Note: Apologies to Newbeau for stealing her story title.

It was a quiet Sunday at the Monkee's Pad. Mike, Micky and Davy slumbered peacefully in their beds. Peter, token morning person of the group, was the only one up and about. Even the late nights necessitated by their current gig couldn't change his habit of rising with the sun.

Sitting on the wooden steps leading down to the beach, Peter contemplated the dawn, the notebook and pencil clutched in his hands seemingly forgotten. It was there that the guys found him an hour later, still staring out at the water.

"Hey, man! Whatcha writin'?" The stairs reverberated as Micky bounded down them, plopping himself down on the tread next to Peter.

In silent answer, Peter turned the notebook around, showing Micky the blank page, then turning his attention back toward the ocean.

Not knowing what to say to that non-answer, Micky followed Peter's gaze, seeing nothing in the surf that was worthy of such intense scrutiny. Whatever Peter had on his mind, he obviously wasn't going to talk about it.

That in itself seemed really odd to Micky. It was usually very easy to tell what Peter was feeling. For one thing, he had the worst poker face in the world, every emotion clearly written there for all to see. For another, Peter of all the guys, was the most comfortable talking about his feelings. It wasn't like him to keep things bottled up inside.

"Breakfast, you two!" Mike bellowed from the balcony at the top of the stairs. Micky rose in answer to the summons, but Peter remained where he was, eyes never wavering from the scene before them.

"Peter." No answer. "Peter!" Micky tried again.

Shaking his head as if to clear it, Peter looked up at Micky. "What?"

"Where's your head this morning, Peter? Breakfast is ready."

"You go ahead. I'm not really hungry."

Shrugging, Micky headed back up to the Pad.

~*~

"Where's Peter?" Davy asked, looking up from the slice of toast he was buttering.

"Said he wasn't hungry," Micky replied, taking the empty seat next to Mike. "He seems really down this morning. Usually you can't wipe that stupid smile off his face."

"Well, whatever it is, it's none of our business. Just leave him be for a while," Mike ordered.

The trio finished their breakfast, quickly washing up the few dirty dishes, then taking up their own separate pursuits. Micky went to the corner of the living room he'd claimed as his own to work on his latest contraption in the mini-mad-scientist's-lab he had set up. Davy sat on the spiral staircase with the phone glued to his ear, deep in conversation with the lucious Lorelie, whom he'd met on the beach the day before. Mike drifted over to his favorite spot on the bandstand, determined to work out the kinks in the new song he was writing.

Intent on their own activities, it was after noon before they guys realized that Peter had never come in from the beach.

"Man, is he still out there?" Mike wondered aloud. He stood up, stretching the knots out of his spine. Gently depositing the guitar back in it's stand, he moved to the back door. Opening it, he stepped out onto the balcony, peering down the steps.

Peter still sat in the same place, sandy head bent over the notebook he had balanced on his right knee, pencil poised as if to add something to the half filled page.

Suddenly, with an exasperated sigh, Peter tossed the pencil aside. Grasping the top sheet of paper, he ripped it out of the notebook, crumpling it into a tight ball with one hand, and flinging it out onto the sand.

Well, so much for lettin' him be! Mike chuckled to himself. Walking slowly down the stairs, he stood directly behind Peter.

"All right, out with it!"

Startled, Peter nearly dropped his notebook. Twisting around, he looked up at Mike. "I don't know what you mean."

"Don't give me that stupid act. You've been mopin' around here all day, and that's not like you. What's eatin' at you?"

"I really don't want to talk about it, Michael." Peter stood, making his way down the last few steps to the beach, paper and pencil forgotten. "I'm going for a walk."

Not willing to let him off the hook that easily, Mike followed. If he knew Peter, it wouldn't be long before he cracked. Four months of living in each other's pockets had given the guys a crash course in each other's habits and personalities, and Mike had learned that Peter was incapable of holding his emotions in check for very long.

They were a half-mile down the beach before Peter broke the silence.

"Next Sunday is Father's Day."

"So it is," Mike ventured, not sure yet where this was headed.

"I really miss my Dad."

Okay, Mike thought. Let's try this again. "So why don't you call or write him?"

"Because I haven't spoken to him in almost a year, that's why!" Peter shoved his trembling hands deep in his jacket pockets. Taking a few deep breaths, he continued to walk alongside Mike until he was reasonably sure he could continue without losing it completely.

"My father and I didn't part on very good terms. We had this huge fight last year on Father's Day. We said a lot of awful things to each other..."

"You haven't spoken to him since?" Mike asked tentatively.

"I've tried. He won't come to the phone when I call. Mom says he won't read my letters, and my brother says he barely even mentions my name anymore."

"So what were you tryin' to write this morning?"

"When I looked at the calendar this morning and realized how close Father's Day is, I knew I had to try one last time, but the words kept coming out all wrong. Maybe I should just take it as a sign and give up."

"Peter," Mike began, "I can't say I know much about fathers. Mine never even hung around long enough for me to really know him. But it seems to me that you must have had something pretty special with your dad, or else this wouldn't hurt so much."

Peter nodded. "We were so close when I was a kid. We did a lot of things together, just the two of us. We'd go camping, or fishing or hiking. I loved it. Things only really started to go bad between us when I got into music. I know Dad had his heart set on me going to college, and being a teacher like he is, but I just couldn't do it. I knew from the day I got my first guitar that I was gonna go through life playing music. I can't imagine living without it, Mike, be he hates it. Sometimes I think he hates me, too."

His composure finally gone, Peter turned and sprinted down the beach, and Mike let him go.

Turning back toward the Pad, Mike pondered this new situation. There has to be something we can do, he thought. If only we could find a way to get them to talk to one another.

~*~

Walking back into the Pad alone, Mike was greeted at the door by Micky and Davy.

"What's goin' on? Why'd he run off like that?" Micky demanded.

"Yeah, what'd you say to him, Mike?" Davy added.

"What, you two take up spyin' now?" Mike shrugged out of his jacket, draping it over the back of a kitchen chair. "He's just uptight. He'll come back when he's ready." And it's not my place to blab to you two about Peter's problems, he added silently.

"Well, he'd better come back soon," Micky observed, looking out of the bay window. "Looks like there's a storm blowing in."

The storm broke just as the guys were setting up for practice. As relaxed as most things were at the Pad, the never, ever, missed a rehearsal. It was one of the few things they had all agreed upon, and now Peter was in danger of breaking that inviolate rule.

As the wind-driven rain lashed at the windows and breakers crashed on the beach, Davy spied a familiar figure running up the beach-side stairs.

Soaked to the skin, and practically blown in the back door by the wind, Peter had to put his shoulder into the door to close it behind him.

"Whew, that sure came up fast!" he panted, leaning back against the door to catch his breath.

Seeing the instruments readied on the bandstand, he shoved himself away from the door and headed for the bedroom he shared with Davy. "Give me a minute to get into some dry clothes, and I'll be ready to rehearse." He disappeared into the bedroom, whistling tunelessly.

Mike watched him go in confusion. This certainly wasn't the same Peter he'd left on the beach. He looked tired and disheveled, but much more serene than when Mike had seen him last.

Dressed in dry clothes, but with his hair still dripping, Peter emerged from his room. "Okay, I'm ready."

Sighing, Mike walked into the bathroom, returning with a towel, which he promptly tossed at Peter. "Dry your hair before you catch your death, Shotgun."

"You're not my real mother!" Peter retorted, but gave his hair a cursory swipe with with the towel, then tossing aside and joining the others on the bandstand. "Let's go."

After and uneventful practice, there was just enough time for a quick dinner before leaving for the evening's gig, a sixteenth birthday party. It was strictly a one-shot deal. They were in the middle of a three-week gig at an established club called the Back Alley, playing three sets a night, Tuesday through Saturday. they could have used an evening off, but they were in no financial position to turn down the money. Birthday parties were a drag to play, anyway. They were always for teenagers, and the guys spent most of the evening trying to keep Davy's mind on the music, and off of all the pretty girls, usually with limited success.

This night was no exception. It was a typical sweet sixteen, complete with balloons, streamers and punch bowl, all under the watchful eye of a chaperone, who kept the dancers a discreet distance apart, and the punch free of any alcohol.

As they set up, Mike managed to corner Peter alone for a few minutes. "What gives, man? I leave you on the beach practically in tears, and you show up later like nothing happened."

"I thought about it a lot, Michael. If my dad doesn't want anything to do with me, fine. I'll learn to live with that. I'm tired of trying to patch things up between us. The next move is his." Peter said matter-of-factly.

"Is that the way you want it?" Mike asked.

"No, but that's the way it's got to be. Peter turned away, effectively cutting off the conversation.

~*~

Winding down the first of their two planned sets, Mike glanced over at Peter, noticing for the first time his flushed features. "You feelin' all right, Pete?" he asked in a low voice.

"Yeah, it's just a little hot up here."

By the end of the second set, it was obvious to Mike that Peter wasn't all right. Now pale, he was trembling with cold, and trying to suppress a developing cough.

Wrapping up their last number, Davy and Micky began breaking down the equipment, while Mike, after declining their hostess' eager invitation to stay for the rest of the party, collected the promised fee.

Arriving back at the Pad, Peter went directly to bed. Falling asleep immediately, he lay curled up and shivering under the blankets, in spite of the typically mild California night.

~*~

The next morning, Micky came downstairs to an empty living room. Puzzled, he checked out the kitchen, then the balcony and beach. "That's strange," he muttered, heading for the downstairs bedroom. "Peter's always the first one up." Poking his head in the room, he saw Peter and Davy asleep in their respective beds. "Must have decided to sleep in for a change."

Closing the door, he turned his attention to breakfast. Soon he heard the upstairs shower start, telling him that Mike must be awake. Not long after, Davy emerged from his room, making his way to the kitchen. Pouring himself a glass of juice, he sat down at the table.

Ten minutes later, Mike loped down the spiral staircase. "Peter up and gone already?" he asked.

"No, he's still asleep," Davy answered, stifling a yawn.

"Still asleep? Did you bother to check on him? I think he was comin' down with somethin' last night." Face lined with concern, Mike opened up the bedroom door and looked inside.

"Peter? You awake?" receiving no answer, Mike went over to the bed. Peter was lying on his side, facing the wall.

Mike reached down and grasped Peter's shoulder, intending to shake him, but quickly drew back his hand in surprise. Peter was burning up, his skin so hot that Mike could feel the heat through the sleeve of the orange pajamas Peter wore.

That slight touch was enough to disturb Peter, who rolled onto his back, staring at Mike through glassy eyes.

"What..." Peter broke off, consumed by a wracking cough.

"I told ya you'd catch your death, goin' around with wet hair. Just look at you now!"

"I'm not sick," Peter stated, fumbling with the covers, determined to get out of bed. He made it only half way before collapsing back, overcome with weakness.

"Yeah, sure. You're still stayin' in bed while I go call the doctor." It was a measure of how lousy Peter felt that he offered to further protest.

~*~

The doctoe diagnosed Peter with a mild case of bronchitis, no doubt helped along by the soaking he'd received the day before. "He'll be fine. Keep him in bed a couple of days, and give him these antibiotics. Don't be surprised if he runs quite a high fever, especially at night. Aspirin should help that."

The rest of the day passed quietly. Peter was a model patient, content to read or sleep, pitcher of ice-water within easy reach on his nightstand. Towards the evening, however, Peter's temperature began to rise again, bringing with it a return of last nights chills and coughing. He finally fell into a fitful doze, and the others tip-toed around, fearful of waking him. When they themselves went to bed, Davy slept on the couch so as not to disturb him.

It was Davy, however, whose sleep was disturbed. It was pitch black when he was awakened by a crash. Opening his eyes, he saw Peter sprawled on the floor, empty pitcher in hand.

"Peter! What are you doing out of bed?" Davy crouched beside him. "Are you hurt?"

Peter looked up at him, eyes not seeming to register the question.

"Hot..." he managed to say. "Out of water." Feeling of Peter's forehead, Davy realized that his fever had spiked again. "All right, we'll get you some more water," Davy soothed. "Mike!"

Mike stumbled out of the upstairs bedroom, clutching the balcony rail as he looked down at the pair huddled on the floor.

"What happened?'" he asked, taking the stairs two at a time.

Davy filled him in. Between the two of them, they managed to get Peter back into bed, and Davy filled the pitcher with ice-water.

"You go on back to bed, Davy. I'm gonna sit here a while and make sure this doesn't happen again." Mike pulled one of the straight-bcked kitchen chairs into the bedroom, positioning it beside Peter's bed.. Slouching down in the chair, with his feet propped on the foot of the bed, Mike made himself comfortable. Tucking his chin into his chest, he let his eyes close.

"Dad?" Mike started. He'd thought Peter was asleep. "Dad, is that you?"

"No, Peter. It's me, Mike."

Struggling to focus, Peter squinted into the darkness. "Mike - what are you doing here?"

"Don't you remember gettin' up? You tried to get yourself some water. Davy and I wound up haulin' you off the floor and back in here."

"I don't remember," Peter admitted.

Well, you did. I figured somebody better keep an eye on you before you decided to go for a midnight swim."

"Oh..." Peter's hoarse voice trailed off. "Don't mean to be so much trouble."

"Just go back to sleep," Mike ordered, and Peter, shutting fever-bright eyes, complied.

Mike watched as Peter slept fitfully, tossing and turning. Several times he called out in his sleep, asking for his father, not seeming to understand why he wasn't there. Finally, toward morning, he seemed to drift into a more natural, peaceful slumber.

The next was a repeat of the first, with Peter feeling better during the day, only to lapse into feverish dreams at night.

Peter awoke the third morning weak but clear-headed, his fever having broken during the night. seeing Mike again asleep in the chair by his bed, Peter called his name, stirring him to wakefulness.

"Peter?" Mike's eyes snapped open. "How you doin'?"

"Tired, but better," Peter answered.

~*~

Peter continued to improve over the next few days, and by Friday was nearly back to full strength. He appeared to remember nothing about those two nights, neither his midnight excursion, nor his dreams of his father. He certainly never made mention of them.

Mike, however, remembered them vividly, and he'd come to a conclusion during those long, dark hours. One way or another, Peter and his father were going to talk. Peter may insist that he'd written his father off, but his feverish ramblings had convinced Mike that, no matter what he said, Peter desperately wanted his father back. Now all Mike had to do was find a way to get them together. Sudden inspiration hit Mike on Saturday afternoon. Waiting until Davy and Micky were out doing errands, and Peter was taking a nap, he put his plan into action. Picking up the phone, Mike dialled. "Hello? Yes, I'd like to send a telegram, please.

~*~

Father's Day dawned bright and beautiful. For once, the Monkees had an entire day off - no gigs, no side jobs, no chores to do. Making the most of their free time, the guys lounged around until noon, reading the thick Sunday paper. Micky had snared the sports page, Peter, who had recovered quickly from his illness, giggled over the funnies, while Mike perused the editorials. Davy, of course, had commandeered the entertainment section, checking out what he referred to as their "future competition."

The peaceful quiet was interrupted by an persistant knock at the door.

"Is it time for Babbitt to start naggin' us for the rent again?" Micky wondered aloud. Normally only Mr. Babbitt, their curmudgeonly landlord, knocked that loudly.

"Can't be," Mike answered, putting down his paper and heading for the door. "We just paid last month's rent yesterday. Hold your horses, I'm comin'!" he added, as the pounding continued.

Opening the door, Mike looked at the unfamiliar man standing on the stoop. On the verge of speaking, Mike stopped, eyes widening. Those whiskey-colored eyes, coupled with the hint of a dimple in the man's right cheek, could only belong to one person.

"I'm looking for Peter Tork," the man said without preamble, confirming Mike's suspicion. This had to be Peter's father!

Inside the Pad, Peter looked up abruptly from the paper in his lap. He hadn't heard that voice in a year. Scrambling up from his cross-legged position on the floor, he stood ramrod straight as Mike ushered their visitor inside.

"Peter..." Mike began.

"Hello, Father." Peter interrupted, his face dispassionate.

John Tork stopped in his tracks, his face showing confusion and relief. "Peter! You're all right!"

"Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?'" His fellow Monkees looked at Peter, eyebrows raised. They'd never seen Peter treat anyone so coldly before, and this was his father!

"I thought you were sick..."

"I was, but I'm fine now. Is that the reason you came all the way out here? If it is, you might as well go home. I don't need you." Turning his back, Peter headed for the bedroom.. His hand was on the doorknob when he was halted by his father's voice.

"Peter, we need to talk."

Refusing to turn around, Peter closed his eyes. "I've tried to talk to you for a year, but you wouldn't listen. I'm through talking."

"I guess I deserve that." Heaving a sigh, the elder Tork reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulling out a white envelope. "I wrote this about three months after you left, but my stupid pride wouldn't let me mail it. Don't let yours keep you from reading it."

Heading for the door, John dropped the letter on the small end table next to the chaise. Before he opened the door, he turned one last time to his son. "There's a plane back to Connecticut at nine tonight. If I don't hear from you before then, I'll be on it. The name of my hotel is on the back of the envelope." With that, he opened the door and left, not looking back again.

Peter went into the bedroom without a word, shutting out his roommates.

After a few moments of stunned silence, Micky finally found his voice. "What was that all about?"

"And why would Peter treat his father like that?" Davy added. It was incomprehensible to them that sweet, gentle Peter could so completely shut out his parent.

"It's a long story," Mike responded, "but I guess you guys deserve to know what's goin' on. Pete and his dad had a bad argument a year ago, and Peter left home because of it. His dad hasn't spoken to him since. Peter tried, but he finally got tired of tryin' to mend things all by himself, and he just gave up."

"Do you think he'll read that letter?" Micky asked.

"Let's see," Mike replied, looking at his watch. "If I know Peter, he should be comin' out right...about...now."

As if on cue, the bedroom door opened. Peter stalked out, heading straight for the end table and the letter.

Tearing open the envelope, he cast a quelling glance at the others. "This doesn't mean I'm gonna talk to him!" Pulling out the folded sheet of paper, Peter began reading.

Peter,
I really don't know what to say. I guess I'll start with what I should have said months ago.
I'm sorry.
I didn't mean all of those things I said. I hope you realize that.
It's not that I'm not proud of you, or your talent. I am. It's just hard for a father to accept that his children might not have the same dreams he has. I only wanted you to be succesful. I know now that I should have wished for you to be happy.
I hope it's not too late to be telling you all this. I should have answered your letters, talked to you when you phoned, but I was never able to find the words, or the courage, to take that step. I wish I'd had the strength to make the first move. You shouldn't have had to be the one to do it.
When you were a little boy, you used to ask me if you would ever be as tall as me. Now you know the answer.
In every way that really matters, you're a bigger man than I'll ever be. I hope I get the chance to know that man.
Love,
Dad

Tears were streaming down Peter's cheeks by the time he finished the letter. Without a word, he grabbed the envelope with the hotel name and, stopping only long enough to don a light jacket, dashed out the front door, a determined look on his face.

"Does that answer your question, Micky?" Mike chortled.

~*~

Peter returned to the Pad a few hours later, his father in tow. Making the proper introductions this time, he showed his father around the place, telling him about their current gig and their plans for the future. It was apparent that a lot of issues had been resolved between father and son. At least now they were talking, not running from one another.

Finally, Peter asked the question that had been nagging at him all day. "Dad, how did you know i'd been sick? I never told anyone at home."

"I got this telegram yesterday," he said, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper from his pants pocket and handing it to Peter. "It scared me to death. I caught the first flight out here!"

Peter smoothed the paper, reading aloud. "Peter very ill STOP He needs you STOP Please come STOP signed Mike Nesmith." Peter looked at Mike in astonishment. "Mike! You sent this? Why? I was never that sick!"

"I sent it because your father's a stubborn fool, and you were getting to be just like him! I figured if I could just get you two face to face you'd work things out. So I sent your dad a telegram that was sure to make him come running," Mike explained, unrepentant at this bit of deception.

"How could you be so sure, Mike? I thought he hated me!"

"I just remembered something my mother used to say to me. Love and hate are two sides of the same coin. You can't have one without the other. Your father could never have been so angry if he didn't care about you. And that goes both ways, Pete."

Recognizing the truth of that statement, Peter simply shook his head. "Mike...I don't know what to say..."

"You don't have to say anything. Just promise you won't hug me!" Mike joked, attempting to lighten the mood.

Over the resulting peals of laughter, Mike and Peter locked eyes.

"Thank you," mouthed Peter, hoping Mike realized what this meant to him.

"You're welcome," Mike mouthed silently back, winking. The beatific expression on Peter's face told him more clearly than words what this day meant to him. Things might not be perfect between Peter and his father, but they had their whole lives to work on that. That was enough for now.