Disclaimer: I don't own the Monkees, I don't even know them. Oh, and I don't have any money, so please don't sue me. I stole one of the mini-scenes in here from Micky's autobiography. The bit where he's sitting in the road actually happened to him, poor guy. Only it wasn't Davy that found him. If that made no sense to you, don't worry, it will when you read on.
Author's Notes: Thanks to Sheila, Agent Newbeau, and the gals at Long_Title for their help. As always, couldn'ta done it without you.
If you are a Monkee, please email me because it would make my life.
That is all.

Mike smiled to himself. It sounded like they they'd made it okay.

"Peter, did you make a shopping list yet?" Micky was asking.

"No," came the somewhat disinterested answer.

"Okay, well when you do, make sure to put that we need orange juice. With pulp."

Mike smiled again. _I was right. I'm getting good at this._

"Okay," Peter agreed. "But can I get some without pulp too?"

"Sure, whatever you want, Pete."

Mike stepped away from the door, feeling a pang of sadness. He wanted nothing more than to burst into the pad with a huge smile and open arms, yelling, "Hi Honey, I'm home!" but it would only shake things up. They were happy now, without him. Why make waves?

He was so lost in thought that he didn't hear as Peter told Micky he'd go to the store now rather than waiting until the cupboard was bare.

~*~

Peter put his cards down face up and stood, stretching slightly. It really didn't matter if Schneider could see his cards, the dummy had been cheating through the whole game anyway. They'd just have to start a new game when he got back. He snatched the keys from the table and flung open the front door, only to plow into someone standing on their front step.

"Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-" And then he looked up into the person's face... and froze. "M...M...M-M-M...."

His mouth just couldn't form the name. And then his knees buckled and he slid to the step, his legs no longer able to support him.

"Shit," the person muttered, and then scooped him up in surprisingly strong arms and carried him into the house. "Micky, Davy," he bellowed, making a beeline for the couch, "He fainted, get some water, and a cloth!"

In the kitchen, Micky's eyes widened and his mouth fell open as he realized who was in their living room. The glass he was holding slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floor, spreading a puddle of pulpy orange juice around his feet.

Davy slammed down the phone in mid-word and jumped to his feet, gawking.

"MICKY!" Mike bellowed, "Snap out of it, please, just get me some water!"

"W...Water.... right...." Micky, his face utterly white, stepped up to the cabinet and got another glass, filling it with trembling hands. He stepped around Davy and handed the glass to Mike, then knelt down beside the couch and shook Peter slightly. "Pete? Hey Pete, c'mon, buddy, wake up."

Mike dipped his fingers in the water and slapped at Peter's face gently, then stepped back and away as he moaned and started to come around. "Micky, take over," he ordered softly, and Micky nodded his acceptance.

"Peter?"

Peter's eyes opened slowly and he focused on Micky's concerned and still-pale face. "Mick... Micky? I thought... I thought I saw...." He stopped with a gulp and turned his face away, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears that could no longer come.

"I know, Pete," Micky soothed him quietly, his eyes flickering over to the all-too-solid figure who stood in the shadows behind the couch. "You saw Mike."

The name was said.

Peter nodded, taking a ragged breath. "I'm sorry.... I thought I was.... I thought I was over this...."

"You are over it," Micky explained, keeping his voice low and even. "You saw him for a reason."

"What reason could I possibly have? It's been two years!"

"What reason...?" Micky looked up again at Mike, and he stepped closer to them hesitantly, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

"Because I'm here, Peter," he answered. And Peter bolted upright, spinning to face him with shocked and terrified eyes.

Mike held up both hands in a gesture of surrender, still stepping ever closer to his old friends. "I'm here, Peter," he said again, his voice low and soothing. "Don't be afraid... it's okay...."

Peter let out a sound somewhere between a whimper and a squeak, and shoved himself backward, falling off the couch and rolling to his feet in one motion. His face was utterly white, his entire body vibrating with tension and fear. "No... nonononono, you're not.... You're DEAD! TWO YEARS DEAD, YOU'RE NOT HERE!"

He was screaming, hysterical, his eyes wide and red, and then Davy was at his side, arms around him, murmuring soothing words in his ear.

Mike swallowed hard and stepped back, his arms falling to his sides. "I'm sorry," he managed, his voice choked.

They just stared at him.

"I didn't mean for you to see...."

It was too much. He could hear Peter's heart racing in his chest, and he struggled to shut out the sound for fear it would drive him insane.

The beating of that hideous heart

The phrase leapt into his head, and he recognized it as a line from a Poe story.

Nevermore, nevermore

_Wrong story,_ he silently scolded himself. Not even a story, a poem, but it didn't matter right now. What mattered was the way they were looking at him. He had to get away.

"I'm sorry," he said again, and he realized he was at the door. He fumbled at the knob, still stepping backwards, wishing he could take it all back, wishing to God he'd been paying attention and had heard Peter coming to the door. "I'll go.... Please.... I'm sorry...."

nevermore

And the door swung open and he was outside, his head spinning, his own heart pounding hard enough to drown out the sound of Peter's, and he turned to run.

"WAIT!"

And someone slammed into him, arms going around his waist, a wet face pressed his neck.... Sobbing....

"God Mike, please! Don't go, please don't leave us again!"

And the others were there too, Micky's face wet with tears, and he realized so was his own, and he hugged Peter as tightly as he dared without hurting him, and buried his own face in that blond hair. "Peter," he said, "I'm sorry...."

~*~

And then the impact. That was when the pain had started. His entire body seemed to be on fire--every nerve ending screamed out in protest as his skin was separated from the muscle, the muscle from the bone, the bones themselves shattering as the plane hit the ground and exploded in a hail of metal, glass, and fire.

The pain was the only thing that told him he was alive.

Alive.

After all that, alive. The woman next to him was dead. Everyone around him was dead. A man's head, with glassy, staring eyes, had flown across the cabin and landed almost in his lap. He squeezed his own eyes shut and tried not to see.

It was hours before people came to crawl through the wreckage, looking for survivors. He wanted to scream out to them, to let them know he was alive, but he couldn't. Now, the tears finally came, for he feared they would leave him there, alone to die.

He had almost given up hope when he heard the six words that would change his life forever. "I think this one's still alive."

~*~

They took him to a hospital he'd never heard of. The pain had become overwhelming by now. He couldn't even see clearly anymore. Every sense was dulled by pain and fear.

_Auntie Kate! Please, I need you.... Micky... Davy... Peter...._ His mind cried out for them--to be enfolded in their warmth--but they never came.

He didn't know how much time had passed until he could think again. He opened his eyes and saw a white-washed ceiling. He strained to look around and saw that he was in a windowless room, surrounded by machinery that beeped and hummed. He was bandaged, almost everywhere. A woman wearing white was sitting beside his bed, holding a clipboard. He didn't recognize her. She didn't smile.

"Hello Robert," she said.

He shook his head.

"No?" She asked. "What's the matter?"

He tried to answer but couldn't speak. She shrugged a bit. "You'll be recovering much more quickly now," she told him. "You'll be surprised. Maybe tomorrow you can tell me what's the matter."

And she left him alone.

More time passed. More people came in and out. All of them wore the same pristine white uniforms, and none of them would tell him where he was, or why he was alone here. None of them smiled at him.

The woman came back. He guessed it was "tomorrow."

"Good morning Robert," she said, her voice cold and impersonal. "Can you tell me what's wrong today?"

"Name...." he said, struggling to speak, "Name... Mike...."

"Your name is Mike?"

He nodded, relieved.

"Hmm...." She glanced down at her chart. "Your license said your name was Robert."

"Mike."

"Alright. Do you know where you are?"

"No."

"Good." A tiny smile. But it didn't reach her eyes. "My name is Leslie, I work for the organization that brought you here. We have a lot to talk about, Mike."

And she was gone again. He didn't get much rest that day.

More time passed. They removed some of the bandages, and had him move his limbs around to see "how they worked." They worked fine.

Then they wanted to test his sight, and his hearing. They showed him charts and made him read from them, and they played tones and made him nod when he heard them. They brought him into a room with weights and made him lift them. He lifted a lot more than he remembered was right.

And still they didn't tell him anything.

And still they didn't smile.

He wanted to go home.

~*~

"Mike, hi, I'm Dr. Mills."

Mike looked up, somewhat annoyed at being interrupted while he was reading. None of these people ever knocked. "Yes?"

And Dr. Mills smiled.

Mike froze, unsure of what to do or say. None of them had ever smiled at him before.

Dr. Mills came and sat down by his bed. "I guess you have a lot of questions, don't you?"

Mike nodded mutely, his eyes locked on Mills'. He was an older man, and seemed to fit the classic definition of "grandfather." He had a full head of silver hair and kindly blue eyes that crinkled at the edges as though he had smiled once too often and they'd frozen that way. He was still smiling now, and Mike found a smile lighting up his own face. It had been too long.

"Well, I'm here to answer your questions, Mike," the man said, putting aside his clipboard and leaning back in his chair. "What do you want to know?"

"Where am I?"

Dr. Mills laughed. "Well, unfortunately, I can't tell you that. I will tell you that you are safe here. Next question?"

Mike felt his smile fade and he glared at the man. "What's the point, none of you people will tell me anything. I want to go home."

Mills seemed appropriately contrite. "I'm sorry we have to be so secretive, Mike, but it's for good reason. Why don't I tell you what I can and then you can ask me about whatever I don't cover?"

"Why, so you can tell me that's classified too?" He was in a foul mood again, and was determined to let this guy know it.

But Dr. Mills just smiled again. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I'll start at the beginning."

Mike folded his arms across his chest and leaned back, still frowning deeply. "Okay, so talk."

"You remember the plane crash, I assume?"

He flinched. "Yes." He didn't want to remember.

"Alright. We found you among the wreckage. You were the only survivor of that wreck, Mike, but you were hurt very badly. It was obvious when we found you that your injuries were severe and that you wouldn't last much longer.

"Some of our scientists had been working on a theory. They had been experimenting with the idea of replacing damaged human body parts with robotic equivalents. We realized immediately upon discovering you that there was nothing conventional medicine could do. You would die by nightfall. Our scientists requested that they be allowed to test out their theories on you, since you literally had nothing to lose. We consented."

"Now wait just a minute," he burst out, sitting up straight and clenching his fists in anger. "You mean you used me as a human guinea pig? You didn't even ask me--"

"You were in no condition to give consent, Mike. You were dying, plain and simple. We simply wanted to try to give you another chance at life."

He sat back, glowering, but without a retort. Dr. Mills continued.

"We weren't even sure that you could be used. We first had to perform some tests to find out if your brain had been affected in the crash. If there had been brain damage, the experiment would have to be scrapped. But your brain was in perfect condition. It was, perhaps, the only part of your body that was uninjured.

"At that point, the decision was made, and we began a series of complex operations--replacing your shattered bones with steel appendages."

"Steel?"

"Only the best, Michael. We enhanced your eyesight and replaced both of your eardrums with tiny computers, leaving you... greatly improved."

"Improved." His anger had faded, replaced by numb disbelief. None of it made sense. Steel body parts? A computer in his ear? Was this guy a total whack job?

"Yes, improved. Tell me, Mike, do you remember how much you were able to lift in the weight room during your sessions there?"

Mike felt himself blushing as he answered. "Over 900 pounds."

"Did you used to be able to lift 900 pounds?"

"No."

"Do you remember the smallest line you were able to read on the eye charts?"

"Not really."

"Well, then I will tell you this. You now have the vision of a hawk. You can see in great detail from distances upwards of 500 feet. We only tested you that far."

"Oh."

"Your hearing is superb. You heard tones that no human being has been able to hear. We blew a dog whistle, and you heard it."

"Dog whistle."

He was in shock. He knew he was in shock, but he couldn't help it. He heard himself repeating everything the doctor said, just like an idiot, but he couldn't stop himself. As far as he was concerned, he had a right to be in shock after what this guy was telling him.

"I know this comes as a shock," Dr. Mills was saying.

_No shit, Sherlock!_

"But we are really very proud of how you turned out. You are in perfect health, and all of your parts are functioning in tandem. It was a success in all aspects of the experiment."

"I'm happy for you."

Dr. Mills smiled again. It was beginning to take on a sinister look. "Now... do you have any further questions?"

He shook his head, still numb. He was suddenly aware of everything around him. He could hear movement and voices in the hall outside, and if he listened, he could hear what was being said. He turned his eyes to the wall and realized that he could see the brush strokes where it had recently been painted.

"Alright," said Dr. Mills, and he stood to leave. "I'll be back later on, if you want to talk."

He was halfway out of the door when Mike suddenly remembered the one question he wanted answered more than any other. "Wait!" he called, and Dr. Mills stopped, turning slowly.

"Yes?"

"When can I go home?"

And now the smile turned sad. "I'm afraid you can't. Robert Michael Nesmith is dead."

He was dead.

After all this time... dead.

His heart gave a funny jump and he swallowed the urge to cry. They said they'd saved his life, but they hadn't really, not if he couldn't go back to being who he was. They'd just created another life. Another guy who looked a hell of a lot like Robert Michael Nesmith.

His eyes found a pattern that looked like a puppy. And he thought of Peter. Peter, who had always wanted a pet. Peter, who could make the best "puppy-dog eyes" of anyone he'd ever met. Peter, who he'd never see again.

Then he found a pattern that looked like a dancing girl and he thought of Davy. Davy, who despite his small stature was probably one of the strongest people Mike had ever met. Davy, whose quiet conviction and fighting spirit never failed to impress him. Davy, who he'd never see again.

And then he found a shape with no pattern whatsoever and he thought of Micky. Micky, who he couldn't describe if he tried. Micky, whose infectious grin and ready laugh could cheer him up even in his worst moods. Micky, who he'd never see again.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. Finally, the tears came. "Auntie Kate.... Oh God, I want to go home...."

He longed to run to her and throw himself into her arms, just as he'd done as a child. She was the only woman--no, the only person--who had ever seen him break down. There was no pretense with Aunt Kate. She had a way of looking at him that seemed to burst the floodgates of his tears and compel him to tell her everything that caused him pain. But now, she was lost to him, just like everything and everyone he'd ever cared about.

He wrapped his arms around his thin body and sobbed.

~*~

It was a dusty road, far from the busy city of Houston and just as far from the sleepy town he had once called home. He would walk the rest of the way to the ranch.

He started off, quickly adjusting the large 10-gallon hat he wore to cover his face as best he could. He had toyed with the idea of dying his hair blonde, but had decided against it. He would not make a good blonde. Instead, he had grown a beard and mustache and let his already long hair fall over his eyes, obscuring his face. The wavy strands tickled his nose, but at least he would have less chance of being recognized. The giant hat cast a shadow that further obscured his features, so although its sheer size would call attention to him, few if any people would know who he was.

As he walked slowly down the long dirt road, his thoughts once again strayed to the family and friends he would soon leave behind forever. This would be the last time he would see Aunt Kate and Cousins Lucy and Clara, although, he thought with a tiny smile, not seeing Cousin Clara might be a blessing in disguise.

He shook his head with a bit of amusement, wondering who had planned the cosmic joke that was Cousin Clara. Of all of the possible drawbacks of being a Nesmith--the long nose, the gangly limbs, the bad skin and the bad teeth, she had gotten them all. Lucky for him, he had gotten away with just the nose and the gangliness. _Okay, and maybe the teeth too,_ he admitted grudgingly to himself. _Kind of...._

You don't look half bad, his Aunt Kate had once said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. You got your mother's eyes and your father's mouth... somebody put you together pretty good.

But whatever deity had assembled poor Clara must have been blind.

"She has a good heart though," he said aloud, as if in apology for his less-than-charitable thoughts. "And a smile that would melt a glacier."

In a way, she reminded him of Micky. Not that Micky was anywhere near as... interesting-looking... as Clara, but both had smiles that would burst from their faces and warm the heart of anyone fortunate enough to see it. And Micky was always smiling. He tried to think back to a time when the younger boy had been grim- or sad-faced, and momentarily found himself drawing a blank.

"Of course, there was that time...."

He felt a smile of his own form with the memories, and decided to tell himself the story out loud to try to curb the loneliness he could feel looming over him like a dark cloud.

"The time we got asked to be extras in that movie, and the star... what was his name...? Frankie, I think... he called Micky a 'scarecrow in shorts.' Micky tried to pretend like it didn't bother him, but later that night I went out on the beach for a walk and I found him sitting there on the wet sand, with his knees drawn up to his chest and his head down in his arms.

"I sat down next to him and he jumped a bit... he wasn't expecting anybody else to be out. It was pretty late by then, about eleven p.m. He tried to pretend like he was fine--started being really obnoxious and joking around with me, but I could see that his eyes were kind of wet.

"So I told him I saw right through him and asked him what was wrong. He was pretty embarrassed that I'd caught him, but once he realized I wasn't going to let it go, he gave in."

Mike paused in his story and looked around, suddenly paranoid. What if someone could hear him...? But there was no one around except the occasional tumbleweed. Slightly reassured, he picked up his step and once again began to speak.

"He said he was really hurt by what Frankie said. That he couldn't help being skinny and ugly, and it wasn't fair that he'd got stuck lookin' like he did. I didn't really know what to say. I never really thought he was ugly, but then again, I'd never really looked.

"So I turned around and just looked at him. I looked at him so hard and so long he started to get nervous, and he said, 'What?' in this high, kinda squeaky voice.

"'Micky,' I said--and I didn't really know what I was gonna say until I'd said it--'Micky, I've seen ugly before and you ain't it.' And he looked kinda doubtful so I kept talkin'. 'If any one of us is ugly, it's me. I'm even skinnier than you, and taller too, so it's worse. And I got this nose....' And he got all flustered and fell all over himself trying to reassure me that I wasn't ugly, and that got his mind off himself pretty quick.'"

He smiled outright this time, and let out a tiny chuckle. "I dunno if he was totally reassured or not, but he didn't seem so upset after that."

But then again, had he really looked?

The smile faded from his face as he realized how self-centered he'd been in the weeks and months before his "death." He hadn't had a real conversation with Micky since that time on the beach--hadn't really ever looked at him again, not as intensely as he had then.

All of a sudden, he felt like crying. Why hadn't he appreciated them more? Why had he never held a real conversation with Davy, or discussed poetry with Peter? Why had he never really gotten to know them? "And now it's too late...."

And now he did start to cry, because all the memories in the world wouldn't bring back the chances he'd lost.

~*~

Nighttime was falling. His tears had stopped hours before, leaving only a crushing emptiness behind. Mike swiped a weary hand across his forehead and checked his watch. He had been walking for nearly five hours now and still he felt strong, as though he had only just started. The weariness was confined to his heart.

Just ahead of him was a hill, at the top of which stood a tall, weathered elm tree. He stopped short and stared, flashes of his childhood scrolling before his eyes. He and Cousin Clara had climbed that tree too many times to count, and hung from its branches upside-down by their knees, calling to Cousin Lucy to join them, but she had always refused. A lady did not climb trees.

And he slowly stepped forward, his footsteps heavy with dread, because he knew that just over that hill lay the ranch he had once called home.

He reached the base of the tree and sat down heavily, his newly sharp eyes searching the ranch below for any movement. He saw none. They weren't home.

He leaned his head back against the rough bark of the elm tree and brought his knees up to his chest, trying once again to resist the urge to cry. He scrubbed angrily at his eyes, cursing to himself. In the past few hours, he'd cried more than Peter ever had in a week. "You've got to move on," he snapped, eyes narrowing into furious slits. "As long as you're livin' in the past you won't survive this."

He reached into his backpack and pulled out the brand-new leather wallet he'd been given. Flipping it open, he stared down at the papers they insisted would mean a new life for him. "Tom Bridges," he read, staring down at his own grim face on the shiny plastic. "Tom Bridges would not be sittin' here cryin' his eyes out, he'd be off startin' a new life. Somewhere."

But where? That's what it all came down to. Where would he go, what would he do? Mike Nesmith was a musician, but Mike Nesmith was dead. Tom Bridges could still play a guitar, but was it safe? Where could he go that Mike Nesmith hadn't already been? California was out. Sure, it was a big state, but he'd been around. New York...? Perhaps... there was bound to be a folk scene there, but he'd been in that scene before and people moved around a lot.... What if someone recognized him?

He gave a defeated sigh and put the wallet away. Not only was he dead, but he could never go back to the life as a musician he'd always wanted. It was just too risky--someone was sure to recognize him and start asking questions. So what was Tom Bridges good at? "Spying," he answered himself with a humorless snort. "I could join the FBI."

With that thought, he turned his attention back to the ranch-house, peering into each of the front windows in turn. It looked just the same as he remembered it, simply decorated in dark woods with a few accents in blue. Aunt Kate had always been partial to blue, and had always wrinkled her nose at his preferred colors: green and black. Would he have to choose even a new favorite color now? Maybe Tom Bridges really, really liked pink.

He rolled his eyes and gave a tiny snort. To heck with it. "I can't change who I am," he decided, giving a short, decisive nod. "No matter how much they want me to."

Curiously, with that decision made, he felt a small weight lift from his shoulders. Yes, he would have to leave behind all of his family and friends, yes he would have to start a new life in a city he'd never seen, but inside, he was still the same old Mike Nesmith--no matter what people called him.

He gave a resigned sigh and leaned back against the tree, resting his head against its warm, rough bark. The ranch-house below remained silent and still, its windows dark and shuttered, the horses grazing quietly in the fields surrounding it. Should he stay here until they returned? Or maybe it would be better to leave now, having seen the state of good repair in which the ranch lay. Its doors and windowpanes were freshly painted, the bullet holes from the recent battles with the vanquished Black Bart already repaired. The animals were fat and content, and even the barn looked new, as though it had been recently rebuilt. Aunt Kate was obviously doing well--the oil strike had provided her with all the money she needed to bring the ranch up to the standard she had always dreamed of, and more. A careful look into one of the front windows showed him that she had even purchased a new dining room set--something she had desired for a long time. A mahogany table with matching chairs, she had smiled dreamily, picturing the beloved furniture in her mind, And a matching chest for my china.

But you don't have any china, he had argued, and her response was simple but determined.

I know. I'll have to buy that too.

She had her china now, and her chest and her mahogany table for six. She was comfortable and rich, and her life would go on without him.

He stood slowly and stretched, giving the ranch-house one last mournful gaze before he turned and walked away, back down the hill toward the long dirt road. He would go to California now, and reassure himself that his friends were alright, and then he would leave them forever, starting a new life in a place he didn't yet know.

It would be a long night.

~*~