Identity Crisis – Part Four

Isabel was getting worried about Mike.

Specifically, she was getting worried that he was seeing too much intimate behavior between herself and Peter—like the casual way Peter had captured her hand at the restaurant the other night—and that it was upsetting him. She hadn't had the chance to talk to him about it, to assure him that she was trying to keep Peter at arms' length. Even they had been together long enough now that under normal circumstances, they were both secure about the stability of their commitment to each other, these were not normal circumstances!

Taking a deep breath and hoping that this time she could catch him alone for just five minutes, she hurried next door, walking in without knocking as usual.

A quick glance around the room told her that she had indeed found Mike alone.

The wrong Mike.

Peter pushed himself up from the couch as soon as the door opened and he saw her, and she silently berated herself for not calling first; there was no way she could escape now.

"Hey, there," he greeted her, obviously pleased. "C'mon in."

"I—can't stay but a minute—" she improvised madly. "I left something cooking on the stove—I just wanted to ask Peter about one of his recipes. I can't read his writing. Is he around?" she asked hopefully.

"Nah, he's out on the beach. It's just me," he replied, and from his tone, she could tell he was going to try to capitalize on that fact.

"Oh, well, then I'll come back later," she said cheerfully, trying to back out the door, but his voice, suddenly soft and intimate as a caress, brought her to a screeching halt.

"Isabel."

It was a deep-throated purr, a sound that only Peter, with his baritone voice, could have managed.

And it was knee-weakening.

Reluctantly, Isabel raised her eyes to meet his—and faced the full-power of a slow, lazy Mike smile framed by Peter's charming dimples.

She felt the blood drain from her face, and she backed up until she hit the door, leaning against it for support. He was doing that on purpose! Apparently he'd decided that since the combination of Mike's innate charm and Peter's dimples had worked at the restaurant, it might work on her as well.

With an almost predatory gait, Peter approached her, bracing himself against the door with a hand on either side of her head, effectively holding her in place. If she wanted to flee, she would have to slip beneath his arm, and if she did that, she would immediately face an angry demand about why she was so eager to get away.

"You probably shouldn't do this," she began, hearing her voice quaver, but unable to prevent it. "You know how it is around here. Micky—"

"Micky's at the store. Davy's out with a girl." That sultry smile widened. "We got the place to ourselves."

That's was she was afraid of, she silently groaned.

"C'mon, Isabel, it's been days," he said softly, his tone containing a pleading note. "I've missed you."

And I've missed Mike, she thought, gazing up at Peter with wide, serious eyes. I've missed him so much. It's just not fair.

Distracted by her own melancholy thoughts, she didn't react quickly enough when he lowered his head to kiss her, and before she could duck and run, she found herself gathered up in his arms. Startled, she put her hands on his shoulders to push him away, but—exercising typical Mike stubbornness—he wouldn't be budged this time, and she was caught up in a kiss so full of Mike's intensity and strength that it made her head swim for a moment trying to remember that this was really Peter.

He's changed, she thought wildly. He's even become Mike in this!

Out on the balcony, a tall, lanky figure stood near the window, silhouetted by the fading sunlight; it lingered for a moment, then disappeared.

"No!"

Isabel wrenched herself free of Peter's arms, not caring if she made him angry now; she couldn't bear being subjected to his embrace any longer. It was too familiar and too painful—so much so that it created an almost physical ache in her heart—

And it was from the wrong person.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, not looking at him; she couldn't face the hurt and confusion she knew she'd see in his eyes. "I can't do this. I'm not ready. You'll just have to give me more time."

And with that, she wheeled around, groping blindly for the doorknob; when her fumbling hand finally closed around it, she yanked the door open and ran out without a backwards glance as she fought to contain the tears that stung her eyes.

On the beach, Davy and his date walked arm-in-arm back to the Pad, but before they reached the steps leading to the balcony door, Mike stepped out of the shadows, blocking their path.

"Hey, Peter, what's up?" Davy greeted him cheerfully. His date had heard Peter call Mike "Peter," and knew him by no other name, and besides, he'd only been dating her three days. He sensed it would soon be time to move on to another girl, and so he didn't bother to explain the name mix-up.

"Um—you might want to wait for a minute," he suggested shyly with a hesitant glance up at the house. "Mike and Isabel are in there, and you know how hard it's been on them lately. They could use a few minutes alone."

Davy gaped at him, his lower jaw dropping a little as his dark brown eyes widened. Was he hearing what he thought he was hearing?

"Uh, yeah, man—no problem," he replied, staring hard at Mike. The sunlight was fading fast, but there was still enough for him to see Mike's face clearly, and he caught Mike's gaze and held it, searching for answers.

And what he saw made an icy knot form in the pit of his stomach.

Gone were the usual shields of reserve that he always saw when he looked in Mike's eyes. Gone was the glitter of keen intelligence that gave away the sharp wit behind his aw-shucks facade. All that remained was a benevolent serenity that he had seen shining like a beacon of comfort thousands of times before—

From Peter.

Mike's not in there anymore, he thought, his throat closing up with horror at the realization. All I see is Peter.

Mike's gone!

Davy sat on the couch and just watched, his expression carefully neutral as Peter scooped up the Monkeemobile keys and the grocery list and headed out the door.

About halfway there, he stopped, grimacing a little with pain. Peter pulled off the green wool hat he'd found under the bathroom sink a few minutes earlier and pitched it to Davy, running his hand gently over the blond hair at the top of his head. "Ow..." he murmured to himself as he walked out the door.

Davy nodded, remembering the accident Peter had told them about. That was why Peter could not wear Mike's hat—the top of his head was far too sensitive to tolerate the tight band of wool across it.

Peter kept trying, however.

Which was more than Davy could say for Mike. The last few days, it almost seemed like Mike had given up. Like he had resigned himself to the fact that Peter might not be coming back. Like he was doomed to be Peter the rest of his life.

He glanced over at Mike, who was in the kitchen cheerfully whistling as he bustled about, cleaning up the breakfast dishes.

That just did not look right.

Mike wasn't supposed to bustle; he was supposed to amble. He never picked up his pace unless something was after him, and whistling—?

Cheerfully? This was getting out of hand, this was.

He sighed, clutched the hat he held tighter, and headed upstairs to talk to Micky about this. Davy walked into the upstairs bedroom and chucked the hat on what was now Peter's bed. Micky was still in the bathroom brushing his teeth, a towel around his waist. His curly hair lay straight across his head, like it always did when wet. He saw Davy out of the corner of his eye and waved as he finished his teeth and closed the door, reaching for his clothes as he did so.

"Hiya," Davy heard through the door. "What's up?"

"Mike," Davy retorted sharply. "That's what's up. And I don't mind tellin' you, mate, it's really gettin' on me nerves."

The bathroom door opened again, and Micky stepped out, still bare-foot and bare-chested. With a somber nod, he regarded Davy with an unusually grave expression.

"I know what you mean," he replied as he shrugged into his shirt and began fastening the buttons. "It's like something's really gone wrong with the world. And I'm not sure which is worse: watching Peter try to act serious all the time, or seeing Mike smile every five minutes!" He gave an exaggerated shudder as he reached past Davy and took the hat, stuffing it between the mattress of Micky's bed and the wall.

"So?" Davy asked. "What are we going to do about it? Is there anything we can do about it?"

Micky shrugged and sank onto his own bed, pulling on his boots. "I don't know, man. I just—" Suddenly he sat up, a wide devilish grin spreading across his face. "I just got an idea. Come on—and follow my lead!"

With that, he leapt up and led the way out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

Micky slid down the banister as usual, letting out an extra loud WHOOP! as he landed gracefully, then sneaking a glance over at Mike to catch his reaction. Loud, sudden noises really bugged Mike these days, and he was likely to snap at anyone who forgot for "bustin’ his eardrums."

But today, he merely glanced up with a pained expression and said, "Gosh, Micky, next time hold it down, okay?"

And he asked nicely.

No hint of annoyance. No trace of formidable Nesmith wrath.

Micky and Davy exchanged "uh-oh" looks.

"What now?" Davy hissed, casting a worried look at their friend. "He sounded just like Peter! I'm gettin' scared!"

Micky straightened his shoulders and gave a firm nod. "Don't worry," he replied in his best I-know-what-I'm-doing tone. "All we gotta do is keep needling him until he breaks. Just think of something that you know will push his buttons."

"Ohhh! I got it!" Davy gave an exaggerated wink, then swaggered over to Mike, glancing back at Micky with an it's-under-control look; Micky gave him a thumbs-up, and he turned to Mike, grinning.

"Hey, you'd better not go to the zoo today," he said, barely suppressing his mirth.

"Oh?" Mike looked up, his face open and curious. "Why not?"

"'Cause I heard one of the storks went missing, and they might think you're it!" he exclaimed, then burst out laughing. If that didn't get him—!

"That wasn't a very nice thing to say, David." Mike gave him a disapproving look and returned to his dishes.

Uh-oh.

Davy returned to the stairs, downcast. "Your turn," he muttered.

Micky swallowed hard. There was only one thing left—one sure-fire way to get that temper to flare. But he was taking a terrible risk to his own life and limb in using it as ammunition.

But this was a desperate situation! he reminded himself firmly. He couldn't think of himself when his friend was in need!

Taking a deep breath, he strolled over and stood by Mike, watching silently for a moment as Mike splashed in the soapy water, still humming.

"Um—" Micky began hesitantly, wondering if he should move back a few steps just for safety's sake. "Got something to tell you."

"What is it?" More humming. "Your Auntie Grizelda," no less.

"I went to get groceries yesterday, and I ran up on the sidewalk, and I hit a pole and now there's this huge dent in the car."

The words flowed out in a rush, and as soon as he'd spoken them, Micky wrapped his arms around his head and screwed his face up as he braced himself for the explosion.

"Uh-oh," Mike said in a hushed voice, and when Micky glanced up, he saw Mike's eyes were wide and round, his expression sympathetic. "Mike won't be too happy about that."

Micky staggered a step backward as if he'd been struck physically. He met Davy's eyes and read the same shell-shocked expression. Mike won't be—?

Micky retreated to the stairs where he and Davy exchanged firm nods. They didn't even have to confer about their next move; they were already in perfect agreement as they said in unison,

"Isabel."

Isabel had just settled in front of her typewriter, a pencil tucked behind her ear as she prepared to work on a review of a new but promising band she'd seen over the weekend when there came a distinctive rap on her door. She tossed a bemused glance at the entrance hall and called out, "It's open, Micky!"

"You sure that's safe?" Micky asked when he'd stepped inside, peering around the doorway into her living room. "With Peter the way he is..."

"Peter went to get groceries," Isabel said matter-of-factly, peering at him over the top of her reading glasses. "He invited me to go with him. I made an excuse not to." She removed her glasses and massaged the bridge of her nose. "I'm getting very good at making excuses to him."

Micky walked over and plopped on the couch, and Isabel unfolded herself from her writing desk and moved to the nearest chair by the sofa, tucking her legs up under her.

"So what's up? I don't usually see you over here."

"We got a problem," he stated bluntly. "A big one. Mike's gone."

She frowned at him, puzzled. "What do you mean, 'gone'?"

"I mean, Mike's not Mike anymore," Micky explained, pinwheeling his hands helplessly. "He's Peter."

"What?" Isabel leaned forward, hoping she'd misunderstood what he'd just said. She knew from the few times she'd been to the Pad that he had immersed himself rather thoroughly into his role, but she'd assumed he had simply settled into the part—not that it was becoming a part of him!

She leaned back again, colour draining from her face, as Micky swiftly outlined the events of the past few days, culminating with this morning when they had pushed all three of Mike's major hot buttons and nothing had happened.

When he lapsed into silence, Isabel closed her eyes and pressed her lips together, hands clenching into helpless fists. She was already having to deal with one of them being mixed up about his identity, but now both of them...

"Izzy?"

She opened her eyes and looked at him, her expression determined, almost implacable. "What can I do?"

"Remind him who he is," Micky replied promptly. "We've tried, but we couldn't get through. Maybe you can. You've got—" A mischievous grin bloomed then, and his eyes danced with merriment as he continued. "—other methods of getting to him than we do."

"Oh, shut up," she retorted, giving him her best daunting glare.

"Well, you do," he protested innocently, but he quickly turned serious once more. "Izzy, he's retreated so far, I don't know what it's gonna take to pull him back out."

"Send him over," she replied softly. "I'll get Mike back. You can be sure of that. I haven't seen him through this horrid year to lose him now."

Micky got to his feet, smiling broadly and feeling a profound sense of relief; he knew from experience that stubborn set to her jaw meant she was determined to succeed at whatever challenge was facing her. Mike would be back to normal in no time. She followed him to the door, and he reached out and squeezed her shoulder briefly before heading back to the Pad to fetch Mike.

While she waited, Isabel paced the floor, her thoughts whirling. What was she going to do? How was she supposed to handle this? And how bad was it anyway?

Ten agonizing minutes passed, and it may as well have been ten years. Isabel's heart rate sped up, and her hands went cold as ice as she waited, worried about what she was about to be confronted with.

Finally there came a tentative knock at the door, and Isabel froze in mid-step.

A knock? Since when did he knock? He'd just walked on in anytime he felt like it ever since she'd given him a key; surely he wasn't so deep in his role that he thought he had to knock like Peter.

Isabel hurried to the door and looked out the peephole, fear clutching her stomach as she confirmed that it was indeed Mike standing there. She flung the door open, and he took a hesitant step forward, pausing just inside the doorway, visibly nervous.

"Micky said—Micky said you wanted to see me?" His voice rose with uncertainty, something she didn't think she'd ever heard in that voice in all the time she'd known him.

"Come on in," she said, forcing herself to smile as she shut the door behind him and locked it. "Have a seat."

He moved forward a little, then stopped and backed up a step, shaking his head and watching her with eyes grown wide with doubt and worry. "I'd—I'd better not. If Mike knew I was over here—alone—he'd get really mad."

Isabel felt like she'd been hit in the face with a bucket of ice water. Micky was right, she thought, a slow horror creeping over her, numbing her brain. Oh, what was she going to do to fix this?

"It's all right," she said at last, making her voice soft and unthreatening. "Let me handle Peter."

"Mike," he replied instantly.

"No—Peter."

She stepped forward, closing the distance between them; he backed away from her slow advance, twisting his hands nervously, until he hit the wall and could go no further. Still she progressed, not stopping until there was barely enough room to slide a sheet of paper between them, and then she reached up and caressed his cheek with the back of her forefinger, deliberately mimicking his signature gesture of affection.

"You are Mike."

Mike stared down at her, visibly horrified as if he could scarcely believe what she was saying and doing, and for a moment she felt as guilty as if she really were seducing her boyfriend's best friend.

"Th-This is wrong—" he said in a shaky whisper, appearing ready to bolt at the slightest provocation, and she retreated a little, not wanting to scare him off before she could make any progress.

"You are Mike," she repeated firmly, letting her gaze bore into his as if she could drive the truth—the memory—into his head that way. "It's all right."

She reached out and captured his hands as she led him into the living room and guided him to the couch. She sat down first, then tugged lightly on his hands to coax him into joining her, and he reluctantly perched on the edge of the sofa cushion, biting his lower lip as he glanced furtively toward the doorway.

"It's all right," she assured him, "I locked it. He can't come in."

He nodded, relief suffusing his features, and looked at their joined hands, smoothing her knuckles with his thumb. The gesture was so gentle, so open—

So unlike Mike.

"Mike," she said softly.

He did not look up.

"Mike," she repeated with a little more urgency in her voice.

Then it seemed to strike him that she was talking to him. He raised his eyes shyly, curiosity written all over his face, and she shivered involuntarily. There was no more reserve in his expression; everything he felt lay naked on his face for anyone to see, and she caught her breath, shocked by the sight. She had never seen such openness even in their most private moments together; there were always shields up, and as frustrating as that could be, right then she would have given anything to see them again.

Oh, Mike, she thought, are you even in there anymore?

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, scanning his eyes for any flicker of the old Mike—the fiery spirit she adored—but all she saw was Peter's placid tranquility.

"He has everything now," he replied, his voice sounding faraway, almost dreamy. "Mike's room. His voice. His clothes. He performs Mike's songs perfectly. He plays Mike's instrument. He's got it all—even you."

"No, not everything," she contradicted him. "There's one thing he doesn't have. Call me by my name, Mike—the one you gave me."

He stared at her, puzzled. "The one- I gave you—?" He shook his head, bewildered. "Micky calls you 'Izzy,' but I—"

"Yes, you did," she countered, desperation tingeing her voice as she silently willed him to remember, "The name only you call me, that only you and I know about—what is it, Mike? Tell me."

There was a visible struggle on his face, and then—she leaned forward, gripping his hands tighter—he began to nod slowly, recognition dawning in his eyes.

"Mary-bel."

He looked a question at her as if for confirmation that he was right, and she gave a watery smile in return, feeling as if she might collapse from sheer relief.

She wanted to jump up from the couch, throw her arms around him and wrestle him to the cushions like she'd done a hundred times before. But the realisation that, at this moment, Mike's mind was as fragile as the real Peter's stopped her. Instead, she gave his hands another squeeze.

"And you are...?" she asked, prompting him.

"Peter," he said. Then he frowned. "No. I'm pretending to be Peter." He released one of her hands and ran his fingers through his hair. "I'm Mike. And I'm—a little confused right now..." He looked into her eyes again, fear rearing up in his open face and expressive eyes. "I can't seem to stop...Mary-bel, what's happening to me?"

"You're trying to escape from a painful situation because you feel like Peter has stolen your identity," she said softly, piecing together the truth from what he'd said. "But he hasn't taken everything. He never called me 'Mary-bel'. That's still all yours." She scooted closer to him then, and this time he didn't pull away. "Just like me," she whispered, leaning forward until their lips almost—but not quite—touched. "I want you to kiss me, Mike," she murmured. "I've missed your kisses. I've missed you."

"But—but you've been with Mike—" he said hesitantly, and she shook her head vehemently.

"No, I've been with a carbon copy of him, and those are never as good as the original."

Despite the invitation she was offering, he refused to take that last step, to initiate any contact, and Isabel took control, brushing her lips against his lightly once and then again, lingering this time, gently coaxing a response from him.

But it still wasn't the response she wanted; it was tender and shy—the kind of kiss she could imagine receiving from Peter when he was himself—and it wasn't right. She pulled back, drawing her brows together a little as she fixed him with a stern gaze.

"No," she stated bluntly. "That's still Peter. I want Mike."

Instead of returning for another kiss, however, she took another approach, nuzzling just under his ear, leaving a light trail of kisses along his neck to the vulnerable spot at the base of his throat, and she could hear his breathing quicken in response. She kissed his right cheek, his temple, his forehead, the tip of his nose—and fervently hoped the familiar cosseting would help him push "Peter" out of the way.

Finally she returned to his lips, and this time, he didn't wait for her to begin, capturing her mouth with a flare of the intensity she knew him to be capable of—but there was still a lingering hesitancy, and she wanted every trace to be gone.

"Better," she replied with a pleased smile. "But we're still not quite there yet."

"Oh, really?" he growled, raising one eyebrow, and Isabel's heart lurched in her chest.

That tone—that sardonic look—Mike—!

But those fleeting thoughts barely had time to flit through her mind before Mike gathered her up in his arms, settling her into his lap and cupping her face in both hands. Their eyes met briefly, and she thought she saw a familiar spark in those deep brown depths, but he gave her no more time to think about it, pulling her into a kiss unlike anything she had ever experienced with him—with anyone!—before in her life. He poured all the pent-up fervor and emotion that had by necessity been bottled up inside him for over a week into the embrace, and she realized that she was trembling as she slipped her arms around him, clinging to him as desperately as a drowning woman would cling to a life preserver.

His walls were still down, his emotions still as unguarded as Peter's always were, and if this kiss was an accurate gauge, Isabel knew for the first time—without a shadow of a doubt—exactly how strong his feelings for her were, how intense was his passion. His heart was laid bare for her to see as one hungry, possessive kiss turned into another and another; she might have been frightened—if she had felt less herself, perhaps—but her first instinct was to bare her own soul as well, to take advantage of this wordless communion.

And with that idea followed the action as she gave over rational thought, immersing herself in the moment, in the overwhelming pleasure of being in his arms again. It seemed the intensity faded a little then, heady desire transforming into something infinitely more tender. She reached up and caressed his cheek, sifting her fingers through his hair as he stroked her back soothingly—and still the kiss continued.

For one brief moment, Isabel felt a rapport with him unlike anything they had ever shared before; she knew that she was loved—far more deeply than he ever would express, far more deeply than she had ever imagined—and she silently willed him to understand that his feelings were returned in equal measure, knowing that this was something neither of them would ever speak of.

And then it was over.

He released her, gazing down at her with a bemused expression that was so purely Mike that she had to quell the urge to kiss every inch of his face out of sheer joy.

"Well, I don't think Peter'll be comin back for a while after that," he drawled with no trace of the feigned Northern accent he'd been forced to adopt. The elongated vowels, the lazy g's—they were back.

"Good," she exclaimed with a fervency that made him smile—not grin, not laugh—merely smile. She closed her eyes and breathed a quiet sigh of relief. He leaned back, keeping her cradled in his arms and resting his cheek against the top of her head; she cuddled up as close as she possibly could without actually slipping inside his skin, vestiges of their fleeting unity of hearts and souls still echoing in her memory.

"I was worried, y'know," he admitted quietly after a while. "I kept seein you and him—"

"Bad timing," she blurted hastily. "Believe me—that's all it was. Just sheer bad timing. The longer this goes on, the more Peter's pushing me to act like his girlfriend, and he's getting angry because I won't. I wanted to explain—"

"But he never gave us two seconds alone together," he finished for her, and she nodded.

"Exactly."

"Well, at least I know the truth now," he said, and she raised her head up enough to look a question at him.

Their eyes met and held, and he nodded affirmation as he added, "About everything."

A small, pleased smile curved her lips as she nestled her head against his shoulder again, feeling a warm spot expanding in her heart that she doubted would ever grow cold. "Me too, love," she whispered. "Me too."

Micky and Davy were trying very hard to concentrate on their card game, but it was next to impossible. For one thing, they were convinced Mister Schneider was cheating, and for another, they were worried about Mike.

He'd been over at Isabel's for nearly an hour now, and they were beginning to get genuinely frightened. Was it taking her this long? What if she couldn't bring him back?

And what if Peter came home while he was gone?

The door opening and closing made them freeze, looking at each other, neither one daring—yet—to look at the doorway. Afraid of what they'd find.

"There they are," they heard Isabel say. "Playing cards."

Then there came a familiar—and welcome—snort. "Cheatin’ at cards, more likely." "Mike!" Micky and Davy cried at the same time, knocking their chairs over as they jumped up and ran to the door.

Mike stood there, one thumb hooked in his belt loop, other hand holding Isabel's.

Seeing the familiar body language, Micky was almost ready to start bouncing off the walls. Davy, however, suddenly got a very strange look on his face as he gripped Micky's arm. The smile was still too wide. The face was still too open, the eyes too expressive.

Still not completely Mike.

Isabel caught Davy's expression and nodded. "I know," she said. "There's a reason behind it." She looked up at Mike.

Mike turned the smile to Davy. "Guys, some of this has become a habit. It's gonna take awhile for me to get shed of it completely." Davy noticed he squeezed Isabel's hand before he went on, "Long as Peter's still thinkin’ he's me, I've gotta keep this up. I ain't got a choice in the—"

Mike broke off suddenly, head turning toward the front door. "He's home," he informed them, leaning over and dropping a quick kiss on Isabel's lips, conveying his love for her through those newly—eerily—expressive eyes— then he released her and threw himself on the couch, picking up a magazine and beginning to sift through it. Isabel moved to the window seat, pretending to be engrossed in the beauty of the beach. Micky and Davy went back to their card game.

None of them questioned his statement. Obviously he'd heard the car, and sure enough, a moment later, the front door bumped open to reveal Peter with an armful of sacks.

"Yeah, yeah," he groused, "nobody come an' help me!"

"Sorry," Mike laughed, setting aside the magazine and taking the sacks from Peter. He set them on the table and began unloading them as Micky and Davy filed outside to get the rest.

"Well, this is a surprise!" Peter said, moving to the windowseat and dropping down beside Isabel. "Didn't expect to see you here."

She shrugged one-shouldered at him, not taking her eyes from the beach. "Writer's block. Needed to come somewhere I could think."

Mike lowered his head and clamped his lips together to smother the laugh he felt trying to escape.

"Turn off the ears, shotgun!" Peter barked.

"Can't," Mike said in a completely guileless tone, Northern accent back in place. He turned to face them, and Isabel saw Mike still in those eyes. He was pretending again, not being.

And Isabel could not repress a smile of relief.

Fortunately, Peter was too busy glaring at Mike to notice her expressions. "You mean you won't."

"I can't, Michael. I don't know how."

Peter sighed, running his hands through the blonde hair. "Yeah, I know. I don't know how to either." He looked at Isabel. "Isn't there any way I can get you alone for a few minutes?"

"There doesn't seem to be," she said quietly.

He sighed and lowered his eyes. "Isa, I miss you."

"Me too." This was getting too intense. Isabel rose to her feet and said, "But I have to get back to work. This article is really bugging me."

"Walk you home?" Peter asked.

She looked at Mike, who nodded slightly. "All right, but you can't stay."

"I know," he sighed. "Practice time."

Mike watched from the kitchen window. Peter walked her to her door, and kissed her, pulling back and sliding the back of his finger down her cheek. He then turned away and walked toward the Pad, head bowed.

Mike sighed. "Peter," he whispered. "Hurry up...Get back to normal...or you're gonna get hurt..."

Micky walked into the Pad, sifting through a sheaf of letters. "Hey, we sure get a lot of bills," he cracked, flinging the pile down onto the kitchen table. "I'm suresome of these are from next door or something."

Mike laughed at that one, and even now-serious Peter cracked a smile.

"What else ya got, Mick?" Peter asked.

"For Mike," Micky said, tossing it on the table and still rifling.

Mike clutched the seat of his chair so he wouldn't accidentally reach for the letter. Peter picked it up and tore it open, turning it toward Mike. Mike nodded, recognising the name and address. It was from one of his cousins, whom he referred to as the brother he never had—probably an update on the son that had been born two months earlier.

Mike's eyes widened as Peter began to read the letter to himself. A "brother's" son...A NEPHEW? Oh, no...

Peter lowered the letter, the expression on his face confirming it was news about the baby boy. He looked like he'd been punched in the gut.

"Mike?" Mike said, laying a hand on Peter's arm. Micky stopped flipping through the mail and put it down, looking at them.

"News—of a nephew—" The golden brows drew together in confusion. "B-but—but—he's—little Pete's—Catherine—Nana—"

Peter suddenly lurched from the table, staggering backward. His eyes were glazed over, and his hands were flinging blindly. Mike jumped up from his seat and grabbed the whirling hands. "Mike!" he cried, not sure anymore if that was what to call Peter.

Peter turned to look at Mike. Mike read the tawny eyes: confusion— panic—intense grief—

Then, with a strangled noise, Peter's knees buckled. Mike caught him around the shoulders and knelt on the floor with him. Their eyes remained locked, and Mike could literally see the war being fought inside Peter's head.

Tearing his gaze away, Mike ordered, "Micky! Go get Isabel!"

Micky just looked at Mike. The now-expressive eyes were filled with worry and horror. His voice still held Peter's Northern accent, but the tone was pure Mike "do it now."

"MICKY!" Mike bellowed, snapping Micky out of his whirling thoughts. "Do it now!"

"B-But—"

"He's Mike, remember? He needs help! He needs Isabel! GO GET HER NOW!"

Micky nodded once and fled.

"It's all right, man," Mike said, holding Peter, who was shaking as if in the grip of a fever. "It's going to be all right."

Peter's eyes suddenly rolled back in his head and his body began to convulse.

Mike cursed as he lowered Peter to the floor and grabbed his hand, powerless while the seizure ran its course. "Hurry, Mary-bel," he murmured. "Hurry..."

The door flew open and Isabel raced inside, Micky on her heels. She ran straight over to the pair and dropped on the other side of Peter. "What happened?"

"A letter from Jimmy," Mike explained. "About my nephew."

"Nephew...Oh, no..." Isabel grasped Peter's other hand tightly. He was still seizing, a thin trickle of saliva oozing from a corner of his mouth as he drew in jagged breaths.

Isabel leaned down and brushed a kiss on Peter's cheek. "Come on back, Peter," she whispered in his ear. "The war's over."

And Peter's eyes closed. The spasms stopped instantly. Then, suddenly, he gave one final, explosive jerk and lay still, gasping for air.

"The war's over..." he mumbled, opening his eyes a crack, staring straight ahead.

"Only question is," Micky asked, his brow furrowed with concern. "Who won?"

Peter's eyes opened all the way. He looked up at Isabel and gave her a smile full of affection. Then he turned to Mike—and the smile broadened into Peter's full, devastating grin. "I won," he whispered, squeezing Mike's hand. "Peter won."

Dead silence. Mike stared down at Peter, eyes wide and filled with shock—then joy. A wide grin spread across his own face. "Peter won?" he repeated. "You—You're Peter?"

Peter closed his eyes for a moment and nodded.

"He's Peter!" Mike shouted, looking at Micky and Isabel and beginning to laugh almost hysterically. "Didja hear that? He's Peter!"

Wiping his eyes, Mike ordered, "Help me get him to the couch." Micky took Peter's legs, Mike his shoulders, and they carried him to the couch as they had all those days ago when this nightmare had begun.

"Are you all right?" Mike asked, the words tripping over themselves in his relief. "Do you need anything?"

"Some water..." Peter mumbled.

"I'll get some," Mike said, bounding for the kitchen.

Peter turned and looked at Micky. "And for Davy to know."

"He's out with whatzername," Micky said, running for the phone.

Peter then turned to Isabel, who was standing beside the couch. He sat up and braced himself against the arm, patting the cushion beside him. Isabel looked at Mike, who was standing at the threshold of the kitchen, water in hand. Mike nodded and Isabel sat down.

Peter licked his lips. "Isabel...I remember everything..." He cupped her cheek in his hand, and she forced herself not to flinch away; she'd gotten so used to avoiding him that the habit was hard to break now. "Oh, sweetheart....I put you through hell..."

She gazed into his tawny eyes. There was pain there and deep, deep regret. "Yes," she replied with total honesty. "Yes, you did. But you couldn't help it. You were sick."

Suddenly he leaned forward and Isabel tensed. But Peter just brushed his lips against her cheek in an infinitely gentle kiss.

A Peter kiss.

Then he pulled away and turned to Mike. "I do love her, you know. The same way I love you guys. She's my bestest friend."

And Mike smiled warmly at him, understanding at long last why Peter often called her "sweetheart" and kissed her on the cheek, and his jealousy slowly began to evaporate. "I know," he said, coming over and sitting on the floor next to the couch as he handed Peter the water. Peter sipped it, then looked closely at Mike. He smiled.

"You're sitting cross-legged."

Mike looked down at himself and chuckled. "You said you remember everything."

"I do," Peter said, sipping the water again. "But it's still strange seeing your own mannerisms reflected back at you, isn't it?"

"It sure is, shotgun," Mike said, chuckling again. "It sure is."

"It's even stranger hearing your voice with my accent."

Mike's eyes filled with horror and he clamped a hand over his mouth reflexively as he locked eyes with Isabel. He hadn't even noticed!

"Your shields are down," Peter added, eyes beginning to droop with exhaustion. "I can read what you're feeling in your eyes. Isabel, would you mind standing up? I'm about to fall over and I want to go take a nap..."

"All right," she said, standing up.

Peter rolled off the couch and stood on shaky legs. He took a staggering step forward, and turned back to Mike. "You went deep, man. As deep as I did. Only I had no choice; you did on purpose, to help me get well...Thanks, Michael..."

Mike grinned at him, not noticing it was a wide one. "You're welcome, Pete. Go to bed now."

Peter nodded and moved toward the staircase. He grasped the railing for a second, gathering his strength—

The others held their breaths—

Then Peter moved into the downstairs bedroom and closed the door.

"He's back..." Mike said, staring wide-eyed at the doorway. "He's all the way back..."

"But you're not," Micky said, walking over to the couch.

"No," Mike agreed. "Not yet." He looked at them, chocolate brown eyes twinkling with glee as he grinned again. "But I will be."

Isabel burst into the Pad, clutching an envelope in one hand, darting an expectant glance around the room as she strode purposefully inside. Micky and Davy were playing cards. "Where are Mike and Peter?" she demanded impatiently.

As if on cue, Peter came downstairs, a load of clothes in his arms. He smiled at her and called over his shoulder, "Mike! Isabel's here!"

Mike came out of the bedroom and leaned over the railing, smiling broadly at her. "Well, hi! What's up?"

Isabel took a deep breath, the Northern accent still intact in Mike's voice shaking her. It's going to take some time for him to stop, she reminded herself. Most of it is habit now.

She waved the envelope over her head. "Something for all of us—but Peter needs to open it."

Peter hastily dumped the clothes on the floor, heedless of the mess for once, and hurried out of the bedroom. He took the envelope, curiosity written all over his face. Mike loped down the stairs, watching with visible curiosity as Peter ripped open the envelope.

"Plane tickets?" Mike asked, giving Isabel a puzzled frown even as Peter's face lit with growing joy as he scanned the documents he held. "To where?"

"To Connecticut. I called in some favors, and we're all going. You need to say goodbye, Peter. And we're going to support you."

That night, Micky counted off, prepared to launch into "Clarksville", but only three of them joined in the opening notes of practice. One voice and instrument was conspicuously absent.

Mike's.

Instead of playing, he stood watching Peter as he played bass once more. Mike had not yet regained the ability to shield his feelings, and the look he was shooting Peter was one of pure venom.

And then with one swift, fluid gesture, he pulled his guitar over his head and returned it to its resting place. Then he simply walked off the stage, headed for the door.

"Mike—?" Micky called after him, leaping to his feet, his features suffused with alarm. "Hey, Mike—where ya going?"

"Does it matter?" Mike stopped at the door, turning to fix the others with a piercing stare. "You don't need me."

Micky and Davy exchanged startled glances while Peter looked on, a look of dawning comprehension glowing in his eyes as his jaw slowly dropped.

"You've got him." Mike pointed at Peter, his tone almost accusatory. "He can be Peter. He can be Mike. I'm just a fifth wheel," he concluded, his shoulders sagging a little as if he were weary with defeat.

And with that, he was gone.

The remaining three were frozen for a second, stunned into silence. Suddenly Peter's face crumpled as if he were about to burst into tears, and Davy dropped his tambourine and went to comfort him.

"M-my fault!" Peter wailed. "He's gonna leave the group, and we're gonna fall apart, and we'll never see each other again, and it's all my f-fault!"

Davy and Micky shot each other matching alarmed looks. This soon after coming back to normal, and now Peter had had another emotional shock. Would he revert back to madness?

Davy reached up and patted him on the shoulder, radiating sympathy and compassion. "C'mon, Peter, it's all right. He'll get over it."

"No, he won't! You heard him! He thinks we don't need him!" Tears rolled freely down Peter's cheeks, his entire face a portrait of abject misery as he sank down onto the bandstand, huddled over his bass, sobbing out his broken heart.

"Well then," Micky said, as he regarded Peter somberly, his tone unusually quiet, his lips thinned into a determined line. Mike was gone, and Peter was still emotionally fragile after his own trauma—it was time for someone else to step into the leader's shoes. "I guess we just have to prove him wrong."

Micky called Isabel first, thinking she might be the one Mike turned to, but she said she hadn't seen him since dropping off the tickets that morning. He made up some story about Mike being a little late for rehearsal so she wouldn't get worried, then hung up, nibbling his lower lip as he scowled at the air, trying to figure out where Mike had gone.

He wasn't anywhere on the beach—Davy had already checked—and he had to be in walking distance because the car keys were still on the table.

If I were Mike, where would I go? he mused. Maybe I should ask Peter, he thought with a tiny smile.

But that wasn't really all that funny, was it...?

Maybe he wasn't going anywhere! Micky thought, a delighted smile curving his lips. Maybe he was just walking with no particular destination!

With that idea in mind, he grabbed the keys and dashed out the door, yelling that he'd be back later, and he began his search, driving at little-old-lady speed up and down the adjoining streets. He circled around several times, peering out the windshield, scanning for any sign of Mike, but all he saw were a few kids out playing—no tall, skinny Texans wandering around anywhere.

Just as he was about to give up and go home, some inner instinct prompted him to turn left onto Mapleleaf instead of right as he'd done before. A few blocks later, he mentally kicked himself for indulging such an obviously fruitless impulse—until he spotted a familiar figure slumped on a park bench at the corner bus stop.

Ignoring the yellow "No Parking" paint on the curb, Micky hastily pulled over and jumped out of the car, dashing over to the bench in case Mike decided to make a run for it. But he didn't; he simply gave Micky a "What in the world are you doing?" look, but said nothing.

Dropping onto the splintered, cracked bench with an audible thump, Micky elbowed Mike in the ribs, pretending a joviality he didn't feel. "Hey, man, you're missing practice," he said lightly.

Mike shot him a quelling glare. "I'm not missing anything."

"Well, we are," Micky retorted.

"Oh, yeah?" One dark eyebrow arched questioningly. "What?"

"One of our singers, one of our songwriters, our lead guitar player," came the quiet reply.

Mike shook his head. "Peter can do all that."

"Not like you."

Mike stared at him in disbelief. "Man, haven't you been paying attention the last two weeks? He can do it—just like me. He stepped in and took over, and now I have nothing left to go back to."

He let out a long sigh and raked his fingers through his hair, staring blankly into empty space. Part of Micky noted idly that even though he had returned it to Mike, Mike was still not wearing his hat. "I used to think I was so important to the group, y'know? Like I contributed so much..." He trailed off, his features etched with such melancholy that Micky almost regretted following him. How was he supposed to fix this?

"But now..." Mike continued slowly, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, head bowed. "I know better. I can be replaced. Easily."

Micky sat silent for a moment, his mind racing as he scrambled for the right thing to say to make his friend realise the truth.

"No, you're wrong," he said, keeping his voice calm and steady. "Yeah, we could get someone to do your job, but you couldn't be replaced. None of us can. It's who we are as individuals that makes us work as a group, dig?"

Micky rested a hand on Mike's shoulder, and when Mike made no move to shrug the offending hand off, Micky kept it there as he continued speaking.

"Peter played lead guitar, and he sang your songs, even that Mimosa one—"

"Magnolia."

"Whatever. The point is, he can't replace you. He can't really be you. He didn't sound like you when he sang it, and he sure couldn't have written it. His style's too different. We've all got different styles, man, that's what makes our music change and grow. We work separately and together, and we blend well." He paused, grinning as an apt metaphor occurred to him. "We got good harmony in a lot of ways," he added. "And with someone else's voice, the song would sound different...But I kinda like the way it is now."

For a long time, Mike didn't reply, and the two young men sat there in silence as the fiery tendrils on the horizon faded into black around them, parents called children in to dinner, lights clicked on inside houses, and overhead the stars began to glimmer in the evening sky. For once, Micky didn't feel compelled to talk, to end the quiet moment, which was unusual for him. He'd never understood before how Mike and Isabel could be in the same room together literally for hours without ever saying a word; but now he was enjoying the tranquility. He wondered if this was how it was for Mike all the time—a life composed of stillness and peaceful moments.

At long last, he heard Mike shift in his seat, and to his surprise, he felt strong, slender fingers close around his hand, gripping it tightly for an instant before releasing it again.

Micky froze. A Peter move. Mike was still...

"Thanks, Mick," came Mike's quiet voice out of the growing darkness. "I needed to hear that."

"No problem," he replied softly, a delighted smile spreading across his face. "Ready to go practice now?"

"Yeah." Mike nodded, grinning himself as he rose to his feet and waited for Micky to get up as well. "I am. Let's go home."

The plane ride was stressful for Isabel. Mike sat by the window seat on one side, Peter on the other, and it was just too strange for Isabel to see both of them staring wide-eyed at the clouds.

Finally she nudged Mike.

"Hm?" he asked, turning to her.

Without a word, she pulled him into a kiss, watching his reaction. His still-expressive eyes widened, filled with a blend of amusement and alarm. Gently he broke the embrace, whispering, "Isa..."

She smiled at him. "Took your mind off the clouds."

His answering smile was broad and affectionate—so much so that she had to glance away quickly, shivering. It was a too-painful reminder of those horrid days when he'd lost himself completely, and deep down, she was secretly afraid he might never recover, that part of him would forever be Peter Tork.

He caught her chin in his fingers, making her look at him, and she raised reluctant eyes to meet his, the obvious concern she saw there only compounding her fears.

"What's the matter?" he asked softly, trying not to attract Peter's attention.

"I never thought I'd hear myself say this," she replied, matching his quiet tone. "But I hate knowing exactly what you're feeling at any given moment. I'm ready to see the shields go up again. At least then I'll know Mike is back."

He watched her silently, gently caressing her chin and jaw with his thumb, his dark eyes filled with tenderness. "Soon, Isa," he promised, hoping he would be able to fulfill that promise for his own sake as well as hers. "I'm tryin my best, but I had to work hard to make myself act like Peter. It's gonna be hard work breakin’ those habits now."

"I know," she whispered, slipping her arm across his waist and nestling her head on his shoulder as much as her seatbelt would allow. "I know. But I miss you."

Mike released a long, quiet sigh as he leaned his cheek against the top of her head; he didn't have to ask why she used present tense instead of past. He knew what she meant, and although he didn't intend to tell her so, he was more than a little concerned about the inner struggle he was experiencing; "Mike" and "Peter" had become so intricately entwined that he was having trouble distinguishing the two even in his own mind. Certain behaviors had become so ingrained that he wasn't certain if he would ever be himself again.

Not completely.

The Tork house was a large, spacious place. Peter and Davy shared the bedroom Peter had slept in as a boy. Micky and Mike shared the bedroom across the hall. Isabel slept in the room with Peter's mother.

On their first full day in Connecticut, the four young men dressed in black suits, and Isabel donned a black dress, all of them bundled up against the New England winter, and drove to the cemetery.

The others hung back, waiting as Peter walked alone into the cemetery, giving him the time and space he needed to say good-bye his own way. Peter walked over and lay a small wreath on his grandmother's grave. He crouched beside it and bowed his head, saying a private farewell. His shoulders heaved with the force of his grief, and it broke their hearts to watch him suffering so deeply.

Peter didn't stand up, he just turned around to place another wreath on his sister's grave, kissing his fingers and rubbing them along her headstone. A slight smile touched his lips as he shared a memory of happy times, then he bowed his head and told her goodbye.

The sight of a headstone with the name "James Peter Tork" carved into it unnerved Peter. He lay the final wreath on the child's grave and said his goodbyes, then doubled over as if struck and wept openly.

The others immediately rushed to his side; Isabel wrapped her arms around his shoulders and drew him into a tender embrace, stroking his back gently, trying to convey through her touch just how much she cared for her dear friend and how much she wanted to do to help him through this difficult time.

Mike knelt on his other side, adding his gentle hand on Peter's shoulder. He didn't speak; he just sat and rubbed the heaving shoulder.

Micky and Davy hung back. Mike, Peter and Isabel had fought through this ordeal together, their bond strengthened more than ever by their experience, and it seemed only right that the three of them were all beside the boy's grave, with tears in their eyes. Mike looked up at Micky, not speaking, but those eerily open eyes held an unmistakable message.

He needs you too.

Micky knelt behind Peter with Davy beside him. Micky lay one hand on Peter's other shoulder and the other on Isabel's back, and Davy stroked Peter's fine blond hair, slipping his free arm around Mike. The five of them huddled there in silence, joined together in their love for the young man who had suffered the greatest grief of them all.

Peter had lost half his family.

But through with each caress, they all assured him—and each other—that a new family had been formed. They were all united by tragedy now; they'd seen each other through the worst possible times, and now nothing could ever break the chains of affection—of love—between them no matter where the future might take them.

After an indeterminable amount of time, Peter gave a shuddering sigh. He had wrapped his arms around Isabel's waist, and he gave her a squeeze as he sat up.

Dropping a tender kiss on her cheek, he let her go. Peter turned and gathered Micky and Davy into a bear hug that spoke an unmistakable thank you.

Then he turned to Mike. Guilt sprang into his eyes. What right did he have to expect anything from Mike after what he had done to his friend? After he had forced him to become somebody else?

Mike looked at him with an expression that was too easy to read, one that clearly said he was reading Peter like a book. Then he smiled. "It's all right," Mike said, reaching out and squeezing his shoulder. Peter took Mike's arm in both his hands and squeezed back, smiling.

"You ready to go home?" Mike asked.

Peter nodded. He climbed to his feet and moved toward the rental car. He paused at the gate, turning to look at the graves one more time. Peter blew a kiss toward the markers, then walked through the gate, the others right behind him.

"Ready?" Peter asked, holding out a fist, ready to shoot.

Mike put his hand over Peter's fist, turning it over and opening the fist. Wordlessly, he dug the rental car keys from his pocket and lay them into Peter's hand, closing Peter's fingers over them. Peter's eyes were huge as he raised them to meet Mike's. Davy and Micky's jaws dropped. Isabel seemed to understand, and she simply smiled and slipped one arm around Mike's waist to let him know she approved.

"This is your home," Mike told him quietly. "No shootin’ here. Let's go back to your mom's and get packed, then you can drive us to the airport."

Peter smiled and slid behind the wheel. Micky claimed shotgun. Davy and Mike slid into the single back seat with Isabel squished between them. Davy had smirked the entire way over because for once, he wasn't the shortest, which meant he didn't have to sit in the middle where the hump in the floor was.

A noise from the back made Micky turn. "Problem, Mike?"

"Yeah," he groused, trying to ease his legs into a more comfortable position, but it was next to impossible. "Cramped. Forgot not every car has two back seats!"

"You know what?" Peter asked as he put the car in gear and pointed it toward his mother's house. "I'm going to find a way to make it up to you guys for all the time I forced you two to be apart."

"Peter," Mike said, "you couldn't have helped it."

"Yeah, you were sick," Isabel added.

"And we're just glad to have you back," Micky chimed in.

"And do you know where we're going?" Davy asked as the bare trees sped by.

"Enough, all o'ya!" Peter barked, sounding exactly like he had when he had been "Mike." All four were shocked into silence, terrified he was relapsing.

Peter chuckled. "Well, what d'you know?" he said, sounding like himself again. "That works!"

And an outraged chorus of four yelled back, "Peter!"

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