Chapter Text
The second time Micky woke up, it was to the customary bang-bang-bang on his door as their tour manager doled out the wake-up calls. “Thirty minutes, guys! Not thirty-one or twenty-eight — thirty minutes! We got promo! Security is coming to escort you out the back.”
He groaned and pulled the sheet up over his head. Fuck that. His head was pounding and his brain felt like a deflated beach ball. He just wanted to sleep and tried to do just that.
But then there was more knocking on his door and then he heard Davy’s voice. “Just gimme the key, Ward. I’ll take care of it.”
Oh, shit.
He heard the click of the key in the lock and then the youngest Monkee burst into Micky’s room. “Good morning, sunshine!” he sang, launching himself onto the bed on his knees and bouncing the mattress up and down. “Wakey-wakey!”
Micky groaned and tried to burrow down deeper into the sheets. “Fuck off, Davy! I mean it!”
“Oi, that’s not very nice, Mick … Phwoar!” Davy stopped moving suddenly as he breathed in the smell of the room. “Crikey, mate! It smells like a porno theater in here! Did you host a bloody orgy last night?” He looked down at the bed and quickly clambered off, looking down at himself as he expected to find himself covered in spunk. “I think I might be jealous, but I’m not sure.”
Davy then sprinted over to the nearest window, tugging the curtains apart and yanking it open to let in fresh air. Then he went back over and roughly tugged the sheet down to expose Micky’s head and shoulders. “What did you take last night, Micky? You look like shit.”
“Thanks, you’re a real pal,” Micky groaned, squinting against the light and struggling to sit up even as his head threatened to explode. He reached blindly for a glass of stale water on the bedside table and downed it, but it felt like a drop in a desert.
Davy paused, looking more sympathetic now. “Well, mate, if it’s any consolation, I’m still a little tipsy, meself. But just the right amount. Figure it’s enough to get me through the promo and then I can kip for a couple of hours before the show. But I think you need more help.”
Micky stared blearily at him, barely listening. And then he started remembering everything from the night. Mike … oh, god. Mike! He didn’t even remember Mike leaving … or… no, wait. He did. He remembered the darkness. Mike’s mouth and hands. So gentle. Like a dream. And then a kiss to his forehead and a lecture to drink more water.
But Davy didn’t even notice Micky’s stunned crisis of conscience and was cheerily setting up a line of cocaine for him on the table. “C’mon, Mick. A little snort will do ya. Get you over the hump, so to speak.” He smirked. “Though I think you did enough humping last night, yeah?”
“I really, really don’t wanna talk about it,” Micky groaned, eyeing the coke on the table. It was truly the last thing he wanted right now, but Davy was right … it was the only thing that was going to get him up and able to do his job this morning.
Davy sighed and rolled up a bill he dug out from his pocket. “Come on now. It’s not so bad. A little hit and then a shower and you’ll be right as rain.” He chuckled. “Do something about that hair, though. You look like the Bride of Frankenstein, mate.”
Micky passed a hand over his hair and it did feel like it was standing on end. And then he remembered Mike’s hands buried in it, pulling and tugging as Micky worked his mouth over his cock and … fuck. The memory was equally embarrassing and arousing. He did not have the energy to sort out which was which at the moment. He’d worry about that later. He slid over to the edge of the bed, taking the sheet with him so that another one of his bandmates didn’t get a close-up of his dick today.
Davy handed him the makeshift straw and patted him gently on the shoulder. “There you go. Take your medicine.”
Micky groaned softly, then leaned over and did the blow in one quick snort, sitting up quickly and squeezing his eyes shut as it smashed behind his eyes and then ran down the back of his throat, making him snort and cough.
“Atta boy,” Davy encouraged. “Now get up. I’m not leaving until you’re in that shower.”
“Fine, fine, fine. Fuck you.” Micky tried gathering the sheet up to wear for the long journey to the bathroom, but got tangled up and let it drop, frustrated. “Screw it! I’m naked! Deal with it!”
Davy cracked up. “Nothing I ain’t seen before, mate. Now get!”
Micky stumbled to the bathroom, flipping Davy off as he did so.
“I love you, too, Mick-eeeee!” Davy laughed, then gingerly picked up an end of the sheet to wipe away any conspicuous coke residue from the table before quickly dropping it. He made a face and wiped his hands on his trousers after.
Micky slammed the door behind him and stared at himself in the mirror. Well, this was wonderful. Again, Davy was right. He looked like absolute shit. He was sticky everywhere. He stank. He turned on the tap and drank directly from it, gulp after gulp after gulp until he thought he might be sick, and then pulled away, gasping. Then he stumbled into the shower and turned it on.
“OKAY, I’M IN THE SHOWER, AWRIGHT!” he yelled, then winced as his voice bounced off the tiles.
He heard the door close as Davy, mission accomplished, left the room. Micky sighed and went through the motions of washing, trying not to think about everything he’d done with Mike last night. All of Nez’s reassurances last night seemed meaningless now in the harsh light of day. What would be it like when he saw him? Knowing Mike, he’d probably just pretend that nothing had happened, and that was probably for the best. The taciturn Texan wasn’t one for “big talks” when things got heavy. They’d discussed it already, right? It was those crazy sex drugs. That was all. They’d had their night and it was over now. Business as usual. Right.
By the time Micky had finished showering, the coke was doing its job and he was feeling more alert. His head was still pounding, but he didn’t feel like he was going to pass out now. He drank some more water, brushed his teeth, and tried to do something about his hair, but there wasn’t time to make it look “right.” Depending on the weather and the alignment of the stars, it still sometimes needed work even when he wore it natural. It was the difference between a head of wild, groovy curls and a Brillo pad. He couldn’t remember if they were just doing radio or not, but even with radio, they liked to take pictures. Whatever. That wasn’t his job. Let the Monkee machine worry about that. He just had to be there and “be” the Micky Dolenz people knew from TV. That would take enough energy today without worrying about whether every hair was in place. Or any of them.
He quickly dressed in clean clothes and shoved the dirty ones into his suitcase. He balled up the filthy, come-stained bedspread and kicked it into the wall near the door in the hopes that the maid would just pick it up that way and have it deposited directly into the laundry without examining it too closely. Normal people would tell him not to worry about such minor details, but normal people didn’t have fans trying to break into their rooms to hunt for souvenirs or clues about their so-called private lives, or worse, hotel staff trying to pinch things. That water glass on the bedside table with his lip prints on it alone would be worth a king’s ransom. It wouldn’t be the first time Micky was stunned into stillness by the absolute insanity of his job. But he shook his aching head and gulped a few Aspirin and made it out just in time to meet security. The coke had perked him up, but had also made him even more anxious and paranoid. He was escorted down to a back exit in an alley, his heart pounding in his chest, and climbed blindly into a car.
Nearly into the lap of Michael Nesmith. Who was curled up against the far door, wearing dark sunglasses, and every inch of his body language screaming “Don’t even look at me.”
Peter and Davy clambered in behind him, shoving Micky into Mike. “Jesus Christ, are you serious right now?” Micky snapped. “Can we, for once, not take a goddamn clown car to get around to these gigs?”
“Temper, temper,” Peter teased.
“Micky had a long night.” Davy smirked. “What about you, Nez? Looks like you and Mick attended the same party?”
“Go. Fuck. Yourself,” Mike said, but there was no real malice in it. Just a bland statement.
“Wanker,” Davy muttered peevishly.
Micky crossed his arms over his narrow chest and slumped back against the seat as the car roared to life and pulled away, trying to make himself as small as possible. Today was going to be … a colossal drag.
But then a long arm dropped heavily around his shoulders and a hand squeezed his upper arm. Micky looked over quickly at Mike, who did not look back at him.
“It’s all right, baby,” he murmured so quietly that Micky almost thought he’d imagined it. “It’s cool. We got about ten minutes of shut-eye, I reckon.”
Micky smiled weakly and relaxed a fraction. He released a breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding, let his head rest on Nez’s shoulder, and closed his eyes. It was all right. It was cool.