Blisters
by Carrie Mitchell
Based on characters created by Agent Newbeau

"Michael Nesmith, guitarist and songwriter for The Monkees, attempted suicide last week..." Mike frowned, pausing as he read aloud the cover article in The Malibu Star Reporter, one of the most hackneyed tabloids in the business.

"What?" Ellen asked, surprise in her voice. "Why would they think that?"

He skimmed the article quickly. "Says here I tried to slit my wrists, hence the bandages at the last show... damn it. I told you somebody'd notice! It's bad enough the guys were all over me askin' what the problem was, now this. Not the sort of publicity we need."

"I know, the journalists piss me off as much as they do you. But really, as far as the guys go, why don't you just tell them? It's no big secret."

Mike stared at her as if she'd just suggested they hold a live demonstration for the rest of the band.

"Or not," she shrugged. "But what would they do? Run in terror and refuse to speak to you?"

"What does it matter what they'd do? It's none of their business!"

Ellen smiled, rising from her seat on the sofa to wrap her arms around him. "Well, then," she said softly, "We're going to have to get you a more confortable set of cuffs, aren't we?"

~*~

The next day found them outside an extremely stereotypical adult store. The windows were discreetly covered from the inside, and Mike warily examined the door.

"Look, Ellen, this is... weird," he protested.

"What's so weird about it?" she retaliated, smiling a bit at his discomfort.

"What if somebody sees me in here? Or notices the car?"

"Then the longer we stand out here while you have an anxiety attack means the longer they... whoever they are... will have to notice, right? C'mon." With that, she took his hand and practically drug him inside.

Now, Mike would have been the first to admit, if anyone could have pinned him to the subject, that in the privacy of their own place, he and Ellen were rather... well, kinky was probably the only word to describe it. But he was also, he knew, quite introverted about it in public. And this definitely counted as public, what with the sales clerk leering at them slightly and the two other people in the store jerking and looking up a bit guiltily as they entered. He blushed in the poor light, as Ellen dragged him eagerly towards a rack whose contents he wasn't sure he wanted to examine too closely.

Instead, he looked through the dimly lit haze of the shop, trying to focus on the middle distance, his mind scrambling to take in the overload of information it was receiving, and shuddered slightly every time it discovered something that it didn't quite want to know. Ellen was giggling at something, but he didn't feel up to asking what.

"Mike, hey, look at this," she insisted. "I mean--"

He switched his attention, awkwardly, to his feet. "Ellen... um, I'm gonna wait in the car."

"No, you have to help--" she began, then she caught his embarassed expression. "Oh... Mike... what's the matter?"

He stared at her in disbelief. "What do you think is the matter?"

A wicked grin spread across her face, and she said quietly, "All the toys are making you feel inadequate, aren't they?"

"WHAT?" The word sprung out of his mouth far louder than he had intended, and they were once again the focus of three curious pairs of eyes. Mike fervently wished that he could dissolve right there and then. "No... 'snot it..."

"Well good, because you're more than a match for a piece of plastic," she smiled.

"That's ... thanks... but... 's just... I dunno, it's stupid, but this place's givin' me the screamin' hee-bee-jee-bees."

She shrugged. "Okay, I'll go pick them out then. But you're not abandoning me in here, you're going to have to make the final decision, after all," she reminded him, guiding him to the far corner of the store. "Here, be a good boy and stand by the magazines. I'm sure your virgin eyes can handle that," she teased.

He smiled, and watched her traverse the narrow aisles until she found what she was looking for. He forgot momentarily about his surroundings, and was content to observe her silently. The way she moved, the hundreds of little expressions that crossed her face, the way her hair caught the poor lighting and reflected it back more brilliantly than the cellophane wrappers...

"So, wot're you doin' in 'ere, then?" a thickly-accented voice cut through his reverie. "Lookin' fer some accessories?"

Mike turned and realized that Ellen had manuvered him right next to one of the other customers, a surprisingly normal looking middle-aged man. He shrugged and tried to ignore him.

"Oh, come on, you can tell me... at least you've got a woman, eh? Can't be too bad, then."

Resisting the sudden urge to deck the interloper, Mike turned and glared at him before answering. "It's none of your business."

The man, much to Mike's suprise, laughed right in his face. "Oh, a quiet one. Well, I bet she'd be willing to attest to just 'ow quiet you are, eh?" Suddenly, he stuck out his hand. "'ello. I'm Ernie."

Years of having civility beaten into him forced Mike to accept the offer. "Ernie? Well, Ernie... what're you doin' here? I didn't think it was common practice to start up conversations in places like this."

Ernie grinned. "I'm nosy. Wot can I say?"

To his relief, Ellen waved at him just then, saving him from continuing the odd conversation. "Sorry, Ernie, but I gotta split."

The older man smiled. "Yeah, story of my life, innit? 'ave fun." He smiled lewdly, which gave Mike enough impetus to hurry back to Ellen's side.

"Well," she said, "I'm afraid the selection isn't too good. I asked the clerk over there and he suggested scarves, but I told him we tried that and either they ripped or we had to cut them off the bedpost and we wanted something more durable, so--"

"You told him all that?"

"Yeah, well, I needed a second opinion," Ellen shrugged, dismissing Mike's natural paranoia. "Anyway, what we have here," she continued, holding up two similar packages, "are fur-covered... the only choices we have, though, are pink... and leopard spots."

Mike stared at them blankly for a moment. Color? The whole thing came down to color? What difference did color make? He tried to tell himself it didn't make any difference, but couldn't help feeling cheated at the small selection. He'd been expecting something sensible. Black. Grey. Even plain red. But... pink, a very electric pink at that, and leopard spots? What if somebody found them? Handcuffs were one thing. Fur-covered handcuffs were another thing. These cuffs were quite another all together.

"The spots," he said finally, picking the lesser of the two evils.

He dutifully followed Ellen to the cash register, where they paid for the accessories without a word, and with great relief, he headed out of the shop.

"Ooh, the spots, good choice!" he heard Ernie call after them.

"Who was that?" Ellen asked, once they got into the car.

Mike blushed unintentionally. "Nobody, nothin'." The blush stayed on his face far longer than he would have liked, and hadn't even faded totally by the time they pulled into the driveway and the safety of their home. Practically as soon as he'd stepped away from the car, Ellen had him pinned against the garage door.

"Do you know how irresistable you are when you're embarrassed?" she asked in a low voice.

Upon hearing her, and feeling her so close to him, the emotional trauma of the previous half hour washed away, replaced by a feeling far more familiar and enjoyable. "Not half as irresistable as a woman bearin' handcuffs," he replied, scooping her up suddenly. "C'mon, we have to see if they were worth me gettin' scarred for life over."

"I thought you getting scarred for life was exactly what you planned to avoid with this purchase, Mr. Nesmith," a stranger's voice cut through the air.

Mike turned to see a young woman with a notepad. "Hi, I'm from the Star Reporter, and--"

She got no further in her inquiry, because Mike, on top of the ordeal he'd just been through, really couldn't handle that type of shock, and had fainted dead away upon hearing the name of the paper.

"Great," Ellen sighed, picking herself up from where he had unceremoniously dumped her. Then she examined his recumbent form and smiled to herself. Well, we'll just give him a little surprise when he wakes up.... "Excuse us, please," she said to the reporter. "But I really must go tie him down, when he wakes up he has these fits... and I don't want him to hurt himself."

She smiled smugly as the reporter started frantically scribbling in her book. Hell, she thought, as long as they were going to lie, they might as well make it interesting.