Work Text:
“You know you don’t have to wear that at home, right?”
Micky doesn’t look up from his paperback.
Mike clears his throat.
Micky crosses his ankles. “Hmm?”
“When you’re not at work. You can leave the dress at the door, Mick, hey?”
“Aha!” Micky finally tears his eyes up from the page. A string of pearls pops up around his neck; he clutches wildly at them. “My mother warned me about boys like you! A gentleman one day and the next it’s ‘leave the dress at the door, Micky; what’s under that skirt, Micky!’” His voice goes shrill with poorly-disguised delight.
“Alright, alright.” Mike flaps a hand at him. Micky’s giggle follows him out the back door to the beach.
Ever since Micky realized that the sudden and mysterious city-wide secretary shortage meant job openings as far as the eye could see—for someone who knew where to look, and had the right look—his work clothes have gotten extreme.
Today it’s a pale blue minidress with a square halter neckline. Tiny buttons all down the front. Hardly professional, Davy had muttered at breakfast.
Micky’d just puffed out his flat chest and informed them that he’s a modern woman, take or leave him.
“Bye then,” Davy patted him on the shoulder and wandered down to the beach.
He’s been down there all day, as far as Mike knows. Long enough for Mike to write the first halves of two different songs, for Micky to clock in and out at the office, for Peter to do…whatever Peter has been up to these last few weeks. Mike should probably ask him about that.
From the dunes, he can see Davy engaged in a complicated dance number at the edge of the surf, dipping his partner so low her blonde hair trails in the water. When he swings her back into his arms, music swelling, Mike can see the stars in his eyes without moving a step closer. Davy’s been overcompensating this week, ever since he failed to recognize Micky in his work clothes.
I think I love her, he’d breathed as they all watched a statuesque redhead cross the room where they were warming up backstage. It was a particularly flattering outfit that day, navy blouse and short gray skirt that made Micky’s waist look impossibly tiny. The low heels did something crazy to his legs. Mike’s mouth and Peter’s hung open as well, for the few moments before Mike recognized the wig. But it was Davy who’d spoken, and Davy who could barely look Micky in the eye the rest of the night. Still, Mike found himself averting his eyes as Micky shook his curls free from the wig, pulled his stage pants up under the skirt.
He’s had to look away from Micky a lot recently, truth be told. It doesn’t help that he isn’t inclined to change out of his dresses when they aren’t actually performing.
“Davy!”
Davy gazes into the eyes of his lady, doesn’t even twitch.
“Davy!” Mike stalks towards him.
A frown crosses Davy’s face, but he doesn’t look away.
“Davy!” He stands close, shakes Davy by the shoulder. “Come on, boy, we’ve got to make a plan.”
Davy drops his arms from where they’ve been cradling the girl. “A plan for what?”
“Micky. This thing’s getting awful serious.”
Davy concedes the point with a tip of his head. He casts a forlorn glance back at the blonde. “Oh, awright.”
-
“The way I see it,” Davy says, lounging contemplatively in the dunes, “we can’t talk him out of the clothes as long as he’s got the job, and he’s not going to quit the job because every time he tries they offer him more money.”
“With ya so far.”
“And they’re not likely to fire him, since there’s no one else wants the job for some reason.”
“Also true.”
“Last week he spilled his experimental truth serum in the office coffee pot, the week before he did his werewolf impression and attracted a pack of wild dogs into the office, and the week before that he shagged the boss’s daughter. He could be there the rest of our lives .”
“He did?”
“Did which?”
“Shag–nevermind.” Mike clears his throat. “So what we’re gonna need to do, we’re gonna need to get some better prospects back on the job market. Somehow.”
“It’s a funny thing, isn’t it? All the secretaries in the city all disappearing at once like that? Where d’you suppose they’ve all gone off to?”
Mike snaps his fingers. “Well now, I think you’ve got it. If we can figure out where they’ve all gone, or been taken, we can try an’ bring them back. Once there are real secretaries—real girls—around, Mick can get himself a regular job.”
“Real girls,” Davy agrees.
“Speaking of disappearances, where d’you think Peter’s got to? What’s with all the bananas recently?”
“Search me, babe. He goes out every day and comes home with bunches of ‘em. Alls he’ll say is he’s on Top Secret Monkee Business. He’s not trying to get us a gig down at the farm stand is he?”
Mike sighs.
-
Over banana soup that night, Mike keeps his eyes low. Micky does ditch the wigs along with his jacket and heels when he’s back at the Pad, which seems to appease Davy well enough, but this look is getting under Mike’s skin even more than the full getup.
He stares into his spoon, listens to Davy sing praises of the girl from the beach, Peter deflect questions about his afternoon, Micky antagonize them both.
It’s not until they get behind their instruments to practice that Mike begins to let himself relax. Looking between the fretboard and the empty living room, feeling rather than seeing his friends around him, he feels good for the first time since last night’s practice. They’re in a real groove tonight, have been most nights recently. The music sounds as good as it feels, easy and true.
Everything’s the way it should be when they play like this, one song flowing into another at Mike’s signal, the boys following his lead. It doesn’t matter that Peter’s been sneaking off somewhere he won’t tell them about, or that Davy’s wound so tight, or that Micky’s sitting behind him in a little blue dress that makes his skin glow bronze, that it’s probably riding up his skinny thighs as he splays himself out behind the drum kit.
“Michael?” Peter sounds worried. “Mike, are you alright? Why’d you stop playing?”
“Uh. Um, sorry, guys. Pick back up from the beginning on ‘Mary, Mary’ there.”
-
“Hey Mikey.” Micky leans against the kitchen counter across from where Mike’s cuddled up to his guitar in the big armchair.
“Hey there.” He strums a lazy chord, chances a glance up at Micky. He’s barefoot, and the bare skin of his feet is connected to similarly naked ankles, and calves, and knobbly brown knees. An indecent couple of inches of thigh above those. The way he’s leaned back on his elbows gives away his lack of breasts. Mike guesses they’re too polite to notice that in the office. Or maybe they’re distracted by the tiny freckles on his collarbones, spreading out across his shoulders.
“Mikey, babe, is something wrong? You’ve been kinda spacey.”
“Who, me?” He bares his teeth in an almost-smile. “Nah, I’m…I’m just fine.” He plucks the opening notes of "Settin’ The Woods On Fire." “Worried about Peter, s’all. Hope he’s not in over his head on this banana caper.”
“Ah, he’s alright. He knows he can ask for help if he needs it.” Micky tilts his head. “When he needs it.”
Mike shrugs, keeps picking out the tune. Mickey hops up to sit on the edge of the counter. Rubs his shin with the arch of his foot. “It’s really just Peter? You’re not mad about something, are you?”
“No way, pal. Nothing like that.”
Micky squints long and hard at him. Mike braces himself, but the pipe and deerstalker don’t appear. Micky drops the suspicious look as quick as he picked it up, replaces it with a sunny smile. “Great!” He pulls his feet up onto the counter, settles into a crouch. “Wanna see me jump to the couch from here?”
-
Mike and Davy are watching Peter try to scramble bananas like eggs when Micky comes downstairs the next morning. Slides downstairs, really, on the bannister like Mary Poppins. He’s already made up under the long red wig.
He grabs a banana from the nearest bunch, leaves a lipstick print on each of their foreheads, and sashays out the door with a “Toodloo, darlings! Don’t miss me too much!”
“Micky sure makes a nice girl,” says Peter.
Davy shuts his eyes, angelic face a mask of agony. “Today,” he tells Mike. “We start fixing this today.”
“Fixing what?” Peter slides a plate of banana mush in front of each of them with a beatific smile.
“Micky,” Davy tells him. “What else?”
Peter’s eyes widen in alarm. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing Davy ’n’ me can’t clear up,” Mike breaks in. “Don’t get worrying about it.” He shoots a look at Davy. “Now, Peter, uh, any plans for today? We haven’t been seein’ much of you.”
“Oh, sure, lots of plans.” Peter grins at him. If he had a tail it would be wagging. “I should get going right now!” With that, he sweeps his empty dish into the sink, waves, and trots out the door.
Mike looks at Davy. Davy looks back.
Mike sighs. “Any ideas?”
-
Mike peers out from between the brim of his fedora and the turned-up collar of his trench coat. “I’m not so sure about this one, babe.”
Davy squints up out of his matching disguise. “What d’ye mean? It’s the easiest thing in the world. We follow enough girls around, eventually one of them will lead us to the missing ones.” He slips on a pair of dark glasses as one of the girls looks over her shoulder in their direction. Mike raises a newspaper.
“Well…” Mike hesitates. Up ahead, the girls have begun talking to a burly policeman. “Well, I see what you mean, but don’t you think…well…”
Davy lights a cigarette, raises his eyebrows.
“Well, isn’t it a little…”
“Hey, you!” The policeman starts towards them. “You bothering these girls here?”
“Oh,” says Davy.
They run.
-
The Monkees go their separate ways after practice that night, Davy out to meet up with Susan From The Beach, Peter to the beach to meditate, Micky to bathe, Mike to the back porch to work on a song.
It’s not going well. As easy as group practices have been recently, the work feels harder when Mike’s alone. It’s out of the ordinary for him; usually he works best in solitude. Tonight his mind keeps wandering.
He ditches the composition half-composed, wanders back inside. Sets his guitar down to poke through the kitchen. He could eat, but he couldn’t eat another banana. He ponders the uniformly yellow icebox contents.
“Awp!”
The yelp startles him out of his contemplation. “Micky? That you?”
Frenzied splashing behind the bathroom door. Shit. He swings open the door without knocking.
Micky’s mouth falls open as his head shoots up. “Eee!” he says.
Mike squints through the steam and the candlelight. “Mick? Y’alright?”
Micky’s clutching both hands to the leg thrown over the side of the bathtub, a stream of blood seeping between his fingers.
“Holy smokes, boy; what happened to you?” He slides to his knees at the edge of the tub.
Micky fishes carefully under the mountains of bubble bath, one hand still pressed to his shin, lifts a safety razor between his thumb and forefinger with a full-body grimace. “He bit me, Mike!” He thumps his head back against the tub. “Think I’ll live?” The razor clatters to the tile as he sweeps the back of his hand across his forehead.
Shaving? Oh—shaving his legs. Of course Micky shaves his legs now. Mike’s not sure how he missed that, all the staring he’s been doing.
Mike swallows. The white coat and stethoscope materialize on cue as he prods Micky’s hand away from the cut. “I don’t know, shotgun. I’ll do for ya what I can, but these critters can be mighty venomous.”
Micky gasps and swoons again, sending little waves lapping at the sides of the tub. “Please, doc! You gotta save me! Who’ll play the drums?”
“Take ‘er easy there.” He gets a look at the cut—much tinier than the amount of watered-down blood had suggested. “There may be hope yet, cowboy.”
“My hero.” Micky’s eyelashes flutter so hard Mike worries they’ll fly away.
“Now you just hold still.” He grabs for a couple squares of toilet paper to press to the cut. The blood takes only a moment to slow. “You’ll keep the leg.” His fingertips slide over Micky’s half-smooth shin.
Micky clasps his hands. “You really mean it? Oh thank you, thank you!” He makes his voice all breathy and tremulous.
Mike can feel the stethoscope evaporating around his neck; the bit is over. Time to stand up and leave. He coughs quietly. “You, uh, need a little help with all this?” He gestures at the razor on the bathroom floor.
“Oh, would you?” Micky’s eyes widen. “God, thanks, babe.” He raises his leg an inch or two from the lip of the tub, gives it a celebratory shake.
Mike picks up the razor. Okay. There’s a squat four-legged stool with Micky’s bathrobe draped over it, a battered issue of Unpopular Mechanics stacked on top. He moves those to the sink, installs himself on the stool. “Alright, then.” He holds out a hand, and Micky passes him the can of shaving cream.
Fine. Mike’s good with a task. When he’s done here, he can go finish his song with this moment in the past. He’s not going to get anything done in the other room with Micky still in here bleeding and squawking with his curls stuck to his forehead and his legs all over the place.
Micky hums as Mike smooths the shaving cream from his ankle up to his knee. Shuts his eyes and wiggles his toes. “That’s nice, Mikey.”
“No talking while I’m working.” He grips Micky’s ankle in his left hand, drags the razor in a careful stroke with the right. One of Micky’s eyes squints open to watch.
The steamy heat of the bathroom is oppressive. Mike’s shirt sticks to him, and he immediately regrets telling Micky not to talk. He could use a distraction from the way Micky’s leg is emerging from under the razor, long and soft and bare. He tries to focus on keeping his hand steady, on avoiding the nicked spot; tries not to hear his breathing and Micky’s in the silent room.
“Gimme your other leg.”
More waves as Micky crashes his smooth leg back into the water, kicks the bristly one up and over like a rockette.
Mike catches him by the ankle. He has to brush away clouds of bubble bath still clinging to Micky’s calf. Some of it lands on his knee, soaks into his jeans. He ignores it.
He closes his hand just below the back of Micky’s knee, holds him in place. Micky’s smile bobs just above the surface of the water.
The repetitive motion, the focus it’s taking him to do this right, are starting to wear through the embarrassment at having volunteered. He likes doing this, he thinks. Maybe this could even be a regular thing for them, Mike getting the job done well, Micky holding still for once. Even the quiet is getting comfortable.
Mike’s running his fingers up the inside of his shin to check for missed spots when he feels Micky’s eyes on him again. He looks up.
Micky’s watching Mike’s hand move over his leg through wide, dark eyes. His lower jaw dangles slightly, his breath audible and shallow. Then his eyes snap up to Mike’s and widen impossibly further.
An instant later, he’s swept a mountain of bubble bath over the top of his head to create a pile of white hair. Half moon spectacles unfold across his nose. “What a nice young man you are,” he croaks. “Seeing to an old woman like this.”
Mike prevents himself from recoiling, barely. He grimaces and sets down the razor on the lip of the tub. Whatever either of them might have been feeling a moment ago has been washed away. “Mick. Ew.”
Micky grins, crosses and uncrosses his eyes, and ducks under the surface of the water. Mike exhales. Micky emerges a moment later with his hair plastered to his skin. Wet like this, it clings all down the line of his neck, almost to his shoulders.
Mike stands up, knocks the stool over in the process. “Yeah,” he says. “Alrighty then. You’re all set there, shotgun.” He makes for the door. “Uh. Seeya.” He backs out with a loose salute.
-
No one’s had a chance to change out of their pajamas Saturday morning when the thumping starts on the Pad’s front door. The Monkees exchange careful glances over their cereal.
“That doesn’t sound good,” Peter whispers. Mike has to agree.
“Let me in!” The hair stands up on the back of Mike’s neck.
“Babbitt,” Davy moans. He’s closest to the door. He casts a look around at the rest of them just to be sure no one else is going to rush over and answer it for him. When none of them do, he gets up, edges over to swing the door open. He holds his arms up as Babbitt charges in. The rest of them gather behind him. “We’ll have the rent for you tomorrow, we get paid after our gig tonight!”
Babbitt whirls in a half-circle, the better to glare at each of them in turn. “See that you do! But you know very well that’s not the only reason I’m here.”
The band exchange nervous looks. “We do?”
Babbitt advances, a menacing finger raised. “You do! I’m here about the unauthorized tenant.”
The band exchange blank looks.
Babbitt scoffs. “There are four names on the lease, and every one of us in this unpaid for house knows there are five people living here.”
Peter shakes his head first. “I don’t know that.”
“Oh!” Micky yells. “Do you mean Mr. Schneider? Well he’s just a dummy!”
“How many does one house need?” Babbitt mutters. “No, I’m talking about the girl.”
Mike freezes. He can feel Davy do the same next to him.
Babbitt catches their sudden stiffness. “Aha! You do know what I’m talking about! I and everyone on this block has seen miss thing leaving every morning and coming back every night here for weeks! Well, what do you have to say to that?” He crosses his arms, triumphant.
Mike’s mouth opens and closes. Davy’s tense, staring at the floor. Peter looks lost. Micky shuffles his feet and opens his big mouth. “That’s not a girl, that’s—”
“Well,” says Mike, talking over him, so loud Babbitt cringes. “Well that’s nothing. That’s a breeze to explain. That’s just my sister. Came to visit, these last couple of weeks, but wouldn’t you know, we dropped her back at the bus station just this morning, so we won’t get ah, a chance to introduce you.” He pats Babbitt on the shoulder, guiding him back towards the door. He casts a speaking look over his shoulder at Micky. “You won’t be seeing her again.”
“I didn’t know you had a sister.” Peter frowns.
Davy jumps in. “Not until she came for a visit, right babe?”
“But—” Peter’s brow furrows, and Micky wraps an arm around his shoulder and a hand around his mouth.
Mike shrugs at Babbitt like what can you do? “Nice of you to drop by; won’t you come again next year?”
Puffs of steam escape Babbitt’s ears. He waves a fist as Mike propels him through the doorway. “Rent tomorrow or I’ll get you! I’ll get you and your little band too.”
Davy bristles; Mike swings the door shut.
He leans back against it, lets out a breath. “Alright.” He meets Davy’s eyes. “Well, that takes care of that.”
-
For the rest of the day the problem does seem solved, basically. Micky goes out in the afternoon without the wig, makeup, or a dress. Mike doesn’t ask where he’s going. He notices for the first time that Micky’s usual tight pants and colorful blouse wouldn’t look out of place on a girl. They look right on him too though. He’s just a pretty guy.
It’s a relief again to have his back to Micky on stage that night, even in their stage clothes. He doesn’t let himself think about anything but the sound they’re making, the rhythm Peter and Micky are setting, Micky’s sweet voice, Davy shaking his hips and his maracas, his own hands moving over his guitar. It’s good and easy and groovy, and the fine mood carries him all through the evening.
He stretches out on his bed, arms folded behind his head, smiles up at the ceiling. It’s long past midnight, and the fading adrenaline is making him fuzzy and sleepy. He listens to Micky hum “Daydream Believer” and shuffle through his bedtime routine.
“C’n I get the light?” Mike rolls over to ask. He catches sight of Micky and sits upright. “Micky?”
“Hm?” Micky’s kicking his stage clothes into a little pile at the foot of his bed. “Oh, yeah, go ahead.”
“Micky.”
“Yeah?”
“What’re you wearing.”
Micky spins around. “You like it?”
Mike doesn’t answer. It’s a nightgown, he guesses. He’s never seen one that tiny. Or so shiny. It looks soft, like it would feel like water if you ran your hand over it, maybe to smooth out the ripple where it’s clinging to Micky’s bony hip. The white looks very bright against his chest.
“Mike?”
“Huh?”
“It’s good, right?”
Mike frowns. “Um. Sure. Yeah, it’s fine.”
Micky beams. He twirls a little before he throws himself down on his own bed, shimmies under the covers. “You can get the light now if you want.”
Mike reaches for the lamp, then takes his hand back. “Mick. You heard Babbitt this morning. You’re gonna stop dressing like that for work now, right?”
“No way, man!” Micky smiles across the gap between their beds. “I bought a new wig this afternoon. I’ll tell them down at work that I spent the weekend in the salon, and if Babbitt gets on us again we can say I’m Davy’s new girlfriend.” He giggles to himself like that’s funny somehow.
“Davy’s?”
Micky blinks at the sharp tone. “Nah, you’re right, no one’s gonna believe Davy sticking with the same girl two weeks in a row.” He rolls onto his back, yawns big and loud. “It’s a blonde wig; maybe I can be Peter’s sister now.”
“Sure. Sure you can.” Mike switches off the light.
-
“We’ve got to move the plot along.” Davy’s slumped over the kitchen table, head in his hands.
“Well you’re not wrong.” Mike scratches under his hat. They’ve been at the brainstorming business the better part of Monday morning; it can’t be good TV.
“So what do we do?” Davy’s eyebrows creep towards one another.
“Uh. I say we just get to it.” He slaps the table. “We go to Micky’s office and snoop around.”
“What’ll we say when he sees us?”
“He won’t see us. We’ll be in disguise.”
Davy nods, thoughtful. “I can dig it.”
-
Mike fiddles with the zipper of his electrician’s coveralls. “Now when we get in there, we’re heading straight for the records room, alright?”
Davy nods.
Mike narrows his eyes. “Straight there. And we’re gonna look for information about where all the old secretaries who used to work here all left for. Right?”
“Of course.”
“This is for Micky. He needs us.”
“Well what are we dilly dallying about out here for then? Let’s go.”
Mike holds open one of the huge plate glass doors for him. There’s no one but a bored security guard at the front desk. No problem.
Mike lifts his empty tool bag at him. “Headed up to finish the job on that faulty, uh. Lightbulb.”
The guard nods, fiddles with the knobs on his radio. It pipes out a tinny rendition of “A Hard Day’s Night.” Easy.
Then the elevator door swishes open and three of the most beautiful women Mike has ever seen step out.
Mike elbows Davy in the ribs. “What kind of company is this, again?”
“Haven’t the faintest,” Davy whispers back.
Mike shrugs. “No wonder Micky won’t quit.”
As Mike and Davy take the womens’ places on the elevator, three more materialize from nowhere and step in next to them. The one nearest Davy, a brunette about his height, gives him a smile. Davy smiles back.
“Davy,” Mike hisses.
“Hmm?” Davy murmurs, dreamy.
“Davy. Davy, the plan.”
By the time the doors have opened on the fifth floor—home of the records room—stars are dancing in Davy’s eyes. He and the girl wander hand in hand down the hall. A romantic theme plays softly. Mike hangs his head.
It’s the work of a few minutes to find the records room, and the file cabinet labeled FORMER SECRETARY INFORMATION. Mike dives in, emerges with a stack of folders. He spreads them out and begins to read.
It’s not his first choice of reading material—bit light on the action—but there’s some snappy dialogue. It’s not until he reaches the end of the first file that he hits a snag.
“Damned thing’s redacted.” He reaches for the second file. Same problem. Same with the third, fourth, and fifth.
He turns back to the file cabinet, starts pulling out the drawers. Not one drawer or folder is marked FORMER SECRETARY INFORMATION–COMPLETE AND UNREDACTED. He feels for trick bottoms, trapdoors. He dumps the contents of each drawer onto the floor. He puts his head in his hands.
“Mike?”
He looks up. “Peter?”
“Gee, Mike.” Peter surveys the wreckage of the records room. “Did you let an animal in here or something?”
Mike blushes. “Something like that.” There’s paper piled to his knees, drawers hanging from their hinges. Peter gawps from the doorway. Mike remembers his confusion. “Pete. What are you doing here?”
“I work here!” Peter straightens proudly. “What are you doing here?”
“Davy and I were lookin’ for the missing secretaries.” He gestures dejectedly at the files spilled across the room. “Wait.” He raises a finger to point at Peter. “No you don’t; Micky works here.”
“No, Micky works for the gizmo company; I work for Dr. Nadia!” He cocks his head. “What missing secretaries?”
“Dr. Nadia? All of them! Micky’s where?” Mike clutches at his hat. “Just what in the blazes is going on around here?”
Peter bites his lip. He looks worried. “Aw, Mike, maybe Dr. Nadia had better explain. Come on!” He grabs Mike’s wrist, tows him back towards the elevator. The doors open only a moment after he opens the door, revealing a familiar face under a curly blonde wig.
“Micky?” Mike says.
“Micky!” Peter exclaims at the same time.
“Mike? Peter? Davy?”
Mike and Peter whirl around.
“Micky?” Davy gasps. “Peter?”
“I’m Elsie.” The girl holding Davy’s hand gives a little wave.
“Hi Elsie.” Peter smiles at her.
“Peter works here,” Mike informs them.
“No,” says Micky. “I work here. What are you all doing here?”
“We’re going to see Dr. Nadia,” says Peter. “Come with us!”
Micky meets Mike’s eyes with a question. Mike shrugs. Micky nods, snaps to attention with a salute aimed at Peter. “Lead on, general!”
Peter herds them into the elevator. Instead of pressing a button, he reaches for a door handle on the far wall.
“Huh,” says Micky. “I never noticed that before.”
Peter pulls open the door to reveal a long hallway. The band and Elsie follow him in a tight crowd. At the far end of the hall, Peter swings open a second door, this one red-painted and brass-knobbed.
“Dr. Nadia!” he calls, “I brought my friends! Remember I told you about the band I’m in? Well here they are—The Monkees !”
Mike shuffles into the room behind Peter. It’s some kind of lab, he realizes. Shiny chrome surfaces everywhere, racks of glass beakers and flasks. A bank of computing equipment against the far wall. A contraption in the corner that might be a UFO or a time machine. He sneaks a glance at Micky and catches his eyes nearly popping out of his skull. Mike grabs his hand before he can wander away and start touching things. Micky gives his hand an excited squeeze.
It’s a moment before Mike even notices the woman Peter’s talking to. Once he’s seen her, he’s not sure how he missed her; with her glossy black hair piled on her head she must be over six feet tall. Maybe she’s wearing high heels—it’s impossible to tell beneath the floor-length emerald evening gown she’s wearing under her lab coat.
At Peter’s greeting she looks up from the microscope she’s bent over and sweeps towards them, black-gloved arms outstretched. “Oh, Petey!” she cries. “How lovely!” She takes Peter’s face in her hands and kisses him on both cheeks.
Peter beams. He turns to the band. “Dr. Nadia’s a swell lady. She’s got a great big project going on back here and she’s creating employment opportunities designed to lift up women.”
Dr. Nadia melts. She drapes an arm over Peter, pulls him close to rest his head against her shoulder and strokes his hair. “Full employment benefits,” she coos. “Right, Elsie?”
They all turn to Elsie. Davy’s mouth falls open. “You work here? ”
Elsie nods vigorously. “It’s the best job I’ve ever had. Manageable hours, a respectful work environment. Great health insurance too.”
“What…are you doing?” Mike asks Dr. Nadia.
“In a place like this?” Davy adds. He’s getting a dreamy look in his eye as he tips his head back, trying to catch Dr. Nadia’s gaze. Elsie frowns. Micky produces a water gun from his handbag and sprays him between the eyes.
Dr. Nadia takes no notice. With her arm still proprietary around Peter’s shoulder, she beckons to the group to follow her across the lab to a set of wide double doors. With a sideways smirk at Peter and a flourish towards the rest of them, she throws the doors open.
“Wow,” says Davy.
Mike looks between Dr. Nadia and the ballroom on the other side of the doors. From wall to wall to wall the hall is packed full of women hunched over typewriters, working furiously.
“It’s…an office?”
Dr. Nadia looks at him as if he’s tracked in something nasty on his boots. “Not quite, dear. You’re familiar, I’m sure, with the work of Émile Borel?”
Mike bites his thumbnail. Davy blusters.
Micky nods vigorously, adopting a French accent and a bushy mustache. “Mais oui, madame! ” He lets go of Mike’s hand to caper about him, nearly losing his balance in his heels. “Zee monkeys infinis—bien sûr!”
“Oi!” Davy interrupts. “In the Queen’s English for the rest of us monkeys?”
Micky’s eyes glint. He drops neither the accent nor the stache, but he reaches for Mike’s hand again, grips it zealously between both of his own. “Eet eeze a matter of probabilité! Éventuellement, zee monkeys, hitting zee random keys, veel happen upon any geeven combination.” He looks at Dr. Nadia, the Frenchman finally vaporizing. “But those girls aren’t monkeys. And it could take forever. What do you want them to type, anyway?”
“And how did Peter get involved in all this?” Mike cuts in.
Dr. Nadia laughs musically. “Peter misunderstood the ad—typists wanted for monkey business; you know. We had a wonderful laugh over it all, and he’s been such a dear keeping me company in the lab.” She pats his cheek. Peter blinks contentedly at her.
She shuts the door to the ballroom, ushering them back into the lab. “Now, this is all Top Secret, need-to-know information.” She looks at each of them sternly. “But any friend of Peter’s is a friend of mine.” She beckons them close. When they’re huddled together, she begins.
“You see I used to employ monkeys for a great deal of my lab work, until an… incident several years ago. Since that unfortunate event, it has become very difficult to secure the funding my project requires. That is why I have employed these remarkable women and this state of the art computing equipment to help me discover the nuclear launch codes. We’ll see if anyone’s harping on ethics violations when I’m holding the world for ransom!” Dr. Nadia gives a self-satisfied smile. “Now you understand.”
Mike finds his mouth hanging open. He closes it, then puts his fingers to Davy’s and Micky’s chins to close theirs.
“Peter ” Mike’s tone is pointed. “What do you think about that?”
Peter cocks his head. “Well, you know how I feel about violence. But Dr. Nadia’s demands are very reasonable. Really, I’d feel better about her having that power than anyone else I know.”
“Oh, Peter,” Dr. Nadia sighs.
Mike tries again. “Now, if the typing is just to fund the lab, then what’s the real project?”
Dr. Nadia straightens up. “I am going to end the epidemic of hunger in the world.” The Monkees exchange uncertain glances. Dr. Nadia gestures to the hulking contraption in the corner of the lab. “With my ray gun, I will one day be able to turn anything in the world into food.” She sighs again, somewhat dejectedly this time. “Unfortunately, without the necessary funding, I am somewhat limited. At the moment, it can still produce only…bananas.”
A long moment of silence ensues.
Mike breaks it when it seems no one else will, coughing lightly. “Well now…this moral conundrum y’got here seems a little over-complicated. The Monkees isn’t really that kinda program.”
Davy pitches in with palpable relief, “Save it for The Twilight Zone!”
“Or Star Trek,” Peter adds.
“And don’t you think one of the central premises— the assumption that being a secretary is women’s work— is a bit unenlightened?” Micky piles on.
Dr. Nadia crosses her arms. “It’s 1967, darling; the women's lib movement is nascent.” She catches Elsie’s eye. “Pick your battles.”
Micky shrugs. “I dunno guys, I like it better when the bad guys are all bad. And I’m tired of waking up on time for work and eating bananas all the time. Can we just head back to the pad and jam awhile?”
“You got it, shotgun,” Mike’s voice comes out just this side of too enthusiastic, but the band is too busy filing silently back out into the hallway to notice. Davy and Peter wave sadly at Elsie and Dr. Nadia.
-
Micky’s wearing the nightgown again. He’s standing shoulder to shoulder with Mike as they brush their teeth. Same as any other night. The light from the ancient bulb glows and refracts from that watery fabric. Mike stares.
He sets down his toothbrush, spits. Wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. His hand, which reaches out for Micky.
The nightgown feels as liquid as it looks, ripples and pools between Mike’s fingers as he skims them over Micky’s ribs. He looks up to the mirror.
Micky’s reflection’s eyes are wide, and trained on Mike.
“Ouufounkomprouee?”
“Eh?”
Micky removes the toothbrush from his mouth, spits out a glob of toothpaste. Their reflected eyes meet again when he straightens up. “Do you think I’m pretty?”
Mike stares, caught.
Micky ducks his head, continues to study him. “Mike?”
Mike breathes deep. He leans down, holds Micky’s eyes. Leans down until his lips brush Micky’s bare shoulder. Micky’s breath shakes in his throat, and Mike can hear it, only inches away. He kisses the side of Micky’s neck.
Micky swallows. “The Monkees isn’t this kind of program either, you know.”
Mike smiles against his skin. “We’re the Monkees. It is now.”