Work Text:
“Man, are we really lost again?” Micky runs a hand through his hair and stares out the window. The blazing sun bounces off the Monkeemobile, right into his eyes.
“We can’t be,” Peter replies. “I gave you the right directions this time.” Micky pulls off to the side and examines the map. Sure enough, Peter’s right, but they’re still miles away from the spot they’re supposed to be playing at.
Davy hums softly. “It’s getting awful late,” he says. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”
Micky hands Peter the map. “Hey, Pete, see if you can find a cheap spot.” Peter nods and Micky sets off once more. They haven’t been back to Texas since they visited Mike’s family, but a country club requested them for their grand opening.
Micky rarely drives them to gigs. It’s usually Mike’s job, but the taller boy had a family emergency. It takes everything in him not to bite his lip raw and worry. The sun is setting fast and Micky is supposed to be the adult here.
“I can drive, you know,” Davy says, crossing his arms. Micky can only picture Davy barely peering over the wheel.
“You can’t,” Micky replies. “We lost the phone book.” Peter just gives Davy a comforting pat on the back.
The Texas sky looks anything but normal. It’s a sickly green that reminds Micky of dark corners in a big city. Maybe it’ll rain.
“Find anything?” Micky asks. He turns down the radio and grips the wheel a little harder.
“There’s a little town five miles ahead,” Peter says. “It’s got a motel and a tavern.”
“They’ve got gas, too,” Davy adds. “You just gotta take a right in four miles.”
Micky nods. His palms are sweaty with the sticky heat of summer. The car is running on less than half a tank. He’ll be lucky if they make it into town. He’ll be luckier if the motel charges fifty cents per night.
If Mike were here, he probably would have found a town further back. He never shines with plastic heat, never takes off his hat, even in the middle of summer. Micky misses him and it feels a lot like being hungry.
“I wish Mike were here,” Peter says. He stares out the window and rests his hand on his hand. It’s weird without Mike, and it’s weird without Davy, but Micky knows the difference.
“We’ll see him soon,” Davy says. They’re never without Mike for long. Still, Micky knows he’s longing, clinging to the remnants of Mike’s cologne and the loose fibers of his wool hat. It’s more than longing, more like a need.
The storm’s brewing and Micky feels it in his gut. Mike always says his back hurts when it rains.
“I think I see it,” Micky says. “Hold on, everybody.” The sky is on fire, the sun blazes and the clouds turn purple. Texas has never looked so strange.
“At least it’s not a ghost town,” Peter says. “Remember that?”
“We escaped with our lives then,” Davy says. Micky pulls into the town’s singular parking lot. There’s only one other car in a five-mile radius.
“Don’t we always?” Micky says. He climbs out of the car. “Man, I think it’s gonna rain.”
“What about the car?” Davy asks. Peter pulls their suitcases out of the back. Micky just shrugs and tucks the keys into his pocket.
“We’ll find a tarp or something,” he says. “Let’s go.” He hates the way his right hand lands at his side like he’s searching for something.
“I’ll be the first to say it—this place is weird,” Davy says. “Proper strange.”
“I’ll say,” Peter replies. “There’s only one gas pump!” There’s a single motel and a single roadside tavern. Both buildings are painted a cold gray.
Micky laughs softly. “Probably more economical that way.” He walks in front of Davy and Peter the way Mike would. “Say, Pete, you sure this isn’t a ghost town?”
The inside of the motel isn’t much nicer. It looks like it hasn’t been renovated since the depression. “You must be joking.” Davy wrinkles his nose. “They oughta let us stay for free.”
There’s a tired old woman behind the front desk. She’s hunched over enough that Micky wants to check her pulse. Davy leans over and rings the silver bell on the counter.
The woman raises her head. “Hello there!” She has a sour apple smile and a mouth full of ivory teeth. “How can I help you?”
“We’re from out of town,” Micky explains. “We just need two rooms, if you have ‘em.”
“Certainly!” The woman pulls out a guest book. It seems pointless. It’s probably been years since someone passed through this town. “Just sign here.”
“How much for one night?” Micky asks. Peter scribbles each of their signatures into the book without the woman noticing. He’s getting good at forgery.
“Normally, I’d charge fifty cents per room,” the woman replies. “But you boys seem nice—I’ll lower it to twenty-five.”
Micky reaches into his pocket for change, but the woman clears her throat. The way she tilts her head sends shivers down his spine. Davy and Peter look equally unnerved.
“Don’t worry about that now,” she says. “You can pay me tomorrow…if you stay the night.”
Davy gulps. He chuckles nervously. “Is there a reason we wouldn’t?”
The woman doesn’t answer. Instead, she pushes two keys across the counter. “Enjoy your stay!” Micky expects her to add an ominous if you dare.
As they’re walking away, Micky nudges Davy’s arm. “Man, that woman was really creepy.”
“You said it,” Davy replies. “I’m not sure I wanna stay here.” There’s no elevator in sight, and Micky looks forward to lugging his bag up the stairs.
“What other choice do we have?” Peter asks. “We’re miles away from anything and it’s probably gonna rain.” Micky and Peter let out a resigned sigh.
His room is nice enough. It’s somewhere between a seedy motel room and his grandma’s guest room. “Can you two get a table at the restaurant?” Micky asks. He closes the rickety door behind him. “I oughta call Mike.”
Davy gives him a look that Peter doesn’t notice. “Sure thing,” he says. “You know where to find us.” He grabs Peter’s hand and leads him down the stairs.
When he reaches the front desk, the old woman is sleeping with her eyes open. Micky dares to ring the bell again.
“How can I help you?” Micky winces. Her voice is shrill.
“Do you have a telephone I could use?” He asks.
“Just down the hall,” she replies. “It takes dimes.” Micky reaches into his pocket for twenty cents. He can probably tell Mike everything in less than three minutes.
The phone has seen better days—as has everything in this joint. Micky stuffs a dime into the coin-slot. The handle of the phone is sticky. He dials Mike’s phone number—not because he memorized it.
There’s a woman on the line. Micky would feel sick if he didn’t know Mike’s family. “Hello?” He asks. “Is Mike there?”
“He’s out right now,” his mother replies. “But I can give him a message!”
“That’s alright,” Micky says. “Can you just tell him I called?” She answers in the affirmative, and he hangs up the phone.
The old woman looks at him as he walks out the front door. Micky feels her eyes on him even after he enters the tiny restaurant.
Micky finds the others sitting by the window. It’s dingy, but clean enough for sickly green light to leak through. The joint is a bean wagon if Micky’s ever seen one. “Did you call him?” Peter asks.
“He didn’t answer,” Micky replies. “His mom did. She says he’s out.”
“Figures.” Davy fiddles with the rusty utensils on the table. “Maybe he’ll call back later.”
Micky peers at the menu. “The sandwiches with either be soggy or harder than rocks,” he says. “Place your bets.”
“I thought we weren’t supposed to gamble?” Peter says. Davy smiles and nudges him gently.
When Micky looks up from the table, the old woman is standing above them like a storm cloud. He nearly jumps out of his skin. “What can I get you boys?”
Peter’s fingers shake. “Three dinner specials with roast beef, please,” he says. Davy is clinging to him like they’re on the verge of death. They might as well be.
The lady walks into the kitchen with the energy no elderly woman should have. They all stumble into the bathroom, tripping over their shoes and feet.
“You didn’t see that lady come in, did you?” Davy asks. His accent sounds funny when he’s whispering.
Peter shrugs. “Maybe she’s got a twin sister.” For their own sake, they go with the twin sister theory.
Davy freezes in the doorway. Micky bumps into him. “Man, what gives?” He peers over Davy’s shoulder and his mouth goes dry.
Mike. Michael Nesmith is sitting at their table. Mike, who’s supposed to be four hours away. Mike, who’s supposed to be at his family home.
“Mike?” Peter whispers. He runs over to him like he hasn’t seen him in years.
“I thought you were at home!” Davy says.
Mike gently pats his back. “I didn’t wanna leave y’all alone here,” he says. Peter’s smiling like he believes him.
The old woman returns with four plates. “Hey, Mike,” Davy says. “Where’s your green hat?”
“I dropped it in the mud,” he replies. “Mom’s washin’ it.”
“Good thing you had a backup,” Peter says.
The soup tastes like cement with a hint of baked beans. It’s disgusting, and the sandwiches aren’t any better. Davy could make food better than this.
“Your mum,” Davy says. He pushes his plate aside. “How is she?”
“Same as always,” Mike replies. His accent’s slipping. Maybe it’s better that he’s back in Texas instead of L.A. Micky should be happy to see him—overjoyed. He shouldn’t be fidgeting and bursting at the seams like an overripe pomegranate.
Peter peers out the window. Micky follows his line of sight. The Monkeemobile is the sole car for miles, and Mike couldn’t have gotten here on foot. Peter looks down at his feet.
“You ready for the gig?” Micky asks. He knows Mike achingly well. The other man shrugs before nodding.
“Are you?” He asks. His hat is askew and Micky wants to adjust it. The blue makes his eyes pop.
“Always.” Micky smiles softly. He’s not afraid of anything—not a silly gig, and definitely not Mike. Micky pulls out his wallet. “Don’t worry about the check, man,” he says. “You went through enough trouble getting here.”
“Thanks, babe.” When Micky looks up, he sees Mike’s gentle smile. It’s really him. At least, he wants it to be.
“This place gives me the willies,” Davy says. “Let’s get out of here.” Micky lets Mike take the lead. He walks beside him and tries to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach. It’s probably nothing but food poisoning.
🍓
If Davy and Peter have noticed anything wrong with Mike, they haven’t said anything. He knows Peter also feels sickly green. He knows Mike incredibly well, is far more perceptive than most. It would pain him just as much to say the words caught between their teeth.
“Are you feeling okay?” Mike asks. Micky freezes. Mike rarely asks him that. He prefers to read the curve of Micky’s lips and the lines on his forehead.
“Groovy,” Micky replies. It comes out all wrong, too curt. Mike just nods. Micky feels even sicker at the thought that Mike really did travel four hours to see them, only to be treated like an outsider.
“Say, Mike,” Micky starts. “Did you see any prairie chickens worth saving?”
Mike pauses, and he slowly turns around. His hat is still askew, and it’s become bothersome. “What do you mean by that?” He asks. “What’s a prairie chicken?”
Micky swallows thickly. “Nothing,” he replies. He forces a laugh. “Just forget about it.” When Mike turns his back, Micky slips out the door and into the opposite room. The taller boy doesn’t follow him.
Davy and Peter are sitting on the edge of one bed, talking a little too close. Micky shuts the door and feels sweat roll down his temple. “Micky,” Peter says. “What’s wrong?”
“That’s not Mike,” Micky says. “The guy in there—that’s someone else.”
Davy stands up. “What are you talking about?” He asks. “Who else could it be?”
Micky stumbles over his words. Every theory makes him sound like a madman. Maybe Mike has a stalker who got plastic surgery to look like him—or maybe they’re all seeing a Mike-themed hallucination.
The more stomach churning possibility is that Mike is already gone, that someone is using him a skin suit.
“I don’t know,” Micky answers honestly. “But that isn’t him.” I know it, he wants to say. He knows it just as well as Peter and Davy.
“He was acting weird,” Peter says. “And he didn’t even have a car.”
Micky snaps his fingers. “Exactly, Pete! How did he even get here?”
“Maybe he parked his car nearby,” Davy says. Micky knows he doesn’t believe a word he’s saying.
“I believe him, Davy,” Peter says. “Something’s not right.”
“What are we supposed to do—accuse him of being a fake?” Davy asks. “In that case, who’s gonna do it?”
“Let’s choose fingers!” Peter says.
“I’ll do it,” Micky says. “Just pack your stuff and be ready to run.”
🍌
“You’re acting weird,” Mike says when he reenters the room. It’s cold. “Did I do something wrong?”
Micky swallows again. There’s no lump in his throat. Instead, he chokes on every word he wants to say. “I’m alright, Mike,” he replies. “Just tired.”
“Figures,” Mike says. He pulls off his hat and sets it on the bedside table. “You’ve been driving all day.”
The real Mike would apologize with his eyes, silently thanking Micky for bringing them all this way. This Mike can’t be his—his eyes and hair aren’t soft enough. If he hugged this Mike, his skin would be cold.
Mike takes a cigarette between two fingers. “You got a lighter?” Micky instinctively reaches for his breast pocket before he stops.
Micky narrows his eyes. “You don’t smoke,” he says. “And you’re not Mike.”
Mike stares at him blankly. “What do you mean?”
“I know Mike,” Micky says. “And you’re not him.” You’re not my Mike, he wants to say. He lets the words hang between them, thicker than city smog.
The facade is gone. Fake-Mike makes no attempt to hide his disfigured smile. “You’re actin’ crazy, Micky,” he says. “You should get some sleep, seriously.”
“You’re probably right,” Micky says. He backs away slowly. “I’m sorry.” Mike turns around and Micky reaches for his bag. He practically breaks down the door to the opposite room.
“We need to get out of here,” Micky says. Running from Mike is nothing like being chased by foreign spies or undead monsters. Micky isn’t so fearless, after all.
Peter and Davy don’t question him. They grab their bags and follow Micky down the hallway. The old woman is gone when they pass by the front desk. At least Micky saved seventy-five cents, after all.
They pile into the Monkeemobile and Micky steps on the gas. As they ride off into the night, Peter looks back, but Micky doesn’t. He can’t.
The gentle gospel radio is the only station active at this hour. It does nothing to calm their nerves, but they keep it on. “What a freaky night,” Micky says after they’re a mile past the tiny town. He laughs, but he still sees Mike’s teeth in stamped out cigarettes.
“At least we have a story to tell Mike!” Peter says.
“I don’t know, Pete,” Davy says. “I don’t think he’ll wanna hear this one.”
Micky’s not afraid of much. He’s not scared of the dark, he has no problem talking to people, and monsters only make him a little nervous. Even so, whatever was back at the hotel, masquerading as his best friend, is a different story.
🍊
They only make one stop at a gas station when Peter gets hungry and the Monkeemobile is running on fumes. Micky knows the way to Mike’s house, even though they’ve only been there once before.
Micky knocks on the door like a frantic ex. Mike’s mother answers the door with a peculiar look on her face. “Is Mike home?”
“He’s in the living room,” she says. Davy and Peter rush in behind him. She doesn’t question why Micky’s redder than the sun during a heatwave.
“Mike!” Davy practically jumps into Mike’s arms. Peter’s squeezing him so tight they might both pass out.
Mike smiles. “Nice to see ya, tiny,” he says. “You too, Pete.”
Micky is scared of a few things. Losing Mike is one of them. He comes to terms with the fact when Mike quietly reaches for his hand and Micky can’t take it just yet.
Davy furiously ruffles Mike’s hair, and the taller boy clicks his tongue. “Don’t do that.” When Davy finally climbs off him, Mike fixes his hat. “What—why are y’all here?” He asks. “I thought we were meeting at the gig.”
Peter, who was quiet during the drive, launches into an explanation of everything that happened int he last ten hours, from the abandoned town, to the creepy lady at the front desk, to Mike’s freaky doppelgänger.
“We couldn’t stay there any longer,” Davy says. “It was scary, man.”
“You think it was a crazy fan?” Mike asks. Micky quickly shakes his head. “Maybe y’all are just plain tired.”
“I am tired,” Micky says. “But that guy wasn’t you, Mike—his hat was blue and he didn’t know about the Texas prairie chicken.”
Mike’s eyes widen. He hums. “Couldn’t have been me, then,” he says. “I’m just glad you got out okay.”
Micky doesn’t think their lives were in serious danger. Everything has a way of working out of him. Still, the idea of an entity pretending to be Mike is sickening. Maybe it’s one of those creatures who can shape-shift.
“You two can take the guest bedroom,” Mike says.
Davy grabs Peter’s hand. He smiles. “Goodnight, fellas,” he says.
“Goodnight, real Mike!” Peter helps Davy bring their bags downstairs, leaving them alone in the living room. When they leave, Mike takes a seat on the couch. His hand finds Micky’s knee easily.
“Mick, I don’t know what else to say,” he says. “I just—I’m glad you’re here.”
“You’re alright, Mike,” Micky says softly. “We’re all right.” He doesn’t tell Mike he was sick at the thought of the other boy being used as a flesh puppet. He shifts a little closer. This is the real Mike because his body is warm.
Micky reaches for Mike’s hand. His hands are callused, strong in the way a real rockstar’s should be. “I really missed you,” Micky says. “The real you.” Being without Mike is a drag, even for a day.
Mike smiles. “Was the guy good-looking, at least?” He asks.
Micky scoffs. He gently nudges with his elbow. “He looked like you.”
“Not a real answer, shotgun.” Mike’s got this smirk on his face Micky hates to love.
Micky sighs. “He was handsome,” he replies. “Just like you.”
Mike’s hand stays on his leg. “I missed you too, Mick,” he says. “I missed the guys, missed the pad.”
“But you missed me the most, right?” Micky jokes like it hurts. He toes the ever-thinning line between dipping his feet in the water and diving with his eyes closed.
“Yeah,” Mike says. “I did.”
Micky finally rests his head on Mike’s shoulder. Mike thinks he’s scrawny, a beanpole of a man, but he always offers his shoulder to lean on.
“I’m never gone for long,” Mike says. His voice melts into the gentle silence between them.
Micky smiles and lets his eyes flutter closed. He knows Mike means it this time. “Goodnight, Mike,” he says. My Mike.
Mike wraps an arm around his shoulders. “‘Night, Mick.”