Chapter Text
The hot California sun blazed in through the windows, shining bright light into the room. Blinded by the glare, Micky blinked awake. His head was Pounding harder than when he beat his beloved drums. Beads of sweat trickled down his cheeks, yet his entire body shivered. His throat burned, and he wondered how his voice would sound when he tried to speak.
Micky looked around the room for his roommates, but he was all alone. This was not uncommon, as he was always the last to rise. This time, though, he wished that they were here.
When he tried to stand up, he fell right back on his bed. This wasn't all that unusual, either. He and his friends were starving artists, in the most literal sense of the term. Sometimes they would go days at a time with no money to buy food. But, unlike those instances, this time, his stomach wasn't even growling to be fed.
On his second try, he made it to his feet. The entire house spun as he inched his way out the door. The thought of navigating the spiral staircase made him feel even more nauseous. From the top of the steps he could hear his friends going about their morning routines.
With all the strength he could muster, Micky climbed down towards the first floor. Ordinarily, Micky was hyper and bouncing off of walls. Moving at a snail's pace today frustrated him, but he was too unwell to go too fast.
Downstairs, Peter and Mike were engaged in a game of checkers. Despite the expression of intense concentration on Peter's face, Mike's black chips far outnumbered his own red ones. Seated at the kitchen table, Davy stared at his empty plate with a sullen, lingering look of hunger on his face.
Hearing the creaking of the steps, Davy glanced up and smiled at Micky. “Well, look who's here!” Davy's grin flipped to a frown. "Micky, are you alright?"
At long last, Micky reached the table. Davy extended a hand to help him, but he wasn't quick enough. Micky fell into the chair, letting out a tired breath. Shivering, he crossed his arms around his body.
“Micky, what's wrong?” Mike asked, carelessly turning his back on the game. In that instance, Peter seized the opportunity to sneak some of his pieces back onto the board.
Before he could answer, Davy placed a hand on his forehead. “He's burning up,” Davy remarked with concern. “We'd better send for the doctor.”
A bolt of fear like lightning struck Micky's already queasy stomach. Ever since Mike had volunteered him to undergo brain surgery without anesthesia at the hand of the evil Dr. Markovich, Micky had hated doctors. Which, when you think about it, was not at all unreasonable considering what he had been subjected to. The mere thought of more pain and fright brought an even greater ache to Micky's head.
Mike picked up the phone and called the doctor. As Mike explained the situation, Davy fetched Micky a glass of cool water. It hurt to swallow, so Micky pushed the cup away. Meanwhile, Peter knocked all of Mike's pieces off of the table, thus declaring himself the winner of the game.
As Micky eavesdropped on the conversation, his mind filled with dread over his upcoming appointment. He didn't even want to allow himself to believe that he needed help as bad as he did. It was bad, dumb luck, all of it.
His friends, however, were preoccupied with other problems.
Hanging up the telephone, Mike turned to his friends. “Well, the doctor’s on his way, but just how are we going to pay him?” Mike queried, troubled by their predicament.
“I'll be fine, guys, really,” Micky attempted to assert. “Listen."
“'I'm not your stepping stone…” Micky sang.
The other Monkees cringed. Because of the illness, Micky's sweet, angelic voice sounded raspy and squeaky like a mouse crushed in a trap. Ordinarily, Micky's voice could make anyone, even his best friends, stop in their tracks and marvel at the gift God had given him.
The exertion from the song and the dryness in his throat caught up to him. A coughing spell struck Micky, accompanied by wicked chills. He felt as if he might be sick, despite the utter lack of food in his stomach.
“Oh man, we better get him to lie down,” Mike stated.
Mike grabbed one of Micky's arms and Davy took the other. Between the three of them, they managed to get Micky to the couch. Peter covered him with a blanket, which he pulled even tighter around his feverish body.
“Do we have anything he can eat?” Davy inquired, though, of course, they all already knew the answer.
Peter tore through the cupboards and ice box, coming up empty handed. It had been several days since their last gig, and after paying their rent, they had found themselves broke yet again. The last of their cereal had been poured in their bowls yesterday morning. A look of disappointment fell on Peter's face as he closed the cabinets.
An idea occurred to Davy then. He climbed the stairs into their bedroom. From under his bed, he pulled out a box. The box contained treasures he had carried with him when he left England for the United States. There were postcards of Buckingham Palace, photos of his family in rainy gardens and even some dried English plants. In the midst of his mementos, he found what he was looking for.
A few minutes later, Davy presented Micky with a steaming hot cup of tea. Even though Micky did not particularly care for tea, he knew how much the tea meant to Davy and how hard it would have been for him to part with it. And, even though the thought of ingesting anything made Micky nauseous, he took the drink with gratitude.
After Micky sipped the tea, Davy told him, “Me mum used to always make this for me when I was ill.” As if expecting some sort of miracle, Davy pressed his hand to Micky's temple. His heart sank.
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
Micky recoiled deeper into the couch as Mike led the doctor into the living room. Dr. Schwartz was an older man, maybe in his fifties, with thick fifties style glasses. His hair was black and done to mimic Johnny Cash. He wore a white lab coat over his suit and tie, the coat long enough to touch the tops of his fine Italian shoes.
The doctor shook hands with Mike, Davy and Peter before sitting down across from Micky. He was an old fashioned gentleman, which Micky would have appreciated under different circumstances. But at that moment, he didn't want to look at or talk to him.
“What seems to be the problem, Son?” The doctor asked, reaching into his black leather bag.
Watching every move the man made with concern, Micky answered, “My throat and stomach hurt.”
“He's also got a bad fever and chills,” Peter interjected. Feeling an irrational betrayal, Micky glared at Peter, who slinked down in shame.
“Okay, under your tongue,” Dr. Schwartz instructed, slipping a thermometer into his mouth. “How long has this been going on?”
Since Micky couldn't speak well, Davy answered, “He woke up this way.”
The doctor pressed on Micky's throat. His throat was tender, and Micky made a face as the doctor performed the test. The thermometer bobbed in his mouth and he had to steady it, lest the result be inaccurate and he'd have to start all over again.
“His glands are very swollen,”the doctor commented. He pulled the thermometer out of his patient’s mouth and read it. 103.8F.”
The other Monkees exchanged wary glances.. Davy considered the possibility that his Mum's tea could have brought the fever down some, as it had for him in the past. If that was the case, he couldn't have imagined what the fever had been to begin with.
Next, the doctor checked his ears and throat. He clucked his tongue in apparent disappointment in what he saw. Poor Micky took a few shallow breaths to try to control his mounting anxiety. Finally, he listened to Micky's heart. The stethoscope was bitter cold against his burning hot skin.
“What do you think is wrong with him, Doctor?” Peter asked as Dr. Schwartz dropped the stethoscope in his bag.
Dr. Schwartz answered, “He has a very bad case of strep throat, and there are signs of infection in his ears and sinuses too.” Mike patted Micky's shoulder. “He's going to need antibiotics, and acetaminophen for the fever.” The same thought occurred to all four Monkees: how on Earth would they pay for all of this? “I'm concerned about the inflammation in his throat and glands. I'm going to give him a shot to help bring the swelling down.”
Micky giggled and smiled nervously at each of his friends. Then he said, “Bye,” and leaped up off of the couch. Before he got an inch away, three pairs of hands descended upon him.
They threw him back on the couch, though not quite roughly enough. Micky jumped back up as soon as they loosened a little. But since they hadn't let him go in the first place, he didn't even make it half as far as he previously had.
“Oooohhhh,” Micky whined in anguish. His friends kept a tight hold on him so that he couldn't move anymore.
“Don't worry Micky,” Peter whispered. “It'll be alright.”
“It'll be over quick, and it'll make you feel better,” Davy added. Micky rolled his eyes in disbelief.
“That's right. Besides, it won't be as bad as you think it'll be,” Mike asserted.
Not even a second after the words left Mike's mouth, the doctor retrieved the needle from his bag. Fear electrified Micky and ignited all of his adrenaline. It was the largest syringe he had ever seen. Had this been a scene in a TV show instead of real life, the absurd size of the syringe would have been comical.
But it was all too real and too terrifying.
All four Monkees shrieked in fright. Then, Micky heard several loud thuds as Davy, Mike and Peter crashed onto the floor. At first, Micky cursed his friends for fainting and making him face this nightmare alone. But when the doctor stood up to check on the other Monkees, Micky seized the opportunity.
Being scared to death gave Micky enough energy to leap off of the couch. He ran into the bathroom and slammed the door. Once he saw that he was safe, the fight-or-flight instinct succumbed to exhaustion and illness. He collapsed onto the cold, hard tile, his back pressed against the wall. Curling his legs to his chest, he rested his head on his knees and prayed for the room to stop spinning.
In the living room, the doctor was busy waking Peter. Mike and Davy had already come to and were sipping the cool water the doctor had brought them. Peter was proving to be more of a challenge, but it was good fortune that the doctor carried a small container of smelling salts with him. The scent worked it's magic, and Peter's slowly rose from his stupor.
Once the boys started to feel like themselves again, their attention drifted back to their missing friend. “Where's Micky?” Peter queried, gulping down the last of his water.
The doctor indicated the bathroom door. “He ran in there.”
Mike knocked on the door and said, “Micky, you alright? C'mon out now.”
“No,” Micky answered.
“C’mon, Micky, you're being foolish,” Mike tried again.
“No.”
Returning to where his friends waited, Mike commented, “He's not gonna get outta there.”
The doctor handed Mike a small piece of paper that he'd been scribbling on. “Here's your friend's prescription. This will help him, but it will take a few days to kick in,” he elaborated. “I'd feel better leaving him if he'd take the shot.”
Holding onto the prescription, Mike said, “I need to make a call.”
When Mike left again, Davy studied the doctor and asked, “What'll happen to Micky if he doesn't get that jab?”
“Any number of things could happen. Scarlett Fever could set in. That infection could turn into Pneumonia, and with that swelling, he might not be able to breathe,” Dr. Schwartz told them. The boys glanced at each other with trepidation. “He could end up in the hospital.”
“We can't let that happen to Micky.”
Tears welled up in Peter's sad brown eyes. Davy and Mike ached for their two sensitive friends, for their beautiful innocence and loving kindness. When Peter and Micky hurt, they all hurt.
Davy felt the heaviness of his friends’ pain more than Mike did. Whenever anybody messed with the other Monkees, it was Davy who jumped to handle the situation. It was Davy who stood up to the mobsters intent on bullying the boys and extorting the owner of an Italian restaurant. Davy got them out of the lifetime dance contracts they had been coerced into signing.
Then, Davy got to thinking about Micky, and all the times Micky helped him. He chuckled when he recalled when Micky had dressed in drag and endured the awkward romantic advances of their eccentric landlord, Mr. Babbitt, so that Davy could date the General's daughter. Then there was the time Micky “borrowed” the Rolls Royce in order to assist Davy in deceiving his grandfather.
The best friend Davy had in this world was in trouble. Peter was right. He couldn't let Micky hurt himself. And Mike was right, too. They could never repay a hospital bill if it got to that point. But it wouldn't. Micky couldn't wind up in the hospital, or, God forbid…
Shaking the unthinkable out of his mind before it planted poisonous roots like a weed, Davy excused himself from the doctor. He tapped his knuckles against the bathroom door and waited. No response came.
Knocking again, Davy called out, “Micky? Can I come in?”
This time, Davy didn't wait for an answer. He twisted the knob and stepped inside. He found his friend on the floor, his head buried in his knees. He could see nothing of Micky's face hidden behind his silky straight brown hair. Panic flooded him. He threw himself down beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Micky, are you alright?” Davy asked, his voice full of concern. Without looking at his friend, Micky nodded, which was a relief to Davy. “What's wrong?”
Lifting his head slowly, lest the dizziness return, Micky met Davy's eyes. They were brimming with love and care and worry. Micky knew that he could tell Davy anything without any possibility of judgment.
“I'm scared,” Micky whispered.
“It's alright, Micky. A syringe isn't anything to be scared of,” Davy declared with an odd, irrational confidence.
In the most sarcastic tone he could speak, Micky retorted, “You saw it and fainted.”
At first, Davy didn't know what to say to that. It was true, after all. The thought of that monster sized needle piercing Micky's skin turned his stomach over and over. His head still ached from hitting the floor a few minutes ago.
“But you didn't!” Davy pointed out. “That just shows how much braver you are than us!”
“I guess you're right,” Micky conceded.“But I still don't want to get the shot.”
“I wouldn't either,” Davy admitted. “But the doctor's afraid you'll wind up in the hospital if you don't get the shot.”
Micky's eyes widened. A pang of guilt struck Davy. He hated frightening Micky, even if the ends did justify the means. He'd hoped it wouldn't come to that. Maybe he'd jumped the gun; he could've tried a little harder to convince Micky. But it was too late for all that, and it was better that he be honest with his best friend.
Hospital! The idea of going to the hospital made Micky even more afraid than he had been before, and he didn't think that was at all possible. That day at the Remington Clinic, the doctors and nurses hadn't even realized that he had taken Dr. Schnitzler's place on the operating table. They intended to surgically alter his brain, and without any anesthesia! What could be scarier than that?
Another thought occurred to Micky. If he found the courage to face his fears now, he'd only have to get one shot. If he didn't, he'd have to go to the hospital. At the hospital they'd give him a bunch of needles!! He didn't want that at all.
“Well, what do you say?” Davy asked, after giving him some time to ponder it.
“Ohh… okay,” Micky reluctantly agreed. He paused. The vulnerability in Micky's gentle eyes when he looked up at Davy was like a knife to Davy's chest. “Will...will you…”
Placing a hand on his best friend's shoulder, Davy promised, “Of course we will."
Davy helped Micky stand up. He was very weak on his feet, so Davy stayed close to him. Also, Davy still wasn't one hundred percent certain that Micky wouldn't take off again the first chance he got. Not that he would get far. It was a struggle for the poor chap to even hold his own weight.
But Micky could be a force to be reckoned with when frightened. Davy chuckled at the memory of Micky fighting himself, Mike and Peter to avoid pretending to be Dr. Schnitzler in their attempt to foil the plot of the evil Dr. Markovich. Huh. Perhaps that was part of the reason Micky was behaving this way now. Not that it was justified. The boys hadn't let anything happen to him then, and they wouldn't now.
When Davy opened the bathroom door, Peter and Mike fell to the floor. If Micky weren't twice Davy's size and dependant on him for balance, this would have made Davy laugh. Though, it wasn't all that funny. They were so worried about their friend that they were eavesdropping. It was touching. And yes, it was a bit humorous too.
Mike and Peter leaped to their feet and assisted Micky and Davy in the trek to the couch. At Mike's suggestion, the doctor had put the needle away so that Micky wouldn't see it if they succeeded in getting him out of hiding. It was a good idea. None of them wanted to look at it again. At last, they made it back to the living room. Micky dropped down onto the couch, his hands never letting go of Davy and Peter: so much so that they almost fell down right beside Micky.
“Lie down on your side,” the doctor instructed, taking a seat beside Micky, who gave him an incredulous look. “It has to go in your hip.”
“My hip???” Micky groaned, lurching forward towards his friends.
“It'll be alright, Micky,” Mike assured him. The other boys helped Micky roll over so that he was resting on his right side, facing them.
The doctor adjusted Micky's pajamas so that a small spot of skin on his hip was exposed. He rubbed alcohol on the area. The cold burn and tangy smell further agitated the already anxious Micky. All of the color drained from his face. He closed his eyes tight enough to wrinkle his handsome, babyish face.
Mike, Davy and Peter had never felt so guilty. It didn't even matter what this was the only way to make Micky better. It ate them up inside to see him so scared. Their happy-go-lucky, loud mouth friend was so small and vulnerable. They found themselves praying that the doctor would just get on with it already.
“Take a deep breath and relax,” the doctor ordered, fetching the needle. Davy bit his tongue to avoid screaming and frightening Micky any more than he already was.
Relax? That wouldn't be at all possible for Micky. The other Monkees understood that. At the very least, though, they could make it a little easier for him. Mike and Peter each placed a hand on one of Micky's shoulders. Davy held on to Micky's arm. Micky grabbed ahold of Davy and Peter's arms, and he leaned his face into Mike's shoulder. The sleeve of Mike's shirt covered Micky's already shut eyes, so there was no danger of him seeing anything at all.
The doctor shoved the needle into Micky's hip. Pain assaulted Micky. Face contorted in a cringe, he curled even closer into the safety of his friends’ embrace. They gripped him even tighter to show their support and to still him. His anguished whine shattered their hearts. They had to keep reminding themselves that they were all trying to help Micky. Hearing him cry out made it easy to forget that.
Micky tried his best to focus on one of his happiest memories. His mind conjured up images of the first time the band played together after Davy's grandfather had returned to England. After finding out that Davy had lied about being a wealthy musician, his grandfather had attempted to force him to leave California with him. Saying goodbye to their friend devastated Micky, Mike and Peter. So, they devised a wild plan to get the Joneses to miss their flight. Their love for Davy convinced Mr. Jones to let him stay. Once they brought Davy back home, they played “Sweet Young Thing.” There was magic in their performance. They couldn't stop smiling the whole time. For all his days, Micky would never forget the love and power of that incredible moment.
As luck would have it, the recollection also proved to be a halfway decent distraction. Micky let out a small gasp as the doctor pulled the needle out of his skin. While the doctor cleaned the blood droplets and taped a bandage to his hip, Micky let go of his friends. With his free hand, he swatted away some stubborn tears that had managed to leak from his eyes despite his efforts to restrain them. It was bad enough that the guys had seen him freak out over a needle. They couldn't know that it had made him cry.
Davy, Mike and Peter exchanged glances. With a nod, they reached a non-verbal agreement. All three of them vowed to forget that the needle had made Micky cry.
“Wonderful,” Dr. Schwartz commented, rising to his feet. Gathering his belongings, he addressed Mike. “The shot will probably make him drowsy. Sleep's the best thing for him, and make sure he drinks plenty of water. Fill the prescription as soon as you can, and get him some ibuprofen for the fever. He'll probably get worse before he gets better, especially with an ear infection. Do you have any questions for me?” Mike shook his head. “Alright, then, that'll be ten dollars.”
All of a sudden, the house felt super hot to Mike. What would he do now? He had no choice but to call the doctor. If Micky's illness hadn't been treated, he could've… Mike couldn't even bear to think it. But they had no way to pay the doctor. He'd known that all along. So, what could he tell him?
Scratching his head in humiliation, Mike admitted, “Well, you see Doctor, the thing is...well, we haven't worked in a while...and, uh…well…”
Mike looked to Davy and Peter to help share the burden of their shame. But Davy was whispering a reassurance to Micky, who was rubbing his sore hip and frowning, and Peter, well, he had no idea where Peter went. All the while, the doctor just stood there, awaiting payment for his services. Poor Mike just couldn't utter the words, regardless of their validity.
“Yes?” The doctor pressed. Mike hung his head and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Well, the thing is…” Mike stammered.
“Wait! Wait!” Peter yelled, running towards them, his banjo in his hand. He offered it to the doctor. “Here, you can have this. It's worth about ten dollars.”
With pained eyes and a weak voice, Micky pled, “No, Peter, you can't give up your banjo because of me.” Micky knew what the banjo meant to Peter, and how Peter dreamed of playing banjo on a song with Beatle George Harrison one day. He couldn't let his friend give that up.
Peter shook his head, but Davy agreed, “He's right, Peter. We'll find another way.”
“Micky's my friend. I want to help him,” Peter responded. He extended the banjo towards the doctor again, trying not to let his lip quiver. “Here, please take it.”
“You would give this up for your friend?” Dr. Schwartz asked, surprised. Peter nodded. The doctor pushed the banjo back to Peter. “I can't take this from you.”
“But we have no other way to pay you,” Peter protested.
“Consider this my good deed for the year,” the doctor said. The boys’ faces lit up and they took turns shaking hands and thanking him. “You're welcome.” To Mike: “But I can't help you getting his medicine, and he's going to need it.”
Mike nodded. “It's okay. I've taken care of that.”
The other Monkees furrowed their brows. “How?” They asked.
“You'll see soon enough,” he answered.
“Well, alright. Call me if you need anything. I'll be back to check on him in a few days. Take it easy. Feel better.”
With that, the doctor turned on his heel and headed towards the door. Mike showed him out and thanked him again for all his help. They were so grateful for his kindness, and they vowed that they would return the favor somehow.
Their attention returned to their sick friend. From the fever and the stress of the morning, Micky had begun to shiver violently. Davy covered him with a blanket while Peter fetched him a glass of cold water. Even wrapped in the comforter, Micky could not calm the tremors that wracked his frail body.
It frightened them, to say the least. The issue of the medications still remained. The doctor had warned that Micky's illness would worsen without the medicine, but they had no way of buying it. Mike prayed and prayed that the call he'd made earlier would solve their problem. Although he'd assured the others that he'd solved that problem, and they'd accepted his answer, he just couldn't help but worry his arrangement would fall through somehow.
Peter and Davy sat down on the floor beside Micky. They had to keep their minds occupied somehow, but they also wanted to keep their friend company. So Peter strummed a gentle tune on his acoustic guitar while Davy scribbled a poem in a notebook.
At one point, Micky stole a tired glance at what Davy had written. A pained smile pulled at his mouth for just a moment. It seemed that his friends had found his illness inspiring. Micky felt certain they were coming up with something brilliant.
""When the world and I were young, just yesterday, life was such a simple game, a child could play…" Micky sang, combining Davy's words and Peter's tune.
Micky drifted off into a fitful sleep then. Davy and Peter were struck by the beauty of the song they had unknowingly created, and, how, even with strep throat affecting his pitch, how talented their best friend was. They remained by Micky's side as he slept and continued to tinker with their masterpiece.