Author's Notes: This is set in the TV Monkees' universe. I used Bob Rafelson, Bert Schneider, and James Frawley, but gave them different roles and, I think, different personalities, than the real people. I just wrote this for fun, so I hope it's as fun to read as it was to write.

"Oh, merciful heavens."

Mike Nesmith stared at his reflection in the large dressing room mirror with growing dismay.

"What's the matter, sweetie," asked Bessie, the elderly make-up lady, her kindly blue eyes staring sympathetically down at him. "You look lovely!"

"That's just the problem," he managed, blinking long, thick eyelashes in confusion. "I look... I look...."

"Like a real princess," she finished with a satisfied nod, adjusting the bobby pins in the long blonde wig that didn't quite cover his sideburns. "Now if you'd only let me shave these off-"

"NO WAY!" he yelped, leaping from his seat and possessively covering his prized sideburns. "Next thing you'll want me to shave my legs too!"

"Of course not.... Though it would help...."

Mike let out an agonized moan and sank back down into the chair. "How in the world did I get myself into this...?"

"Sure, Bob, thanks." Bert stood and ran a hand through his short, curly hair. "Well, we've got good news and bad news. About the boys. The Monkees, I mean."

"What other boys have we got, Bert," Rafelson teased him mischeiviously. "I think they know who you mean."

Schneider flushed slightly but managed to ignore Rafelson's jibe. "Good news first. People love them. We really picked a winner this time, people. We've sold millions of albums and the boys are still going strong. Good job spotting them at that club, James."

James Frawley gave a short, embarrased nod. "It was really the manager of the Cassandra, sir," he said quietly. "He told me he had a really good band playing there that I might want to see."

"You have got to learn to take a compliment, Jimmy," Rafelson grinned. "Go on, Bert."

"Well, anyway, we've got some winners in these boys. But there is a down side."

"What's that?" Rafelson prompted.

"It seems that... well, the fans.... They don't like Mike."

Rafelson raised a puzzled eyebrow. "They don't like Mike?" he repeated slowly. "How can you not like Mike, he's a great kid!"

"Yes," Schneider agreed, "But the fans don't know that. Think about it. They don't know the boys the way we do, they only see them on stage. And Mike is a little... stiff... on stage. The fans see that and they get turned off."

"You're saying they think he's a stiff."

"Well... yes."

A low murmur swept through the room. Then James Frawley spoke up. "So what are you saying, Bert? We can't... we can't...." He gulped a bit and lowered his voice. "Get rid of him...."

"For gosh sakes, no!" Schneider burst out, and everyone in the room sagged in relief. "That's not what I was thinking at all! They're not the Monkees without Mike, and besides, the other boys would never go for it. No, I was thinking we just have to... improve his image."

"Okay, how?" Rafelson asked simply. "We can't just tell him to dance on stage, you know how self-conscious he is about that."

"No.... I think you had it right when you said 'how can you not like Mike.' The problem is that the fans don't know him. If they did, they'd realize he's not stiff at all. He's really kind of crazy.... We just have to show the fans the real Mike."

"Again.... How?"

"Well...." Schneider began to pace back and forth. "We were working on that deal with NBC to do a few short TV specials, right?"

"Yeah, but they wanted concerts, didn't they?"

"I'm sure we can convince them to let us do some sort of 'Get to Know the Monkees' special instead. Maybe a mini-documentary? Or a short comedy thing so the fans can see Mike a little looser... more at ease."

"A comedy special, huh? I know the boys could do it, when they get together, they're a real laugh riot. But what kind of show would this be? Would we have a storyline or just let them cut up?"

"We can discuss that now, I guess. Suggestions from the floor?"

Rafelson rolled his eyes, and most of the men surrounding the table had to smother laughs. Schneider flushed again and took his seat with reddened cheeks. "Well...."

"Maybe something like the Beatles' films," one of the men suggested. "Either A Hard Day's Night or Help.... Magical Mystery Tour was just too weird."

"If we wanted to do pure comedy, Help would be the way to go," suggested a second.

"I don't know, A Hard Day's Night was pretty darned funny," argued the first man.

"Focus, people," Rafelson interrupted. "Both movies are a good guide. Any plot ideas?"

"Actually, sir?" began James Frawly, rather meekly. "I have a kind of... idea."

"Go on," Rafelson encouraged him patiently. As quiet, shy, and annoyingly apologetic as Frawley was, his ideas were usually dynamite.

"Well... we want to really catch the fans' eyes, right? We want them to notice Mike, moreso than any of the others, right?"

"Right."

"So we have to draw attention to him without it being obvious. We don't want the other boys to feel left out."

"Right."

"So... I was thinking...." He paused and looked around the table, suddenly nervous. "Never mind, it was a dumb idea."

Rafelson perked up. Every time Frawley said that, he ended up with pure gold. "Speak up, Jimmy, I want to hear this."

"Umm.... Well...." Frawley gulped and took a deep breath. "We could film a fairy tale and cast Mike as the princess."

There was dead silence.

"What?" Schneider finally managed.

Frawley blushed even redder. "It'd be funny. You know...." His voice grew softer. "Mike in drag.... That's funny...."

Rafelson felt a smile beginning to widen his face. "I get it. Bert, I think I get it. A comedic fairy tale. A parody. We don't do Snow White or Little Red Riding Hood or any of those conventional tales.... We make one up. Something that references all of those stories. We have... oh, this could be good! We have one of the other boys as the prince, or something... the love interest, and then we sock it to 'em... Mike as the princess! Jimmy, you're a genius!"

"I... well.... It was... just-"

"Just take the damn compliment! Jimmy, I want you to write it. Get the boys to help, but don't tell them about the princess thing."

"I don't know, Bob," Schneider said nervously. "I don't think Mike'll go for it."

"Don't worry, the other boys'll be into it, and if anyone can convince him to do it, it's them. You know he can't say no to Peter!"

"That's true.... Okay, I say we go for it. I'll call NBC and sell them on it, and we'll set an airdate."

"Ooh, this is gonna be good!"

~*~

"A fairy tale? Hey, that's a groovy idea!"

Bob Rafelson allowed himself a tiny smile at Micky's enthusiastic acceptance of the idea. "I thought so," he nodded easily. "Peter, Davy, Mike... any thoughts?"

"It sounds alright," Davy agreed, and Peter nodded, grinning widely.

"Can we do Goldilocks and the Three Bears? Mike can be Papa Bear!"

"Yeah, and you can be Goldilocks," Mike deadpanned from the corner, where he lounged against the wall, arms casually folded across his chest.

"Mike?" Rafelson prodded. "What do you think?"

Mike shrugged noncommittally, curling his lip with slight distaste. "I dunno, which one would we do?"

"I was thinking we'd write our own. You guys could work with Jimmy--"

"Wait a minute," Mike interrupted, his eyes suddenly flashing with new life. "Wait just a minute.... We'd get to help write it?"

"Sure would," Rafelson answered with a smug grin. This was a done deal.

"Well then," Mike drawled with a lazy grin, "I say we do it."

"Groovy!" Micky began to drum a fast-paced rhythm on the tabletop with his fingers. "Hey guys, we're gonna be on TV!"

"Yeah, for the millionth time," Mike reminded him, slapping him lightly on the back of the head.

"Well, I meant.... Well...." Micky grinned sheepishly at him. "This is different."

"I still can't believe it," Peter said dreamily. "We finally did it, guys. We made an album and people like us.... We finally did it!"

"You sure did, Peter," Rafelson told him. rising from his chair and heading for the door. "You guys are big, and you'll only get bigger. Trust me."

He reached the door and opened it, stepping out into the hallway. "Stick around a few minutes; Jimmy'll be here to start the writing process."

And with that, he was gone. Mike let out an amused snort. "Guess he was bankin' on us agreein' to this.... He already told Jimmy to come an' write it!"

"Well, it's a good idea," Davy pointed out. "It'll be good publicity, and it ought to be great fun, too."

"Sure," Mike agreed, "But I got a weird feelin' about this. There was somethin' he wasn't tellin' us."

"Aww, Mike, relax!" Micky scoffed, with a lofty wave of his hand. "What could he possibly have been hiding?"

~*~

"You want me to what?"

James Frawley cringed as Mike's indignant shout echoed throughout the conference room. Rafelson's face remained impassive. "Think about it, Mike," he said calmly. "You boys have written a very funny show, but it'll be even funnier if--"

"No way! No! Uh-uh, NO!"

"Aww, come on, Mike," Micky soothed, desperately trying to smooth things over. "We'll all be doing it, except for Peter. They want me to be Goldilocks, remember?"

"And I'm Gretel," Davy piped up, grimacing slightly at the idea.

"I am not bein' no princess," Mike glowered, though there was a little less fire in his tone.

"Please, Mike," Peter begged, turning on his puppydog eyes at full force. "It'll be fun, you'll like it, and everyone will watch it and I get to wear a helmet! With feathers!"

Mike glared silently down at his folded arms. "I will not like it," he finally muttered, a fiery blush staining his cheeks. "An' I don't care about your stupid feathers."

"You won't regret this, Mike," Rafelson chirped, ignoring the undeniable tension in the air. "Trust me."

"Really honey, it's not that bad."

Bessie was getting concerned by now. Mike just stared numbly into the mirror, trying to remember what he'd looked like as a man and failing miserably.

"I don't understand what you're so upset about," she fretted, wringing her hands in nervousness. "It looks-"

"Hello, hello!" Bessie was interrupted by a knock on the door and a very familiar jovial voice.

Mike leapt from his chair and whipped around to face the door, tripping over his dress and nearly falling over. "Oh no, it's Micky! Tell him to go away!"

"Mike, are you done yet," Micky called, pounding once more on the door. "We're almost ready to film, and Bob says we're on a tight schedule."

The door swung open. "So if you're almost done-" Micky stopped short, his mouth falling open as he caught sight of Mike, who had frozen in place, wide-eyed, like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming mack truck.

"Oh my God...." Micky managed, his hands slowly coming up to cover his mouth. "Mike...." A giggle escaped him and he gulped, trying to swallow his laughter. "Umm.... You look...." Another giggle, more insistent this time.

Mike's cheeks slowly began to turn a rather attractive shade of pink. "What, Micky?"

"You look... lovely!" And he could no longer hold in his laughter.

Mike started to step toward him but got his feet tangled up in his dress, and went flying toward the door, landing against it and slamming it shut with a bang. He cursed under his breath as he regained his balance, noting to himself that if that hadn't been what he was about to do anyway, he would have been very annoyed. Micky, meanwhile, had sunk to the floor and was pounding his fists on the carpet, tears flowing from his eyes, his laughter renewed every time he lifted his eyes to Mike's.

Mike folded his arms across his chest and glared down at Micky, tapping his foot impatiently. "Are you done yet?" he asked acidly, in as deep a voice as he could manage.

"No," Micky wailed, gasping for breath between whoops.

Mike rolled his eyes and flounced back to his seat, throwing himself down and shooting daggers at his own reflection, cursing the all-too-feminine blush staining his cheeks and the angry pout that only made his lips look fuller.

"You're... so beautiful... when you're angry," Micky gasped, and fell into yet another fit of giggles on the floor.

Mike had to resist the urge to kick him. Hard. In the head. Bessie came up behind him and began to massage his shoulders, trying to knead away the tension. "Ignore him, dear," she said quietly, "He's only saying those things to get a rise out of you."

"Well it's working," Mike mumbled.

Behind him, Micky slowly picked himself off the floor, scrubbing at his eyes and only letting out the occasional snicker. "Okay," he said, brushing off his pants. Now I'm done. C'mon, let's go show everybody Bessie's handiwork."

"No."

Micky froze. "What?"

"You heard me."

"No I didn't, I thought you said 'No.'"

"That's exactly what I said. NO."

Micky was dumbfounded. "But... but you have to!"

"I never signed anything."

"But-"

"You go out there and you tell 'em to find another sucker. Bessie, get this stuff offa me." And suiting word to deed, he began to tug at the tangled blonde wig she had fastened upon his head.

"No, stop!" Micky leapt forward and plopped both hands down on the top of Mike's head, preventing him from removing the hated accessory. "Hey look, I was only foolin' and we need you, Mike, we can't get another princess on such short notice, and besides, it'll be funny, that was the point!"

"You do it then, if it's so funny."

"Peter's counting on it being you." Micky paused, and a tiny smile lit up his face, despite his best efforts to conceal it. "I think he has a crush on you."

"Oh, for crying out-"

"And if he likes you normally-"

"He does not!"

"-Wait'll he gets a load of this!"

"Not helping, Micky!"

"Oh come on, Mike, everybody knows it's just you in there. You're still the same old skinny, knobby-kneed, greasy-haired kook with a weird accent you always were-"

"Gee, thanks."

"Only with more hair. ...And a dress. C'mon, I'll introduce you."

And Micky pulled Mike to his feet and dragged him to the door, ignoring Mike's rather loud protests. "Wait here," he ordered, and he slipped out of the door, closing it behind him.

Mike sagged against the wall as Bessie came up behind him and began once again to massage his shoulders, surreptitiously straightening his wig as she did so. He listened for his "cue," wondering for the millionth time why he always let them manhandle him into doing things like this. It was all Peter's fault... Those stupid puppydog eyes....

~*~

"Ladies and Gentlemen," Micky announced loudly as he slipped out of the dressing room and closed the door behind him, "I would like to introduce someone to you today."

He looked around and noticed with much satisfaction that Mike's ravings had attracted quite a crowd. It seemed that the entire cast and crew had gathered around, waiting to see who would emerge from that room alive.

"Behind me, in this room," he continued, in his best 'ringmaster' voice, "Is a lovely young lady-"

"MICKY!" came Mike's enraged shout from inside.

The crowd snickered and Micky quickly amended his statement. "-Is a strapping young gentleman who has been roped into doing something very, very dumb."

More laughs. Micky was hard-pressed to stay in character. "This dainty little flower-"

"MICKY!!"

"This ex-tremely masculine young buck has prepared herself-"

"MICKY!!!!"

"Has prepared himself today to make you laugh. He is dedicated to making this show the best TV special ever. May I introduce to you, the handsome, strapping, debonair.... Mike Nesmith. Give it up for Princess Gwen, folks!"

And he threw the dressing room door open with a flourish, finally revealing the scowling figure within to the outside world.

There was dead silence.

And then... a giggle.

A guffaw.

And the whole set exploded into uncontrollable laughter.

Mike gave a haughty sniff. "WHAT ARE YOU LAUGHIN' AT?!" he yelled in a high-pitched screech, and then he gathered up his skirts and stomped off toward his "carriage" with as much dignity as he could muster.

"It's happening, Mike," Bob Rafelson said from behind him, his grin evident in his voice. "This has turned out even better than we imagined. All the publicity.... And the fans adore you! I'll bet you never imagined you'd be nominated for an Emmy, nevertheless be asked to present one! It's wonderful!"

"Yeah, just great," he muttered, flinching slightly as someone attacked him with lipstick.

"On in five, Gwen," one of the stagehands called, with an audible smirk.

"Suck my-"

"THANK you!" Rafelson interrupted, placing a hand on Mike's shoulder and squeezing--hard. "Thank you very much, thanks." He knelt down at Mike's side and spoke quietly into his ear. "You do realize what an honor this is, don't you? And how much it's done for the group? Try to be a sport about it, okay, you'll enjoy it once you get out there."

"I will not! I can't believe you talked me into this...again! I look like a fool, and a fruity one at that!"

"You look like a very good sport and a fun-loving guy. Think of your image, Mike, your image!"

"Yeah, speaking of my image.... Is it true you did this whole thing 'cause everybody thinks I'm a stiff?"

His eyes still closed, Mike heard rather than saw everything and everyone in the room come to a standstill.

"What... what makes you think that?" Bert Schneider squeaked, coming up to stand on his other side.

"A little birdie told me," Mike growled acidly, and someone on the far end of the room sucked in a sharp breath.

"Frawley," Rafelson said carefully, in something of a sing-songy tone. "Have you been telling Mike fairy tales? No pun intended, of course."

"He didn't tell me," Mike snapped, "and I wouldn't tell you if he did. Now answer my question, is it true?"

"Of course not, baby, why would anybody think that?"

"Liar."

"Now Mike, there's no need to get upset, you go on in...." There was a pause as if Schneider was checking his watch. "Three minutes."

"I ain't goin' on until somebody in this room answers my question. I don't care who, just answer me. Did you do this thing because people thought I was stiff?"

Mike waited, his jaw and his fists clenched tightly. He refused to open his eyes, knowing that the only sight that awaited him was that dreaded blonde wig and those stupid fake eyelashes. "I'm waiting," he finally managed when the silence grew unbearable. "I'm s'posed to go on in one minute and it would look really bad if I didn't show-"

"Yes!" Schneider burst out, an edge of desperation in his voice. "Yes, it's true! But it's only because of the concerts, you never move, and people thought-"

Mike hmphed to himself as Rafelson slapped a hand over Schneider's mouth, cutting off anything else he might have said.

"You got your answer," Rafelson said, with forced gaiety. "Now will you please get out of here and present that award?"

Mike stood slowly, waiting until he'd turned away from the mirror before opening his eyes. And then he let out a howl of dismay as he encountered a life-size image of himself on the full-length door mirror held in front of him by a grinning Micky.

"Go get 'em, Gorgeous!"

And let no one ever say that Micky Dolenz has a bad sense of timing, for the second he'd finished speaking, he thrust the mirror into Bob Rafelson's hands and ran for his life.