Author's note: Two updates in one day! WOO! lol, I just got inspired for this fic, and so the ensuing chapter came into being. It's a lot longer than I intended, but I didn't want to take anything out, and it's after midnight here, so... enjoy!

P.S. Just like parts 1, 2 and 3, this story is based on the story arc of the same name, written by Crystal Rose of Pollux. As such, some of the diologue, as well as a few descriptive scenes, belong to her.

Running through the swinging doors into the large but old-fashioned kitchen, Micky stopped for a moment to catch his breath before diving towards the wood stove and ducking behind it, trying to be as still and as quiet as possible.

The door was banged open, and a man came barging into the room.

"DOLENZ!" He yelled. "I SWEAR, WHEN I FIND YOU, YOU ARE DEAD!"

Micky bit his lip in an attempt to keep from crying out in fear. Luckily, he was skinny enough that the man didn't see him behind the stove, and as the man was rather dim-witted anyway, he simply looked wildly about the room before growling and leaving the kitchen to look someplace else.

Micky let out a breath and allowed himself a moment to calm down before standing shakily to his feet and looking around. He had to find Peter, and fast.

It had been two weeks since Davy had quit the band, and so far, Micky and Peter had experienced the same kind of luck they had had as the Connecticut Yankee and the California Dreamer the first time around. That is to say, they'd gotten one gig in the past two weeks.

That was what had started this whole thing. Micky and Peter had shown up for the gig, a celebratory party for the employer's Uncle Dodo. As it turned out, Uncle Dodo was very rich and very crabby and very, very dead, which was why his relatives were celebrating.

Peter and Micky had been horrified to learn that they were providing entertainment at such an event, but they really needed the money.

Mr. Babbit had come collecting the week prior, and although both Mike and Davy had left their shares of the rent, thus providing enough to pay for the month, Micky and Peter had been left with little money remaining. Food had taken backseat priority; their only concern was keeping the pad. Unless they got twice as much money this month, they would be evicted. And that was simply not an option.

So they had agreed to play at the death-party, and for the first hour of the gig, everything had gone well. All the guests seemed to be having a grand time at the expense of Uncle Dodo, and although Micky and Peter were playing an entire new list of songs (mostly written at night, when they would forget to go to bed until one of them would notice the rising sun, at which point they would both crash for a few hours before starting the day), they were doing pretty well and were beginning to feel optimistic about the whole thing.

Then they overheard one of the relatives, a Cousin Horace, plotting to switch out the last remaining will and testament of Uncle Dodo, which was to be read at the end of the evening. According to Cousin Horace, who was explaining his plan to a rather dim-witted but very huge, very muscle-bound goon, the will left all of Uncle Dodo's wealth to Little Lucy, who had had the privilege of calling Uncle Dodo "Grandfather."

Little Lucy was not so little anymore, and she was very poor, very sweet, and very, very pretty. So Micky and Peter decided to help her out, which had led to them sneaking around and setting up an elaborate trap and using various funny disguises, in order to trap Cousin Horace in the act of switching the wills.

Only, something had gone wrong, something had back-fired, and now Micky and Peter had been separated, Micky chased by the goon and Peter chased by Cousin Horace.

"Peter!" Micky called out in a somewhat loud whisper as he walked around the kitchen. "Peter, are you in here? It's me, Micky!" He looked under the table and behind a few cupboards, and was just about to leave when he spotted something on the ground. It was his curly blonde wig, which Peter had been using in the plot to capture Cousin Horace. That meant that Peter had to be somewhere in the kitchen. But where?

He looked around again, and he found his attention drawn to... Of course, why hadn't he thought of it before?

Walking over to the back of the kitchen, Micky opened the old-fashioned walk-in freezer and looked inside. Sure enough, there was Peter, sitting in the middle of the floor, his arms wrapped around his knees, shivering.

"H-hey, M-Micky," He said, smiling up at the brunette. ""b-boy, am I g-glad t-to s-see y-you!"

"Peter, what are you doing in there!?" Micky demanded, stepping inside and grabbing Peter's arm.

Click.

Micky, who had been pulling Peter to his feet, froze (no pun intended). Turning around, he looked at the freezer door, which had swung shut behind him.

"C-cousin Horace sh-shut m-me in h-here," Peter explained, his teeth chattering. "There's n-no h-handle on the ins-side."

"I can see that," Micky said, noticing that he could also see his breath. "You could have said that earlier.

Peter shrugged. "S-sorry," he said. "But l-look... Food." The blonde pointed to the shelves and Micky looked to where he was pointing. "P-peter," he said. "Th-those are frozen v-vegetables."

"Th-they're still f-food," Peter said. "W-we m-might as well eat while we're h-here."

Micky looked at the vegetables and felt his stomach growl at the sight. "W-well," he said. "M-maybe just a f-few."

That was how Little Lucy had found them ten minutes later, shivering and stuttering and gnawing on the rock-solid frozen veggies.

After Cousin Horace was stopped and everything was explained, the two boys were given a hot meal and were paid immediately, both from their employer, and from Little Lucy, who, now finding herself rich, graciously gave the boys... five dollars each.

"Well, I suppose we should count our blessings," Micky said, pocketing his share of the money. "Every little bit helps."

"Yeah," Peter said. "And the free meal was good."

"That's right, Pete," Micky said. "And I managed to sneak a few of those carrots into your guitar case, so we can snack on those tomorrow."

"That's good," Peter said. "And you know what else?"

"What's that?" Micky asked.

"Cousin Horace said he liked our music," Peter said. "He said he might be able to get us a gig playing a show for the inmates at his prison."

It had been two and a half weeks since their gig at the death-party, and Peter was looking everywhere except at the one thing he was thinking the most about.

They had played only one more gig since that last one, luckily, Cousin Horace's plans had fallen through, and the boys had not had to resort to playing a show at the prison. They had, however, resorted to the closest thing to it. They had finally managed to secure a minimum-wage job at the Cheep n' Speedy Burger Joint, a 24-hour greasy diner across town. Micky worked as a waiter during the day shift, and Peter worked as a combined waiter-janitor during the graveyard shift.

They had slipped into a routine; Micky would work the day shift and come home, he and Peter would rehearse their set list and look for any gigs that happened to take place between five and ten-thirty, which was when Peter's shift started. Then Micky would sleep while Peter worked. Then, when Peter got home in the morning, he would crash while Micky went off to work, waking up a few hours before Micky got home, and he would go down to the corner news stand and read as many of the work ads as he could without actually having to pay for a paper.

But today, Peter had something different in mind.

He'd gone down to the news stand and looked at the ads alright, but not for any gigs. The rent would be due any day now, Mr. Babbit was going to show up knocking on their door, and unless they got a miracle, there was no way they would be able to pay this months rent.

It had been hard enough when there were four people paying their shares, now it was just him and Micky, and he just had to face it, The California Dreamer and the Connecticut Yankee were no good without their Lone Star and Union Jack. They had been unsuccessful before, they were unsuccessful now. Only this time, there was more at stake than simply a house.

They could live anywhere, they had bounced from hotel to boarding room to small apartment almost on a weekly basis before; but now... now they had an actual home, not just a sleeping arrangement. They didn't want to be evicted.

Peter looked up, interrupted in his thoughts, as Micky opened the door. "Hi, Pete," he said, walking over to the couch and flopping down onto it. "Any luck?"

Peter shook his head. "No," he said. "I couldn't find any gigs."

Something in his tone must have been off, 'cause Micky looked up at him, frowning slightly. "What's wrong?" He asked.

Peter shook his head. "It's just... the rent's due," he stated.

Micky sighed. "Yeah," he said. "I know. I don't know how we're going to pay it."

"Me neither," Peter said, squirming slightly. He knew how to pay it. He just didn't want to tell Micky. He knew Micky would try to stop him. But... maybe he didn't have to...

"Micky?" He said. Micky looked up at him.

"Yeah, Pete?" He asked. "What's up?"

Peter took a deep breath. "How important is it that we stay here at the pad?"

Micky blinked. "That bad, huh?" He asked.

"Well..." Peter shrugged his shoulders non-commitedly. "Let's just say, if we couldn't afford the rent and we got evicted, how would you feel about it?"

Micky laughed. "How would I feel about it?" He asked. "Honestly, Peter, I would probably cry. But maybe that's the sleep-deprivation talking. I couldn't sleep again last night. Every time I almost drifted off, I would remember that stupid empty bed and I would be wide awake again."

Peter nodded, he was facing similar problems. "Maybe one of us could move," he suggested. "So we'd be sharing one room with each other, instead of each of us having our own room..."

He trailed off as Micky shook his head. "No," he said. "No, those are their beds. I know I'm being sentimental and foolish, but I don't want to sleep in Davy's bed, and I don't want you sleeping in Mike's."

"Fair enough," Peter said. He knew what he had to do. "Alright," he said, standing up. "We're going to need to work twice as hard from this point on. New plan: You look for gigs, after all, you do know more about than I do still."

"What are you going to do?" Micky asked, already reaching into the almost-empty petty cash jar and fishing out a few pennies for a paper.

"Me?" Peter asked, grabbing his bass and slinging the strap around his shoulder. "I'm gonna go down to the station and busk with everything I've got. Maybe somebody will feel bad for me and give me twenty dollars."

Micky chuckled. "I like your enthusiasm," he said. "Alright, see ya later, Pete!"

With that, they both left the pad, Micky walking down one sidewalk to the news stand, and Peter walking down the other towards the bus station. After he'd walked a few blocks, however, he changed direction and began hurrying along the sidewalk, his heart beating fast with what he was about to do.

He was hurrying so that if Micky chased him down for some reason, he wouldn't be able to find him. He was hurrying so that nobody would try and stop him and chat- an occurrence that happened quite often, as people seemed to take to Peter easily, even if they never saw him again. But mainly he was hurrying so that he wouldn't have the chance to change his mind. Because if he gave himself even a moment in which to doubt, he would never go through with it.

Stopping in front of the store front, he stared up at the sign for a few moments before sighing and walking inside.

"Hey, Peter, you're back early," Micky said as Peter walked into the pad. "Did you get the twenty?" The drummer smiled, but his smile quickly faded. "Peter..." He asked slowly. "Where's your bass."

"I..." Peter said, before his throat closed up. He swallowed and tried again. "I sort of... well, that is to say... I pawned it."

"You WHAT!?" Micky gasped.

Peter looked down at the ground. "We... we needed the money... so we could keep the pad. I sold it to the pawn shop downtown."

"Oh, Peter!" Micky said. "Why? I mean, I guess I know why, but how could you? You loved that bass! You've had it for longer than I've known you!"

Peter nodded stiffly. "...Yeah," he said simply.

Micky bit his lip. He could tell Peter felt badly about having to pawn his bass, the last thing he needed was to have Micky get after him about it. "Well," he said, trying to summon some enthusiasm from somewhere. "I guess we'll just have to make the best of it. Let's go pay that rent, and then we'll get back to work. We'll just earn back the money and buy it back. It's as simple as that."

"But what if they sell it before we get paid?" Peter said. "And what about next months rent?"

"Eh, we'll worry about next month next month," Micky said with a wave of his hand. "Besides, you know how Pawn shops are, it'll probably still be there for months. We've got plenty of time."

This cheered Peter up, but Micky... not so much. Peter's Bass was just the latest in a long line of disappointments, not the least of which being that after the first two weeks, they had stopped receiving phone calls from Davy and from Mike. At first, they had accredited it to the two rising-stars being busy, then they had accredited it to they themselves being busy. But now, they were forced to conclude that all four of them were busy, and, without being able to pay them, the Urgent Answering Service had stopped taking messages. This left a period of five and a half hours in which the phone could be answered if it rang; provided Micky and Peter weren't out auditioning as the Connecticut Yankee and the California Dreamer, and as they were auditioning at every place they could think of, they were rarely home. So, they decided that it wasn't anyone's fault that they weren't getting calls. But it was disappointing all the same.

Four days later, Micky and Peter got their first paycheck.

"Peter!" Micky exclaimed dramatically, holding up his check. "Look! Money!"

"Oh, what a beautiful sight!" Peter said, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye.

Their boss, the manager of the Cheep n' Speedy Burger Joint, glared at the two boys. "Yeah, money," he said. " Yer lucky yer getting that much, you lazy good-for-nothin's. You'd better work twice as hard if you wanna see another check. With work as bad as yers, I'd be better off hiring a couple of monkeys!"

This caused both Micky and Peter to flinch, and the manager to smirk. He had learned early on that for some reason, the two had seemed to dislike the word, and he had proceeded to use it in their presence as often as he possibly could.

"Now get outta my sight before I puke, ya freaks," he said, his face returning to its usual scowl. "For heaven's sake, you stink of burnt vegetable oil and hamburger grease. Don't come back 'till you've managed to get that stench out of your clothes."

With that, he shoved the two boys out of his office and slammed the door.

"Well, that went better than I expected," Micky said with a smile. "First things first, let's go buy your bass!"

"Micky..." Peter said quietly.

"I know, Pete," Micky murmured, gazing up at the window of the pawn shop.

Peter's bass was gone. They had checked the window every day for the past four days, and it had been there. But with their luck, it just had to be bought right when they finally had enough money to buy it back.

"It's gone," Peter said blankly, as if he simply couldn't (or wouldn't) believe it. "How can it be gone?"

"Well, somebody must've bought it," Micky said.

"But... it can't be gone," Peter said, frowning. "It just can't be. I bought that bass myself, with my own money. That was the first thing I ever bought with only the money I earned. How can it be gone?"

Micky sighed. "I'm sorry, Peter," he said, but Peter didn't seem to hear him.

"I carried it with me all the way from Kent to Ventura," he continued. "I never let it out of my sight, and I always took care of it. And now it's gone, just like that. Gone forever."

"Peter, are you okay?" Micky asked.

Peter looked at Micky. "What am I going to do, Micky?" he asked. "What am I going to do?"

"I don't know, Pete," Micky said honestly. "I suppose we can do gigs with your banjo until we can buy a new one..."

"A new one?" Peter asked. "What's the point? Don't you see? It's over. We're finished. Done for. We both know it, Mick, without the Monkees, we're just not good enough. We can't make it. I sold my bass, Micky. I never even considered selling my bass before, no matter how hard times got."

"Peter, calm down," Micky said, now officially worried. "You're obviously upset right now, and we're both tired, maybe we should go home and take a nap, you'll probably feel much better..."

"What's the point?" Peter asked blankly, but he allowed Micky to grab the sleeve of his shirt and lead him away from the window and towards the pad as he continued to ramble. "It's all over. I give up. There's no reason to take a nap. Let's just catch a bus and blow this joint. Maybe we'll wake up in Monterey. I've always wanted to go to Monterey. I hear the surfing's good. What'd'ya say, Mick? We've got just as much chance of making it down in Monterey that we do here."

"Nah," Micky said absently, more to humor Peter than anything else. "Let's try to stay in the country, okay?"

"Suits me," Peter said. "We could head up instead, go up to Montana. It sounds a little like Monterey. Besides, it's beautiful in the fall. The sky is bigger, and the tamaracks are gorgeous. Wanna go to Montana, Mick? The air is so clean, so much cleaner than here in the big city. Let's go to Montana."

"Sure thing, Pete," Micky said. "But do me a favor, let's wait until tomorrow at least, okay? We've gotta get rested up for the trip; so we'll go home and you take a nice, long nap. Okay?"

"Okay, Micky," Peter said. "If you insist."

When they got to the Pad, Peter sat on the couch and stared blankly at the wall.

He seemed to have come to himself somewhat, he was no longer talking of going to Montana, he just sat in a depressed slump, his head in his hands. "It's gone..." He kept whispering. "It's really gone... I sold it..."

"It's okay, Peter," Micky tried, but Peter couldn't be comforted.

"It's really gone," he said again. "I sold it, Micky. I sold it. It's gone forever."

"Didn't mean to upset you, Shotgun, I got it back for you," Mike said, walking over to the pair and handing the bass to Peter, who, in his sleep-deprived state, looked at it the way one might look at the ghost of a loved one. Could it be true? Was it really back? "Oh," he said, taking it from Mike with a small smile. "Thanks, Mike." What a good friend, to buy back his beloved bass. As soon as Peter felt the neck of his bass, relief flooded through him, and something clicked in his mind.

"MIKE!?" He shouted, looking up at the Towering Texan, who smiled back.

Peter had always taken very good care of his bass. But he let it drop from his hands as he jumped up to hug his friend, luckily the bass landed on the seat of the couch, where he'd been sitting.

Micky too jumped up to hug Mike, talking a mile a minute about who knows what, but although they were overjoyed to see Mike, Davy's absence was all the more noticeable in comparison.

"What happened?" Mike asked, looking to Peter and Davy's room. The closet door was opened, and most of Davy's things were gone. "No, wait. Never mind. I know what happened. He never wanted me to go, did he?"

"None of us did," Peter said. "We all knew we'd miss you, and Davy…"

"He took it really hard," Micky finished. "Of course he would, right? I mean, he's known you the longest, and…"

"…And I should've realized that he would've been that upset," Mike sighed. "But I was too busy with my head up in the clouds. I've got to get back in touch with him; do you guys have his hotel phone number?"

They shook their heads.

"We've hardly been home," Micky said. "We did a few gigs—just the two of us—and then we spent the rest of the time trying to get the rent money the hard way."

"We'd have made it, though," Peter promised him, deciding to try and forget about how he had been ready to give up and go to Montana only a few moments before. "We'd just earned enough to get my bass back—so we could've done some more gigs again…"

"You guys can fill me in on the whole story on the way," Mike said, placing a hand on Peter's shoulder. "Grab your instruments and come on."

"Our instruments? Now?" Micky asked, blinking in surprise. "Why? Where are we going?"

Mike merely smiled in response, taking out the newspaper clipping that Tanya had given him.

"Anaheim."

The smiles on Micky and Peter's faces told Mike that they knew exactly what he was planning.

Though, as they headed back to rejoin Barty in a limo he had rented, Peter was starting to look a little worried.

"But what if Davy doesn't want to be in the band anymore?" he wondered aloud, as they got into the limo. "The newspapers keep saying that he's doing so well on his own. He doesn't really need us to be a success."

"I'm guessing you don't need us, either," Micky added to Mike. "You won the contest, didn't you? That's why you managed to get this private transport."

"That's right—he did win," Barty said, overhearing them as they took their seats. "But he asked for me to bring him here—said he wanted his friends to be there when he signed that contract."

"I'm just a sentimental fool, ain't I?" Mike mused. "Yeah, I wanted you guys to be there. That's why I want one last gig—all four of us—before we go our separate ways. Davy doesn't have to do anything he doesn't want to."

"Oh," Peter said, quietly. He should have known, he should have guessed that's what Mike was doing here. That moment when Mike had walked into the Pad, he had dared to hope... He had dared to believe that Mike was coming back for real, to stay.

But it was too good to be true. Mike was a true friend, he wanted them to share in his success, get them some publicity as well, and have a sort of farewell tour. A farewell tour, after only being separated for about five weeks. But he wasn't coming back. Peter shared a glance with Micky, who was thinking along the same lines.

They both made a silent agreement. No matter how hard it was, they were going to enjoy today. Perhaps Mike and Davy were better off alone, but the two of them needed the Monkees to succeed. They were going to enjoy their last gig if it killed them.

When they showed up in Anaheim, Davy was already onstage, getting ready to sing another song along to an accompaniment track. Micky felt a pang of hurt. Perhaps that was all he had ever been. An accompaniment for Davy and Mike. His dreams of being in the spotlight seemed further away than ever, just by hearing that track.

Mike's producer, Barty, he seemed to be called, began arguing with Davy's producer, whom the other two boys had never even heard the name of. Apparently, having three musicians barrel onto the stage in the middle of the performance was something Davy's producer didn't agree with.

As the two of them began bickering in earnest, Micky tuned them out and listened as Davy began to sing.

He was singing "Listen to the Band," which Micky thought bitterly ironic, as there was no band, just the accompaniment track. He shook the thoughts away, however. This was Davy's moment, and Mike's, he was going to be happy for them, gosh-darn it!

Then Davy started singing the chorus and Micky almost fell to pieces.

"Weren't they good, they made me happy.

I think I can make it alone."

Beside him, Peter drew in a slight gasp of breath.

They looked at each other. Of course this was going to be their first song at their last gig. They made Mike and Davy happy, but Mike and Davy could very well make it on their own. It was almost as if fate was rubbing it in.

They were so caught up in their own emotions that it took a second for them to realize that Davy was no longer singing alone. Mike had slipped past the two producers and had gone out on the stage and he'd started singing along with Davy, who suddenly looked very happy.

Micky and Peter looked at each other again.

"Well?" Peter whispered.

Micky took a deep breath. "For California dreamin'," he said solemnly.

Peter nodded. "I can't turn my name into a farewell toast," he quipped.

Micky blinked, then chuckled. "You always burn the toast anyway," he said. "Come on."

And so the two boys swallowed hard and walked out onto the stage for what they assumed would be their last successful show.

Davy grinned at their appearances as well, and they started singing along.

"Oh, woman plays a song and no one listens,

I need help I'm falling again.

C'mon, play the drums just a little bit louder..."

Here Micky, who was smiling and trying to enjoy himself, pantomimed banging a set of drums, making Peter laugh, though his eyes were suspiciously shiny.

"Tell us we can live without her

Now that we have listened to the band."

They all stopped singing, and waited as the accompaniment track continued and Micky kept pretending to play the drums just a little bit louder.

Then, right at the right moment, they all sang (or shouted, Micky was particularly high-strung at the moment):

"Listen to the band!"

The audience all clapped and cheered as the song drew to a close and Davy introduced the three of them.

Then their instruments were brought out, and Davy Jones, rising Solo star, became the Monkees for the rest of the evening, as the other three helped him finish out his setlist.

Then, when the evening was over, the Monkees walked off stage, using their traditional Monkees walk, and then, once the curtains had closed, they became Davy Jones, Michael Nesmith, Peter Tork and Micky Dolenz once more, although maybe not in that order.

Peter and Micky stood by silently as Davy and Mike each went to their respective producers, who were still talking together.

Davy's producer grudgingly admitted that the crowd had loved the surprise twist, but warned Davy that he couldn't pull any more stunts like this one. Micky wondered briefly if the Producer would take Davy's word for it, or if he would ban him and Peter from any backstage events, just to be on the safe side.

Mike's producer assured Davy's producer that such a stunt would not happen, as Mike just wanted one last gig before he would sign on and move to Arizona. He also recommended that Davy's producer sign Davy on to make "Double sure" that it didn't happen again.

Micky sighed. He knew what that was translating as. The two rising stars needed to be signed on to a contract to protect them from the meddling upstarts trying to use their friends as tickets to fame and fortune.

Ha, Micky thought idly. They're not my stepping stone.

He was all prepared to say goodbye to two of his best friends when Mike spoke up.

"Um… Actually, Barty?" he said. "You're gonna hate me for this, I know, but… I'm going to concede my first place victory in the contest. That means that Jim and Tanya win the contract."

"What!?" Barty exclaimed, looking at Mike in disbelief. "But your career! You were the one who said that you wanted to be a success!"

"I did say that, and I meant it—every bit of it," Mike said. "But what I didn't realize was that I didn't need to be a solo star to be a success. I was a success already—not in the notary sense, but… I had my bandmates, and we were doing alright. But then I just ran off without a second thought, chasing after a dream that, despite being good, wasn't as good as what I already had. I was ready to sign that solo contract—I really was. But being out there on stage with my bandmates…" He drew Davy, as well as a stunned Micky and Peter, closer into a hug. "That's where it's at. If I'm going to be a musical success, I want to be a success with them."

Davy's producer now looked at him, pleadingly. "You're not going to refuse to sign, too, are you?" He asked.

Davy gave him an apologetic smile. "Some things are more important than money," he said. "I missed them all so much, and… I realized I made a mistake, too."

"You're making a mistake now," the producer moaned, massaging the bridge of his nose. "You're letting a fortune slip through your fingers."

"That goes for you, too, Mike," Barty said. "Country stars are rare—very rare. You could be a rich man."

"Well, seeing as though I've got three friends worth their weight in gold, I reckon I'm pretty wealthy already," Mike said, as Davy nodded in agreement.

Micky blinked and smiled, and next to him, Peter was grinning. True, the three of them didn't weigh that much, especially after the past five weeks, and with Davy being so short... but still, their combined weight in gold would have been quite a bit of money.

The wheedling and coaxing of the producers did no good; together once again, the Monkees were not about to let that go. And as they aimlessly wandered backstage, thinking about what had happened to them, there was also an exchange of heartfelt apologies.

"I shouldn't have ditched you guys like that," Mike said.

"Me, too," Davy agreed.

"Oh, pshaw," Micky said. "You guys got to know what it was like."

Peter nodded in agreement. "And what matters is that you came back," he added.

"I'll say it did," a fifth voice said.

They turned to see a familiar, elderly woman smiling at all of them as she saw them together once again.

"Millie!" Mike blinked in surprise. "I don't get it… You were the one who told me about Barty—why are you so happy that I turned him down?"

"Because this is what I wanted you to realize," she said. "You were already doing what you loved, and you had the love of three wonderful friends who were more like brothers. You already had everything you needed; you were a success. So when you told me that you wanted me to make you a success, I was surprised."

She placed a hand on Mike shoulder.

"I knew that just telling you that wouldn't have made you feel any better. You had to realize it on your own. And now, all four of you have realized it. Best of all, I know you four will never let anyone come between you guys again." She smiled. "Hey, listen; I don't think Barty will be so keen on giving you a ride back to Malibu. Larry's got the moving van; catch up with us at the diner down the street after dinner, and we'll give you kids a ride back—if you don't mind sitting in the back of the van…"

"I think we'll be fine with that," Mike said, with a smile, as the others nodded in agreement.

After Millie left, Mike shook his head. "Man, I can't believe how stupid I was," he said. "She's right; I had all I needed with you guys. Heck, I even wrote a line in 'Papa Gene's Blues' that said as much…"

"Well, sometimes, it's just plain easy to miss what's right in front of your face," Peter said. "Think about it—it's so close, it's out of focus, and you can't—"

"I think they get it," Micky said, patting Peter on the shoulder. The brunet suddenly blushed as his stomach growled. "…And that reminds me that we haven't eaten a thing all day…"

"There's a whole bunch of food in my dressing room," Davy said, smiling. "We can all feast on that before we head back; it'll be a while before we have a free meal again."

Peter felt his mouth water at the mention of "a whole bunch of food," and Micky began jumping up and down slightly next to him.

"You guys sit tight; Micky and I will get it!" Peter said, and he and Micky rushed away in search of Davy's dressing room.

After asking for directions, they found their way to the room and stepped inside. The first thing they noticed... actually, the only thing they noticed, was a long table against the wall filled with all kinds of food.

Micky wasted no time in transporting the food directly from the table and into his mouth, but Peter picked up a plate and started piling the food onto it, to take back to the others, popping a piece into his mouth every now and again.

"Boy, can you imagine eating like this every day?" Micky asked, his mouth full of what appeared to be barbeque chicken.

"No, I can't," Peter said. "I would close my mouth when I was chewing."

"Ha ha," Micky deadpanned. "Man, Davy's giving up a lot. Mike is too, for that matter."

"Yeah," Peter said, looking down at the table. "Micky?" He asked.

"Peter, I know exactly what you're going to ask," Micky said. "You want to know if we're doing the right thing by letting them throw this all away just for us."

Peter sighed. "I don't want them to feel like they owe us," he said. "I'm just afraid that... that one day, Mr. Babbit will knock on the door and demand a rent we don't have, the refrigerator will be empty and there won't be a gig in sight, and they're going to wake up and realize that they didn't have to live that way. And it'll be all our fault. And you know they won't blame us, but it'll be there, all the same, the knowledge that they could have had the world and chose the Monkees instead."

"Honestly, Pete," Micky said. "That could very well happen one day. But you know what? You were right! They have to make their own decisions. We couldn't force them to choose us, and we can't force them to choose success either. They chose what works best for them. We should just be lucky it's best for us, too."

"Yeah..." Peter said. "You know, I like the way Millie put it... we're doing what we love, and we have wonderful friends who are more like brothers. we have everything we need; that's what makes us successful."

"I think you got the quote a bit wrong, there, Pete," Micky said. "But you're right, that's what success really is. In the long run, it really doesn't matter how much money we make. What really matters is the relationships we build while we live."

"Yeah," Peter said. "And to think, none of us would have even thought about it like that if this whole thing hadn't happened."

"Yep," Micky said. "Now, I'm all for deep thinking and philosophical contemplation and all, but let's get the rest of this food and take it out to Mike and Davy. I'm hungry."

Peter laughed. "Of course you are," he said. "But really, I couldn't agree more."