Work Text:
As it happens, it’s just a regular Saturday morning.
Peter’s reading the newspaper and laughing at the familiar political section, Mike’s wiping down the dishes, and Davy was trying on his new pants. He'd just gotten them back from the tailor’s, and it’s so hard to find matching clothes with the guys his size.
Davy sashayed over to Peter at the table, arriving with a bow at the applause. His dancing stopped as he peeled back Peter’s newspaper.
“This one’s a week old, Pete.”
Peter hummed as he looked to where Davy was pointing. “You know, I thought this was old news.” He got up and walked to the front door, expecting the newspaper to be thrown haphazardly into the potted plant their neighbor refused to take responsibility for.
Peter looked to his left, then to his right, lifted the plant’s leaves, and turned back around to the kitchen. “Did someone else get the paper?”
Mike didn’t bother turning around from the sink as he answered. “Micky must’ve gotten it.”
Davy nodded. Sounded logical enough, and occasionally Micky would wake up at odd hours to fill out the crossword with nonsensical answers. It ticked Davy off since he liked actually trying at those, and Mick always found that funny.
But Peter wasn’t convinced. “Has anyone seen Micky today?”
Mike actually turned around at that, and he met Davy’s eye with concern. Neither knew where he was. Peter obviously didn’t either. Sure, they don’t need to know where each other are at all times, regardless of what that random doctor they’d met on the street said about ‘co-dependency’.
But considering none of them left the house yesterday, it was the designated practice day, that raised a bit of concern. Especially since their band was so danger-prone. It seemed like every week one of them was getting snatched by bad guys or possessed by aliens.
“I’ll check the bedrooms,” Mike offered, and assigned Davy and Peter other locations to check. They all counted off, and then tripped and stumbled into one another as they tried to walk away.
Peter went back outside, hoping Micky was pretending to be a werewolf again and prowling. No dice.
Yet, as he was about to go back into the pad, he stopped. He turned on his heel and whipped out a magnifying glass.
He called the guys over, and Davy and Mike came rushing, smashing into each other.
“I couldn’t find ‘im on the beach,” Davy said, and Mike nodded that he couldn’t find him either.
“What’dya got, Pete?” Mike asked, and Peter waved them over to look through the glass.
—~—
That's how the Monkees ended up in full crisis mode.
A piece of fiber left at the crime scene (their front porch). Peter picks it up by its pointy end, and turns it over and around. He tries to wiggle it. Stiff.
Davy ‘ooohs’ at that revelation.
“Where’ve we seen this before?” Mike questions, and all three of them try to think back. Davy gets as far as the last gig they had: they played for some ladies’ banquet, and he’d been quite taken by one of their daughters. Peter and Mike get further, though.
Peter jumps as he realizes, and Mike snaps his fingers at the same time. “A broomstick!” they say together, and at that Mike joins Peter’s gleeful jumping.
Davy doesn’t share in their joy. “That’s all very well and good, but how’s that ‘elp us here? Where'd Micky go?”
Peter doesn’t want to stop jumping, but he does. (Mike calmed down a while ago.) He contemplates who do we know that uses broomsticks anymore?
They’re all quiet for a second, before they look up to each other in horror.
“Witches…” they all speak at the same time. Davy’s tone more a whisper, Peter’s terrified, and Mike’s tone aggravated.
“And the rest of the week had been going so well,” Peter laments to himself.
Mike acts quick, though. “Alright, men, suit up,” he says sternly. Peter and Davy salute, and rush to get fully dressed and out of their pajamas and robes. Davy comes back out in his regular wares, Mike matching that vibe. Peter steps out in his nicest three-piece outfit, already ironed and pressed.
“No, Peter.” Davy shakes his head, and Peter rushes to go back and change. Well, forgive him for taking things literally.
—~—
“Yeah, and? You’re kids, he’s probably out with a girl,” Mike bristles at that, which Peter finds odd, “or just sleepin’ off a hangover. Come back when there’s a real emergency,” the cop they cornered says to them. He brushes past them to walk further into the precinct, and the Monkees all sigh at the interaction.
The clerk that tried to talk to them first is a bit nicer. “Look, gentlemen, call if you think of anything dire, or just ask your neighbors about it. I'm sure he’s alright,” the lady says nasally, handing over a business card to Davy.
Davy glances down to the card, and all it says is ‘emergency? try 911!’ He politely thanks her anyway, because that’s how he was raised. Mike just grumbles and walks out of the police station. “Should’ve never bothered,” he mutters spitefully, because that’s how he was raised.
“So much for ‘protect and serve’,” Davy quips as they all end up back out on the sidewalk, and Mike chuckles dejectedly. Peter smiles weakly, and sighs at the parking ticket on the Monkeemobile. Time for Plan B, Peter thinks as Mike crumples the ticket up.
—~—
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Micky shoots up with a gasp, looking around him. There’s no bomb, just a grandfather clock. An unfamiliar one, and he blinks blearily.
This isn’t their house.
He tries running out toward the door he’s facing, but he’s stuck. He looks down at the rope that’s got him tied up. Jeez, right, Micky remembers. He’s trapped in some witch hut for reasons unbenownest to him, and he didn’t even get to change out of his robe. They just snatched him up as he got the newspaper.
Micky pouts and looks around the room for a second time. He hears a ringing, and looks over to a telephone. It’s just barely in his reach, so he uses his chin to knock the phone off its cradle.
“Hello, hello!? My name is Micky Dolenz, and I've been kidnapped!” he says quickly, gasping for breath, "I've been kidnapped and tied up in some creepy house in the woods! Can you send someone?”
“…..”
“He-hello? Is anyone there?”
“…”
The line cuts out. This is rough, Micky thinks. He's hoping someone did get the message, if not then some foreigner’s gonna be real confused.
[Hovering in the darkness that envelops the stars, a tall green man shakes his head. Another green person, this one shorter, walks in through the shuttle doors.
What’s that guy talking about? the second asks.
Must’ve gotten the wrong ship, the first one replies.]
“Just what was that?” one of the witches asks him from the shadows of the room.
Micky jolts, and knocks the whole phone off the table. He cringes as it clashes into the floor, and swears he hears one of the witches reply “not again.”
—~—
The three Monkees walk into some odd shop that’s downtown. It’s a newer establishment, more freaky than the neighboring ones, and a raven caws from the shop sign. This place draws a more haunted crowd, and Peter finds the occult of it interesting. Davy finds it creepy, and he grabs a hold of Peter’s arm and refuses to let go even as they walk further into the place. Peter finds he doesn’t mind the closeness.
Peter also notices Mike’s determination, seeming more serious than usual as he pushes past the rows of spell books and crystal balls.
Mike presents the fiber to the lady at the front desk, whose uninterested look barely changes as Mike explains the whole ordeal.
“Wild,” she states. “What do you expect me to do?”
Peter pushes Mike over to the side a bit, taking over so Mike doesn’t bug out; which seems highly likely. “We were hoping you might know what this is from?”
She leans down to look at it for a second, and then comes back up. “A broom—“
Davy cuts her off. “A broom, yes. But, what my friend here means is, could you tell us who it came from?”
She snorts at them and shakes her head. “No can do, tiny.” Davy guffaws at that. “Look, I feel for ya, I really do. If my friend went crazy and ran out on me, I'd be mad like Texas over there.” Peter and Davy glance to Mike, whose expression is dark and stance is rigid. They turn back to her. “But I really can’t help you. To me, this just seems like a hair from a regular old dust broom.” And her expression’s finally changed, much more apologetic.
Peter nods sadly, already given up. Davy pats Mike’s back as he’s holding his head in his hand.
The odd lady glances around the shop, and then leans over to whisper to the Monkees. “Listen, cheer up. My manager might be able to help you,” at the sudden cheering from the group, whistles and pom-poms flying, she grows sterner. “Might,” she emphasizes, and Peter quiets his clapping.
She looks up to the cobweb shaped clock on the wall, and back to the guys. “She’s on lunch right now, so you could come back in an hour,” she offers.
Mike nods and starts walking back where they came. Peter rushes to catch up, and Davy gets yanked along since he never bothered letting go of Peter’s arm.
“What are we supposed to do for an hour?” Peter asks, looking at Davy still hanging on his arm.
Davy looks up to Mike and Peter. His gaze is drawn to the nearby park’s center, where a local band has gone on break. “We could always play?”
—~—
Micky’s not doing any better. Actually, he’s off a bit worse. He's got one part of the rope in between his teeth as he tugs at it. It doesn't taste great, but it’s better than most rope. He pauses, out of breath, and thinks.
He’s tightening the rope around him. Not loosening it.
He hangs his head dejectedly.
—~—
After a successful trio excursion, where the crowd of park goers cheered and then booed as they were chased off by the group the equipment actually belonged to, the Monkees find themselves in the back of the tiny occult store. It's even darker than the front end, and there’s wobbly piles of crates and boxes lining the halls. In the center of this room is a normal wooden desk. Behind it sits, who Peter assumes, is the owner.
She waves them over as she throws away some parchment paper with sandwich leftovers on it. Mike and Peter share a look.
“Come, sit down,” the owner says to them, gesturing to the two chairs. Now Mike and Davy share a look, as they rush to get a seat. Peter’s already sat, and Davy clicks his tongue at that. Mike gets the other chair, and situates himself smugly. Davy relents to sitting on the armrest of Peter’s chair. He's been more uncomfortable, and it’s for a noble cause anyhow.
“Look ma’am—“ Mike starts.
“Call me Doris, honey,” the lady— Doris— corrects him.
Mike cocks his head, and goes back to continue speaking.
Before Peter interrupts him, thinking out loud. He’s got a distant smile on his face as he wonders, “that doesn’t seem like a very, uh, witchy name?”
Doris blinks away her blank expression and nods her head. “It’s a family name,” she explains, and Peter nods back in reverence.
“Okay, Doris," Mike finally speaks up, rolling his eyes at Peter, “we were told you might be some help here?” Mike pushes the evidence across the table with a finger.
Doris picks up the fiber with careful precision. She pulls on a cord above her, and a tiny spotlight highlights her hands. “That’s better,” she murmurs to herself, eyeing the piece.
A quick flick, a flash of a blue orb, and Peter notices in awe as the fiber now shines orange and pink. Davy almost falls off the armrest as he goes to stabilize himself, and then he goes to stand behind Peter’s chair (to which he can safely lean on).
Mike now eyes the woman warily.
At the Monkees’ obvious nerves, the woman chuckles. “Don’t worry boys, this is all normal for here. And, I know who this belongs to.”
Davy perks up from his standing slouch. “Yeah!? You mean it, you can find Micky?!”
Doris nods as she scribbles down something on a piece of paper. She copies Mike’s “cool-guy in a noir” move he did earlier, and slides the note over the desk. They all rush to grab the paper first, and Peter’s triumphant as Davy gets a paper cut. He sucks on the damaged finger as he looks over Peter’s shoulder, Peter turning his head quickly to check on Davy. Mike follows, and confusion rests on his features.
It’s an address, he realizes.
“That it is. They live in the woods, and that’s the closest house to them. You just walk past ‘til you hear the ominous bubbling,” Doris explains. “And don’t go hurting them. They're not malicious, just impulsive.” She points a finger at the boys, the action seeming to be mostly directed at Mike.
Peter tilts his head, puzzled, as Mike squints at her.
Davy speaks for all of them, the least emotionally affected. “Will do, madam.” He yanks Mike to stand up, and leads them out of the backroom and through the store again.
Now that they’re back out on the sidewalk, Davy shields his eyes from the blazing sun. He leans into Peter as they reread the directions to find Micky, remembering the streets to take. The two of them go to get in the car as Mike finds another parking ticket. He crumples that one up, too, and drives down the street and towards the incoming storm clouds.
—~—
“121, 122, 123,” Mike counts off the house numbers, slowing the car down. “Well, this’s gotta be it. That's the last house on this block.” he points over to the street sign that reads Street, Rd.
“Boy, this is like a movie set,” Peter whispers, eyeing the rows of plain houses.
“Well yeah, mate, this’s the backlot,” Davy replies.
“Man, let’s get out of here. I'm gettin’ the creeps just by sittin’ in this car like a lame duck,” Mike says, shutting his car door a little too harshly. That one bird sitting in a tree caws at them pointedly, and flies off toward the woods.
Peter tugs at Mike’s shirt and then grabs Davy. “Ooh, ooh! Let’s follow that bird, it’s like he’s sending us a message to find Micky!”
“Peter, man, lay off the grass. It’s just a bird.” Mike shakes Peter off, but walks in the line of the bird’s shadow anyway. He disappears into the suspicious fog that lines the forest's path. Davy grabs the back of Peter's shirt to drag him along, not wanting to be left behind. Peter allows himself to be dragged, and walks backwards into the shadowy forest.
—~—
Micky watches the witches warily. They move around him like he’s not even there, which Micky supposes he prefers to torture methods.
One of the witches catches his eye, and he freezes. He coughs, attempting to in his hand (can’t move), and smiles weakly. “So uh, what do you need me for, anyway?”
Another of the witches, Micky assumes the leader, answers him. “I'm glad you asked!” Micky brightens at that, and she yanks on a cord and the curtains pull back, sunlight flooding the home. “Our son is, how do I put this nicely, poor? Poor in spirit,” she decides.
Micky frowns, but she continues rambling. “We saw you perform with your little band at our ladies’ banquet. You have the confidence and the energy that our son needs. He's such a sad boy, you know.”
Micky nods along (he doesn’t know). And, he doesn’t see how he could help with that, being a weakling and all.
“So, we have you here just so we can get a, a booster, you can think of it like that.” She finally finishes talking.
Micky shies away from them. “You’re stealing my energy? But— it gives me life!” he cries out dramatically, spotlight shining on him, and the final witch speaks up.
“It’s not like that,” she rolls her eyes. “It’s essentially medicine. You've got the antidote, and we need a little bit to make the serum work.”
Micky calms down a bit at that explanation, but still watches them with cautious eyes. “Some waiting room this is,” he mumbles to himself, flipping a magazine over titled Potions and You with his foot.
He just hopes Mike isn’t blaming himself. He's got that tendency to be deprecating, always taking other people’s problems to heart. It's one of the things Micky loves about him. And Micky did disappear at an inopportune time.
—~—
Thunk, squeak! Thunk, squawk!
Mike turns around. Davy stops in his tracks, and Peter walks into his back.
"What's that about?" Mike asks, looking around toward the tops of the trees.
Peter lifts his foot, a sheepish grin on his face as he takes off the ducky slippers he just had on. "Must be from wardrobe," Peter laughs.
Mike rolls his eyes and continues walking. "Don't do that. I thought it could've been another clue," Mike says, tone bleak.
Peter and Davy share a look at Mike's depression.
"He’s real hung-up on this, huh?" Davy whispers to Peter.
Peter nods firmly.
Sure, when one in their little group gets in trouble, the other Monkees care. They worry and try to help like any friends-turned-family do. But Mike's been blue. He hasn't been going along with Peter and Davy's gags as often as he usually does. The car ride here only had a white-knuckled grip on the wheel, and even the song they played in the park was one of their more longing records. Something's happened with Mike and Micky.
Peter decides to investigate. "Mike, Mike," Peter starts, rushing to step in front of Mike and stop his walking. Mike takes a step to the side, but Davy prevents him. He’s holding out a baton and wearing a security guard's uniform, the fake mustache peeling off.
Mike relents with a sigh, somewhat. "Look man, it's nothin’.” He folds his arms across his chest and looks away. At the other two's refusal to move, he continues. "Me and Micky just had a, uh, moment, yesterday night. 'Course I’m worried it's my fault," Mike admits, face red.
Peter tilts his head, confused. "You think you upset Micky enough he volunteered himself up to a couple witches?" Peter asks.
Mike looks away again, starring off into the dense woods.
Davy shakes his head in disbelief. "That’s crazy, Mike! What could you've possibly done?"
Mike turns rigid again, his face red and hands clenched. "Nothin' you and Peter obviously haven't," Mike accuses as he side-steps the gate Davy put up. And because he can, he opens the gate and slams it shut. It falls to the dirt, and Davy sighs.
Peter doesn't react to that scene. He stands still, body twitching and face reddening. Davy finally registers what Mike said, what he implied, and he laughs nervously.
"Heh, well he's uh.." Davy tries coming up with an excuse. Peter and him haven't done anything, regardless of what some of his past flings have assumed. But it's impossible to deny when he thinks of his eager closeness with Peter, with their little shared laughs or 'platonic' cuddles when it gets cold in the pad. "Uh..."
He glances up to Peter. He meets Davy's gaze with a blushing face and shy eyes. He bites his lip, and twitches his eyebrows. Davy gives up. "Oh, Peter," he finally speaks, reaching a hand to hold Peter's face as he stands on his tip-toes to reach Peter's lips. It's a quick kiss, barely time for Davy to shush Peter's babbling.
Davy slumps back on his feet to his normal height and goes to hold Peter's hands.
Slinking back from further along the path, Mike comes back to them. He's got his eyes closed as he speaks. “Listen, guys, I didn't mean anythin’, really. I'm grateful for the both of ya." He wrings his hands together, and finally opens his eyes.
Davy and Peter are still stuck together. He looks down to their hands— holding— and raises an eyebrow. He opens his mouth to probably ask what the hell happened, but Peter interrupts him.
"Oh, look!" he yells, pointing a finger at some blurry thing floating in the sky. He's using the hand that's still holding Davy's, and Davy pulls their hands down.
Mike's hesitant to listen, assuming Pete's pulling the wool over his eyes, but at Davy's awed expression he turns anyway.
There is something in the sky. The Monkees can see it clearly from the gap in the trees. A white-ish square floats down, and as it gets closer to them it furls open with the wind, then smacks into one of the large trees surrounding them. They all rush to go check it out. Mike yanks it off the trunk and Peter pats the tree in thanks for its service. It's their missing newspaper!!
There's a squawk from above them, and Mike looks to Peter again as the cause. Peter points upwards to defend himself: it's that bird they've technically been following. It caws again, and looks straight ahead.
Looking up and past the leaves, Peter can see chimney smoke. He scratches his head.
Mike's dumfounded expression doesn't last long as he runs towards it. "Come on, guys, we can't wait aroun' any longer!" he yells, and Peter and Davy once again follow.
As they stand outside the witches' home, Pete thinks it's not all that bad. The windows are actually cleaner than theirs, the wildflowers are flourishing, and the clouds above dissipate like a good omen.
"I thought this would be more a drag," Peter thinks. Davy agrees. Mike doesn't care to respond.
He takes one big step to the heavy front door and starts rapidly knocking. He huffs in frustration when no one answers (surprisingly) and turns around to Peter and Davy for other ideas. Davy's about to pull out his grapple gun when the bird comes back. It swoops down to their level and presses the doorbell in with its beak.
An older woman answers the door, and raises an eyebrow at the Monkees on her front porch.
Mike brushes past her, the other two on his heels. They get stuck in the doorway, knocking into one another. Peter looks around the joint. Again, it's oddly regular looking. Besides the cauldron and mysterious green and purple vials on the shelves, it's basic. But Mike doesn't take any time to appreciate the furnishings.
Micky notices them from across the room. He’s tied up with some shiny rope by a potion's table. "Mike!" he yelps, voice high, and he tries to wiggle free. Mike rushes to Micky's side, but he's suddenly yanked back.
Davy turns around and notices the woman who 'let' them in has her hand outstretched, and her orange sleeve whooshes. There's little sparkles coming off her palm and disappearing, and her face is terrified.
Peter follows Davy's sightline and hums, knocking on what should be air. Yet, there's a barrier, some magical wall blocking them from crossing. It shines in the sunlight coming from the southern window, and it's highlighted with streaks of pinks and yellows.
Mike panics, flattening his palms on the barrier. Micky stares uneasily, watching the fear emanate off Mike. He shimmies the chair he's on further away from his captors, who immediately pulls him back with a disappointed head shake. That's the one wearing purple robes, and Peter realizes that there're actually three witches. Sure, number wise it'd be a fair fight. But they're witches. Which reminds him…
“How’d you guys drive Micky tied-up out here on a broom anyhow?” Peter asks with a head tilt.
The two main witches look at each other, and then cackle. Micky flinches at the loud noise above him, and Mike rushes to console him, but the magical barrier bounces him back into Davy. Mike holds his nose as Davy hops in place, holding his ankle.
The witches ignore their antics. “It's not the nineteenth century anymore! We just had him in the backseat of our car,” one of the witches states, the pink one, still laughing quietly.
Mike glares at them. “So, then what’s with this broom fiber we found?” He holds it up proudly, pretending to be a defense attorney.
The second witch, the one in orange, snorts. “That must’ve just fallen off the back.”
Mike looks over Davy’s head to Peter. Davy swishes his head back-and-forth to their chests. Davy eventually looks to Micky, who’s at his eye-level for once, and Micky’s confusion speaks for itself. All of the Monkees are stumped.
The third witch waves a hand to the back window. They all lean forward to get a good look, Micky almost falling backwards in the chair.
Davy scoffs at the sight. Parked around the back of the witches’ abode, where the surrounding trees’ shade speckle the sun, is a regular old car. Where the spare tire would be is taken up by two broomsticks. A honk if you love magic! bumper sticker is nestled right beneath the brooms.
“Boy, I don't think we’ve dealt with modern witches before!” Peter whispers to Mike.
Davy stands tall (as much as he can) as he whispers, “this requires modern thinking!”
All three of them nod together, and stand still.
Mike looks down to Davy. “And that would be…?”
Davy shrugs his shoulders.
“War tactics, probably,” Peter offers, shaking his head as he says it (they will not be in the trenches, that much he knows.)
Micky continues watching them curiously. But then, the purple witch plucks a hair from his head and puts it in the cauldron, the liquid foaming and bubbling over the sides. Micky forgets his hands are tied and yanks his arms up to shield his head, pulling his shoulders. He whimpers out a cry, and Mike darts his head over to where Micky’s sat.
Noting this, one of the witches speaks up as the orange one walks over to her and through the barrier. “Ah, so you two are like us?” the pink witch states, and she points her finger between Mike and Micky, and then back to herself and the orange witch.
“Wha-huh?” Micky huffs, eyes wide and smile forced as he stumbles over his words.
Mike’s doing no better. His hands twitch as he taps his fingers together nervously. “L-listen lady, I've got no idea what you’re talkin’ about,” he finally says.
She's unimpressed. “Have it your way.” She grabs a thin vial and pulls a syringe out of it, bringing it near Micky. Micky jolts at the sight, eyes squeezing shut and legs frantically trying to push away.
“Wh- wait! Wait, okay!” Mike cracks, begging with his hands up placatingly. “Don't hurt him! You were right, okay? Me and Mick are… together,” he says warily, glancing over to gauge his friends’ reactions. Davy furrows his eyebrows, offended that a witch was told before him (technically). Peter quickly moves his head back and forth between Mike and Micky, and then smiles brightly.
The orange witch takes the vial from her partner and places it back down on the table with a smirk. “Thank you for the honesty,” Mike frowns at that, “and we never planned on hurting your ‘friend’ here.”
“But-but this whole wall thing, what’s that about?” Davy asks, flustered, and gestures around the room.
The orange witch goes quiet as the other two witches look at her curiously. She actually looks uncomfortable as she answers. “You all running in here, I thought you were going to hurt my Lillian,” she says quietly. The pink witch— Lillian, apparently— hugs her side and kisses her cheek. The purple witch shakes her head at them and goes back to organizing her cards.
The Monkees all take a second to process that. Then, Mike goes pink and ducks his head in understanding. Davy and Peter elbow each other (witches lovin’ witches, groovy!) and Micky tilts in his chair.
“Then can you let me go now? You know, in the name of community,” Micky wonders, head nodding over to the other three Monkees.
The coven look at one another.
“Fine. We've gotten what we needed, anyhow,” the purple witch says, tapping the rope slung over Micky’s shoulder. Another flash of light, and the rope’s gone.
Micky looks down at himself and turns his arms. (No restriction!) He jumps up and runs over to the guys, the orange witch zapping away the barrier just in time. He runs into Mike’s arms first, the two happily swaying as they hug. Micky lets go with one arm to bring Peter and Davy into the hug, and they all continue jumping until Davy points something out.
“Wait, wait— wait a minute fellas. We could’ve just tried that other door.” He gestures over to the window of the modern-century witches with a thumb. Next to it is a smaller wooden door.
Peter snaps his fingers in frustration.
Mike hangs his head with a laugh. “Whatever, man, let’s get goin’.” He pulls Micky close to his side and holds him by the waist, walking the two out the door (and getting just the tiniest bit stuck on the way out).
The Monkees, finally all together, walk the forest’s path and eventually reach the neighboring street.
Mike clicks his tongue as he notes another ticket on the windshield. He grabs it, and stuffs it in the glove box with other tickets and nonsense threats spilling out. Doing so means reaching over where Micky’s sitting, and Micky twists his body and leans into Mike’s space. He gives a chaste “thank you” kiss, and Mike mumbles a little “you’re welcom’” to him.
Davy giggles in the backseat, and the two turn to glare at him, and Peter’s tight hold.
Peter doesn’t acknowledge any of that. “Say, Mike, what moment did you and Micky share last night that me and Davy missed? The one that got you so spaced out?”
Davy, who’s pointedly ignoring the evil stares of his bandmates, continues laughing into Peter’s side. “Right! Knowin’ those two it was probably some sappy passionate loving,” he giggles.
Micky turns around fully, and reaches back to flick Davy’s forehead. He rubs at the injury. “Mr Jones, I suggest you take a better look at yourself,” Micky chides, blush spreading enough to confirm Davy’s theories. He sits back correctly in his seat. Mike eyes him knowingly, and Micky smiles small.
Davy and Peter look to each other, to the overlapping of legs and grabby hands, and both decide to no longer make fun of Mike and Micky. For the whole couple thing only. All other pranks are still on the table.
—~—
Later that night, the pad is finally quiet.
As all four Monkees are accounted for, they hang around lazily in the living room. Peter strums on his banjo as Davy leans his back on him, tapping his foot rhythmically. Micky’s wrapped in a blanket, really sticking to the whole “injured and affected old man” bit. Mike brings over a cup of coffee, and hands it to Micky. He smiles brightly and reaches one of his hands out of his blanket to hold Mike steady. He leans up for a kiss.
And Davy boos. “Go to your room, fellas!” he yells over to them.
Mike glances to Davy hanging off Peter, and throws a pillow at him. He falls down, laughing.
Their neighbor's dog starts barking at the commotion, and they start banging on the Monkees’ door.
Everything's normal again. For the time being.