Identity Crisis – Part Three

Knowing how much Mike disliked surprises and how hard-pressed he would be to keep his temper in check if one were sprung on him, she warned him well in advance that "Peter" was going to receive a surprise birthday party, for which he was grateful. He wasn't thrilled with the idea himself, but he knew Peter would have loved it, so he braced himself to play along with as much grace and good will as he could muster.

So Mike managed to act suitably bewildered when Peter all but shoved him into Isabel's arms that afternoon and ordered them both to "beat it" with a conspiratorial wink at Isabel. But once they were out of sight— and Mike made certain that happened quickly—he draped one arm across her shoulders. She reached up to capture his hand, and they strolled at a leisurely pace along the beach.

It was with considerable reluctance that they turned and headed back to the Pad, but Isabel had been instructed to bring "Peter" back in exactly an hour, and it seemed to them as if the minutes flew by all too quickly.

Once they reached the rickety steps leading to the beach-side entrance, Mike paused, one foot on the first step.

"Ready?" she asked softly, her voice laden with sympathy. If she could have, she would have embraced him, but the danger of being seen was too great, and so she contented herself with a concerned look.

He glanced down at her, and she shivered as she witnessed the moment he slipped into his Peter mask, his somber face suddenly relaxing and growing open and cheerful.

"As I'll ever be," he replied, his natural accent disappearing as quickly as his normal reserved expression.

Without further hesitation, he flung open the door – and visibly started as Davy and Peter yelled, "Surprise!" and Micky blew on a kazoo.

"A—A party?" he stammered, one hand flying to his chest as he glanced around the balloon and streamer-infested room, apparently wide-eyed with amazement.

"Happy birthday, Peter!" Micky sang out. "Blow out your candles!"

Mike counted the candles on the cake—22 of them. He smiled and blew them all out, even making a wish to himself: I wish this were over. Davy and Isabel smiled and clapped their hands, and Peter held out a knife to Mike, handle first.

"Okay, birthday boy," he said with a small, teasing smile, "you cut the first piece."

Mike closed his fingers around the knife—but Peter did not let go. He glanced up—their eyes met and held—and Mike fought to hide the shock he felt, to keep it from showing up on his face. The others froze, seeing it too.

Peter's smile was broad, dimples flashing. His eyes were twinkling with the glee that they often saw on special days. His expression was open, guileless.

It was Peter. The real Peter.

Then, as suddenly as it came, that fleeting look of merriment was gone, and an emotionless mask came down in its place. Peter released the knife and staggered back a step, hands flying to his head as "Mike" reasserted himself.

"I–I'm sorry," he said. "I—must have blacked out for a second, there...I–I need to sit down for a minute..."

Mike and Isabel each took one of his arms and led him to the window seat, where he dropped heavily onto the cushion, and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands sifting through his fine straight hair. Judging from the turmoil evident in his light brown eyes, there seemed to be a full-scale war raging inside his mind, and he sat staring blankly forward, withdrawing further and further inside himself while the others looked on helplessly.

Mike sat down beside him, reaching out to put his arm around Peter, but he stopped short, unsure if that was the right thing to do or not under the circumstances. If Peter had been himself, he would've already been crawling all over one of them, bawling his eyes out.

But if Peter had been himself, Mike thought grimly, none of this would be happening in the first place!

No, Peter thought he was Mike, and Mike didn't like to be touched when he was upset; his coping method was to hole up by himself, usually in bed. But Peter needed the comfort....

He glanced up at Isabel, his eyes asking a silent question: Should I? Isabel nodded, and without further hesitation, Mike slipped one arm around Peter's trembling shoulders, leaning close until his jet black hair seemed to mingle with Peter's paler locks—a blend of dark and light—an overlap of opposites.

"He's really getting into this, isn't he?" Micky whispered to Davy, earning a warning look from Mike.

"He's got no choice," Davy whispered back. "If he acts like himself, Peter may go even madder than he is."

"It's all right, man," Mike murmured soothingly. "You'll be okay."

"I messed up your party, man..."

"Of course you didn't. Don't think like that. It's not ruined, it's just—postponed." Mike put on his best Peter smile. "Now come on. Let's eat and then I want to tackle that pile of presents I saw on the bandstand!"

Peter looked up, his eyes riveted on Mike's as if he were searching for truth, then he slowly stood up and said, "All right."

But he didn't sound convinced.

The others had conferred before shopping and had deliberately gotten presents that Peter would be able to use when he returned to normal. Mike felt an odd twinge of guilt for opening presents that rightfully belonged to Peter—and having to gush over each one in an appropriately cheerful, enthusiastic manner was stretching his limits!

Davy's was a pocketknife, to replace the one that Peter had snapped two weeks ago while trying to use it as a pry bar to open a jar of peanut butter.

Micky's was a set of bass strings and picks, and blank sheet music paper that he had stamped with Peter's name.

Isabel's was a shirt—a plain black Nehru shirt. When he held it up against his chest, he realised it would fit him perfectly, although Peter would no doubt find it a little long. For once, his gratitude wasn't feigned, and Isabel smiled knowingly in response.

"Now mine," Peter said, sliding a box into Mike's lap.

Mike licked lips suddenly gone dry. He'd been on the receiving end of Peter's gifts before. They all had been, which was why Christmas and birthdays tended to be greeted with equal parts of excitement and trepidation.

"I saw it the other day and thought of you," Peter continued.

That made Mike even more nervous. Come on, he chided himself, he thinks he's me. If he chose with my taste, it can't be too bad... can it?

Peter's still in there somewhere, replied his inner pessimist. Brace yourself.

Mike drew in a deep breath, preparing himself for the worse as he ripped the paper off the long, flat box. He pulled off the lid, and his eyes widened in shock.

"Peter, what's wrong?" Micky asked.

Without a word, Mike carefully picked up a string of plain white love beads, holding them up dangling over one hand so the others could see them. Peter gave a satisfied nod and tapped them lightly, making them swing on Mike's fingers.

"You can wear them with anything—even that horribly loud Nehru shirt," Peter added. "They had them in all colours, and I thought about gettin you a rainbow set, but they hurt my eyes. I hope you don't mind me gettin you something I'd wear, but..."

But part of you knows I'm only pretending and is trying to make it easier, Mike silently finished for him. "Thanks, Mike," he said, draping the beads around his neck. "I like them." And that was the truth. He liked them well enough to think about talking Peter into letting him keep them; technically, they'd been given to him after all, and he figured Peter would owe him big time after all this was over anyway.

There was no official ending to the party, but the five just drifted apart after an hour or so. After deftly avoiding Peter's attempt to kiss her good-bye and exchanging significant glances with Mike, Isabel went back to her house alone.

Peter sat on the front steps watching her go, his brows drawn together in a frustrated scowl. After a debate with himself on the wisdom of such an action, Mike joined him, dropping down on the step beside him, waiting expectantly for Peter to say something, feeling pretty confident that he would.

"She's still not lettin me walk her home," Peter complained, never taking his eyes off her retreating figure.

"I know," Mike replied, injecting a false note of sympathy in his voice and hoping Peter couldn't tell the difference.

"Do you think she'll ever get used to this?"

"I hope not," Mike said, the words popping out of his mouth before he could censor them.

Peter glanced sharply at him, but just before he could angrily demand to know exactly what Mike meant by that, Mike recovered enough to add, "I hope things get back to normal before she has to." He widened his eyes, trying to look as innocent and compassionate as possible to assuage Peter's suspicions.

Peter regarded the guileless expression for a long moment, and he smiled. "Yeah. Me too." He looked back toward Isabel's house, where the door was now closed and the living room light was on. "Aw, Isa," he said very softly, not intending for anybody to hear, "I miss you."

You and me both, Mike thought. "Come on," he said in an attempt to divert himself and Peter from that depressing train of thought. "Let's go inside. It's getting chilly out here." He rose to his feet, looking down at the melancholy figure perched on the top step.

"No, you go on in. I'm gonna go for a walk on the beach—try to clear my head." Peter stood up abruptly and headed around the side of the house in an uncanny imitation of Mike's purposeful stride, the one he only used when he had a specific goal in mind.

Mike leaned on the front porch railing and called, "Do you want some company?"

"No!" Peter's voice was already distant, thinned by the evening breeze, but Mike's ears picked it up clearly. "I just want to be alone!"

Well, Mike thought with a wry smile. That's me all right...

Music drifted across the lawn to Isabel as she strolled over to the Pad, and she paused, tilting her head and listening to see if she recognized the tune, but she didn't. It was an unfamiliar song—one that had the unmistakably raw sound of a jam session.

When she walked in and headed for her usual spot on the couch, she saw they were all gathered on the bandstand, Micky and Davy pounding away on the drums and congas, respectively. Mike sat on a stool on the right side of the bandstand, flying the most complicated bass riff she had heard him play—and she knew it was flowing right out of his musician's heart. Peter sat on the left side, 12-string in his lap, his fingers dancing on the strings as the pounding notes from it echoed through the room. Attuned to each other, they seemed to sense the song was winding down, and they ended it with a flourish.

Isabel rose up on her knees on the couch cushions, applauding. "Groovy! That was great! What's it called? Does it have any words?"

Peter laughed. "Hang on, Isa! Hang on—we just made it up tonight. No words—"

"Mike," Mike interrupted suddenly. "Let's play the whole thing for Isabel. I think I may have some words for it."

Peter cocked an eyebrow. "Already? This I gotta hear."

The song began softly—Peter playing a simple riff on the 12-string and Micky whistling in the background. Then suddenly the guitar fell silent and Micky started a drum riff. Peter and Mike flew back in with guitar and bass wailing, then Mike started to sing.

"Reason verse of prose or rhyme/Lose themselves in other times/And waiting hopes cast silent spells/That speak in clouded clues—

"It cannot be a part of me for now it's part of you!"

Isabel gasped, both hands flying to her mouth. Micky froze, staring wide-eyed at his two friends, his drumsticks poised in mid-air. Davy stopped keeping the rhythm with his tambourine and backed away from them, moving to stand beside Micky's drum kit. Consciously or not, Mike and Peter inched closer to each other as they played, both seeming to be lost in the music as it flowed out of them; all the while, Mike sang, the words spilling out in an endless stream.

"Sunshine ragtime blowing in the breeze/Midnight looks right/Standing more at ease/Silhouettes and figures stay close to what he had to say/And one more time a faded dream is saddened by the news—

"It cannot be a part of me for now it's part of you!"

Peter and Mike glanced up at each other at the same time; their eyes met and held, and suddenly the tension in the room skyrocketed as Mike clashed against "Mike," fighting for ascendancy, for his very life. Fire snapped in their eyes as they stared at each other; Mike's voice turned harsher than any of them had ever heard it before, a serrated edge to it that did more to reveal his pain than anything else could have. Neither looked away.

"It cannot be a part of me for now it's part of you!" he spat, still glaring at Peter, panting from the exertion.

Peter's expression was equally intense, and he was breathing hard himself; from where Isabel sat, she could see that his hands were trembling, and she suspected—hoped—that Mike's passionate lyrics had caused Peter to wage another inner war.

But then he took a deep breath and nodded once, his mouth set in a thin, hard line. "Write those lyrics down," he ordered. "I'll take care of the music."

Mike nodded, the wrath that had built in his dark eyes burning down to a mere smoldering ember. But the fire wasn't out; not by a long shot. As she watched, Isabel could see him struggling to regain his composure, to put the mask firmly back in place. Finally he stood up and managed to smile. "I've got a surprise for you, Mike."

"I don't think I can handle another surprise, Pete."

Mike adjusted the knobs on the bass. "You'll like this one. I've been practicing."

Peter stood up. "And?"

Mike leaned over and whispered something to Davy, who grinned and whispered to Micky—who also grinned. "Get your guitar ready, Mike," Mike instructed, stepping up to the microphone. "One! Two! One, two, three, four—"

And Mike hit the distinctive, rapid-fire first twelve bass notes that started "You Just May Be The One." Peter smiled as he and the others joined in with their respective parts. Peter sang lead, and Mike played through the entire song without a single mistake.

"That's why you were up till four AM!" Davy laughed when the song ended.

"Yep," Mike replied with distinctly un-Peterish terseness. "I'm going to make it."

And there was only one among them who didn't hear the unspoken meaning.

Mike and Micky had shot fingers for who would wash the supper dishes, and even though Mike had lost, he was still in a reasonably good mood, smiling as he rinsed off the plates and stacked them neatly in the drainer. He was actually pulling this off!

The birthday party yesterday, the jam session where he'd played the most complicated bass riff they'd yet written—perfectly— Peter's chores, Peter's behavior...Mike's charade was growing more and more complete with every day that passed.

If someone who didn't know him saw him, they would swearhe was Peter Tork! Even Micky and Davy were starting to settle down and treat him like Peter without thinking about it anymore or shooting him weird looks every time he smiled broadly or laughed out loud.

But right now, Peter was walking on the beach, giving Mike a chance to just relax and be Mike again.

Finally.

So he did the dishes at his natural slow pace, softly singing the melody for the song that had come out of the jam session, occasionally trying out a harmony line to accompany it.

A flash of yellow and black caught his eye through the window, and he glanced up, idly curious.

Peter had come off the beach and was ambling over to Isabel's.

Every instinct Mike possessed urged him to run—to go over there and drag Peter back—

But he remained still, curiosity winning out over first impulses. What was going to happen?

Mike saw Peter's hand slide into the front right pocket of his jeans, then come up empty.

No key.

Mike snickered, imagining Peter's frustration at that, but Isabel's key remained in his own pocket all day every day, and at night, it was safely stowed under his mattress. There was no way Peter was going to get his hands on it!

Peter checked all his pockets, then clenched a fist and pounded on Isabel's door.

Moments later, the door opened, and Isabel appeared; she smiled and said something that appeared to be a brief greeting. Mike's breath caught in his throat—was she going to invite Peter in? And if she did, what were they going to do?

But no, instead of waving him inside, Isabel closed the door behind herself and sat down on the top step, and Peter plopped down beside her—close beside her.

They began to talk, and Mike wished Davy hadn't gone out with girl #9473; he sure could have used Davy's lip-reading talent right then.

Peter nudged Isabel's shoulder with his own, saying something that made her smile shyly; she gave him a side-long look, tucking her hair behind her ears in what Mike recognized as one of her self-conscious gestures. Peter smiled back at her—not a bit shyly, Mike noted with growing irritation—and slid the back of his forefinger down Isabel's cheek. Isabel glanced up at him, obviously startled, and Peter leaned down—

An icy fist clutched the base of Mike's spine as he stood riveted, unable to look away as Peter bent his head and kissed Isabel.

No...

He grabbed the edge of the counter to keep himself upright, silently willing Peter to stop, to pull away—but he didn't—and the kiss seemed to go on and on, and even from this distance, he could see the pleasure suffusing Peter's face.

Isabel broke the embrace at last and said something that made Peter laugh. Mike breathed a sigh of relief; he should have known she wouldn't encourage Peter, that she would put a stop to things—

And then that blond head lowered to hers again, moving in for another kiss—

And Isabel let him.

She raised her face to his, slipped her arms around his neck—and it was all Mike could do not to race over there and tear them apart himself.

"No..." Mike's voice was a strangled whisper. He shoved himself violently away from the sink—too soon to see that she had not put her arms around Peter but had pushed him away instead—and staggered toward the downstairs bedroom, locking the door behind him.

"No..." he gasped, "I'm—I'm losin her—He's takin her, too..."

He collapsed on Peter's—no, his bed now. "He's taken everything away...I ain't got nothing left...Not even Isabel..."

Mike pressed his fists against his eyes as if he could erase the memory in that way, but his mind wouldn't let it go; it kept taunting him, forcing him to relive that horrible moment over and over. He knew how her lips must have felt to Peter, giving and responsive; could hear the soft whimper in her throat she made when he deepened a kiss; could feel her fingers sifting through his hair, and his breathing quickened despite himself—that was his knowledge, and Peter didn't have a right to it.

"I got nothin left..." he breathed, shock creeping over him, making him numb. "He's taken everything of Mike there is t'take..."

He curled up on his side, drawing the pillow to his chest, grief and misery crushing his chest in an iron grip. "An' he's doin a better job of bein Mike than I can...Even Isabel...All I've got is the act..."

His mind seized on that thought, suddenly desperate to have an identity—any identity—of his own.

"If he can out-Mike me—"

In one swift motion, Mike shot to his feet and unlatched the door, throwing it open. He fled to the bathroom and locked himself in.

Slowly, he moved to stand in front of the mirror, the face reflected back at him slack-featured, completely devoid of expression and personality; he locked eyes with his own image, staring deep into the shuttered dark brown eyes.

And slowly—ever so slowly—the walls began to crumble, and those eyes began to soften...

Davy came out of the bedroom at the same time Peter came down the stairs. "Morning, mate!" Davy called cheerfully.

Peter glared at him. "I hate mornin' people." he mumbled as he headed for the kitchen and plopped down in his chair with a groan.

Mike turned from the oven and smiled broadly at him. "Morning, Mike!" he called cheerfully. "Morning, Davy! Have a good sleep?"

Davy did a double-take, looking closely at Mike. There was something different this morning—something he couldn't put his finger on...

Something about Mike's eyes...

"Pretty well," he answered, heading to his seat. "So, Peter—what's for breakfast this morning?"

"New recipe," Mike said. "Blueberry muffins." He bent over the oven, opening the door.

Davy's eyes went round with surprise. New recipe?

Mike?

But the muffins smelled good. Mike plugged his ears and Peter bellowed for Micky, who staggered down the stairs like a zombie, plopping across from Davy and reaching blindly for the coffee.

Breakfast was good, surprising everybody but Mike. He'd followed the recipe, and it turned out the way the book had said.

After breakfast, Peter called Isabel. She had to work, and he sighed as he hung up the phone. "No Isabel for practice," he announced.

"Aw, Mike," Mike said, frowning sympathetically, "that's too bad."

Davy and Micky exchanged puzzled looks. There was not one note of sarcasm in Mike's voice. He sounded like he meant that.

The others headed for the bandstand to get set up. As usual, Mike stayed to finish the dishes. When they were done, he headed right for the bandstand, pulling off the apron as he did so. The apron got tangled up in the white love beads he was wearing. With a patient sigh, Mike stopped and untangled himself, then resumed his aborted trek to the bandstand, shaking his head and chuckling.

Amazing! Micky thought. He didn't lose it! That must be a first.

Mike picked up the bass and asked, "Okay, what are we starting out with?"

Davy watched him closely. Those eyes were bothering him...

They no longer looked like Mike's eyes.

The colour was the same, but—

Then Davy realised those eyes were on him. "Davy?" Mike prompted. "You missed your cue."

Davy blinked. "Sorry. Wasn't paying attention. What song again?"

"Mary Mary!" all three chorused, and he impatiently waved them silent.

Micky counted off, and they began again. This time Davy came in when he was supposed to. Micky began to sing, and he idly glanced over at Mike as he did—

And his voice squeaked mid-word, then died completely.

Mike.
Was.
Dancing.

Not much, but he was definitely moving to the rhythm.

Micky lost the beat, then quit drumming altogether, unable to do anything but gape at the bizarre sight before him. When he realized a significant part of the music had stopped, Mike glanced up at Micky, meeting his eyes with a question mark plain to read on his face. Then he looked at Peter, who had also stopped playing by this point, and they both turned to Micky.

"Micky?" Peter asked. "What's the matter?"

"He's—he's dancing!" Micky sputtered.

Again the guitarists' eyes met. "Yeah," Mike said, curiosity on his face. "So—?"

"He always dances, Micky," Peter replied patiently. "That's what Peter does."

Then Micky got it. That's what Peter does. "Oh...Oh, yeah," Micky gave a sheepish grin. That's all it was, then—Mike getting deep into his act again. "I'm so used to him looking like you, it seemed weird he would act like himself!"

Mike nodded, his expression open and compassionate. "That's okay, Micky," he said in a voice filled with understanding. "It is a little hard sometimes."

"And you say I have a knack for understatement?" Peter sniffed, but he was smiling that smaller version of his dimpled grin.

But Micky was staring at Mike again, who was standing there, not with his usual relaxed stance, but with Peter's more alert pose. Man, he thought, even the body language is like Peter's now! He's really getting into the role!

Isabel paused as she headed out the door, arrested by the sight of the dark glasses which lay folded on the end table. Mike had left them in her car on the day of the picnic; she kept meaning to drop them next door, but she'd been deliberately avoiding going over there as much as possible for fear of running into Peter alone.

She snatched them up and moved to the phone, calling to explain to Gregory that she'd be a little late. Then she hurried to the Pad.

The music hit her as she walked onto the porch. "The Kind Of Girl I Could Love". Isabel felt something in her heart clench as she opened the door a crack to hear the words more clearly.

"If you're lookin' for true love/Let me be the one... Aw, girl...deep in my heart I'm sure...and my heart has no doubt that you're...the kind of girl I could love."

She closed her eyes, fighting back the rising swell of loneliness; even though it was Peter's deeper baritone singing the words, she heard the ghost-echo of Mike's tenor in her memory accompanied by images of his face, the look—the wink—he sometimes gave her while he was singing those lyrics as if sending a private message only to her.

The song ended, and she braced herself to go in, to face both of them when she heard Mike's voice count them off again. On "Four", the bass suddenly flared to life—twelve rapid-fire notes.

"You Just May Be The One."

It was torture of the most exquisitely painful kind.

Peter was already singing as she slipped inside, hovering near the chaise rather than taking up her usual spot on the couch; even if she weren't in a hurry, she was in no frame of mind to listen to Peter singing words she'd always sensed Mike meant for her. Instead, she waited until she caught Peter's eyes—he smiled as he saw her, but did not stop singing—and wordlessly held up the glasses. Peter nodded and she placed them on the end table.

"I...saw when you walked by...the love-light in your eyes ..."

Slowly, almost reluctantly, Isabel raised her eyes to look at Mike, hoping to catch his gaze as well, to share one fleeting moment of rapport before she had to leave—instead she found herself gaping at him in undiluted shock.

Mike was at the microphone, his eyes closed as he blended his voice with Davy's on the background harmonies. His left knee bobbed with the beat, and he was swaying from side to side in a toned-down version of Peter's usual antics. He opened his eyes long enough to check the fingering on the bass neck, then closed them again, obviously just enjoying the music.

"And you just may be the one!" The bass riff sounded again, and the song ended. Mike opened his eyes and saw Isabel, and a wide grin spread over his face like a ray of sunshine.

"Hi, Isabel!" he called cheerily, causing her jaw to drop. "What are you doing here? I thought you had to work!"

"I do," she said, trying to keep her voice light and casual. "I found your missing sunglasses and thought I'd bring them over."

"Great!" he exclaimed, shrugging off the bass and bounding over to her; he picked up the glasses and tucked them into the pocket of the orange shirt. "Now I can go for a walk later! Thanks, Isabel!" He turned to her, smiling.

"Y-You're welcome," she stammered, taken aback by his complete immersion in his role. Usually he dropped it long enough to acknowledge her in some subtle, private way while Peter's back was turned, but today he hadn't even tried!

Peter came down and took her arm. "Walk you to the car?" he asked.

She forced herself to look at him and smile—praying Mike wouldn't get mad—and agreed. She shot Mike a look as they left. He was still standing there, smiling at her, then he spun around and went back to the stage.

"That's a relief," Peter said as the door shut behind them.

"What is?"

"Seein' him act like himself. That's the most he's seemed like Peter since this whole mess started."

Isabel had to agree with him—and it bothered her more than she cared to think about.

The four and Isabel were driving from the Vincent Van Go-Go after their gig that night. Isabel looked over her shoulder from where she sat next to Peter in the front seat. Mike had propped his elbow on the arm rest and was staring out the window with an expression that could only be called dreamy.

"Penny for them," Isabel said, reaching over the seat and tapping Mike on the knee.

"Hm?" Mike murmured absently, glancing up at her. "What?"

"Your thoughts. Penny for them."

Mike smiled the broad grin that was becoming normal for him. "Wasn't thinking," he said softly, almost shyly. "Just looking." He returned his gaze to the street. "LA's beautiful at night."

"LA's beautiful anytime," Peter said. "Hey, Davy, Pete—you guys hungry?"

"Yeah!" Micky called.

"We know you are!" Mike said, pitching a paper wad he'd had clutched in his hand at Micky. "You're always hungry!" He laughed slightly and added, "Yeah, Michael—I am."

"Me too," Davy chimed in, then he bent down to retrieve the paper wad Mike had thrown.

"Almost unanimous," Peter said. "Isabel?" She nodded and he pulled the Monkeemobile into a parking spot at a nice little restaurant.

"Mike," Micky gasped, "can we afford this place?"

"Yup." Peter pulled a few bills from his pocket. "We got paid tonight."

He replaced the money and got out, extending his hand for Isabel to take. Isabel glanced at Mike, but he was already vaulting Peter-like over the car door and waiting for the others to get out. Despite grave misgivings, she slipped her hand into Peter's and let him hold it as they walked into the restaurant.

Meanwhile, Davy smoothed out the paper wad, and his head snapped up as he stared wide-eyed at Mike.

On the paper were two words, written over and over in Mike's distinctive handwriting: Peter Michael.

The five approached the female maitre'd, who looked down her nose at them and asked archly, "Yes?"

"Table for five, please," Peter said.

She gave them all a thorough look, taking in the boys' long hair, and they could see her all but sniff in distaste. "Do you have a reservation?"

"No, but—"

"I'm sorry, sir," she said, and they could almost imagine the icicles on each word. "We are booked solid. No reservation, no meal."

"Aw, come on," Mike whined in an uncanny imitation of Peter's voice.

"You've got to have something," Davy put in.

"Yeah, we're hungry," Micky added.

Peter waved them to silence and leaned against the desk. "Surely there's some mistake. See, we're celebrating, we just started a five-week gig tonight, and—" "I'm sorry, sir," came the curt reply.

Peter blew an exasperated sigh. Isabel lay a hand on his arm, and he turned to smile apologetically at her—

And he caught his reflection in the mirror on the wall behind Isabel. Peter's blonde hair, tawny eyes—

And dimpled smile.

Isabel saw an idea suddenly flicker in Peter's eyes. He patted her hand, released it, and leaned back over the desk—and smiled at the woman.

Isabel barely refrained from laughing as she watched him deliberately widen his smile until it was Peter's full wide grin, dimples winking. "Please, ma'am," he drawled, deepening his voice so that it caressed the ear like cashmere. "Can't you make an exception?"

The desk clerk slammed her pencil down and then made a fatal mistake.

She looked at Peter.

He tilted his head toward the others. "See, we are celebrating, and we'd really like to eat here," he said—another black velvet drawl.

Isabel felt her knees go weak despite herself. That smile combined with patented—if imitated—Nesmith charm...

Each was lethal on their own, but together...

Peter had always seemed blind to the effect that smile had on women. "Mike" obviously was not—and he wasn't above using it to get what he wanted! she thought with a silent chuckle.

The clerk all but had stars in her eyes as she stared at Peter, her mouth working soundlessly. Then, with a warm smile of her own, she whispered, "I'm not supposed to do this..."

"It's all right," Peter purred. "I promise not to tell."

She took a pencil and a form. "What's your name?"

"Nesmith. Mike Nesmith." She wrote the last name down on the form and checked her watch, scribbling a time down. She looked back at Peter and smiled. In a louder, all-business tone, she said, "Very well, Mister Nesmith. Your reservation is confirmed and we should have a table for you in about ten minutes. You can wait on the patio if you like."

"Thank you, Marcella," he replied, reading her name tag. He reached out and captured Isabel's hand again, lacing their fingers as he led her out onto the patio,

Mike tagging along docilely behind them. Mike idly ran fern leaf through his fingers as they went, a very Peterish action.

Davy and Micky just stood there for a moment, staring after the trio with identical looks of shock and bewilderment.

"That was smooth," Davy murmured.

"Real smooth," Micky echoed.

"I didn't know he had it in him."

Micky shook his head, giggling quietly. "All's I can say is if Pete doesn't get back to normal, you better watch out!"

Davy came out of the bedroom, tucking in his shirt. Peter was moving instruments on the bandstand, trying to get them back in order after the 2.5 trembler that had hit just when they were going to bed.

Davy moved into the kitchen, where Mike was sitting at the table writing—left-handed, Davy noted wryly. Whenever the easygoing Texan was rocked emotionally, he unconsciously switched to his left hand when he wrote.

Come to think of it, Mike had been writing left-handed since this whole bloody mess had started...

Davy sat down across from him and noticed what was in the middle of the table.

"Hey! Coffee cake! Did you make this?" he asked, a note of admiration in his voice. He wouldn't be surprised at anything Mike turned out in the kitchen these days.

Mike looked up and smiled shyly, and Davy went cold all over. "No," Mike replied. "Mrs. Purdy brought that over. She said if our place was as trashed as hers from the quake, we'd need it. We're going over later to help her clean up."

"After we get Isabel's place done after she wakes up!" Peter called from the bandstand. "Hey, Pete! C'mere and gimme a hand with this amp, wouldja?"

"Sure thing!" Mike lay the pencil down and pushed away from the table.

Davy cut a piece of coffee cake and got a glass of milk. As he sat back down, his eyes fell on what Mike had been writing. He picked it up, wondering what new song he would find.

A forkful of coffee cake only made it halfway to Davy's mouth. He froze, eyes going huge as he saw what Mike had written.

Peter Michael.

A whole page's worth.

And each "Michael" got just a little smaller...

After their hard work getting the Pad, Mrs. Purdy's place, and Isabel's place all taken care of, they decided to take a few hours off and go to the park.

Peter parked the car a few blocks from the park, since the four had decided to stretch their legs and enjoy the sunshine. Mike vaulted out of the Monkeemobile and took a step forward—only to find Peter's fingertips on his chest.

"Hold on, there, shotgun," Peter said. He leaned over the side of the car, flipped the glove box open and reached in to grab Mike's sunglasses. "Don't wanna trigger more headaches," he reminded Mike in an almost paternal tone.

Mike smiled his gratitude as he put the glasses on. "Thanks, Mike," he said cheerfully. "I forgot."

Micky and Davy shot identical say-what glances at each other.

But that was nothing compared to what came next.

They strolled down the sidewalk, Davy checking out the pretty girls passing by, Micky tapping out a riff on the walls as he walked, Peter striding ahead of them in the lead as usual, and Mike lagging behind, staring at anything and everything that caught his interest. Then, all of a sudden, he came to a dead stop and dashed over to a store window, practically pressing his nose against the glass as he gazed in rapt fascination at the display.

"Wow..." Mike breathed in admiration, causing all three to stop and turn.

Three shirts were visible in the window: a solid blue one, a brown plaid one, and the gaudiest Nehru shirt they'd ever seen. Purple and green paisley. Huge pattern. Blue buttons. It was a study in fashion hideousness—and Peter would have loved it.

Peter and Davy moved to stand on one side of Mike, Micky on the other. Peter smiled in amusement at Mike's wide-eyed stare behind the sunglasses. "Which one, Pete?"

"That one," Mike breathed, pointing—

At the Nehru shirt.

"That one?" Micky gasped, astonished. He expected Mike to indicate the plain blue one—it was much more like his natural taste.

Peter chuckled, obviously bemused. "Figures."

"Man, it's groovy," Mike said, a broad grin spreading across his face. If he'd had dimples, they would have been cutting deep grooves in his cheeks. He whirled to face Peter and Davy. "Can I get it, Mike? Please?" he implored, a whining, cajoling note in his voice.

"Let's save up some money from our gigs first," Peter said sternly. "Then you can get it."

And the joy that lit Mike's face and eyes as his grin broadened even more chilled Micky to the core.

"Okay, guys – you ready to go?" Peter barked, projecting his voice so that it carried to all corners of the Pad. "Hurry up!"

"Coming!" Micky slid down the banister and hopped off, landing neatly on his feet and pausing, smiling at the sheer joy of being able to slide down the banister again.

"Yeah, all right," Davy called as he strolled out of the downstairs bedroom.

All three of them were dressed alike in their matching grey pants and red shirts, ready for their gig—they were just waiting for Mike to finish getting ready.

"Okay, I'm ready!" Mike sang out cheerfully as he hurried out of the bathroom—wearing the blue shirt with the charcoal trousers.

"No, Peter," Micky said, shaking his head, barely able to keep from laughing. Boy, he thought, I didn't think he'd go this far!

"Dang it, Peter!" Peter exclaimed, scowling at Mike fiercely. "That's not what we agreed on, and you know it! Go change right now and hurry up! We're gonna be late because of you!"

Micky opened his mouth to warn Peter it might not be such a good idea to talk to "Peter" that way—he could just see them having to peel Peter off the wall when Mike lit into him for this one!—but his jaw scraped the floor when, instead of exploding, Mike stood there, wringing his hands nervously.

"I-I'm sorry, Mike," he stammered. "I-I'll h-hurry...."

And then—

To Micky's complete surprise, Mike's face crumpled, and tears filled his eyes, spilling down his cheeks in an ever-growing flood.

Whoa... Micky gaped at him, astonished, a tiny knot of concern forming in his stomach. Mike wasn't that good an actor... was he? There was so much they didn't know about him still... Was he capable of throwing himself into a role so completely? Micky just couldn't be sure.

If Davy suffered the same sort of doubt, he didn't show it. He frowned at Peter and went over to pat Mike on the shoulder just as he would have the real Peter in this kind of situation.

"Now look what you've done!" he admonished Peter sternly. "You made him cry! It's all right, Peter. We won't be late. Just hurry along, will you?"

"Okay..." Mike scrubbed the tears away with his fists and hurried into the bedroom to change while Peter stood watching, his arms folded across his chest, tapping one foot impatiently.

"That guy..." Peter muttered, still scowling. "If his head wasn't screwed on..."

Micky slid over to Davy. "What just happened here?" he whispered.

"I’m not sure," Davy whispered back. "I hope it's only that he's that good an actor."

"Yeah," Micky said, looking at the closed bedroom door. "What else could it be?"

Davy passed through the living room just in time to involuntarily catch the paper wad that Mike had tossed.

'Whoa!" Davy exclaimed. "What did I do?"

Mike chuckled. "Nothing," he said, standing up and laying the tablet he'd been scribbling on aside. "I was aiming at the garbage can. Would you please throw that away for me? I'm going to go remind Micky that it's his turn to make lunch."

"All right," Davy agreed as Mike headed for the beach.

Davy moved to the couch and sat down, smoothing out the paper, afraid of what he might find. His eyes widened as a fist of ice slammed into his spine and spread its frigid fingers up his back. He had been right—and wrong. It covered the paper again.

Peter Michael.
Peter Michael.
Peter Peter Peter Peter Peter...

The date had gone badly. Davy sighed as he lay his keys down on the coffee table and crossed the room, smiling when he opened the door to his bedroom. Mike had left the lights burning so Davy could see to get changed. He sat down, pulling off his boots and socks. That was considerate of Mike, he thought.

He froze, glancing over at the black hair above the orange pajamas Mike had to wear now. Mike was lying on his side, facing the wall, asleep. Davy went cold as the thought crossed his mind again, unbidden. Considerate.

Mike had been very considerate the last few days. Very thoughtful.

Even when he was alone with Davy and Micky.

Not that he couldn't be when he was nor—when he was behaving like himself, Davy thought hastily. But his behavior had been more extreme of late.

He even acted like Peter when he didn't have to.

Davy shrugged out of his clothes and into his pajamas, stealing a look at Mike again. He still wasn't used to seeing Mike sleep in a full pair of pajamas. The first few days of the masquerade, he'd slept in just the orange bottoms. But the day he'd started going into Peter-overdrive, he'd suddenly put on the top with the blue bunny.

And he'd slept in the full pajamas ever since.

Davy heard footsteps on the metal stairs, and he peered out of his room. Peter came down the stairs and crossed to the kitchen, wearing only Mike's black pajama bottoms. Davy stayed where he was, and in a few moments, Peter came back through, a glass of milk in his hand.

He saw Davy standing there, and scowled. "Nice of you to show up."

"Sorry. She's a strange bird, that one is."

"Hm."

"Hey, why are you up?"

"Nightmares. Again. Every stupid night..." And Peter climbed the stairs, milk in hand.

Davy sighed and shut the door, turning to face the room again. And suddenly he leaned against the doorway, feeling as if somebody had punched him in the stomach.

Mike had rolled over so that he now lay facing Davy, his lips curved in a smile of sheer bliss as he dreamed. Davy's eyes were drawn to his arms, and he swallowed hard.

"What is going on?" he gasped in a whisper.

Mike was clutching Peter's teddy bear.

Continue On to Part Four