Disclaimer: I had a lot of help on this'un. I got my info on Michael Nesmith's life from the Monkeesfic list, and those people got some of it from "Total Control" which I can't find anywhere, but that's a whole other story. Madame Spy told me she thinks Michael is right-handed, so if that's wrong, blame her. :)
I don't own the Monkees, I don't even know them. Oh, and I don't have any money, so please don't sue me. If you are a Monkee, please email me because it would make my life.
That is all.

Michael Nesmith sighed and rolled over slightly as he drifted into awareness. "Phyllis?" he mumbled, reaching out for her. His arm met empty air.

He opened his eyes then, looking around blearily. It was early yet, the alarm hadn't even gone off, so what was she doing up? He snapped awake and sat straight up, dark eyes flashing. "What the-?"

His king-sized bed had been replaced by a twin, and there was another twin bed on the other side of the room. Peeking out from under those covers was a very familiar fuzzy head.

"Micky!" No answer, just an incomprehensible mumble as the head disappeared even further under the covers. "Mick!" With an exasperated sigh, he swung his long legs out of bed and stalked over to Micky, shaking him vigorously. "Micky, cut it out, is this some kind of sick joke?" Micky still didn't respond.

Michael let out a low curse and looked around again. The room wasn't at all familiar. There was a nice-sized window to the side, so he looked out.... And saw endless beach. Furrowing his brow in confusion, he shook Micky with renewed vigor. "George Michael Dolenz, get up right this minute and tell me what the hell is goin' on!"

Micky sat up with a snort. "Hungh... wha? Mike, what'd you wake me for? It's only...." He squinted at the clock on the dresser. "Five forty-three a.m.!"

"Okay, joke's over. Where are we, how did you get me here, and where's Phyllis?"

"Where...? We're at the pad. Are you feeling okay? Who's Phyllis?"

"Quit fooling around," he growled angrily, "You know exactly who Phyllis is!"

"I do not!"

"She's my freakin' wife, you idiot, an' I wanna know where she is!"

Micky's mouth dropped open. "W...- w-w-w-wife?!"

"What's the matter with you?"

"Since when do you- ...wife?!"

"Okay fine, I'll bite. Since June 24, 1964. An' where's Christian?"

"Do I even wanna know who that is?"

"MY SON!!!"

"Mike... I think you oughta lie down, you're obviously not feeling well...." Micky eyed his black silk boxers with a critical eye. "You've probably caught a cold. Where's your nightgown?"

"Not funny, Dolenz!" Giving up, he slammed out of the room - and stopped short at the top of a spiral staircase, gaping soundlessly at the room below him.

It was the pad, complete with totem pole and red-haired dummy sitting in the living room. The only difference was the fourth wall that completed the room. "What the hell...?"

He trudged down the steps, clutching the banister for dear life, his eyes taking in every inch of his surroundings. There was the "Money is the Root of all Evil" sign, the fire extinguisher with instructions to "RUN" in case of fire, that familiar kitchen area, the walk-in closet with the stuffed bird above the door....

A thought suddenly occurred to him and he whipped around, staring at the closed door that led to....

With a shaking hand, he turned the knob and peeked in. Sure enough, there lay Davy, lying on top of the covers of the bed closest to the door, wearing a pinkish nightgown and boots. In the other twin bed, snoring lightly and clutching a teddy bear, was Peter Tork, wearing orange pajamas with a cap and footies, a single blue bunny on the left side of his chest.

Michael bit his lip hard enough to draw blood and stepped back, closing the door once again.

"You okay?"

He jumped and whirled around to see Micky at the top of the staircase, regarding him seriously.

"I'm... I'm...." He gulped and forced a neutral expression onto his face. If this was a joke, if they had somehow pulled this thing off, he was not going to give them the satisfaction of freakin' out. "I'm just goin' outside for a minute, Mick."

"Okay...." Micky watched him leave, confusion evident in his expressive eyes.

Michael stepped outside, shivering slightly from the early morning chill. His light boxers didn't provide much warmth. He shielded his eyes from the rising sun. Dawn was just beginning to blossom over the beach, and the sky was lit up in hues of orange and pink. He turned around, his heart dropping into his feet. There was the beach house, the same one he'd seen a million times on the show - only it was real.

Michael did something he hadn't done since he was three. He screamed.

~*~

Buzzing. Something was buzzing.

"Michael, wake up, honey. Come on, you'll be late."

Someone was shaking him gently, murmuring into his ear. "Go 'way," he muttered, trying to roll away from the voice. "Lemme 'lone."

"It's time to get up," the person insisted, pulling at his bedcovers.

"Micky, go away."

"MICKY?!" His covers were suddenly and violently yanked all the way off, and his eyes flew open, meeting those of a very angry female.

"Aaagh!" He jumped backward so violently that he fell out of the bed, landing with a thump on the floor.

"What is the matter with you," the irate female hissed. "Do I look like Micky to you? And if you answer yes I'll deck you! Now stop this nonsense or you'll wake Christian!"

"Chr... Christian?"

"Your son," she growled, her tone infinitely cold, "Or have you forgotten him too? And what is with that ridiculous nightgown, and that hat!?"

"My... son? Wait a minute lady, I don't know who you are or what you're talking about, but-"

"Don't you start with me, Michael, you know better than to mess with me in the morning! Now get up and get dressed, you have to be on the set in less than an hour!"

He shrank back, cowed by her fury. "Okay, okay.... On the set, right.... I'll play along...."

She let out on final growl and turned on her heel, stalking out of the room. She slammed a fist into the alarm clock as she left, and it finally stopped buzzing. "'Bout time," he muttered, picking himself up off the floor. "Thing was givin' me a headache."

~*~

Peter Tork watched in amused silence as the Nesmiths pulled up to the studio entrance. He had been about to go inside when he saw them, and something made him stop and watch. Phyllis was driving, for some reason, and her whole body was rigid, hands clenching the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles were white. Michael was slouched in the seat beside her, looking to all the world like a little boy who'd been denied his candy bar. He was already sort-of in wardrobe - the green wool hat was perched on his head. That gave Peter pause. How had he snuck that thing out last night? And why?

Finishing off the odd picture, Christian was in the backseat, playing merrily with an action figure, totally oblivious to the fact that his Dad was very obviously sleeping on the couch tonight. "Or in the doghouse," Peter snickered to himself under his breath.

"Bye," Michael mumbled as he stepped out of the car. He got only a "Hmph" in response as Phyllis floored the gas pedal and screeched off. Michael gave a distinctly un-Michael-like flinch.

"Hiya Michael," Peter said merrily, slipping an arm around his shoulders. "What did you do to get her so steamed?"

"I dunno," he sighed. "Pete, what's goin' on here, where are we?"

Peter frowned a bit. "Don't call me Pete, I've told you a thousand times."

Michael gaped at him. "You have?"

"Of course I have!" Peter took a closer look at him - Michael looked awfully pale. "...Don't you remember?"

"Where are we?" Michael asked him plaintively.

"The set."

"Set of what?"

"Our TV show? Y'know, the thing about four out-of-work musicians? The Monkees?"

Michael went five shades of white. "TV show...? What...?" He suddenly grabbed Peter by the lapels. "Who are you?"

"You've gotta be kidding me," he barked, wrenching himself out of Michael's grasp, but he found himself staring into desperate eyes - the eyes of a drowning man - so he relented. "Okay, I'm Peter Halsten Thorkleson, a.k.a. Peter Tork, musician and sometimes actor. Who are you?"

"I'm... I'm... in Hell."

And Mike slid to the ground in a dead faint.

~*~

Davy and Peter awoke immediately when they heard the scream. They both leapt out of bed and burst into the living room, looking around wildly. "Wha-?"

"What's goin on," Peter finished.

Micky flew past them out onto the beach. "Mike's freakin' out!"

"Wha-?" Davy repeated, but he followed Micky out.

Mike was staring at the beach house, his mouth hanging open and his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He spotted them coming out and fixed them with a desperate stare. "Who are you?"

Davy shot Micky a look. "Wha' you mean, Mike, you know who we are."

"Humor me," he ordered grimly.

"Okay...." Davy shrugged and decided to play along. The sooner Mike came to his senses, the sooner they could go inside. He didn't fancy being out here in his nightgown. "I'm David Jones, that's Micky Dolenz, and that's Peter Tork."

"Full names."

"Same. 'Cept Micky's name is George Michael Dolenz if you wanna get technical."

"Yeah, but don't call me George."

Mike gulped and stared at Peter. "Peter Tork is your real... your full name?"

"Yes."

Mike turned to Micky, grabbing at his shoulders. "Have you ever in your life gone by the name of Braddock?"

"Braddock? No...."

"You're really a drummer?"

"What else would I be?"

"Oh God...." Mike sank down to the sand with a moan and buried his face in his hands. "We're really a band, aren't we?"

"Sure," Micky shrugged. "What did you think we were?"

"And we live here... together."

"Yeah...."

"I'm in Hell. I've died and gone to Hell."

"I'm afraid I don't-" Peter began.

"Just... come inside, I'll try to explain," Michael sighed, gesturing toward the pad as he stood.

"Okay, sure Mike," Davy agreed. "Whatever you say."

"Call me Michael."

"Right. Michael."

~*~

Peter dragged Mike into the studio, grunting with exertion. "A little help here?"

"What the hell-?" Bob Rafelson was at his side in a second, taking Mike's legs and assisting Peter in lifting him onto a couch.

"I dunno," Peter gasped, dropping Mike's head unceremoniously onto a pillow. "He was acting really odd and then he just keeled over."

"'Ey, what's wrong with him," Davy Jones asked, entering the room and speaking with a mouth full of donut.

"No idea," Peter answered. "Hey, where'd you get the donut?"

"Focus, Peter," Rafelson snapped, slapping lightly at Mike's cheeks. "What do you mean, he was acting 'really odd'?"

"He and Phyllis had some kinda huge fight this morning, I think. And then he asked me where we were and who I was."

"He asked you what?!"

"Yeah, he was very confused for some reason. I think he's sick."

"Wonderful," Rafelson sighed. "Just what we need." He did a double-take. "Why's he wearing that hat?"

Mike moaned a bit and tried to roll over. He only succeeded in falling off the couch.

Rafelson flinched as he hit the floor. "Michael? Michael, baby, what's the matter with you? You feeling okay?"

"I'm in Hell," Mike muttered again. "Peter's not Pete and there's a lady in my bed."

"Hell is a lady in 'is bed?" Davy raised an eyebrow and wandered out again. "'E's definitely sick. That's gem stuff, that is."

"Open your eyes, Michael," Rafelson ordered.

Mike did, and fixed a terrified gaze on him. "Who are you? Where am I?"

"Who- I'm your producer, baby, I'm Bob, you know that."

"Producer?"

"Of the TV show," Peter reminded him.

"Oh right, the TV show." Mike sat up slowly, backpedaling away from Rafelson. "And you're not Pete."

"Right, baby, right." Peter knelt in front of him and grabbed the hat. "Where'd you get this?"

"It's mine-" Mike tried to grab it back but Peter held it away from him.

"It belongs in wardrobe, you know that. We're not allowed to take this stuff home."

"But... but it's mine!" Mike managed to snatch it from Peter and plunked it back down firmly on his head.

"On the show it is.... You're a bit confused, Michael. Are you feverish?"

"What's this I hear about Nesmith being sick?" Bert Schneider wandered in, his eyes landing immediately on Mike. "He doesn't look sick."

"Hey Michael, why don't you talk to Mr. Schneider," Peter suggested, backing away.

"Mr. Schnieder? Where is he?"

Schneider shot Rafelson a concerned look. "I'm right here."

"You're not Mr. Schneider, Mr. Schneider is our dummy."

"That's on the show Michael, see, this is real life."

"Real life?" He repeated it slowly, eyes darting around the room.

"That's right." Schneider stepped a little closer and Mike struggled to his feet, backing away. "Now just relax, Michael, everything will be okay.... I think you just need a good rest-"

Schneider reached out for him, and Mike did the only thing he could think of - he bolted.

"SECURITY!"

~*~

"So let me get this straight," Micky said slowly, leaning back in his chair. "You're Robert Michael Nesmith, aged twenty-four, you're married and have a kid, and until this morning we were all just a TV show and now you have no idea why we're real and how you got here?"

"That's about the size of it," Michael nodded wearily. "And that means Mike probably woke up in my bed this morning... with Phyllis...." He dropped his head into his hands and groaned. "Oh God, Phyllis...."

"I don't get it," Peter said slowly, wringing his hands.

Michael glared at him and snapped, "Well, if you'd pay attention for once in your life-!"

Peter's face crumpled and he let out an anguished sob. Michael rolled his eyes as Micky rushed to comfort Peter.

"'Ey, you didn't haveta say that," Davy reproached him, reaching out to pat Peter's shoulder. ""E didn't mean it, Pete."

"Yes I did!" Michael glowered at the blonde-haired man. "You're not an idiot, so why do you act like one! It's dumb, is what it is!"

"I'm... I'm not dumb," Peter wailed, scrubbing at his leaking eyes.

"I JUST SAID THAT!"

"Now you listen here, Michael whoever-the-bloody-heck you are," Davy burst out, "I don't care where you come from, you 'ave no right to treat him like this! You owe him an apology!"

Michael rolled his eyes again and sighed, mumbling to himself. "I ain't apologizin' to no TV character."

"'E's not a TV character now is he? And if you don't apologize, I'll... I'll pop you one!"

Michael stood up and drew himself to his full height, where he glared down at Davy. "You and what army, short stuff?"

"STOP IT," Peter sobbed, leaping between them and shoving them apart. "Stop fighting, you're not helping anybody!"

Michael was about to scream at him when the truth in those words suddenly occurred to him. He bit back his anger and stepped back. "Okay, okay, you're right. I'm... sorry, Peter."

"Yeesh!" Micky wiped exaggeratedly at his brow and made a comical face. "You guys are a handful!"

Michael sank back down into his chair and glared at the fourth wall. "I feel sorry for Mike.... He's probably in the nuthouse by now...."

~*~

Mike wasn't in the nuthouse, though he was quite close to being put there. He huddled in a dark corner in the studio, his knees held close against his body in an attempt to make himself small and invisible. That Schneider person had the fuzz after him and he had no intention of getting caught. People were everywhere, sometimes coming thisclose to stepping on him, but he'd been lucky. His little corner provided just enough darkness to hide him.

He waited until it had been quiet for quite awhile before venturing a peek out into the light. It was deserted. He stood slowly, his eyes darting around, ears straining for any sign that someone was coming. Nothing.

"Okay," he murmured to himself. "Now to find a way outta this funhouse...."

~*~

Peter stepped off studio grounds and looked around, trying to gather his thoughts. If he was Michael - scratch that, if he was Mike - where would he have gone? He would have left the studio, first off. Peter smiled to himself, he had that part covered. Now which direction?

He'd read somewhere that people who thought they were choosing directions at random most often went the direction of their dominant hand. Now, was Mike right-handed or left-handed? Michael was right-handed, so of course he (and Mike) played guitar right-handed. But something was nagging at him.... He went back over the episodes they'd filmed, one-by-one in his head. In what episodes, if any, had Mike written anything down?

"That's it! Episode fourteen: 'Dance, Monkee, Dance.'" Mike had signed the contract for dancing lessons left-handed. Of course, Michael had only done that because of the camera angle, but it made things a bit complicated.

Peter thought about it for a moment, then crossed his fingers for luck and turned right.

~*~

Mike wandered down the street, casting nervous glances behind him every few seconds. People were staring at him and it made him nervous. Were they all insane? Was the whole world suddenly after him?

He shivered, then laughed nervously. "You're just being paranoid, Mike," he tried to assure himself.

A woman passed by him and nudged her companion, whispering, "It is him!"

Mike flinched. "Of course, it ain't paranoia if you're really being followed...."

~*~

Peter spotted him a mile away - he was still wearing that dumb hat. He reached into his back pocket and fingered the identical green wool hat he'd found in wardrobe... where it belonged. "Okay Mike," he whispered under his breath, "Let's find out exactly what's going on here."

~*~

Mike leapt almost three feet into the air when an excited girl grabbed him by the arm and shrieked. "Mike Nesmith! Oh my GAWD, you're Mike Nesmith!"

"I... Well yeah, I-"

"Oh my GAWD, can I have your autograph?"

"Hey, uh, keep it down...." He tried to pull away from her. People were staring. "They're looking for me, please...."

"I am your BIGGEST FAN! Well, I think Davy is cuter but it's mostly the accent, really. You're the most talented one and I LOVE your hat. Can I touch your hat, oh PLEASE can I touch your hat?!"

"I... uhh...."

"He loves it when you touch his hat," said a baritone voice behind him, and Mike paled. They'd found him.

"PETER!" The girl screeched and let go of his arm, leaping on Peter and squeezing him tightly. "OH MY GAWD IT'S PETER TORK!"

"Hiya darlin," Peter said calmly, hugging her back. "Would you like an autograph?"

"Oh, WOULD you? Oh my GAWD, I would just DIE!"

"Well, don't do that. Anyone have paper, a pen...?" Peter quickly threw an arm around Mike's shoulders, sensing that he was preparing to bolt. "Where were you headed in such a hurry, buddy," he asked, keeping his voice light. Someone handed him a pen and a pad of paper. "Oh, thanks."

He winked at Mike and whispered in his ear. "Stick with me, I want to help." Then he lifted the pen and paper and gave the crowd that was gathering a dazzling, dimpled grin. "Okay, who do I make this thing out to?"

"Laura," the excitable girl gushed, making moon-eyes at Mike.

"Okay Laura." Peter signed his name, then handed the pen and paper to Mike. "Your turn."

Mike took them, and with shaking hands, wrote To Laura, from Mike Nesmith. Peter realized with amazement that his handwriting matched Michael's to the letter.

"Okay, who else," he said jovially, taking the pad and pen back from Mike and handing the first sheet of paper to Laura. "We've got plenty of paper!"

When the crowd finally thinned and wandered off, Peter turned to the still-shaky Mike. "Okay, I'm going to get right down to business. I know who you are."

"I'm glad you do, 'cause I'm confused as heck."

Mike looked ready to bolt again so Peter made it quick. "Make a fist."

"...What?"

"Make a fist. With your right hand, make a fist."

Mike slowly raised his arm and did as he was told - making an absolutely perfect fist.

Peter let out a low whistle. "I knew it!"

"Knew what?"

He gave a triumphant grin. "Michael Nesmith has a finger that doesn't quite work. He can't make a complete fist with his right hand. But you can."

"Okay...?"

"So...." Peter shrugged. "You're not Michael Nesmith. You're Mike. From the show."

"I'm from the show...."

"You sure are. I don't know how you got here, or why you came, but you've stepped right out of the TV into real life."

"I didn't step anywhere, I just woke up here! With a lady.... In someone else's bed."

"In Michael's bed. See, he plays the Mike character on the show. I play Peter."

"But... your names-"

"They just named the characters after us. Well, except they shortened mine, it wasn't 'commercial' enough."

"...Oh." Mike said faintly. He was beginning to sway. "How did you figure all this out?"

"Well, I'm not as slow as my television character." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the green wool hat. "I found this in wardrobe, so obviously Michael didn't take it home with him. But there you are, wearing it. And you didn't know Phyllis and Christian, or Bob and Bert, and you didn't recognize the studio. Plus there was the comment you made about Mr. Schneider. It all makes sense in a nonsensical kinda way."

"...Oh...." Mike swallowed hard and his knees buckled.

Peter grabbed his elbow. "Oh no you don't, you're not passing out on me again! Come on." He started pulling Mike along beside him.

"Where are we going," Mike slurred, trying to keep up.

"My place. You gotta stay somewhere until we figure this thing out."

"Oh, okay. So long as the fuzz don't get me."

"You don't have to worry about the fuzz, Mike. We'll fix this, you have my word."

"Well, okay, if I have your word...."

"Don't get smart with me, son."

~*~

"...And what is with that ugly car?"

Peter rolled his eyes and asked himself for the millionth time why he had let Mike talk him into showing him the pilot episode. So far he'd complained about Micky's hair, the Rudy character, the songs and instruments they used, the layout of the pad, and now the car. "They got rid of that car right away, don't worry."

"Well good, 'cause that's an ugly car."

The phone rang and Peter jumped up, eager to get away. "Be right back!" He retreated into the kitchen and sat down, shaking his head in frustration before answering the phone. "Hello?"

"Hey Pete!"

"Oh, hello George."

"Okay, okay, sorry Peter," Micky amended with an aggrieved sigh. "Hey, we weren't sure if you knew since you left early and all, but Nez never got home tonight! Phyllis is having kittens."

"Oh.... Is that right?"

"Yeah! And Bob and Bert are freakin' out too.... They're trying to figure out if they should call the police or something, but then the media would find out, and that wouldn't be good-"

"Micky...." Peter paused for a moment, shooting a glance toward his guest in the living room. "Can you keep a secret?"

"Sure, what's up?"

"Well.... Mike's kind of with me."

"What?! Hey Davy, he's with Peter!"

Peter flinched. "Great, Micky, way to keep a secret. Jeez...."

"What's he doin' at your place?"

"It's a long story. Seriously Mick, you can't tell anybody!"

"Not even Davy?"

"Well, you can tell him I guess, but that's it!"

"Deal. So spill it, what's going on?"

"What would you say if I told you that I had Mike... of the Monkees... in my living room?"

"Well duh, Peter, what other Mike would he be?"

Peter blew out an exasperated breath as he tucked the phone underneath his ear and let it rest on his shoulder, freeing up his hands to rummage through the cabinet for some tea. "No, Micky, not the Monkee from the TV show, the Monkee from the band! The real band!"

"There is no real band!"

"Yes there is, just not in this universe," he confided smugly.

"Hey Davy, Peter's gone crazy too! You think it's catching?"

"I'm not crazy!" Peter threw his hands up in the air and rolled his eyes, dropping his newly acquired teabag on the floor.

"You have gone off the deep end, my friend. You are stone gone!"

"Okay, look, just come over here, okay? I'll prove it!" He peeked out into the living room and moaned silently as he saw Mike still watching the television intently, now scribbling something on a pad of paper.

"He says Michael's Mike! No, the character! For real! I'm serious! He wants us to come over!"

"'E's crackers," Peter heard faintly in the background.

He rolled his eyes again and removed the phone from his ear, snapping into the receiver. "Just get here, okay? I gotta get back to Mike, he's taking notes."

"Taking notes? What-?"

But Peter had already hung up the phone.

~*~

Michael sighed as he stared out the bay window, watching Micky and Davy frolicking on the beach outside. He glanced at his watch - 11:37 a.m. On a normal day he'd be at the studio, filming the latest saga in the life of those lovable long-haired weirdoes, The Monkees. "I liked it a lot better when I wasn't livin' it," he muttered aloud, frowning deeply.

"What was it like," Peter asked suddenly from behind him.

"Peter!" Michael whipped around, his hand flying up to his pounding heart. "Jeez, don't sneak up on me like that!"

"I'm sorry," the blond man said solemnly, taking a seat on the bandstand and folding his hands between his knees. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"How long were you there?"

"Not long. I just came in."

"Hey, where'd you go this mornin'? You took off kinda fast...."

"I just went for a walk," Peter answered evasively. "I had to think."

"I hope you weren't too upset about what I said," Michael fretted, surprised at himself for actually meaning it. "I was upset, ya know...."

"Yeah...." Peter shrugged a bit and looked away. "It's okay."

Michael felt a surge of remorse. There was a depth of sadness in Peter's eyes, and the thought that he'd probably put it there was really ripping at him. There was something about this Peter that really got to him; a naked openness that reminded him very much of Christian....

"Hey, umm...." He found he didn't have to struggle so much to say it this time as he might have normally. "I'm sorry, man. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

"What...?" Peter looked up, seemingly startled. "No, you didn't- I mean, you did, but...." He sighed and looked down again. "That's not why I'm sad."

"Oh.... So why are you?"

"I'm worried about Mike! You said he was in the nuthouse...."

"Oh, hmmm.... Well.... He might not be...."

"But you think he is."

"Well...."

Peter sighed swiped at the tears that suddenly stung his eyes. "I miss him. Micky and Davy just don't get it.... He could be gone forever-"

Michael leapt to his feet, eyes flashing with sudden panic. "Don't say that, don't you dare even think it!"

Peter drew back, very obviously bracing himself for another biting attack, and Michael clamped down hard on his temper as Christian's eyes once again stared fearfully up at him from Peter's face.

"Shit.... Look Peter," he continued, forcing himself to at least sound calm, "I don't wanna even think about that, cause if he's stuck there, then I'm stuck here, and that means never seein' my wife and son again. You can understand how much that... scares me... can'tcha?"

Peter nodded, his eyes wide and sympathetic. "Yes.... I'm sorry, I hadn't thought of you." He frowned down at his folded hands, biting nervously at his lower lip. "We have to find a way to switch you back."

"Uh-huh. And what would you suggest?"

Peter eyed him for a long moment, seeming to gather up all of his courage before uttering one simple word. "Micky."

~*~

Mike barely looked around at the energetic pounding on Peter's front door, but Peter nearly leapt out of his skin. "I'll get it!"

"See that you do," Mike muttered at the television, somewhat caustically.

Peter turned an incredulous gaze on him as he reached for the doorknob. "You watch it, son, or I'll throw you to the wolves." He opened the door.

"It's about time you got here!" Then, in a lower voice, he added. "He's driving me batty!"

Micky peered into the living room, where Mike was now finding fault with episode eleven, 'Monkees A La Carte.' "What's he doing?"

"He's telling me everything we've ever done wrong in the show. He'll be glad to see you've stopped straightening your hair."

"Why?"

"His Micky never did. He says it looked stupid."

"You really think that's Mike," Davy interrupted. "From the show?"

"I know it is, and I'll prove it. C'mon." Peter led the two skeptics into the living room and sat them down on either side of Mike. "Mike, show them who you are."

Mike, though still absorbed in the show he was watching, raised his right hand and made a fist. Micky let out a low whistle. "Wow, it is him!"

Then Mike looked up - right into Micky's eyes - and froze, his perfect fist still in the air. "My God...."

"What...?"

"You... you look just like him!"

"Like who?"

"Micky!"

"I am Micky."

"No you're not. Not the right one, anyhow."

"Don't we all look just like who we're supposed to look like," Davy asked, his voice still skeptical.

"No," Mike retorted, speaking to Davy as though he were a child. "Your hair is too short, and you look older. Peter's too old too, and he's... well, he's just different, that's all."

"Oh."

Micky grinned and held out a hand. "Well anyway, I'm Micky Dolenz. The wrong one. Nice to meetcha Mike!"

Mike hesitantly stuck out his hand and Micky shook it vigorously, causing Mike's entire body to bounce up and down on the couch cushions. He had to grab at his hat with his free hand to keep it from flying off.

Davy shrugged and decided to get in on the act. "And I'm David Jones. Charmed, I'm sure."

"Told you," Peter said smugly, crossing his arms and leaning back in his easy chair.

"Okay, so this is Mike," Davy conceded. "Does this mean that Michael is-"

"Stuck in his world?" Peter gestured toward Mike, then nodded grimly. "I think so."

"Wow...." Davy stared at the television, suddenly seeing the wacky events in the Monkees lives' in a whole new light. "He must be going crackers by now."

"Yeah, if my counterpart hasn't driven him to murder," Peter sighed.

"Your counterpart," Micky protested, "What about mine?"

Davy snorted rudely. "He's already used to you, Micky."

"Hey, I resemble that remark!"

"Think about it, Micky," Peter explained patiently. "Michael deals with your antics everyday, but he's never had to deal with Peter's umm... naivete. He's got precious little patience for that sort of thing."

"Oh yeah...." Micky sat back and watched the television in silence for a moment. "So what do we do?"

"I was hoping you'd have an idea," Peter deadpanned.

"Nope, I'm dry. Davy?"

Davy shrugged.

"Well...." Peter swept a critical eye over Mike. "I guess until we do figure things out, you've got to pretend to be Michael."

"What?" Davy stared at him in disbelief. "Peter, Bob'n'Bert are ready to throw him in the loony bin the second they see him!"

Mike shuddered at the thought.

"We'll just convince them that he was sick. You know, delirious."

"Oh, I get it," Micky grinned. "He was just out of his mind with fever!"

"Exactly.... And if that doesn't work, we'll just have to tell them the truth."

"You must be joking," Davy burst out. "They'll throw us all in the bin!"

"We'd just show them the fist," Peter suggested. "They won't be able to deny there's something weird there."

"What about that lady," Mike reminded them, somewhat nervously. "I don't wanna go back with her...."

"Oh, right.... Phyllis." Peter frowned and scratched idly at his head. "That does pose a problem. She would have noticed a fever that high...."

"Not to mention she'd never believe he was Michael," Davy pointed out. "She'd get suspicious."

"Does this mean we're going with the truth?" Micky asked dubiously.

"Guess so," Peter shrugged. "You'll stay here with me, okay Mike? Tomorrow, we'll tell them what's going on and hopefully they'll go easy on you, at least for your first day. Maybe they can write you out of the episode. That way, you can watch the filming and try to be ready for next time."

"He's probably already written out," Davy piped up. "They would have made arrangements."

"I don't know, you guys," Mike protested weakly. "I don't think they'll believe us. They're gonna lock me up and that lady's gonna yell at me again...."

Don't worry about Phyllis," Micky assured him. "She really is a sweetheart when you get to know her. I bet you'll like her once she retracts her claws."

Mike looked doubtful, but didn't argue.

"I'll call the studio," Peter told them, "And leave a message that we all want to meet before filming to discuss something important. We'll tell them first thing tomorrow morning."

"Sounds like a plan," Davy agreed. "You ready to go, Micky? I'm hungry, and I promised I'd call me da' before too late."

"Sure, yeah okay." Micky stood and placed a comforting hand on Mike's shoulder. "Don't you worry, ol' buddy, it'll be fine, you'll see. You'll like being Michael for a day or so, we have lots of fun on the set."

"Okay.... If you say so...."

"I do! Later!"

"See ya Mick," Peter waved. "Bye Davy."

"Cheers!"

Mike sighed as the door closed behind them. "Oh well.... I guess tomorrow's gonna be another day...."

~*~

"Micky?" Michael furrowed his brow in confusion and disbelief. "How can Micky switch us back?"

"Well, he likes to build things," Peter explained, "Maybe he can build something that will... I don't know."

"What, like... like a portal, or something?"

"Yeah, I guess. He's built weird things before, you never know."

"Has he ever built anything that actually worked?"

"Umm...."

Michael groaned and lowered his face into his hands. "Great, just great. My only hope is an excitable fuzzball with a chemistry set."

"Hey, at least give him a chance before you insult him," Peter admonished lightly. "He always comes through for us in emergencies.... Or tries to, anyway. He'll figure something out."

"Yeah, I guess Micky's your plan-man while Mike's gone. Okay, I'll give him a chance. What other choice do I have?"

"Not much, I guess.... Unless it just happens on its own."

"On its own?"

"You just woke up here, didn't you," Peter reminded him. "You didn't do anything, or go anywhere...."

"No, yesterday was just like any other day."

"What's any other day like," Peter asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. "What's it like where you're from?"

"Well.... I dunno, it's pretty normal. I get up at around five-forty-five to be at the set by seven. We film pretty much all day, and we do some recording afterwards most days. Then I go home to Phyllis and Christian. That's what I did yesterday. What about you guys, what did you do yesterday?"

"Well, we had a pretty exciting day. We almost lost Davy when this tealeaf lady tricked him into-"

"Going on The Amateur Hour with her daughter Fern," Michael finished, his mouth falling open.

"Yeah! How did you know that?"

Michael ignored the question and spoke incredulously. "But that was first season. I thought you were in second season!"

"First... season?"

"I mean, with Micky's hair, and all...."

"What about Micky's hair?"

"It's second season!"

"Oh, okay." Peter nodded slowly, as if he actually understood what Michael was talking about.

"Oh, forget it." Michael fell into a sullen silence and busied himself trying to remember the next episode. "I wish Peter was here," he muttered aloud.

"I am here," Peter reminded him, sounding immensely puzzled.

"Not you, the other Peter. My Peter."

"Oh. What's the difference?"

"Oh, there is a huge difference, my friend." Michael laughed mirthlessly. "My Peter has a photographic memory. I'm tryin' to remember what the next episode is and I can't think of it. He remembers 'em all in order."

"Why do you want to know the next episode?"

"So I'll know what to expect, bein' here."

"You shouldn't want to know the future Michael," Peter told him solemnly. "If we were meant to know the future, it would happen right now."

Michael just stared at him. "Right."

~*~

"C'mon Mike, let's go, or we'll be late," Peter called, gulping down the last of his herbal tea.

A pitiful groan floated up from the back of the house. "Aww, Peter, it's too early! No one in their right mind is up yet!" Mike shuffled into the kitchen, straightening his hat over sleep-mussed hair. His eyes were baggy and red, and he still had pillow lines on his cheeks.

Peter snickered into his hand and gestured to the cup of coffee waiting on the counter. "I got you some caffeine at the corner store. You do drink coffee, don't you?"

Mike's answer was a desperate lunge for the cup.

"Careful," Peter warned, "It's-"

Mike suddenly let out a pained howl and stuck his face under the faucet, turning on the cold water full-blast and letting it run over his burnt tongue.

"-hot."

Just under ten minutes later, after much grumbling on Mike's part, they were finally in the car on the way to the studio. "Okay, here's the plan for today," Peter said in a tone much too cheerful and lively for Mike's liking, "We've got a meeting first thing. I called Bob last night and told him we needed to talk about Michael's situation. He'll be surprised to see you, I didn't want to tell him over the phone."

"Why not?" Mike asked, taking a careful sip of his coffee.

"He wouldn't have believed me, that's why. Even Micky thought I'd gone crackers - err, crazy - when I told him."

"You picked that up too, huh?"

"What?"

"Crackers. From Davy."

"Oh.... Yeah, we all have. They even used it in today's script, but I dunno if it'll still be there. Bob told me Michael's already been written out, so the whole thing's probably been chopped up quite a bit."

"How are they gonna explain that I'm not there?"

"They won't, I guess. They never really do when one of us is out."

"Well, don't people wonder?" Mike looked skeptical at the idea. If this world's Monkees were as popular as he thought they were (that weird girl Laura's behavior being the most obvious clue), people would want a reason why their favorite Monkee was AWOL.

"Probably," Peter answered with a shrug. "Sometimes they answer that in the interview after the show."

"Oh."

The were quiet for a moment as Mike stared out the window at his unfamiliar surroundings and Peter concentrated on his driving.

"Hey Peter," Mike finally asked, turning to face him nervously, "What happens after the meeting?"

"Oh, that's right, I didn't quite finish that train of thought, did I? Well, that kinda depends on Bob and Bert, but we'll probably film today's episode while you sit and watch. Then you oughta be ready for tomorrow's filming. Of course, it's probable we won't finish the whole episode today, in which case you'll have to sit out tomorrow too."

"Umm, exactly how long do you think I'll be stuck here?"

"Not long I hope," came Peter's honest answer. "Michael's got a family to get back to."

"Never mind me, it's all about Michael," Mike pouted, folding his arms across his chest and slouching further down in the seat.

"Oh, come off it," Peter scoffed, shooting him an incredulous glance. "I know you wanna go back home, but it's not the same thing. There's a child involved here who needs his father."

"Okay, I know," Mike admitted grudgingly. "An' I ain't much of a father."

"Well, I wouldn't say that," Peter smiled. "You're always fathering the other Monkees, aren't you?"

Mike snorted. "Yeah, they need full-time supervision. But that's different, ya know? Kids are so little an' helpless...."

"True."

They lapsed into companionable silence again as Mike thought back to the home he'd left behind, and Peter went over in his head exactly how he would break the news to Rafelson and Schneider. Then, something suddenly occurred to him.

"Hey Mike," he said slowly, a glimmer of an idea beginning to form in his brain, "What exactly did you do they day before you ended up here? Anything weird? ... Relatively speaking, that is?"

"Ummm... not really anything too weird. See, there was this tealeaf lady who tried to trick Davy into-"

"Davy and Fern!" Peter interrupted, a grin lighting up his face.

"Well yeah, the girl's name was Fern.... How did you know?"

"That was episode fifteen. Hey, I always wondered... whatever happened to Fern after she and Davy won the prize?"

"Not sure," Mike shrugged. "Reckon she found someone else to perform with."

"Oh, how about this.... When you guys performed on the show, didn't Davy recognize you? That was something I never liked about that episode."

Mike shrugged. "Nope. He was nervous, I guess. He wasn't payin' that close attention." Then he grimaced. "But he teased me about it later. I made a danged fool of myself."

"Well, you did it for Davy. The others didn't come off too well either."

Mike chuckled at that. "Don't tell Micky that. He thinks he killed."

"He would." Peter grinned at the thought, then made a face. "Well anyway, I thought maybe that'd give us a clue to how you got here, but I guess not."

"Maybe Michael and the others have figured something out," Mike suggested hopefully. "D'you think they're gettin' along okay? I mean, you know Michael and the guys pretty well...."

"Umm... it's all relative," Peter answered cautiously.

"How so?"

"Maybe they caught on and toned it down a bit."

Mike gulped, catching the implications of Peter's words. "What if they haven't?"

"If they haven't...? Then somebody's liable to get killed."

~*~

"I'm gonna kill him," Michael muttered as he nearly slipped on a wet towel lying in the middle of the bathroom floor.

"Who?" Peter asked curiously, as he passed by outside.

"Micky," he growled, leaning over to turn on the water. It was his second morning here in Monkee-land, and the only perk was being able to get up at ten-thirty rather than the five-forty-five he was used to. He only hoped Micky had left enough hot water for a shower.

"Did I hear my name?" Micky asked, appearing behind Peter and peering into the bathroom. "You talkin' about me, huh? Huh? Huh?"

Michael just stared blankly at him, unable to articulate a response.

"Hey Micky, Michael and I were talking yesterday," Peter told him, "and we were saying that maybe you could help Michael get back home," Peter told him, gazing at Micky hopefully. "Do you think you can?"

"Me?" Micky looked back and forth between the two of them, his eyes confused. "What can I do?"

"I don't know," Peter admitted, "We thought you might build some sort of machine...."

"What kind of machine?"

"To switch him and Mike back again."

"A portal," Michael put in, finally having found his voice.

"Oh, well why didn't you say so? I can build a portal no problem!"

"You... can?" Michael stared at him doubtfully, suddenly feeling very nervous.

"Sure! I have a time machine I've been working on, I think if I make a few modifications, I could open a portal.... Of course, I don't know where the portal would go...."

Michael moaned and sank down onto the floor, burying his face in his hands. "There's always a catch." Had his eyes been open, he would have seen Peter sit on one side of him and rest his chin in his palms, subconsciously placing his fingers over his ears. Seeing that, Micky sat on Michael's other side and covered his mouth.

Davy chose that moment to bound up the stairs, about to ask if anyone had seen his new maracas, but when he saw the three of them, burst into near-hysterical laughter instead. Michael bolted upright, his hand flying to his heart. "Don't do that!"

And then his eyes widened and his stomach seemed to drop into his feet. "Oh god.... Oh dear God, I'm turnin' into him!"

~*~

"Here, put this on." Without waiting for an answer, Peter pulled a large trench coat from the backseat of his car and threw it at Mike. "And take the hat off, they'll know you in a second."

Mike opened his mouth to protest, but a no-nonsense glare from Peter so disconcerted him that he meekly removed his beloved wool hat and shrugged into the coat.

"You can put the hat back on later, okay? But right now, we've got to get you inside. Slouch down a bit, and try to look normal."

They pulled up to the studio guard and Peter waved cheerily. "Hiya Jack! Hey listen, my cousin Manny came into town unexpectedly, I'm bringing him in with me, okay?"

"Sure," Jack answered with an amiable grin and a jaunty tip of his hat. "Any friend of yours is a friend of mine. More so with family."

"Great! Thanks Jack."

"Yeah, thanks Jack," Mike muttered, and they pulled inside studio grounds. "Can I put my hat back on now?"

"No, you can't. And what is it with you and that hat anyway?"

"It's a good luck charm," was all he would say, and he shoved his hand into his pocket along with the hat, refusing to relinquish contact.

Peter parked his car and they walked inside, Peter weaving to various crewmembers and studio workers as the went. "Who's your friend," a few of them asked, and Peter just smiled and introduced them to his cousin Manny from Pensacola. "He's mute."

"Okay," Peter finally whispered as they approached a large conference room deep within the studio. "The meeting's in here. Just stay as you are until I give you the word, okay?"

Mike nodded slightly, his eyes darting around nervously and his body trembling slightly whenever he spotted a security guard.

"Just relax! It'll be okay, all you have to do is follow my lead."

"Promise?" Mike whispered, and Peter gripped his arm reassuringly before leading him into the room.

"Hiya Peter!" Micky bounded up to them and winked at Mike, shaking his hand vigorously. "Who's your friend?"

"Cool it," Peter hissed into Micky's ear, before laughing nervously and saying out loud, "My cousin Manny."

"I'm mute," Mike supplied helpfully, earning an elbow in the ribs from Peter.

"Well, get your cousin a seat and let's get started," Bob Rafelson said, nodding a hello at Peter. "We have a lot to talk about."

"I'll say we do," Micky grinned, practically bouncing up and down in his seat with glee. "Man, this is gonna be good!"

"Pardon me?" Bob raised an eyebrow, not quite sure what to make of the odd statement.

"Oh, nothing," Micky sang, ignoring the dark glare Peter was sending him. "Don't mind me!"

"We never do," Bert Schneider muttered as he closed the door and took his own seat. "Alright, we have a problem. As most of you probably know, Michael Nesmith has gone missing. He came in here acting very oddly yesterday, and... well, he bolted when I tried to speak to him. No one's seen him since."

"Actually, Bert," Peter began, shooting a reassuring wink at Mike, "that's not entirely true."

Schneider perked up. "You saw him? Where?"

"Well... I didn't see Michael, exactly... It's kind of hard to explain."

"Spit it out, Peter, baby," Rafelson urged. "What is it?"

"Okay, I'll just come out with it. Michael's gone. I mean, he's not here. But someone else is here who knows where Michael is, because he's come from where Michael's gone."

It all came out in a rush, and it was met with dead silence. Finally, Rafelson spoke. "What?"

Peter sighed loudly and ran a hand through his hair. "Man, this is harder than I thought it would be."

"Oh, for crying out-" Micky stood and crossed over to Mike, yanking the coat away from his face and neck in one fluid motion. "Look!"

A collective gasp went up from the entire room. Schneider leapt out of his chair with a shout, and Mike did what any normal person would do in his situation. He panicked.

He jumped from his chair and turned to run, but Peter grabbed his arm and held him tightly, just as Micky let loose with a shout that echoed throughout the room. "HOLD IT!"

Everyone froze, and Micky smiled in satisfaction. "All yours, Pete," he chirped, heading back to his seat.

"Gee, thanks George," Peter sighed, forcing the squirming Mike back down into his chair. "Now listen to me, and listen carefully. Mike, please, will you calm down?"

"What's going on here, Peter," Schneider asked warily, glaring suspiciously at Mike. "Is this some sort of joke?"

"No, this is Mike Nesmith. Of the Monkees."

"Excuse me?"

"The real Mike Nesmith. He's a member of a real-life band called the Monkees. They live at 1334 Beachwood, they play small-time gigs at clubs to try to pay the rent, they have a dummy called Mr. Schneider-"

"I know the story Peter," Schneider interrupted frustratedly, "I helped write it!"

"No, sir, you didn't write this. He lives it. Or he did, until he and Michael somehow switched places. Look, I know it sounds weird, but we can prove this isn't Michael!"

"Oh, you can, can you?" Schneider crossed his arms and leaned back, smirking thinly. "Alright, I'll bite. How?"

Peter leaned down close to Mike and whispered in his ear. "If I let you go, will you promise not to run?"

"He's evil," Mike whimpered, his eyes never leaving Schneider's.

"He's not evil," Peter assured him, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "Look, just show him your fist, he'll believe us then."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure, come on!"

Mike slowly removed his hand from his pocket, and flushed when he realized he was still clutching his beloved hat. He transferred it to his left hand and brought the right hand out, raising it high into the air so that everyone could see it. Then, saying a quick prayer to whoever was listening, he took a deep breath and made a fist.

"Holy sh-" Schneider burst out, the majority of his exclamation drowned out by similar shouts around the room.

"How'd he do that," Rafelson yelped, his own hand shooting out to grab Mike's. "I thought your finger was-"

"I told you," Peter explained patiently, "This isn't Michael. It's Mike. Michael is trapped in the Monkees' world. With the real Monkees."

"'E's telling the truth," Davy put in, crossing over to stand behind Mike and Peter. "I know it doesn't make sense, but it's true."

"You're in on this too, Jones?" Schneider narrowed his eyes and shook his head.

"There's nothing to be 'in on,'" Davy insisted. "It's true! 'E's really Mike!"

"Imagine that!" Rafelson sat back in his chair, an amused twinkle in his eyes. "So you're Mike."

Mike nodded slowly. "Yes sir."

"Mike Nesmith. Of the Monkees."

"Yes sir."

"Well I'll be a Monkees uncle."

"Rafelson, you're not seriously considering this nonsense are you," Schneider snorted, glaring around the room. "It's preposterous!"

"You know as well as I do that Michael is not capable of making a fist like that," Rafelson pointed out calmly. "How do you explain that?"

"Well, I'm sure I can think of a lot more believable reasons than him having switched places with a fictional character!"

"Really? Like what?"

Schneider opened his mouth to speak and flushed when he realized nothing would come out of his mouth. Rafelson continued quietly. "Look, Bert, maybe Michael could've gotten his hand fixed, but not this quickly. We just saw him less than two days ago, and his finger was just like it'd always been. Maybe an operation could get him full use back, but that'd take a lot longer than two days, wouldn't it? And saying it's a miracle is just as unbelievable as this guy being Mike. Besides, it makes a lot more sense now, the way he was acting yesterday. I think I believe these guys. This is Mike. Not Michael."

Mike let out a long sigh of relief. Maybe he wouldn't get thrown in the nuthouse after all.

Schneider sighed angrily and dropped his face into his hands. "Alright, alright. So that's Mike. Of the Monkees. Does that mean Michael's gone forever, or what?" Then he groaned. "I can't believe I'm going along with this."

"We don't know what's up with Michael," Micky explained. "We're hoping the Monkees can find a way to switch them back or something. In the meantime, Mike can play himself. In the show, I mean."

"Yeah, all we have to do is show him the ropes," Davy added with a shrug.

"What about Phyllis?" Schneider didn't even raise his face from his hands as he spoke. "What'll we tell her?"

"The truth, I guess." Peter frowned, not really liking the idea himself. "What else can we do? We can't hide him from her."

"We can try," Mike muttered, but he was ignored.

"Okay then," Schneider sighed, his voice heavy with defeat. "We'd already written Michael out of this week's episode, so it won't be a problem for Mike to just... watch. We'll report to set in ten minutes.... I need a drink."

~*~

Micky looked around vaguely as Davy and Peter came down the steps with identical looks of puzzlement on their faces. "Well?" he asked, wiping greasy hands on his jeans.

"'E's gone crackers!" was Davy's adamant reply.

"He's locked himself in the bathroom," Peter clarified glumly. "And he's saying weird things."

"You know wot 'e said?"

Micky shook his head, busily tightening a screw.

"I asked 'im wot 'e was doing an'e said 'e was trying to remembah 'oo'e was!"

"That's not so weird," Micky shrugged, flicking a switch and grinning happily as a large portal opened up in the middle of the living room. He stuck his head in it, then pulled back with a frown and closed the doorway, returning his attention to the exposed wires in the control panel.

"Wait," Davy insisted, continuing his narrative. "So then I asked 'im 'oo'e was, and you know wot'e said?"

"I couldn't imagine," Micky answered distractedly.

"'E said 'e wasn't was, were, be, am, is, or me! Or something li'that."

"Something weird," Peter sighed. "I think we broke his brain."

"Oh, we did not!" Micky snorted rudely as he once again stuck his head into an open portal. "Oh, sorry miss," he yelped as a woman's indignant shriek split the air. He lowered his reddened face back to his work as the portal closed.

"So 'ow's the time machine coming," Davy asked, peering curiously at the strange contraption that took up most of their living room. It looked a lot like a giant television, only instead of a screen, there was just open space. To the left of the "screen," there was a control panel, seemingly just a random collection of buttons, knobs, and wires, but obviously semi-functional, since each flick of the switch marked "ON" opened up a glowing rip in the air.

"You mean the portal," Micky corrected, still absorbed in his adjustments.

"Yeah."

"Okay, I guess. I thought I'd gotten it before, but all that came through when I opened it was a scarecrow, a tin man, and a big giant talking lion. I gave them some chili and made them go back home."

"A talking lion," Davy repeated disbelievingly.

Micky shrugged. "I was more surprised by the scarecrow and the tin man. How could they have been alive? They didn't have brains, or a heart, or anything."

"Maybe they did have brains and a heart," Peter suggested. "Made of tin and straw."

"Yeah, sure." Micky stood and turned to face them, crossing his fingers. "Okay, I think I got it! Hang on...."

He flicked the switch.

~*~

Michael licked his dry lips and ran a shaking hand through his hair. The figure in the mirror did the same, his eyes red and somewhat wild. "Get ahold of yourself," he muttered, hands gripping the countertop so hard the knuckles turned white. "Remember who you are."

Who are you?

"I have no idea."

He let out a frustrated sigh and spun away from the mirror, sitting down on the edge of the tub and burying his face in his hands. "This is all impossible, I've gone completely crazy!"

"Michael?" Peter knocked tentatively on the door and opened it slightly, poking his head inside. "Michael, guess what?"

"You're not really here," Michael mumbled, shaking his head frantically. "You're a figment of my very very sick imagination."

"I am not!" Peter sounded genuinely hurt. "I'm as real as you are!"

"Then I must not be real either. We're all made up, Peter. And when we get cancelled we'll all just... disappear. Poof!"

"... Poof?" Peter repeated, fear slowly creeping into his voice.

"Uh-huh. Just like that. One day you're here, and then the axe comes down.... WHAM!"

Peter leapt into the air with a yelp, then ran to Michael and threw himself at his feet, throwing his arms around him in desperation. "I don't want to go poof and wham," he wailed, tears starting to flow from his eyes.

"Aww, hey see what you did," came a very familiar voice from the doorway. "You made 'im cry."

Michael's head snapped up and he stared into his own disapproving eyes. "M... M-Mike?"

""Don't worry Peter, you won't go poof, it's okay," the other man continued, kneeling down next to Peter and patting his shoulder consolingly.

Peter let out another pitiful sob and transferred his shaking body to Mike's arms. "Promise?" he sniffled.

"Yeah Pete, don't worry," Mike assured him.

"What- how- when...."

"Quit stuttering, Michael," Peter said from the doorway, his smile evident in his voice. "Think before you talk."

Michael stood slowly, shakily, his face pale. "Peter...? Is that really...." Then he looked down at the two boys still on the floor of the bathroom and made the conclusion for himself. "It is you!"

"This place is amazing!" Bob Rafelson stepped out from behind Peter, his excitement evident on his face. "Oh, hi Michael. Peter, did you see, it's just like the set, only... more! Man, this is incredible.... I gotta talk to Micky...." He wandered off again.

"Bob... What's Bob doing here?"

Peter stepped around Mike and the-other-Peter and put an arm around Michael's shoulders, guiding him out of the bathroom. "It's a funny thing," he explained patiently. "Seems Micky... their Micky... built some sort of machine that opened a doorway between the dimensions! We're on set, filming, and this big rip just opens up out of nothing, and Micky's head comes out of it.... You should have seen it, Michael. I thought Bert was gonna explode."

"A big rip...."

"Yeah. So he realizes he's gotten the right place and he just walks out, grinning like a manic, shouting 'I've done it! Laugh will they?! Say I'm mad, will they?!' It was classic! And of course Mike... the other Mike... he was overjoyed to see him. He's terrified of Phyllis, you see. You know she's not a morning person by any stretch of the imagination, and apparently he really ticked her off when they woke up that first day, and well... he doesn't have as strong a stomach as you do."

They were downstairs by now. The dimensional door was wide open, and most of the show's cast and crew were milling around the Monkees' living room, picking things up, examining things. The interns were all taking notes, Davy was talking to "himself," Bob Rafelson was in deep conversation with not one, but two Mickys, and Bert Schneider was seated on the couch, head in hands, his namesake beside him with its arm around his shoulders.

Peter guided Michael over to Bert. "Bert? I found Michael, he was upstairs."

"Great, wonderful. You okay, Nesmith?"

"Oh, fine," he responded faintly, wanting nothing more than to just go home and collapse into his wife's arms with a tall glass of scotch and drink until he forgot this ever happened. If it ever happened at all.

"He's in shock, I think," Peter said quietly.

"Aren't we all?" Schneider slowly lifted his head from his hands and stared at them blearily. "This isn't happening, it can't possibly be happening."

"That's right," Michael agreed, taking a seat next to the Schneiders. "It's all a figment of my imagination."

"Your imagination? It's my imagination," Schneider corrected him sternly. "You had nothing to do with it."

"Well, either way, it's not really happening."

"Exactly."

"We're dreaming... this whole thing is just a dream."

"Right."

"Because stuff like this doesn't happen."

"No my boy, it does not."

"Right."

"Right."

Both men were silent for a moment, then Schneider turned to Michael with a shrug. "Wanna get a drink?"

"A few drinks, really."

"Alrighty then."

And the two stood as one and disappeared through the portal, on their way to get very, very drunk.

Peter snickered into his hand and took a seat next to Mr. Schneider, who'd just sat there smiling through the entire absurd conversation. "So, what do you think of this whole mess," he asked the dummy, then pulled its string and awaited its words of wisdom.

"One man's trash is another man's treasure," the dummy pontificated sagely.

"Or vice-versa," Peter agreed, and sat back to watch the festivities.

Peter held back a smile as an extremely hungover Michael slurred his way through the scene. It was probably lucky that he'd only been written back in for a few pages of the script, as it was becoming increasingly obvious he'd never have made it through a full day's filming.

"Cut!" Rafelson yelled - a little too loudly - and Michael's already pale face went two shades paler. "Sorry," Bob whispered hastily. "Don't worry, Michael, only a little more to go."

Michael nodded wearily, dropping without ceremony to a seated position on the deck.

"Man, I ain't never seen such a case of seasickness," remarked one of the guest actors.

"Seasickness," Bob repeated slowly. "I like that. Seasickness it is."

This time, Peter laughed outright, and out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Davy and Micky trying very hard not to do the same thing. Michael shot him a dirty look before dropping his head back into his folded arms and closing his eyes with a sigh.

Peter took a seat beside him and threw an arm around his shoulders. "So tell me Michael, are you glad to be back?"

"Back where," came the muffled answer.

"Back here! In the real world, as opposed to Monkee-land."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Peter gave him an incredulous look. "Michael.... You spent two days in an alternate dimension! You gonna sit there and tell me you don't remember any of it?!"

"I did not do any such thing," Michael snapped irritably, lifting his head and glaring darkly at Peter.

"But.... Yes you did! I know you got drunk last night, but how drunk do you haveta get to forget two days?!"

"I did not get drunk!"

"But you and Bert went..... And you're hungover!"

"I most certainly am not. I simply do not do well on ships."

Peter's mouth fell open and he shook his head in amazement. "Well I'll be-"

"A Monkees' uncle?" Micky finished eagerly.

"Yeah, sure. He's in complete denial!"

"Gosharooney."

Peter looked sharply at Micky. "What did you just say?"

"Umm... gosharooney?"

"Since when do you-" Then Peter's eyes grew wide and he jumped to his feet, grabbing Micky by the shoulders. "George Michael Dolenz, you bring our Micky back here this instant!"

Micky just grinned widely. "Can't. He's got the portal."