Just hold it together, Michael, he thought to himself as he nervously tapped his fingers on his cup. Just hold it together.

He thought it was immature, maybe even childish, to act like this. He knew it was, but in the end he couldn't help it. These days it was the little things that started to really get him. Like answering the door.

He should be used to it by now, right? The other Monkees never answered the door (unless ordered to, often by Mike), so he'd always be the one answering it. But since the experience with Mr. Babbitt...

Tell them you're busy and can't come to the door right now. Tell them to go away and don't come back. Turn the lights off and don't answer the door at all. Pretend you don't exist.

Mike faltered.

But what if it was important? What if it was a job offer or something? What if they were being evicted and opening the door was the only chance he had at saving the house?

Mike sat down, leaning his back against the front door and his hands continuing to tap on his glass. Davy had told him he had been doing that all the time since it happened. He didn't often realize he was doing it until someone would tell him to stop. It had become a nervous habit of his, knocking and tapping on things as if this time he'd hear it.

If they were being evicted, whoever could've waited until the others were home. Couldn't they have come later? Now's not really a good time to be evicted. If they could come back later...

Forget it. Mike sighed. He shouldn't have let the others leave him, not again. It was his stupid idea. Why are they only listening to him now?

"We need the money," Mike had told them. That was true, they did. Much more now than usual due to expensive doctors visits. So the Monkees went on to perform tonight, as a trio. Even if Mike wasn't deaf, he was still too exhausted to perform.

What if it was Babbitt back again? What would he say? What would he think? What would he do? What would I do?

Mike frowned. He'd rather be anywhere else than right here, right now. He felt the vibrations in his back of someone knocking on the door again.

"COMING!" He called out, his nervous fidgeting becoming worse.

What did that sound like? Was it too loud or did anything even come out at all? Did he sound any different? If so, what did he sound like?

He sighed, waiting. Was whoever was behind the door talking, responding? Or just waiting, like him? Maybe he could ask them to slip a note under the door saying who they were and why they were there? Lousy idea.

He stood and set the glass down on the coffee table, there was no turning back now. He shouldn't have even opened his mouth. Now he'd have to go and answer it.

"I'm coming," he repeated, not going any closer to the door. "Just-just give me a minute."

Mike had thought of going out the back door and running as far away from the house as he could've. Or maybe he could've gone out the front door, pushing past the person, saying that he had somewhere he needed to be and was in a hurry. He frowned and looked down, noticing he was still in his pajamas. Of course, it would only take a minute or two to get changed...no, he had to do this.

He took a few deep breaths before approaching the door. He couldn't let whoever was there see that he had been panicking, that would cause a series of questions that he wasn't quite ready to answer yet. Mike wasn't afraid of being seen, or even being judged, for that matter. He was afraid of the questions, of having to tell people, especially those who knew him. It was scary enough telling the other Monkees. It had been going on his entire life, but he wasn't supposed to get sick yet. They had first told him 35, he was supposed to have another 10 years before he got sick.

He turned the handle and slowly opened the door. He didn't even have a moment to process or think when he was pulled into a hug.

"A-April?" Mike stammered, the sense of fear returning when he realized who was there.