head against Mike's shoulder. At the top of the stairs, Mike nodded to a second door, which Peter rushed to open. Mike dropped Micky on the bed, clearly unable to bear the weight any longer. Peter was grateful, thinking he'd never have been able to carry him. Davy came in the room and began setting the boxes in a corner.
"We should clean him up," Peter said, noticing Micky was now soaking wet from sweat, even though he was still somewhat cold.
"I'll get some washcloths," Mike said and ducked out of the room for a moment.
"I have some incense sticks in my guitar case," Peter said to Davy. "Would you mind grabbing them for me?"
"Incense?" Davy asked puzzled.
"Yeah, it's supposed to help the healing process and cleanse the soul." Davy merely shook his head, but turned to get the incense anyway. Peter was used to that. Peter was very spiritual, and it confused most people. He didn't care if Davy thought he was wacko. Peter just wanted to help Micky get better. Mike returned with a few clean blankets, several washcloths and a bucket full of water. Davy walked in seconds later with Peter's incense sticks and a few burners.
"How many do you want me to light?" Davy asked. Mike looked puzzled as he set the bucket down next to Micky.
"2 or 3 should be good," Peter responded, taking a washcloth from Mike. Mike shook his head as well as Davy began to light them and place them around the room. Peter unbuttoned Micky's soiled shirt and carefully took it off. Mike and Peter dunked their washcloths in the bucket and wrung them out. Peter started to carefully wipe down Micky's face, when he noticed Micky jerk a little. He froze for a second wondering what was happening. Suddenly Micky threw up again with another little jerk. Mike and Peter both gasped jumped back to avoid being hit.
"Gross," Davy whispered. "I don't think he likes the smell."
"Those are rather strong," Mike said looking at Peter.
"They're supposed to be," Peter said moving back towards Micky to clean him off a little more. "They're very cleansing."
"Yeah…." Davy said. "I'll get a mop." No one said anything as he left the room, looking as if he might throw up himself. Peter wiped all the sweat and sick from Micky's face, and tried to brush the hair out of his face, but it was wet and stuck to his forehead. Mike wiped the sweat from Micky's chest and back. When Micky was fairly cleaned up, Peter grabbed the blankets Mike had brought in and covered Micky up. Davy returned with another bucket full of soapy water and a mop.
"I'll get it," Peter said, taking them from Davy. "You guys go down and relax. I'll stay here with him."
"You sure?" Mike asked.
"Yeah. I owe him. If it weren't for him, I wouldn't be alive. The least I can do is nurse his hangover."
"Ok," Mike said. "If you need anything, we'll be downstairs. There's only one bathroom downstairs. There's soda in the fridge and a tv down there."
"Thanks," Peter said. Davy and Mike both turned to leave. "I mean it guys. Not just for taking me in, but for helping Micky, too. You guys don't even know him."
"Well, you do," Mike said. "And you seem to care about him."
"Sure, but you don't really know me yet either."
"True," Davy said, "but we also don't like to turn our backs on people in need. And after the night Micky had, I can't say I blame him for wanting to drink."
"He needs a friend after a night like he had," Mike added. "And I'm more than sure that tonight wasn't any different than any other night he's had for a while." They all smiled at each other, and Peter began to clean the floor while Mike and Davy went off to their own rooms. When the floor was clean, Peter put the bucket in the corner, in case he had to use it again. He kept the bucket with the washcloths closer so he could continue to clean Micky's face, as more sweat had started to appear. Peter sat down in a chair next to Micky and just watched him for a while before he fell asleep.
Peter awoke only a few hours later with a knot in his back from the chair. He looked over and noticed Micky had thrown up again. The sound must have been what woke Peter up. Peter got up and moved to sit on the edge of the bed. He rolled Micky back onto his back and took the washcloth to wipe his face down again. He felt like crying, not knowing how else to help Micky. It pained him to see someone this miserable, especially someone like Micky. Sure he barely knew Micky, but he knew all he needed to in order to know that Micky was a good person with a lot of heart. Peter knew very few people in this world would jump out in front of a speeding car to pull a stranger from harm. It told Peter that Micky had a big heart. Watching Micky put up with the abuses he had suffered all night from his boss and his boss's son was heartbreaking. He could tell Micky didn't deserve it.
Peter felt Micky's forehead and was pleased to note it felt warmer. He then checked his pulse, which seemed to also be stronger. Peter smiled. His incense sticks had gone out, so he walked over to a shelf where Davy had put more and proceeded to light a few more. Moments later, Micky threw up yet again. Peter almost did wonder at that point if the smell was making him throw up and immediately felt bad. He walked back over to Micky to clean up again. Once the floor was cleaned, Peter knew he had to throw away the water, so he carefully and quietly took the mop and the bucket downstairs to where Mike had told him the bathroom was. He didn't want to wake Davy or Mike, grateful to them that they had opened their home to a stranger. Peter wanted Micky to be his responsibility from here on out, though.
He was startled, however, to see Mike standing in the kitchen with a glass of water when he exited the bathroom with a clean mop and bucket.
"Mike!" Peter said. "I hope I didn't wake you."
"No, no," Mike assured him. "I was awake. Couldn't sleep and heard you come down. How's he doing?"
"He seems to be doing better."
"That's good. Seems a little odd, though."
"What does?"
"Well, I've been around my share of drunk people. It's a very common thing in Texas. I didn't see him drink at all at the party tonight, and if he had started when he went back to his room, it wouldn't have hit him as fast as it did."
"Unless he's a lightweight."
"Well, sure. But I doubt that since it seems as though he had quite a few old bottles around."
"Do you think something else is wrong with him?" Peter almost didn't want to know. At least if Micky was drunk, he would just have to sleep it off.
"I don't know. I hope that's all it is, but it just seems weird." Mike paused and Peter didn't know what else to say. "It's almost morning. I'm gonna try and get a little sleep. I feel better knowing Micky's improving. You should try and sleep, too."
"I did. I fell asleep in the chair." Mike just looked at him as if he wanted to say something else, but then decided not to.
"Good night, Peter."
"Good night, Mike. And thanks again. For everything." Mike simply smiled and walked off to his room. Peter made his way back up to the room Micky was in. Micky still lay there on the bed as Peter had left him. Peter sat back down in the chair and continued to wait for Micky to wake up. It would be a long wait, though, as Micky wouldn't wake up until later that afternoon.
Micky was falling down a dark hole. He couldn't see anything, but tried to reach out to the edges of the darkness. There was nothing to grab onto, though and he kept plummeting. He thought he heard voices and tried to listen for them. They seemed to be talking about him. Micky kept reaching out, trying to grab something; to stop himself from falling. But he also strained to listen to the voices. If he could figure out where they were coming from, he could try and reach for them. Maybe call out for help.
"Are you sure?" One of the voices was saying. It sounded vaguely familiar.
"Well, he should have woken up by now," said another voice. This one too sounded familiar. "But all the color is back in his face; he's stopped sweating. He appears to be doing fine."
"I think we should give it maybe a few more hours," said a third voice. This one had a British accent that sounded familiar. Micky swore he knew these people, but he didn't know from where. "If Micky doesn't wake up then, we'll call a doctor or something." Wake up? Micky wasn't asleep. He was plummeting. For a long time. He should have hit the bottom by now. He scrambled again to find the edge; something to grab onto. He tried crying out for help, but he made no noise. He was surrounded by complete darkness. Maybe he was sleeping. Micky closed his eyes and willed himself to wake up. That's when he hit the bottom. But instead of feeling hard ground beneath him, he felt soft cushion. His head felt as though it would explode and his stomach hurt. Micky let out a moan and all the voices around him immediately stopped talking. The silence itself was painful.
"Micky?" said the first voice. He recognized it now. It was the blonde haired man from earlier, Peter.
"Don't crowd him in case he throws up again," said the second voice. He recognized this one as the tall southerner, Mike.
"Micky?" Peter asked again. Micky could hear the pleading tone in his voice. Micky wondered how long he had been out and why these men who barely knew him were crowding around him. He wanted to yell at them to leave him alone, but his throat was too dry to make any noise louder than a whisper.
"What happened?" he croaked. He realized as soon as he said it his throat burned. He winced from the pain.
"Micky!" Peter sounded excited, but the noise cut through Micky's brain like a knife.
"Aah!" he cried out in pain, and again his throat burned.
"Sorry, I'm just so glad you're ok! We were worried about you!"
"What?"
"Peter found you passed out in your room," the third voice finally spoke up, but Micky already knew it had to be Davy. "He's been sitting here with you ever since." Micky finally opened his eyes, and immediately regretted it. The light hit him like a sledgehammer to the head. Micky recoiled and pulled the blankets over his head.
"Davy, get the lights!" Mike said. Davy must have turned them off because it suddenly got darker and Micky slowly lowered the sheet. Peter sat on the edge of the bed Micky was laying on and Mike stood behind him. Davy stood by the door, but moved to get closer to Micky too once the lights were off. Micky didn't recognize the room he was in at all. It was a basic room; 4 bare walls, a chair, a bed and a dresser. He also noticed some boxes stacked in the corner and an odd smell permeated the room.
"Where am I?" he croaked.
"Davy and Mike were gracious enough to bring you to their home," Peter answered.
"Our home," Davy said. "You live here now too, Peter."
"Oh yeah."
"Why?" Micky asked, fearing he already knew the answer.
"Well, uh…." Peter trailed off.
"We tried to get you help," Mike said. "Didn't know what was wrong with you. The only person I could find was uh….Robert." Micky groaned knowing what must have happened. "He found the bottles in your room and said he was gonna call the cops and have them evict you."
"We didn't think it was right to evict an unconscious person," Davy added. "Drunk or not, so we offered to let you sleep it off here instead of having you get arrested."
"Crap." Micky said. His plan had failed and now he was homeless. What a miserable failure he was.
"Mike and Davy packed all your stuff up," Peter said, indicating the boxes in the corner.
"Thanks. How long have I been out?"
"About 14 hours or so," Mike answered.
"And you've been here this whole time?" Micky asked Peter.
"Yeah," he replied. "I was worried about you."
"Great. Call us even now." Micky threw the sheet off himself and tried to get up, but failed. His legs wouldn't work.
"Whoa there, shotgun," Mike said, lunging to grab him before he fell on his face. "You aren't going anywhere for a while."
"Yeah," Davy added. "Probably not a good idea to go anywhere with a hangover that bad."
"Hangover?" Micky was puzzled. Then he realized what they must have thought. Sure enough, he still felt the bottle in his pocket, which meant they hadn't found it and didn't know he had taken any of them. The boys must have thought he was really drunk, which is why they didn't bring him to the hospital. "Oh yeah," He said in fake remembrance before someone questioned him. Micky lay back down, knowing they were at least right about him not being able to go anywhere.
"I'll get you a glass of water," Davy said before leaving the room.
"How do you feel?" Peter asked.
"Like hell," Micky responded. He really didn't want to go into it with these men. He felt ashamed. They had opened up their home to him and were taking care of him when they didn't have to. They didn't even know him. He couldn't say he was glad they helped him, but if they hadn't he might have woken up jail if Robert had found him passed out. He wondered why he was even still alive. He had taken half that bottle of pills. He should be dead. He realized he must have thrown up the pills when he threw up at home. Or most of them, since he had still apparently passed out for 14 hours. But if he had passed out, didn't that mean enough had gotten into his system to cause enough damage to kill him?
"What is that smell?" Micky asked, trying not to sound rude, but that smell was making it difficult to think.
"Sorry, it's my incense," Peter replied. "It's supposed to help cleanse the body."
"I think all it did was make him throw up," Davy said returning with the glass of water he promised.
"I threw up here?" Micky asked, suddenly even more ashamed.
"Yeah," Mike answered. "A few times. And I thank you for waiting till after we left the car. Would have been so much worse to clean that outta my car."
"To be fair," Peter said defensively as Micky drank the water Davy had brought, "I think him throwing up cleaned out his system a little. He did get more color in his face every time he did it. So technically the incense worked." It made sense now. Micky had thrown up off and on all night, expelling all the pills. A little bit had gotten into his system making him pass out, but he slept it off. Peter had saved his life by coming down to his basement apartment and by lighting that incense, but he didn't know it. And Micky vowed never to tell him. Or Mike or Davy. He didn't want them knowing the truth after they had been so kind to him.