Identity Crisis – Part Two

Isabel walked herself home that night, amid much vocal protesting from Peter and silent pleas from Mike. He'd been hoping that maybe—somehow—they could spend a moment or two together; they hadn't spoken two words to each other all evening, and he suspected it was a harbinger of things to come. As long as Peter suffered his delusion, they wouldn't be able to see each other, to talk to each other—to do anything the way they were accustomed to doing. He missed her already...

Peter closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a second, sighing. "Aw, Isabel..." he said, too softly for anybody to hear.

Almost anybody. Peter suddenly stood ramrod straight and whirled to Mike. "You keep out of this, hear!"

Mike blinked, genuinely astonished. "What?"

"You got my hearin' now! Don't you be usin' it to spy on me!"

Widening his eyes, Mike stared at Peter disingenuously, his jaw hanging open a little as he tried to look wounded and pitiful. "Michael—I can't help it."

Peter closed his eyes and sighed, shaking his head. "I know...I know you can't..." He suddenly punched the door behind him, making all three jump. "I'm goin' nuts!" He ran a hand along his mouth and chin— another of Mike's gestures of frustration. "Seein' what this is doin' to her is tearin' me apart!"

Me too, Mike thought. "You...Do you want me to talk to her?" Using New England grammar was going to twist his tongue in knots.

Peter actually smiled a little at that. "No—not the way you look. No sense temptin' fate. Give her another day or so, then I'll go talk to her."

Peter moved away from the door into the living room. "Hey," he asked suddenly, "whose turn is it to cook supper?"

"Micky's," Davy and Mike said together.

"Well, get started, Mick," Peter ordered. He looked Mike up and down, then a small smile quirked a corner of his mouth upward. "You come with me."

Mike shot Davy and Mick an UH-oh look, but followed Peter upstairs with Peter's lamb-like docility. Peter closed the door of the bedroom behind Mike, then turned and said softly, "I'm sorry I yelled at you down there. You can't help it that my ears are so sensitive."

Mike managed a cheerful smile as he sank onto his own bed. "It's all right, man. I understand." And he really did.

"Anyhow," Peter said, moving to the beaded curtain that hung across Mike's closet, "I noticed your shirt doesn't fit right."

"Huh?" Mike asked, looking down at himself. Peter's powers of observation were keener than anybody'd given him credit for...or was it because he thought he was Mike...no, it had to be Peter, because he'd picked up so much of Mike...Oh, man, this was making his head hurt...

Peter's quiet chuckle snapped Mike out of his whirling thoughts. "You're taller now. I know my clothes don't fit your style, but you can take what you want from my closet till we get back where we belong. It's no fun being stuck in ill-fittin' clothes, is it?"

"No," Mike agreed whole-heartedly. "It certainly isn't."

"Anyhow, you can wear anything here except the black button-down shirt. That one has—special memories attached to it."

If Peter ever showed up wearing that shirt, Mike thought, fighting to keep a forbidding scowl off his face. If Peter ever wore it around Isabel, Mike didn't know what he would do. His shirt, his music, his girl—Peter was taking everything away from him. So many things that were special to him were being stripped away one by one, leaving him with nothing. Their significance, their uniqueness was being tainted...

But he couldn't think about that now. He had to push that to the back of his mind and focus on the conversation at hand. He forced himself to smile as he replied, "Thanks, Mike! I really appreciate this."

Peter leaned against the wall, thumbs hooked into his belt loops, and Mike couldn't suppress the slight widening of his eyes as he saw his own mannerisms reflected back at him. "No problem, ol' buddy. I got somethin' to ask you..."

"What?"

"Well, I'm a little shorter now, and these pants are a little— snug in the rear. I was wonderin' if I could raid your closet for some pants that fit me?"

"If I can borrow some jeans," Mike answered promptly.

Peter laughed, a very close approximation of Mike's. "Fair enough. I give you the shirts and jeans, you give me some pants. Even trade?"

"Even trade. Um—don't you want some of my shirts, too? That way you won't have to roll up the sleeves."

Peter shook his head as he headed for the door. "Nope. Your shirts are a little too loud for my tastes. The britches will be fine."

Mike rolled his eyes—that was one line he wanted to remember when this was all over. And he would remind Peter he had said it over and over and over and...

Peter clapped Mike on the shoulder as he sauntered past. "I'll split and let you change in peace," he said, then he ambled out, shutting the door behind him.

Mike stared at the door for a moment to make sure Peter wasn't going to unexpectedly pop back in again, then he keeled over backwards on the bed—his bed—lying with his arms out-stretched as he stared blankly up at the ceiling. It felt good to be in familiar surroundings again, even if it was only for a few minutes.

Finally he stood up, pulling off too-loud shirt. Mike stretched, enjoying the feeling of being out of that tacky thing—then winced when he came out of the stretch and felt that annoying buckle dig into his left side.

He looked down—beige pants. What would Peter choose to go with beige pants? Mike pressed his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose in a give-me-strength gesture. Thinking like Peter was starting to give him a headache.

Mike loped down the stairs a few minutes later, actually grinning from ear to ear as he chucked the gaudy Nehru shirt into the dirty clothes pile, glad he wouldn't have to risk being seen in public wearing something like that; what he had on was bad enough. He glanced around expectantly. "Where is he?"

"In the other bedroom, changing his pants," Micky said, not looking up from frying the hamburgers.

Davy looked at Mike, taking in the bright yellow shirt and beige pants—exactly what Peter would have chosen. Even the belt was on the side where it was "supposed" to be.

Davy waved both hands in front of his face. Mike looked at him, raising a questioning eyebrow, and Davy hissed very softly, "Love beads!"

Mike nodded, pulling the necklace out from beneath his shirt and adjusting it so it rested outside of the collar. He'd remembered. Peter didn't seem so complicated, but just try being him for a day....

Peter came out of the bedroom, tucking in the white button-down shirt into the grey pants. He smiled as he buckled his belt in the front and scanned Mike up and down. "That looks a little better. Feel any better?"

"More comfortable," Mike admitted. "Remind me to get an outfit for tomorrow before bedtime so I won't bother you in the morning."

"No problem," Peter said. He had a hanger with another pair of grey pants draped over his shoulder. "I went ahead and helped myself." He headed upstairs, pausing to lean over the railing and call, "Micky?"

Micky turned the burgers and dropped some cut-up potatoes into the hot oil on the stove before he answered, "Yeah?"

"How many you makin'?"

"Four. Why?"

"I was thinkin' about callin' Isabel and askin' if she wanted to come over and eat."

"I can make another one," Micky began.

Mike stepped forward, his expression anxious. "Mike, you...Do you think that's such a good idea? With all that's going on—" Putting the 'g's on gave his tongue another twist...

Peter lowered his gaze to the floor with a disgruntled look. "Yeah—you're right." He sighed. "I just keep thinkin'—if she gets used to me lookin' like this—things might go back the way they were." He spun on his heel suddenly and stalked into the bedroom, slamming the door.

Mike winced at the sudden loud noise. "Let's hope they do," he muttered to himself. "Soon. Then you can play that bass and I can be with my girl." He dropped heavily onto the couch, one hand over his eyes, nursing a headache that was getting worse by the minute.

He then sat up and shifted position, scowling. "And I can stop wearing this stupid belt to the side!"

He tugged ineffectually at the belt buckle, which he hadn't yet figured out how to position so that it didn't dig into him every time he bent over or sat down.

DAY TWO passed about like the day before, with Mike simmering under the forced role-reversal. However, there was one thing that was different.

Only one Monkee practiced that night.

Mike.

He found Peter's handwritten music notes for the keyboard licks for "I'm A Believer" and "She." With a sigh, Mike had brought them to the bandstand and sat down in front of the harpsichord.

He went through the songs ten times each, cementing the notes in his mind so he could play by memory if he had to. He then removed the music and tried it from memory, and to his delight, he managed to get the right notes out consistently.

Mike closed his eyes in relief and felt his fingers trembling. Well, he told himself, at least I'll be able to bluff keyboards through two songs.

Unless Peter comes to his senses before our gig... Please let him come to his senses before the gig...

Because if I have to do this in front of anybody but the guys...

Mike wiped his shaking hands on the jeans before he thought about what he was doing—reacting like himself.

He stopped, horrified. If Peter had seen that, it might do more harm than good.

But Peter was across the room, in a tight huddle with the guys. That was the source of the almost subliminal buzzing noise Mike had been hearing.

Mike lowered his head and closed his eyes. "—tellin' you, somethin's wrong!" Peter was saying. "He's strugglin' with simple bass lines and simple keyboard parts!"

Mike's eyes flew open. UH-oh...

Then he heard Peter blow the air out of his cheeks and come up with his own explanation. "Guys—I don't think all of Peter's music skill made the transition. I mean, it's almost like—like I was the one tryin' to play Peter's instruments!" That made Mike smile.

"So—what do we do?" Davy asked.

"We give him the time he needs," Peter said. "We let him practice till he gets it right, and we don't push him. He'll get it again—he just needs time."

"Mike," Micky said, "his ears—he's probably heard this." Mike almost lost it at that point.

"Don't worry," Peter said. "He's concentrating so hard on relearning the keyboards that he couldn't hear a bomb going off next to his ear."

Mike kept one eye on the toaster as he stirred the uncooperative oatmeal and grumbled under his breath. "Stupid box said it'd be ready in five minutes...already been ten..."

Finally it moved around the pan like it was supposed to. Mike shut off the heat with unnecessary vigor, taking out a little of his frustration on the innocent switch.

Davy came out of the bedroom and scanned Mike up and down, checking to make sure his "costume" was complete and accurate. "Morning," he said.

Mike looked over his shoulder and, without even thinking about it, smiled pleasantly. "Mornin," he replied.

"Careful," Davy warned. "You-know-who could be—"

"You-know-who is in the shower and can't hear me," he explained, tapping one of his ears to offset the question he knew would be coming. "So I figured I better talk like myself before I forget how." He slid the toast out of the toaster onto a plate and popped in four more slices. "I hope he goes back to bein Peter soon—this is gettin ridiculous."

"I know," Davy said. "I hope so, too." He nodded. "You've got the outfit pulled together right the first time this morning."

Mike glanced down at himself and smiled again. Davy blinked— two smiles in five minutes? The charade was becoming a little too real...

"Yeah, I know." Mike was wearing blue jeans—belted to the side—and a lime green shirt Peter kept stealing from Mike's closet because he liked the colour. Mike kept letting him because it had been a gift from a well-meaning relative, and even though he hated the color, he didn't want to throw it away. "It's startin to get easier to figure out what he'd wear. That's what's worryin me—" Mike suddenly looked up the stairs and fell silent.

"He's out of the shower," Davy guessed.

"The water cut off, at any rate," Mike said, forcing himself to lose his accent as much as possible. He couldn't eliminate it completely, but with the grammar and 'g's on words, the slight accent wasn't noticeable unless one was actively listening for it. The worst part was the vocabulary and sentence structure, though; he felt like he was coming across as tongue-tied when really he was just trying to choose words and phrase them in ways that sounded more like Peter than himself.

Mike popped the last four slices of bread into the toaster. Davy did a quick count. "Sixteen? You're making sixteen?"

"Two for you, four each for me and Peter, and six for Bigmouth."

Davy couldn't repress the grin at that crack. Micky's appetite was becoming legendary. Mike opened two cabinet doors, frowning slightly as he peered at the shelves. "Davy, have you seen the peanut butter?"

"No." Davy, suddenly realizing he could make himself helpful, pulled out the orange juice and glasses.

"Here it is," Mike said, grabbing the jar from the third cabinet he checked and setting it and a knife on the table. "Start some coffee, would you?"

"Sure." Davy put it on to brew and began pouring the orange juice while Mike ran water in the oatmeal pan to soak.

Davy looked up as Peter came down the stairs, a smile blooming on his lips—but it froze, turning into a parody of his usual cheerful welcome. He leaned over and lay a hand on Mike's arm, pitching his voice for those sensitive ears only. "Mike, don't turn around yet. He's in blue jeans, and—"

Mike glanced over his shoulder at Peter, and he hastily turned to face the wall, clutching the edge of the counter with a white-knuckled grip, taking deep breaths and swallowing hard to make his temper and his stomach acid both go back down.

Peter was wearing Mike's black button-down shirt. And blue jeans. And black boots.

Isabel's favourite outfit.

He knows, Mike thought, torn between fury and despair. He knows what that shirt means to me—to her—why I wear it. They've bugged me about it often enough...

He closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. It took every ounce of will power and self-control he possessed to paste a smile on his face as he turned around to greet Peter. "Morning, Mike. Tonight's the big night, huh?" he called out, and only Davy realized that the happy note in his voice rang horribly false. "Our— Our first gig at the Vincent Van Go-Go, I mean."

Davy's mouth went as round as his eyes as he stared at Mike, a new admiration shooting through him. Mike was pale as a sheet, but he was doing his best to bluff his way through.

He was, however, clutching a metal spoon so tightly that it was slowly bending in his grasp.

"Mornin', guys," Peter said, smiling a smaller version of his own dimpled grin—the one he'd consistently smiled each time he smiled as "Mike". "Yeah, Pete—tonight's our night. You really sounded good on 'I'm A Believer' last time you played it last night. Think you're up to that in concert?"

Mike suddenly realized he hadn't stopped staring at the black shirt since Peter had walked into view, and he forced himself to look up at Peter's face. "I'm—not sure, Mike. Let's practice later before we go, all right? I'd like a chance to practice it again with the rest of you."

"Sure, ol' buddy. No problem." Peter moved to the bandstand and picked up the 12-string. He sat down and began to pick out the melody line to "You Just May be the One".

Mike whirled around with his back to the room so Peter couldn't see him—and the mask shattered, naked rage contorting his face. "I'll kill him for this," he hissed. "He's takin everything special to me and twistin it—"

"He can't help it," Davy reminded him gently. "He thinks he is you, remember?"

"I can't ever forget it, Davy," Mike whispered. "I'm aware of that fact every day from the minute I open my eyes in your bedroom! I got nothin left that's really mine—" He shook his head. "Nothin, Davy. He's even gonna take her."

"You still know who you are, man. Hang onto that."

"I know who I am..." Mike glanced over at Peter, and his features softened as he remembered what Peter must be going through on the inside; Mike's battle was outside—he dealt with purely external forces—but Peter's war was being fought within himself, and for a moment, Mike wasn't sure which of them had it worse. The anger dissipated, melting into pity and compassion—and longing. "And I want to be that person again. But I can't—not till he gets well, I'm stuck. I'm trapped." And with one last sigh, Mike reasserted his self-control and finished setting breakfast on the table. "Mike?" he called, Happy Mary Sunshine act back in place. "Breakfast is ready."

And he quickly plugged his ears with his fingers, grimacing as Peter bellowed for Micky. He'd learned to expect that and vowed again to himself that he would never wake Micky up that way once he went back to being himself.

And Micky's groggy reaction to Peter's outfit didn't help any. His eyes had grown wide as he screeched to a halt at the foot of the stairs, and he watched Peter amble to the table, his jaw dangling open.

"You're going to catch flies, Micky," Mike remarked amiably, and when Micky swung an astonished glance at him, he glared a warning over Peter's head. Micky cast one last look at Peter—and that tell-tale black shirt—and then shuffled over to his seat, dropping into it heavily. When Mike sat down beside him, Micky kicked his ankle—not hard enough to hurt—and, giving him a look filled with compassion, mouthed, "I'm sorry, man."

Mike shrugged and glanced away, pretending to be engrossed in his food when really his appetite had fled the moment he saw Peter. He picked at the toast and oatmeal until the others had finished, then he turned into the bustling chef again, taking refuge at the sink, washing the dishes with more energy than usual—and sloshing water all over himself and the floor in the process—and listening to the others. He heard footsteps go up the stairs, a door close and the shower turn on. That took care of Micky. He heard Davy's soft, "Later, okay?" and the bedroom door close. Mike sighed. That left him alone with Peter.

Suddenly Mike heard the jangle of the car keys followed quickly by the front door opening and closing.

He spun on his heel, horrified—he thought he would have more time!

"Mike!" he yelled, taking a step forward to chase him down—

Only to slip in the water he'd splashed from the sink. Moccasin boots and wet floor did not mix. Skidding and sliding, he managed to keep his feet—

And stood there as he realized he'd failed. Peter was heading over to Isabel's, and Mike was stuck with nothing ahead of him but a day—a life?—of chores and loneliness.

Just like Peter.

Isabel heard the cheerily distinctive toot Mike gave the Monkeemobile horn when he wanted to drive her to work. She smiled broadly, picking up her pace. Her hand was already on the doorknob when she froze, remembering.

Which "Mike" would it be? She didn't want to take anything for granted these days.

She opened the door, her stomach plummeting to her shoes when she saw Peter standing beside the Monkeemobile. But then she looked at him—really looked at him—and one hand flew to her mouth to stifle the horrified gasp as a cold, sick dread clutched at her insides.

The gentle breeze rumpled his blonde hair as Peter smiled lazily at her. He was leaning casually against the driver's side door, thumbs in belt loops—

And wearing her favourite outfit. "Mornin'," he called.

Isabel turned to lock the door, tearing her eyes away from him, from that awful sight. Her hands shook so that she could barely fit the key in the lock, and she nearly dropped the key ring twice. How could he? And how was she supposed to deal with what she knew was going to happen? They all knew the effect that combination had on her—it had been teasing ammunition for ages—and now Peter was using it to his advantage. No, to Mike's advantage. He wanted to reestablish their closeness, she guessed. He was tired of waiting, and he was taking action. That's what Mike would have done, after all.

And those dimples weren't helping a bit!

She turned back around, forcing herself to smile. "Morning, yourself," she said airily.

But Peter's smile had disappeared. "Hey—"

And he was moving toward her. She hurried down her front steps, hoping to get to the car before he got to her—but Peter had longer legs than she did, and he captured her shoulders with his hands, stopping her. She stared up at him, her eyes huge and troubled, and she bit her lower lip, wondering how she could possibly escape him without making it painfully obvious what she was doing.

He gave her a thorough once-over, his tawny eyes alight with concern, and he massaged her shoulders with his thumbs—and it didn't help ease her tension a bit. If anything, it made her even more on-edge.

"Isabel, you're trembling." The gentle voice was her undoing, and she pulled away from his grasp, glaring up at him.

"Why did you wear that?" she blurted angrily—more of her fury had shown than she intended, but she felt emotionally wounded at the moment, and her control wasn't at its best.

He looked at her eyes, reading her emotions with Peter's practiced skill. Then hurt and a little anger appeared in his own, making her feel unaccountably guilty. "Because I want you to get used to me lookin' like Peter. I didn't know of another way to show you that it's still me—Mike—inside here." He paused, then reached out and caressed her cheek as he gazed down at her, his eyes so full of love that she had to look away. "It hurts too much bein' away from you..."

His hand crept back to her shoulder, and this time she didn't shrug him off; then he reached out and pulled her braid to the front, fingering it lightly—another Mike move, she thought bitterly.

"I miss you. I miss what we shared—before—"

I can't believe this is happening, she thought, frozen by her own whirling thoughts. What do I do? What do I say?

But Peter mistook her silence as agreement. He closed the distance between them, slipping his other arm around her waist as he leaned forward and lightly brushed her lips with his. Isabel remained tense in his arms, her first instincts urging her to push him away, but she knew that would only make things worse. And then he kissed her again, more intensely this time, trying to coax a response from her—

"Hey, if you're going to drive her to work, could you run me to the music shop after?"

Mike's jovial voice was music to her ears, and she used his interruption as an excuse to put some distance between herself and Peter.

Peter let out an exasperated breath and rested his forehead against Isabel's for an instant before turning and growling, "Peter..."

Isabel peeked around Peter to look at Mike, her face suffused with relief as she mouthed, "Thank you!"

Mike nodded briefly to her, then turned a guileless expression to Peter as if he were totally oblivious to the cozy scene he'd just barged in on. "Well, could you?"

"Peter, if you don't scram, I'm gonna—"

Isabel lay a hand on Peter's chest, hoping her presence would have the same calming effect it did on the real Mike. "Mike, what harm would it do?"

She noticed the tension in his shoulders visibly ease. "Isabel," he said in a tight whisper, "I—I haven't been alone with you in three days!"

Neither have I, Mike thought. Three days, four hours, twelve minutes and thirty-four seconds—but who's counting?

And if I can help it, Isabel thought with asperity, you WON'T be alone with me till you come to your senses. "Just this once," she said, improvising madly. "Micky said my car will be fixed tomorrow, and—Oh, just let him come," she demanded, frustrated with the whole situation. She wanted this to be over!

Smiling sweetly, Mike opened Isabel's door for her, thoroughly enjoying the almost visible steam rising from Peter's ears.

"You're twisting the knife," she said for his ears only, but she was smiling as she said it.

"Payback for the shirt," he whispered back as he stepped over the door into the middle seat and sat down.

Peter slammed the driver's side door so hard that the whole car shook. "All right," he said dangerously, "but I'll be by after work to getcha." He glowered at Mike. "Alone."

Isabel slid a little lower in her seat, feeling utterly sick with dread at the mere thought, but if she didn't have her car...

As Peter put the car in gear and drove toward the paper, Mike made a mental note to have Micky deliver Isabel's car to the paper and tell the others he got it fixed early.

Isabel opened the door of the car and turned around to say good-bye to Peter— Only to have Peter capture her face in his hands and pull her right into a warm, loving kiss. He smiled as he released her, his anger obviously abated somewhat after that. "Have a good day, love. I'll see you tonight."

Isabel just sat there for a second, stunned. Mike would never have done that with someone sitting just behind them...

Then a gentle nudge on her shoulder from the backseat brought her back to reality. She shook her head slightly and forced a smile. "You too, Mike."

She hopped out of the car, turned to close the door behind her and conveniently managed to drop her purse in Mike's lap as she did so. As he handed it out to her, she leaned forward as if to grab the strap, and brushed her lips along his ear out of Peter's sight. "Take care of yourself—and him," she said softly.

"I will," he whispered. Aloud, in a very cheery voice, he said, "Have fun, Isabel."

"You too—Peter," she said, waving at them both as she walked in to work.

Mike stood up, stretching his legs as he clambered over the back of the seat and dropped with a PLOP! in the front seat beside Peter. Peter just looked at him, amusement warring with the anger he still felt.

"Stork," he said softly.

"Hm?" Mike turned to him, careful to keep in character. "What do you mean by that?"

Peter chuckled, putting the car in gear. "Now I understand why you guys and Isabel call me a stork. Those legs are really long!"

Mike thought for a second. How would Peter have responded to this? Hurt? Amused?

"And skinny," he replied at last, echoing what he'd heard for years as he regarded his own legs with objective scrutiny. "But I kind of like being four inches taller," he added.

"Yeah, well, don't get used to it, shotgun," Peter said. "Tork the Stork won't be around once I get back in my own body."

Mike laughed openly. Tork the Stork—he'd have to tell the guys that one! And to his relief, Peter began laughing, too.

They got new bass strings and a smaller thumb pick for Mike at the Music Shoppe, as well as a spare set of drumsticks for Micky, who had a small crack in one of his sticks from his annoying habit of practicing riffs on walls.

Mike pulled Micky aside and told him what to do about Isabel's car: how they were pretending it was broken and for him to go out and drive it to the paper like he'd gotten it fixed, then to go in and tell Isabel the car was outside. When he was ready to go, Micky was to come inside and get Mike, who would drive the Monkeemobile behind him so Micky would have a way home.

Micky nodded and took a step forward. "Wait a second—I don't have a key to her car! How'm I gonna—"

Mike dangled his own key ring in front of Micky's face with a satisfied smile. He showed Micky the key to the Pad's front door, the back door, the safety deposit box the four shared at the bank, Isabel's front door—and two car keys. A spare for the Monkeemobile and Isabel's. He dropped them into Micky's hand and pushed Micky outside, anxious for him to rescue Isabel from any solo encounters with Peter.

Their ruse worked perfectly. Mike smiled all the way to the newspaper from the thought that now Peter wouldn't have to drive her home. Micky sat in the passenger's seat and darted concerned glances at him, thinking the same thing Davy had thought that morning: He's smiling a lot more when he doesn't really have to.

Chapter Eight: Stay With The Man Who Loves You

When Mike and Micky walked in the door, Peter and Davy were setting up for practice. Micky sniffed the air, a broad grin wreathing his face. "Mmmmm...what smells so good?" he asked, following his nose to the source.

"Mrs. Purdy brought over some lasagna," Davy said. "We've had our share, but we saved some for you two."

Mike got his and a glass of milk. Micky ate the rest right out of the dish, causing three pairs of eyes to roll heavenward.

"Your turn to do the dishes," Mike informed him between bites.

They put their dirty dishes in the sink to soak and went over to practice.

"What's first?" Mike asked, reaching for the bass.

"I'm a Believer," Peter informed him.

Mike froze. He took a deep breath and wrestled his anxiety down. You did it last night, he told himself. You can do it now. He moved the harpsichord over and stood behind it, popping his knuckles. "Ready."

"First notes are yours, Peter," Peter said. "One... two..."

He finished counting off, and Mike struck the keys. The first four notes were flawless. The fifth was a horrible clinker.

Dead silence.

"Um...Peter..." Micky began.

"Not one word," Peter snapped. "He's nervous. Ready to try again, man?"

Mike nodded. Peter counted off again. Four perfect notes. A different sounding clinker.

Mike took a deep breath and closed his eyes, playing the notes in his head, scarcely aware his hands were moving in the air to the beat. He opened his eyes, counted himself off, and played the first five notes.

Perfectly.

Peter chimed in with the guitar part, and Micky and Davy joined in as Micky began to sing.

"Love was out to get me—"

Silence.

"Peter," Peter said impatiently, stopping the music. "You've got the first duh-dun-duh-dun."

Mike shook his head. "Forgot," he said. And he had—he'd been concentrating on the keyboards and not paying any attention at all. He was getting awful frustrated...

"Try again?" Peter asked. "Or move on. Your call, man."

Mike sighed, considering. "One more time, then move on." He counted himself off, then played those stubbourn first five notes. The rest joined in.

"Love was out to get me—"

"Duh-dun-duh-dun." He remembered this time.

"That's the way it seemed—"

Davy chimed in the second time, reinforcing the shaky part. Mike was nervous, and it was showing in his voice.

Most of the song was those five notes repeated, so it went all right— till the left-handed chord solo part right before the end. Mike hit that part—and another clinker so bad it set his teeth on edge. But he pushed through and ended the song.

Silence.

Mike stepped back from the harpsichord, popping aching knuckles and dimly aware sweat had popped out on his forehead from the effort of playing a part he'd never played till last night on an instrument that was more foreign to him than bass was.

"Good job, Pete," Peter said. "But I think we'll leave it out tonight till you get the solo part in the middle down."

Mike smiled shakily at him. "Thanks, Mike. 'Preciate it."

"Accent!" Davy hissed for Mike's ears only.

"I mean I really appreciate that. Thanks, man." The last two words were said to Peter and Davy. "Um—can we take five? My hands hurt."

"Sure." Peter smiled at him. "Bet your head does, too."

Mike smiled back. "A little. Trying to keep all those elements straight makes me a little dizzy."

Peter nodded. "I dig. Try playin' the lead part to Valleri—you'd sure get dizzy if you ever had to do that!"

Peter left the bandstand, and Mike flexed his left hand. He remembered that part—and he wanted nothing more than to be able to run through it himself again.

Micky slid from behind his kit. "Mike," he whispered, "that was good! Just that one spot, and you got it!"

"I know," Mike said. "Man, how does he do it? Keyboards are tougher than the 12-string ever was!"

"Point is, you're getting it," Davy said. "If he never—you know—"

"We're not even gonna think that," Mike snapped in a whisper. "I am not gonna spend the rest of my life being Peter Tork!" He frowned. "Even though I'm only pretending, unlike him..." He sighed. "OK, this is givin' me a headache..."

And the others couldn't stop the laughter.

Mike played bass the rest of the practice and even got to sing a little when they did "Words."

Peter lay down the 12-string after practice was over and pronounced them officially ready for tonight. He said they'd get the set list together after a while.

Isabel's head hurt royally from all the stress in her personal life. Having two boyfriends—sort of—was a drag and a half. Mike alone could be a handful, but having Peter as well—? Thinking he was Mike—? Too much.

Her work was suffering, so Gregory ordered her to go home. She pulled her keys from her purse and walked to the car, thankful Mike and Micky had delivered it two hours ago. Despite having taken an aspirin while she was at work, her head still ached when she got home, and all she wanted to do was curl up and sleep it off. Isabel walked into her front door and shut it behind her, leaning against it for a second as if it would shelter her from the world. Then she moved away from it and into the living room, dropping coat and purse in an unusually untidy heap under the lamp—not her usual habit, but she didn't care right now. She was so tired from everything that had been going down lately...

With a sigh of exhaustion, she threw herself unceremoniously on the couch, sending Gil fleeing. "Sorry, cat," she mumbled, and within moments, she had drifted into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

Isabel stirred and sighed, coming out of her deep slumber a little, roused by gentle fingers sifting through her hair—something Mike knew very well that she liked.

The cushions shifted beneath her as Mike settled beside her; she was vaguely aware of his presence, but she was still too deep to even think about opening her eyes. Instead, she let herself drift, idly wondering what he was going to do next.

When she felt a pair of soft, warm lips brush against hers, she knew, and by this time, she was just awake enough to smile and respond. Apparently Mike realized it because he returned, kissing her more intensely this time—intensely enough to bump her up another five levels of wakefulness.

She raised arms that were still lethargic from sleep, slipping them around his shoulders as one kiss flowed into another; he broke away just long enough to move from sitting next to her to reclining beside her, stretching out so that the entire length of her body was pressed against his, and she cooperated by turning onto her side to give him more room. Mike wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, and she slid one hand up the back of his neck, tangling it in his hair.

Hair that was straighter.

Finer.

Not nearly as thick.

Not Mike's.

Her eyes flew open, her whole body suddenly tensing as she realized just who was in her arms, and it was all she could do not to violently shove him—Peter—off the couch. Instead, she broke off the kiss as gently as she could, pulling back so he couldn't renew the embrace.

"Well, that's more like it," Peter drawled, smiling slightly at her. "I was gettin' worried."

"W-worried?" she croaked, wondering how she could get free without making him suspicious. Leaping over the back of the couch probably wasn't her best bet...

"Yeah, you've been so stand-offish lately," he continued. "I was beginnin' to think—" He glanced away from her, a little crease forming between his brows. On Mike, she knew that meant he was about to bring up a subject he didn't particularly like. "Well, you and Peter have been actin' mighty tight lately, and I was wonderin' if you'd changed your mind. About bein' with me, I mean."

Apparently Peter had noticed that about Mike as well, she noted wryly. It was almost uncanny how well he imitated his friend; if he had absorbed so many tiny details, then maybe on some subconscious level, he had been studying Mike, wishing he were more like him. Perhaps he saw Mike's strength and easy assumption of leadership and responsibility as qualities he lacked in himself.

Poor Peter, she thought. Didn't he realize that he possessed qualities that were just as important and just as necessary to those who loved him? Mike might be the big brother to whom they all turned for advice, but Peter was the one who dispensed sympathy and compassion—two things Mike himself would probably admit he wasn't comfortable displaying.

"I'm sorry," she whispered as she caressed his cheek comfortingly. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

And she meant that on so many levels. She'd broken his heart once when she chose Mike instead of him, and even though she reminded herself that no one could choose whom they would love—neither herself nor Peter nor Mike—it didn't relieve the sting of guilt she felt every time she looked at him for a long time afterwards.

And now there was a very good chance she would hurt him again. If he kept imagining he was Mike—if he never let "Peter" come back—then she would eventually have to "break up" with him. There was no way she could carry on the charade indefinitely with her sanity—and Mike's temper--intact.

"It's okay," he replied, the frown softening as he looked at her. "As long as I know you still love me—"

"Oh, am I interrupting something? Gosh, I'm sorry!"

Both Peter and Isabel glanced up, startled by the sudden outburst, only to see Mike standing in the doorway. Isabel stared at him, horrified that he'd caught her in such a compromising position, and she had to quell the urge to shove Peter away and do a backflip off the sofa just to get herself out of it. But if Mike was angry, he was doing a good job of hiding it; he just stood there, his features clouded with uncertainty as he twisted his hands in a brilliant imitation of Peter's own nervous gesture.

"Pete, haven't you heard of knockin'?" Peter leveled a sardonic look at Mike, not budging an inch, and Isabel squirmed miserably, wishing he hadn't picked up on that trait as well.

"I've never had to before," Mike answered, widening his eyes guilelessly—just like Peter. He needed to get an Oscar for that Academy Award-winning performance, Isabel thought wryly. He couldn't quite shed his accent completely, but he had the mannerisms down cold.

And the worst thing about it was that the wretch was telling the truth! She added to herself, suppressing a wayward giggle.

"The door was unlocked," he added. Well, that explained how Peter got in, she thought. Now she had to think of a way to get him out!

"Um-you said you wanted to trade recipes," Mike said. "You know-the waffles—?"

Peter finally released her and sat up, taking his time about it; Isabel popped up like she was on a spring, retreating to the opposite end of the couch.

"You're givin' her the waffle recipe?" he asked, lifting one eyebrow as he stood up. "Shoot, you won't even tell us what you put in those things."

"Well, she said she'd tell me how to make Parmesan chicken in return," Mike improvised, naming one of Peter's favorite dishes.

Chuckling quietly, Peter leaned down and dropped a swift kiss on Isabel's lips, then straightened and headed for the door. "I'll get outta your way—cookin' isn't my bag."

Both Mike and Isabel watched him amble out, waiting until they heard the front door close, then Mike moved swiftly into the hall and locked the door to make sure yet another unexpected interruption didn't occur. When he returned to the living room, he paused just inside the door, glowering at Isabel, arms folded across his chest.

"You wanna tell me what that was all about?"

"Don't start," she pleaded, burying her face in both hands, her voice muffled and suspiciously watery. "I can't take a heavy scene right now. I just can't."

He prudently decided to remain silent, crossing the room to sit beside her, putting a comforting arm around her shoulders instead. After taking a minute to collect herself, Isabel drew in a deep breath and released it as a shuddery sigh.

"I fell asleep," she said at last, her voice quiet but steady. "I guess I forgot to lock the door. When I woke up, I thought it was you kissing me, and I was so out of it, I didn't even look. I just assumed—" she broke off, shaking her head in disgust.

"It's okay," he assured her, squeezing her shoulders briefly.

"No, it isn't!" she exclaimed testily. "I feel like the two of you are playing tug o' war—and I'm the rope!"

He frowned quizzically at her. "What do you mean?"

"Look..." She began slowly, not sure how to explain without upsetting him. "When we first met and you were pushing me so hard to get with Peter...to a point, it worked. I was hurt by the way you were treating me, and Peter was so sweet and attentive—"

"You're saying you have feelings for him."

"No," she corrected swiftly. "I'm saying I could have had feelings for him. Very easily. But things worked out with us, and nothing ever had a chance to develop with Peter. But the potential was there, and now he's acting like you, and it's all just a horrible, confusing mess..."

"So...you're startin to have feelins for him now?"

"Yes, but he's you!" Isabel wailed, and Mike stared at her with his best "what in the world are you talking about" look.

"No, I'm me—he's Peter—"

"And you're him and he's you—"

"And I'm the dummy," he concluded with a wry grin despite the seriousness of the conversation. "Look, I think I understand what you're sayin, and you don't need to worry."

"I don't?" She gazed up at him, her eyes swimming with unshed tears, and he gathered her in his arms and pulled her into his lap; she leaned her head wearily on his shoulder as he rocked her gently, comforting her as best he could. "Why not?"

"Because," he pointed out with patient logic. "If you're feelin things for Peter now while he thinks he's me, then you won't feel them anymore once he turns back into Peter again, because it's the me part you're attracted to."

"That makes sense..." she mused.

He nodded and leaned his cheek against the top of her head, relaxing and enjoying her mere presence. They hadn't been able to spend a great deal of time alone together—not with Peter hovering protectively—and he'd missed the private moments they were accustomed to sharing.

"It's also one of the most immodest, egotistical, self-serving things I've heard in a long time," she added, and he knew by her tone that she was laughing at him.

"You're feelin better, aren't you?" he observed dryly.

"Much." She snuggled against his chest, slipping her arms around him with a sigh of sheer contentment. "Keep telling me how much I love you. Maybe one day it'll stick."

"You love me," he said, deliberately making his voice light and teasing. "You love me so much you'll never even think about another man ever again—not even Peter."

He poked her in the ribs as he said this, and she giggled as much from the tickling as from his words.

"So much that—" she paused, considering. "That I can't look at a long-legged stork without thinking of you."

"Hey!"

She laughed outright then, her fingers seeking that vulnerable tickle spot right above his hips; he made a grab for her hands, but she pulled them free and renewed her attack, and he gave up trying to defend himself, taking the offense instead. Amid the ensuing shrieks, laughter, tickling and squirming, they managed to roll off the couch and end up in a tangled heap on the floor, Mike narrowly missing banging his head on her coffee table.

"You okay?" she asked, gulping in air as she tried to stop laughing and look concerned.

"I will be if I can start breathin again," he replied, collapsing on his back, one hand resting on his stomach as he slowly regained his composure.

She stretched out beside him on the floor, resting her head on his chest and covering his hand with her own.

"I love you so much," she whispered, so softly that if his ears hadn't been as keen as they were, he never would have heard her. "That I can't imagine my life without you in it anymore."

He wrapped his arm around her, stroking her hair soothingly. "That's what makes this whole dang situation so unbearable." "I don't want to hurt either one of you. I can't bear the thought of that," she said, closing her eyes and shuddering at the thought of all ways this situation could possibly go wrong. "But this is—"

He freed his hand from beneath hers and pressed a finger to her lips, effectively silencing her. "This is a unique situation that we all have to deal with. And he is gonna get hurt if he doesn't get back to normal." He squeezed her shoulder. "Because 'Peter' is gonna woo you away from 'Mike'."

She smiled teasingly up at him. "Is that a promise?"

"That's a vow." He sat up then, pulling her upright with him, then he kissed her—but Isabel abruptly broke the embrace and shivered. "Isabel?"

"I can't stop thinking about what just happened. I keep thinking it's him again and not you. You're so different, I should've known the moment he kissed me, but I was so out of it, and..." She broke off, furious with herself for not realizing the truth sooner.

Mike pulled her into his lap again, gathering her in his arms. "Isa, don't blame yourself. Or him. We're all caught in an intolerable situation with no end in sight. But I've got an idea about how to solve this problem—look at me. Don't close your eyes."

She did as he asked, keeping her eyes on him as he tangled his fingers in her hair, cradling her head in his palm as he kissed her, an intense embrace that hinted at how much he had missed her. A low moan escaped her throat as he deepened the kiss, and she clung to him, unable to keep her eyes open any longer—but she didn't need to.

This is really Mike, she thought while she was still capable of coherent thought. My Mike.

And then she no longer bothered to think at all.

The gig at the Vincent Van went well. Peter had picked songs that were light on bass so Mike could keep up. The only songs Mike had fought to strike from the list (successfully) were "Cripple Creek"—Mike was worse on banjo as he was on keyboards— and the one that said simply, "Pete's new song". Peter had been working on a new song the day before the identity crisis started, but he had been typically secretive about it and Mike hadn't the foggiest notion of how it went!

On the way back, Mike was looking out the front seat passenger window thinking about the deal that Peter had just stricken. Five weeks of work stretched ahead of them.

Five weeks that threatened to be an eternity if Peter did not snap out of this. Mike's fingers ached at just the thought of having to face that harpsichord again...

A loud noise from the back seat made Peter laugh and Mike turn to see Micky spread-eagled in the seat, snoring loudly. Davy was curled into a ball in the middle seat, just as asleep.

"They both out?" Peter asked.

"Uh-huh. Both out," Mike said, not really feeling like talking right now.

"So...how'd it go with Isabel this afternoon?" Apparently Peter did not share Mike's mood.

Mike was suddenly wary. He knew himself not to strike up a conversation unless there was an ulterior motive behind it, especially not in that oh-so casual tone. "Fine," he answered guardedly. "Why?"

"You two been awful chummy lately. Mind tellin' me what's goin' on?"

Mike stared at Peter, eyes widening as realisation dawned. His jaw dropped of its own accord, and then a slow grin spread over his face. "You're jealous! Of me!"

"You got my face, shotgun. You got my voice and my body. Course she's gonna be attracted to—" Peter shut his mouth with a snap. He ground his teeth for a second, then took a deep breath and went on. "I'm jealous, yeah. And Pete—you tell anybody this and I'll deny it to death—but I'm scared, too. You loved her from the minute you saw her."

"No, it was a crush, Mike," he replied, echoing words Peter had used himself when they'd had a variation on this conversation not long after Mike and Isabel started dating.

Peter sighed. "Whatever you wanna call it, it was love. An' now, lookin' the way you do, you got the potential and capability to take her away from me. Man, I'm askin' ya not to, all right? Cause she's my heart and soul and I don't think I can live without her."

Mike was silent for a very long time, not certain how to answer. If he promised he wouldn't, he knew he'd be lying, and that wasn't something he cared to do, even to placate a sick friend. Then, still not trusting his voice, Mike took refuge in vagueness and said simply. "I know that."

Then he turned back to the window. How could he tell Peter he wouldn't "take Isabel away?" If Peter never snapped out of this, that was exactly what he planned to do.

Taking a deep breath, Mike tried to put this in a very Peterish way. The fact that his voice was shaking from the emotions that were running through his head added to the illusion. "I can't promise anything. I don't know what's waiting down the road for us—any of us. But I think it should be up to her, don't you? She ain—She's not a possession, she's a person. A very special person that we—that we both love."

They were at the Pad now. Peter raised his eyes to Isabel's doorway, and sighed. "Yeah, I guess we do both love her, don't we? Different ways..." He sighed again and smiled slightly. "You're right. It oughta be her choice."

He shut off the car and climbed out, peering at the two sleeping percussionists. "Think we oughta leave 'em out here?"

Mike turned around in his seat, smiling at them. "Sure. Why not? At least until we get the car unloaded." He got out and popped the trunk, thinking, More weirdness—it's gettin' easier to talk like him! Man, I hope this ends soon.

He was alone in the darkness.

"Almost as dark as when I was blind..."

Surrounded by grey, misty shadows that were swallowed up in the almost void-like blackness as he groped towards one distant, elusive form after another.

He heard brakes squeal. He sprinted toward the sound, letting it lead him since he could still see practically nothing.

"Peter..." came the eerily echoing voice. "Peter... goodbye..."

"Who's that?" he gasped.

Catherine.

"Pete's sister..."

Your sister.

"I got cousins—like brothers to me...two of 'em..."

You had a sister.

"I got two brothers!"

And now she's gone.

"Who are you?"

She's gone, Peter.

"I'm Mike!"

You didn't get to say goodbye.

"WHO ARE YOU?!"

That's not important.

"It is to me!"

The question that matters is—who are you?

"I told you!"

Tell me again.

"I'm Mike! Mike Nesmith!"

You are Peter Tork.

"NO!" He sagged to his knees, hands over his ears. "No, I'm not!"

Peter is not stupid. He is not weak.

"Shut up!"

Peter is hurting very much. Let him feel.

"Shut up!"

Let "Mike" go so Peter can grieve.

"Shut up!"

You are Peter. Let Peter out.

"No!"

Let. Peter. Out.

"No! Shut up!" Tears stung his eyelids, overflowing despite his best efforts to contain them.

Let.

Peter.

Out.

"Shut up..." It was a moan now, a plea.

Let me out!

Peter sat bolt upright, whimpering, "Let me out—"

For a second, grief washed over him. Catherine...

But only for a second. Then "Mike" was back in control.

"Not again..." he moaned, running his hands through his hair. "Every night it gets louder."

"Man, be quiet," Micky groaned, not so much as cracking an eye open.

Peter swung out of bed and staggered to the bathroom, still disoriented. He snapped on the light and ran cold water into the sink, washing his face—trying to make the dream go away.

Let me out...

Peter started, eyes darting up to stare in the mirror. There were Peter's tawny eyes, birth-marked mouth and blond hair.

Let me out...

Rage suddenly contorted Peter's handsome features."No!" he screamed.

Let me out...

In one swift motion, Peter cocked his fist and slammed it into the mirror, sending silver shards flying all over the sink and floor. "No!"

"Mike!"

Breathing in short, ragged gasps, he whirled around to see Micky staring at him from the bathroom doorway, almond eyes huge. "What are you lookin' at?"

"You're bleeding."

Peter looked down at his trembling hands. The right one oozed blood from the knuckles, and it was only then that the pain hit him, and he grimaced, cradling his wounded hand in the other. "Micky..." he moaned, "I can't live like this..."

Unaware of what was going on upstairs, Mike was in the shower singing merrily to himself. He had the germ of a new song in his head and he was trying to get the thing to gel.

He was also trying to figure out what to make for breakfast. He was craving blueberry waffles, but knew that he'd never be able to pull those off. He'd made pancakes two days ago, and they had gone over well, and waffles were basically just pancakes.

Except for the secret ingredient Peter put in. The one Mike didn't know and if he tried them and they didn't taste right...

He shook his head, chuckling. For a second, his thoughts had sounded like Peter's speech pattern. Charade's gettin' too real, Nesmith, he chided himself, reaching for the shampoo.

But the thought of those waffles wouldn't let go. Mike began to scrub his black hair, running down the list of ingredients he knew went in the waffles. He drew a blank at the secret one, sighing. Finally, he gave up the struggle and let himself remember the last morning Peter had been Peter—the day this whole miserable thing had started.

Peter had made the waffles that morning, and he had seemed uncharacteristically upset when Mike had come downstairs. He had groused that they were out of milk and cocoa and—

Mike froze, his eyes growing wide with dawning awareness. He stood in the shower, not feeling the water anymore, not even aware that his fingers were still tangled in his half-rinsed hair.

Cocoa.

That was it. Peter put cocoa in the waffles!

Mike finished rinsing his hair and shut off the water, elated by this revelation and anxious to test his theory. He hopped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist, reaching for another to towel off his hair—

And froze again at the faint melodious tinkle of shattering glass. He stepped out of the bathroom and hustled over to the staircase. "Micky?" he called. "Pe—Mike? Is everything all right up there?"

"No," Micky called back. "We need bandages! Mike broke the mirror!"

Mike's eyes widened. "He did what?" He dashed back into the bathroom and came out with a roll of bandages and some tape, then ran upstairs, taking the steps two at time.

Peter was sitting on Mike's bed, eyes unfocused. He seemed to be waging some inner battle. He was holding his right wrist, and blood was dripping from several cuts on his right hand.

"What happened?" Mike asked, dropping onto the bed beside Peter and, carefully taking Peter's wounded hand in his own, pressed a swatch of the bandages to the cuts to stop the bleeding.

"He—he just started screaming, 'No!' and smashed the mirror. He told me he can't live like this," Micky explained.

Mike suddenly became aware that Peter's eyes were focused on him. "You all right?" he asked quietly.

Peter shook his head. "Peter," he gasped, his voice shaking. "Please tell me you remember how this happened! Please tell me I'm not goin' crazy!"

Mike glanced up and met Micky's eyes, exchanging "What now?" looks with him. Then he turned back to Peter and said in a voice that was infinitely gentle, "You are not going crazy. And I—I can remember a little."

Micky gave a start. Relief suffused Peter's face. "You...can?"

"Not enough to help," Mike said. "Just pain."

Peter's face twisted in anguish. "Yeah...pain. Loss..." His eyes unfocused again, looking inside himself. "Let me out..." he whispered. "The voice in my head—keeps saying, 'Let me out'."

"Let who out?" Micky asked, delicately probing. "Of where?"

"I..." Peter looked at him. "I don't know. I can't place the voice...but it's familiar..." He looked down at his hand. "I sure did it, didn't I?"

"You'll be all right," Mike said as he checked the bleeding. It had all but stopped, and he began bandaging the wounds quickly. "They're not too deep. Soon as they quit bleeding, you'll be fine." He clapped Peter on the shoulder and stood up. "Can you handle him?"

Micky nodded. "We'll be all right."

"Good." Mike shivered, more from the sight of Peter sitting there in his own pajama bottoms than from the fact he was wearing only a towel. "I have to get dressed." He fixed Micky with a purely Mike look. "Come get me if he flips again."

Micky nodded, then turned his attention to Peter.

Mike went back downstairs, barely repressing the curse that threatened to erupt when his still-damp foot slid on one and he had to grab the railing to keep from falling. He went into the bedroom and dried off, pulling on the clothes he'd draped over "his" bed.

"What's going on?" Davy asked, knuckling sleep from his eyes.

"Peter," Mike said, slipping on the shirt and turning to face Davy as he buttoned it. "His inner battle's gettin worse."

Davy gaped at Mike. "You're not going to wear that!"

Mike looked down at the orange shirt. "Why not?" he asked, confusion evident in his face and voice.

"Mike, that's your Halloween shirt!"

Mike grinned a wide grin at him, causing Davy to do a double-take. "It's all right. Peter steals this all the time." He tugged on Peter's bright blue jeans and his own moccasin boots to hide the fact that the pants came to an end two inches above his ankles. Threading a belt through and buckling it on his left hip, Mike spread his hands. "See? He wears this outfit a lot. Don't worry, Davy. Charade's still intact."

Davy leaned back onto his pillow and crossed his arms. "All right, mister actor—what's for breakfast?"

Mike paused, grinning even wider. There was a decidedly devilish gleam in his eyes. "Blueberry waffles," he replied as he strolled out of the bedroom.

"Oh." Davy rolled over and closed his eyes, trying to eke out a few more minutes of sleep.

Then his eyes snapped wide open and he sat bolt upright. "Blueberry what?"

"Mike," Davy hissed, pulling on his robe as he raced into the kitchen. "Have you gone completely crackers?"

"I know what I'm doing," Mike said, barely able to keep the triumphant laughter out of his voice. "I really know what I'm doing, Davy!" He poured thick batter into the waffle iron and closed the lid. Turning to Davy, he said with a grin, "And you'll see it in a few minutes!"

"I can already hear it," Davy said sardonically. "He's up, eh?"

"How did you guess?"

"Because you're talking like him. When he's asleep, you talk like Mike."

Mike chuckled as he set the table. "Busted." When the light went off, Mike slid the waffle onto a plate and poured another batch. He put syrup on it and cut a bite, handing the fork to Davy.

Davy sighed and pulled the bite into his mouth. He chewed twice, then a look of pure shock spread over his face as he stared wide-eyed at Mike.

Mike laughed aloud then, leaning against the counter and clapping his hands—reacting like Peter. "I told you!"

Davy swallowed. "They're the same! Th-Those are Peter's waffles! How'd you—?"

"I remembered something he said off-the-cuff the last time he made them," was all Mike said as he took a bite. "Go get dressed and get the others—and don't breathe a word of this to Micky."

"Mmm...waffles!" Peter said as he approached the table. Behind him, Micky shot an Oh-no look at Mike. Mike and Davy just grinned as the pair tore into breakfast. Peter took the first bite and smiled.

"When are you gonna tell us what you put into these things?"

"Someday," Mike said, grinning his best Peter grin. "Maybe."

Micky braced himself. They wouldn't taste right, he just knew it. He took a bite. His almond eyes shot wide open and his head snapped around to stare at Mike. Mike had figured it out! They tasted identical!

Davy joined them at the table while Mike finished making the waffles. He removed the grill from the iron and put it in hot soapy water before he sat down to eat. Then he laughed at the already depleted stack of waffles. "Micky, save some for us!"

"I tell ya, he's havin' a growth spurt," Peter mumbled, deep into the paper by now.

Mike sat at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee and skimming the paper. Over the last few days he'd managed to learn how to speed-read so he could catch up on things—otherwise Peter hogged the paper and he never got a chance to see it.

Of course, it also helped that he now woke up very early—a habit he'd be happy to break as soon as possible.

Mike folded the paper neatly and dropped it at his old place on the other side of the table where Peter could find it easily. He drained the last drop of coffee and rinsed the cup out thoroughly, then shook it a couple of times before placing it carefully in the drainer. Humming tunelessly, he headed for the downstairs bedroom to get dressed.

He was at the door before he stopped abruptly and whirled to look at the kitchen, wide-eyed. He had just spent twenty whole minutes acting just like Peter would have—

Without thinking about it.

When he was by himself.

When he didn't have to.

It took Isabel all of two minutes to throw on some clothes when she received the early morning phone call from Mike; something in his voice disturbed her, and her stomach was tightly knotted as she ran next door. She barged in without knocking to find him seated on the couch, also dressed—waiting for her.

A quick peek around the room told her they were alone, and she immediately hurried over to sit next to him, resting one hand on his leg and smoothing back a stray lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead. "So what happened?" she asked softly, her eyes betraying her concern as she looked at him.

Without so much as glancing at her, he recounted the events of the morning—the automatic smiles, sitting in Peter's chair, the cheerfulness that wasn't forced anymore, and all of it when he was alone—in a dull, almost lifeless voice.

"I'm having to submerge my true identity so deep that even when I'm alone I can't relax. I can't be myself." He slumped against the cushions, leaning his head on the back of the couch and closing his eyes wearily. "I'm starting to wonder who I really am anymore."

"Don't talk that way," she chided him. "You know who you are."

"I know who I am," he replied, "but I also know who I have to pretend to be. And the illusion is starting to take over the reality." He sighed. "And that is what's scaring me."

Isabel suddenly realised what had been bothering her since Mike opened his mouth. "I understand," she said, nodding slowly. "I can hear it."

"The fright?"

She shook her head. "The accent. It's gone. Since you've been talking, I haven't heard one dropped 'g', not one word blurred into another—there's no trace of your accent left. Mike can't even come out in your speech anymore, can he?"

He opened his eyes and rolled his head from side to side— abject misery plain to see on his face. "I can't handle this anymore, Mary-bel. I need a break from being 'Peter'."

He suddenly noticed a tiny, mischievous smile curving her lips. "What are you smiling at? I'm turning into him, and you're smiling at me!"

"You're not either," she retorted. "Peter doesn't call me Mary-bel. Mike does."

He considered this for a minute, then a broad smile spread across his face. "You're right. He doesn't know about 'Mary-bel', does he?"

She shook her head firmly. "Nope. That's just between us. Now then," she turned brisk and business-like, an idea already forming in her head. "How much of a break do you need?"

"A few hours at least."

"How about a picnic?" she suggested. That would be something to get him out of the house, away from Peter, away from his problems, for a while.

"Sounds nice." He stood, extending both hands to her, and when she slipped her hands into his, he lifted her to her feet as well. "What about Peter? He's going to wonder where we're going—and why you're disappearing with 'Peter' and not him."

"Leave him to me," she replied in her best no-nonsense tone. Peter would just have to accept what she said and deal with it as best he could. Mike needed her—and he needed time away from the horrible situation he found himself in. "You go get changed—dress like Mike." She watched him go into the downstairs bedroom that she was still grappling with thinking of as "his."

"Dress like me?" came the sudden query from above her. "Why?"

Startled, Isabel looked up to see Peter leaning over the railing, visibly puzzled, and she felt the blood drain from her face. How much had he heard?

"Morning," she said cheerfully, ignoring his question as she managed a watery smile.

"Mornin'," he replied as he ambled down the stairs. Without hesitation—as if he had the right! she thought furiously for an instant before she remembered that he believed he did—he took her in his arms and kissed her. Despite her best efforts to control her reactions, she felt herself trembling, part of her still feeling as though she was betraying Mike. But, as usual, Peter misunderstood.

"You ain't had any coffee yet," he said as he felt the slight tremor. He casually dropped another kiss on her forehead before he released her and moved into the kitchen, where he put on a pot of coffee.

"No, not yet," she replied truthfully, sinking onto the couch before her legs could give out beneath her.

"You didn't answer my question."

"What—what question?" she asked, stalling for time.

Peter turned to her and leaned back against the counter, crossing his legs at the ankle and hooking his thumbs into his belt loops. "Why is Peter dressin' like me?"

Isabel met his eyes, pasting what she hoped was an innocent look on her face as she improvised her response. "A letter got delivered by mistake to my house yesterday. From the DMV. Seems with all the heavy stuff going down around here, you and I forgot to renew our licenses in December. So—"

"So Pete's gotta go get his picture taken," Peter finished, nodding.

"I thought we'd go in together." She darted a cautious look at the doorway to the bedroom and dropped her voice, adding conspiratorially, "Besides, this might give you and the other guys a chance to—you know—plan?"

"For what?" Peter's brows drew together in confusion.

She pulled a face at him, mock-annoyed. "What's today?"

"February 12."

"And that would make tomorrow—?" He sighed. "The thirteenth. But Isabel, what does..." His eyes widened. "Peter's birthday." He grinned. "A surprise party? Isabel, that's a wonderful idea!"

Before she realized he was even in motion, he crossed into the living room and, catching her in his arms, tried to kiss her again, but she maneuvered so that it landed on her cheek rather than her lips.

"I told him to dress like you today so we could pull off the illusion that he's really Mike," she added quickly before he could try again. "Is that all right?"

"That's fine," he said, distracted now. "So about how long do you think you'll be gone?"

"A few hours. Enough time to plan." He nodded.

"We'll make this a party Peter won't ever forget!"

She smiled at that one. "I'm sure you will. I know I won't forget this one for awhile."

Peter then froze. "Isabel...you sure you can manage?"

"What do you mean?" She gazed up at him, bewildered. She had no idea what he was talking about.

"He—Him lookin' so much like me—" Peter spread his hands helplessly. "You're already spendin' a lot of time alone with him and hardly none with me..."

Sudden movement in the background behind Peter caught her eye, and she looked beyond Peter to see that Mike had reappeared in the doorway and was watching the scene in silence, looking like the kid who'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

This is getting ridiculous, Isabel thought grimly. One Mike was enough.More than enough at times. But two of them? She was rapidly growing tired of the balancing act this charade was forcing her into, and, releasing an exasperated sigh, she threw caution to the wind and reacted to Peter as she would have to the real Mike in this situation; she would simply have to make it up to the real Mike later. Isabel raised up on her toes and, shooting Mike a "sorry about this" look, she caught Peter's face in both her hands. Silently bracing herself, she squeezed her eyes shut, picturing Mike's face in her mind, hoping that would be enough to get her through what she was about to do—and then she pulled Peter into a lingering kiss.

Peter's eyes flew wide open for a second—but only for a second—and then he wrapped his arms around her, gathering her close against him, and for once she allowed it, trying to sustain the illusion for him even if it were impossible for her to fool herself. She would have known Mike's kisses—the real Mike's—blindfolded.

And this wasn't it.

She knew how Mike's body fit against hers, the automatic adjustments they made to angle closer to each other, the feel of his hands, his lips.

Even now, Peter's touch was lighter and gentler, a far cry from the strength and intensity that permeated Mike's embraces. As hard as Peter was trying to be Mike, there were some things he couldn't duplicate, and Isabel felt the difference keenly, silently mourning her temporary loss.

Mike had to look away—and he looked right at Davy, who was standing at his elbow, his wide brown eyes brimming with compassion. Mike raised a finger to his lips and managed to order Davy to silence with his eyes.

After what seemed like forever to Mike, Isabel broke the embrace and asked, "Does that tell you how much I love you?"

"Uh-huh..." was all Peter could manage. His head was spinning from that kiss.

"Peter's hurting as much as you are right now," Isabel reminded him sternly. "He's such a sensitive soul and he's trapped in a situation he has no control over—and in a way, he hates that as much as you do. He needs me too."

Peter abruptly leaned forward and lightly kissed her again. "Just don't forget who really loves you," he whispered, leaning his forehead against hers for a moment.

"I won't," she whispered back, struggling to keep a straight face. If it weren't so serious, it would be funny...

"And Isabel—I need you too."

She slipped her arms around his waist and hugged him. "I know." Releasing him, she looked past him and reacted as if Mike had just then walked out of the bedroom. "Ready to go?"

He smiled his approximation of Peter's shy grin. "Yeah. Mike—"

"Don't worry, Peter. He knows." Isabel smiled reassuringly. "I told him you had to pretend to be him so you could get his license renewed."

Peter stood up and looked Mike up and down. "Good job," he said, taking in the navy blue shirt and jeans. "You look exactly like me." Peter shook his head. "Isabel, you make sure he pulls it off, okay? You know my social security number and all that?"

"Peter does," Isabel said, which was no more than the simple truth. "We'll be fine. Don't worry about us." She took Mike's arm and couldn't resist teasing a little.

"Ready to go—Mike?" she asked pointedly, unable to suppress a grin.

"Ready," he said, smiling at her. As he opened the door for her, he waved back at Peter. "See ya, Mike!" he called, closing the door behind himself.

"See ya, Pete," Peter said, leaning against the staircase. "Good luck, shotgun."

Mike got halfway down the stairs before the absurdity of the situation hit him and he stopped short, sinking down onto the step, laughing so hard he could scarcely breathe.

"Mike?" Isabel stopped in her tracks and watched him, alarmed. "Mike, what is it?"

"S-so... funny..." he gasped, wiping at his tearing eyes.

"I think I'm missing something here." She raised an eyebrow at him, wondering if he had lost his mind.

"D-Don't you get it?" he replied, draping one hand across his stomach as he struggled to control himself. "I'm—I'm Mike Nesmith... who's havin to pretend to b-be Peter Tork...who's havin to pretend t-to be Mike Nesmith!" He collapsed into helpless laughter again, the tension of the last few days erupting from his body.

Isabel was laughing too by now, but not as hard. She recognised the almost hysterical laughter—she'd seen it before, on the beach when she pretended to be blind so he would see the he was still capable of acting as a leader even without his sight. His laughter then had been a way for him to relieve terribly pent-up tension, as this was now.

After a few minutes, she got them both in her car, ready to go.

"Where to first?" he asked, still wiping tears and giggling a little.

"The DMV's office," she said, turning over the engine. "Peter'll want to see them when we get back."

Mike sighed. "It's times like this when I wish I didn't have such a suspicious nature. He sure picked up on it."

They had driven ten blocks when Isabel abruptly pulled over. "Get out," she ordered.

Mike blinked at her. "What?"

"I said get out," she repeated, nudging him with her elbow, her expression teasing. "How else are you going to get over to this side so you can drive?"

Tossing her a grateful look, he opened the car door and got out. Isabel slid over and he got in the driver's seat, moving it back so he would have room for his legs. He lay his hand on the wheel and smiled. "Well, it's not the Monkeemobile, but it's better than having to be driven everywhere." He pulled back onto the road and held out one arm in an unspoken invitation.

He didn't have to ask twice; in an instant, she snuggled under his protective wing, resting her head on his shoulder. She lay her right arm across his waist and hugged him—then started laughing.

"What's so funny?" he asked, glancing down at her with evident confusion.

Isabel tapped his left hip—where the belt buckle was. "You forgot."

"It's gotten to be a habit," Mike grumbled. "I'll shift it when we get there."

"No—don't. You might forget when we got back. Just leave it."

Grudgingly, Mike had to admit she was right. If he had forgotten it was there, he'd forget to move it back when he had to resume his "Peter" role in a few hours.

"Mike, isn't that uncomfortable?"

He shook his head. "Not anymore." He suddenly smiled. "It might feel weird when this is over and I shift it back to the front, but it's actually pretty comfortable. Just a matter of getting used to it, I guess." He stopped the car for a red light and gave her an admonishing look. "And I came to get a break from all this, remember?"

"Okay. After we get our chore done, I'm gonna kidnap you for a picnic in the park. Just you and me—and we'll leave 'Peter' far away."

He squeezed her shoulder as the car moved again. "Sounds like a plan to me, sweetheart."

She darted a startled look at him, but he was paying attention to the road, seeming oblivious to what he'd said, what he'd called her.

"Sweetheart."

Peter's name for her.

Mike lay sprawled on his stomach on the grass, turning his new license over in his hands as he stared down at it blankly, not really seeing it at all. Around him, children shrieked and laughed as they ran full-tilt around the park; people strolled by immersed in conversation; birds chirped and sang—all enjoying the warm, sunny day—but Mike was oblivious.

His mind was racing, playing over the events of the past few days—the morning...He shook his head in mixed amusement and disgust. When the clerk had asked for his name, he had automatically started to say "Peter Tork." Thankfully, he had felt his mouth begin to form the "P" and had caught himself in time.

This charade was getting too real.

It needed to be over. Soon.

Isabel strolled up to him, basket in hand. "Food's here!" she sang out.

"Good," Mike said, grateful for the distraction from his own tumultuous thoughts. "I'm starvin." He sat up, tucking the license back into his wallet, which he shoved in his back pocket again.

Isabel spread the quilt she'd brought, and without thinking twice about it, Mike reached for the basket and started unpacking the food. He'd removed the sandwiches before he felt a light tap on his shoulder, and he glanced up at her, brows drawing together in confusion. She sat down next to him, kissing him lightly—and taking the sandwiches from his hands as she did.

"Let me do this," she commanded mock-sternly.

He gave her a wounded look. "I was only tryin to help."

"I know," she replied, making her tone as kind as possible. "But Peter has the afternoon off, remember?"

He groaned and keeled over on his back, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. "Man, I hope I come outta this the way I went in..."

"I think you will," she said, unloading the rest of the of the sandwiches and chips. "You're resilient. You'll be fine."

"Yeah," he retorted, throwing one arm across his eyes; even though they were under the shade of one of the larger trees in the park, now that he was facing the sky, the light was bothering him a little—a side-effect of his blindness just like his still-sensitive ears and fingers. "I just hope he will be. Soon."

"Is the sun hurting your eyes?" she asked, peering at him with growing concern.

"A little." He hauled himself upright again, squinting a little. "Forgot my sunglasses."

Isabel smiled and pulled them from the basket, handing them over with a flourish. "All you had to do is ask."

Mike chuckled and slid the protective dark glasses on. He watched while Isabel pulled out two bottles of soda and a plateful of brownies. "What did you do—buy out the deli?"

"I made the brownies. The rest is from Theo's."

Mike licked his lips. Theo's made the best submarine sandwiches Mike had ever eaten. He leaned back onto his side—his right side, Isabel noted with a chuckle, so the belt wouldn't dig in—and reached for a sandwich.

They spent the rest of the afternoon relaxing, forgetting about the problem that faced them back at the Pad, at least for a little while. After doing as much damage to the feast as they could, Isabel threw everything back in the basket. Mike leaned back against the tree trunk, and she snuggled up with her head on his shoulder as they talked quietly, catching up on all the little things they hadn't been able to discuss because of Peter's problem and the havoc it had wreaked in all their lives.

And then they fell silent, simply watching the people and all the activity around them, wrapped up in their own thoughts for awhile.

For her part, Isabel hadn't realised just how much she relied on Mike as a sounding board or how much she would miss being able to share even the trivial details of her life with him and hearing about his in turn. Not only had she lost her boyfriend since this identity reversal, but she'd also lost her best friend, and she felt the loss even more keenly now.

Just then, Mike diverted her train of thought by capturing her chin in his fingers and pulling her into a warm, deep kiss; surprised by hardly displeased, she slipped her arms around him and let him lower her carefully to the quilt. For once, she didn't even give a passing thought to the people who might be walking by and casting amused looks or knowing smiles at the young lovers lying entwined beneath the shade tree. It had been far too long since they'd been able to share anything more than a quick stolen kiss for fear of being caught by Peter, and they made up for lost time now, indulging in kisses that went on until they were gasping for air, having gotten so caught up in the moment that they forgot to breathe.

The respite—however brief—allowed Mike to remain Mike for a few hours; allowed him to drop the role he'd been forced to play.

And nothing had ever felt better.

By the time they drove back home, Mike felt infinitely better; he hadn't realised how taut his nerves were, or how stressful being continually "on-stage" as it were could be. Now, however, he felt he could continue pretending to be Peter without losing sight of who he really was.

Once they pulled up at her house—Isabel behind the wheel once more—they turned and looked at each other; a good-night kiss was out of the question. No doubt Peter had been watching and waiting for their arrival, and any suspicious activity on their part would only serve to antagonize him unnecessarily.

Instead, she reached out and squeezed his hand briefly, trying to convey all the tenderness and affection she could with a simple look; Mike smiled slightly—his own smile, not Peter's—and returned the squeeze before getting out of the car and heading across the yard to the Pad, forcing himself not to look back. It was not, after all, something Peter would have done.

He paused at their front door with his hand on the knob, releasing a quiet sigh.

Time to slip into his role again.

Slowly, he made a conscious effort to relax the muscles in his face and recreate Peter's open, guileless expression, trying to curve his lips into a pleasant smile. Once that was done, he finally turned the knob and walked inside with Peter's jaunty bounce rather than his own easy-going amble.

The illusion was complete once more.

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