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DISCLAIMER: This site is in no way affiliated with the Monkees or personal relations thereof. All fan fiction and fan art is intended for entertainment purposes only and no defamation of character is intended whatsoever. To break it down one more time: It's all just for fun, folks.


"Bringing Back the Dead"



Title: Bringing Back the Dead
Pairing: Micky/Mike
Rating: NC-17
Author: Woolhat's Traveling Mood

Summary: Mike’s in a bad way and Micky will do all he can to bring him back to himself and the band.

His eyes were distant; he didn't really see the young man in front of him at all. At least the ranting has stopped, Micky thought to himself, as he observed from a distance. The other people around were just like Mike was, closed in, not like the chaos Micky had expected. Now he wished he had brought Davy and Peter along, moral support. What made him think he could do this on his own? Mike remained trance like, a cup of orange juice in his hand, where it had remained all morning, and where it would stay if some nurse didn't come along and remove it from him.

Micky was tempted to question the bruises up and down Mike's arms, but didn't. As soon as he got him out of this place, the better. It hadn't seemed like a year; it seemed like only yesterday. Micky remained where he was for a while, wondering when the Texan would acknowledge him, but he didn't. He was in his own world, forced there by these people around him. They hadn't allowed him anything in this place. No music, no books...no friends. Micky swallowed back his tears; he wasn't allowed to cry anymore, not now that he was leader. He had expected Davy to step into Mike's shoes, but he never did, and Micky finally realized just how hard Mike had had it, from all of them. It was like babysitting, and Micky knew he had been the worst 'child'. No point thinking about that now though.

Slowly the drummer crept closer and placed a trusty hand on Mike's shoulder. "Ready to go home?" He cooed with false cheeriness. Mike said nothing, more interested in the ripples of the orange liquid in his hand. "Come on Mike.” Micky's heart was beginning to sink. He was meant to have recovered, that's what this place was for, but he hadn't seemed to have gotten any better. He was met with two ebony spheres of distrust and pain and winced beneath them, they were so right.

Micky was suddenly broken from his thoughts by a tug at his sleeve. Slowly he turned and was faced with a gangly, shaven-headed, youth wrapped in a scratchy pink blanket.

"I like you hair.” He breathed on Micky, making the drummer stagger backwards slightly.

"Thanks.” Micky tried to ward him off but he came closer and grabbed hold of a curl.

"It feels nice.” The youth continued, pulling harder. Micky yelped and tried to pull out of his grasp. This startled the youth and he absentmindedly pulled even harder.

"Let go!” Micky tried to push him away, but it didn't work. If the youth went, so did he.

Finally the young man let go and Micky looked up to see what had happened. There was a quiet slapping noise and the murmur, "Don't touch." and Micky found Mike standing in front of him, gently slapping the youth's wrists.

The young man didn't mind, he seemed too interested in Mike's hair and slowly disappeared into the crowd of others once Mike had finished. Micky smiled and turned Mike round so that they could see eye to eye. Mike's eyes were half closed, as if he were sleep walking and didn't seem to see Micky at all.

"Thanks.” Micky touched Mike's arm affectionately. No response. Micky blew the air out of his cheeks in exasperation and thought of a different approach. "Take the last train to Clarksville and I'll meet you at the station.” He whispered in Mike's ear, trying to stir some life back into his old best friend. "You can be here by four thirty coz I've made your reservation.” Micky continued.

"Don't be slow.” Mike murmured quietly, not taking his eyes off some far off point in the distance.

Micky's heart leapt and he took hold of Mike's hand and squeezed it; maybe there was hope after all.

Mike said nothing on the way home from the mental hospital. The nurses said he was drugged up so that was to be expected, but Micky couldn't help feel so sorry for him. None of them had expected this to happen, not to Mike of all people.

Everything was going so well, just a year ago, everything was fine. - Mike had tried so hard with the band, every night they would either be at a gig or rehearsing...doing so for three years. And then finally, their big break came. They could all remember Mike's excitement, something he never showed, when they were told they had an audition for a record company and that the answer was very likely to be 'yes'. But they only had one chance, no excuses. The big break never happened. The day of the audition, Mike's mother died and that finished everything. She was his only living relative, his life source sometimes, and she was snatched away just as they were about to make it big. He couldn't go on with the audition and they were turned down. That was it. The end. As far as the others knew, Mike went mad. He began ranting constantly about incoherent subjects and complained about things that just didn't exist. They never had time to help him. He got worse one day and paraded around a mall with a shotgun, claiming that he was 'defending people'. The police didn't see it that way. He never hurt anyone, but no one wanted to take any chances so they hid him away in a mental home.

Micky looked across at Mike, huddled in the passenger seat. He would probably never be the same man he was, he'd lost everything. The pad was quiet with expectation. Peter leapt up from the couch as soon as they came in the door and embraced an awkward Mike, quickly followed by Davy who had appeared from the kitchen. They all expected Mike to say something, but he didn't. Instead he sighed and looked around before his eyes came to rest on the couch. He broke free from their grasps and ambled over in his lazy manner to the sofa, almost immediately lying down on it and was soon asleep.

"Hello to you too!” Davy mumbled under his breath, only to receive a sharp jab in the ribs from Micky.

The drummer puckered his lips in thought and then followed Mike's footsteps, sitting beside him on the couch and scooping his head up into his lap, where he could stroke his hair soothingly. And that's where they stayed for the rest of the afternoon, allowing Mike to sleep off the drugs and the worries of readjusting to a world he hadn't seen in over a year. Micky seemed engrossed in looking at Mike. His hair was slightly longer now, resting a little on his shoulder, the distinguishable wave now flopping in his eyes. His face was a lot gaunter, his dark features shining through as if they were drawn in with charcoal. The rest of his body was similarly thin, and those bruises. Black and blue patches surrounded his wrists and plodded up his arms. After a quick peek, Micky's suspicions were confirmed that they also marched up and down his chest. Micky felt the tears sting his eyes again and this time let them fall, he cried the tears Mike couldn't, cried for them both and for their future.

Mike woke in the early evening to find himself staring up at Micky. The drummer was reading, one arm resting on Mike's chest holding the book, the other encircling Mike's head in a cradling baby fashion. It didn't take him long to realize his friend was awake and he smiled down with renewed warmth, the type that Mike could never forget, even if they locked him up for a thousand years. For the first time in a whole year, Mike remembered who this strange young man was. "Micky!” He pointed at his friend in joy.

Micky smiled, not really knowing what all the fuss was about. "Yeah Mike, its me Micky."

Mike lay his head back in Micky's lap and held a smile on his face. "I missed you.” He murmured.

The next few days couldn't have been stranger. Micky was still in leader mode as Mike had almost completely disappeared inside himself. He hardly spoke to anyone but Micky and wandered around as if he was in a stranger's house, worried about touching anything, even if it was his. He was docile, almost like Peter, with some kind of naivety that he had never had before. The whole atmosphere disturbed Micky immensely. He wanted the old Mike back, the strong leader, for reasons he wouldn't even admit to himself. He hated being responsible and in charge, it was too much like hard work, especially with Mike being so delicate. The Texan had lost all motivation, and ability. He had forgotten how to play; so all their hopes of gigs were crushed when he held the guitar as if he had never seen one before.

Micky knew that the real Mike was in there somewhere. Inside that body was the old Mike, the one they loved, and he had to find a way to try and coax him out again. He didn't mention it to the other two; they'd only laugh at him. There was only one person he could talk to.


"Wow, I thought he'd have been better after a whole year in that place!” Vicky tried to seem sympathetic.

"I missed him so much and now it looks like I'll never see the real him again!"

Vicky looked at him with sky blue eyes and smiled. Micky loved that smile. She was the only person that truly understood. She understood his feelings for Mike, the ones he had proclaimed when they got drunk together once, and she was always so caring. She had helped him through the past year; she knew how disappointed he was. He had first met her on the beach about eighteen months ago and found that she only lived two doors down. She was petite, with long brown hair that clashed with her unusually pale complexion. She was British, a Londoner, but she was a tough little nut and wouldn't stand for any nonsense. He admired her.

The afternoon sun was already setting and they walked along the beach. She allowed him to hold her hand for comfort and they talked endlessly, allowing Micky to let everything out.

"You know," She began, "I think I know what's wrong."

Micky stopped and looked at her expectantly, "Well?"

"Well, 'e's a control freak right?"

"He was."

"Exactly! It isn't in his nature to be led around like some old age pensioner! He's the boss, you gotta treat him like one."

"How am I supposed to do that?"

"Flattery. What do men like most? They like it when a woman acts all helpless so that he can come to her rescue - makes him feel all manly and controlling."

"But you forgot something...we don't have a woman!"

She gave him a look, which made him swallow hard.

"Me?” He squeaked.

"Micky, you fancy him don't you?” He nodded though it pained him to do it, "Well, act all helpless and he'll do the same to you. Although, there is one situation that will definitely bring back his controlling side.” She paused and gave him the most serious look she could muster, he didn't quite follow.

"What?” He asked, nervousness in his voice.

"Sex, dear.” She smiled, "Men are always dominant in sex, if that don't bring him back..."

Micky was aghast that she should suggest such a thing but was pleased slightly.
"You saying that I gotta be his...lover?"

"You know you want it."

She got a pinch on the arm for that one. If anyone else had suggested it, he would have thrown a temper tantrum, but he knew she was right, about everything. He gave her a peck on the cheek, out of pure friendship and headed back to the pad, his head spinning.


When he got home, he found a note taped to the refrigerator door: 'Have gone to Vincent Van Gogh Gogh with Jessica and Amanda. Don't expect us back till LATE - Davy and Peter'.

Micky sighed and screwed up the piece of paper and hurled it on the floor. They'd left Mike alone; they weren't supposed to leave Mike alone. He gazed around for the Texan, and found him sitting on the window seat, endlessly staring.

"Hey Mike.” Micky wandered over to him but got no reply.

He sat down beside his best friend and tapped him gently. Glazed eyes looked at him, sadness engraved in them. "What's happening?” He drawled, "Why don't I remember anything that happened before I went to...that place? I can't remember anything. Where are my parents? Where do I come

Micky just shook his head; he knew that a conversation like that could last for an eternity. He squeezed Mike shoulder and stood, preparing to put his plan into action. "I'll get you something to eat first.” He smiled falsely and headed into the kitchen. He didn't really want to do this, but if it was going to get the old Mike back then he would have to do it.

Quietly, out of Mike's sight, he opened a drawer and took out the sharpest knife. Quickly he made small gashes on his hands and one on his left cheek. He hissed at the pain but deep down, knew it was worth it. Little blots of red were already appearing on his shirt and he sighed heartily. Then he moved over to the cupboard with all the glasses in it and with one great sweep of his arm, brought the whole lot shattering down. He felt glass pieces land in his hair as he was showered with fragments. As he had hoped, Mike came running.

"What happened Mick?” He asked quietly, timidly stepping over the glass.

Micky put on his dying swan act, shaking and stuttering as he revealed the gashes to his body. Mike immediately began fussing over him, wrapping him in a protective hug before finding a cloth to bandage his hands.

"They j...just all came tumbling down. It...it hurts.” Micky acted his heart out as Mike mothered him.

"Well, doesn't look like there's too much damage," Mike rolled his eyes and Micky neared choked with excitement. There it was, just for a second, a glimmer of the old Mike. But just as quickly as it was shown, it disappeared again. Micky didn't care; he knew that he was on the right track.

"Oh, I've got blood over my shirt.” Micky murmured tearfully, "Can you help me up the stairs? I don't think I can get up there with my hands as they are."

To his delight, Mike obliged and lead him up the stairs slowly, a characteristic of the new Mike. Once there Micky made extra special care that he removed his shirt as slowly as possible, peeling it off of his shoulders and letting it slide down his back, remembering how turned on he got when his girlfriends did it to him. Like always, Mike seemed naively oblivious to Micky's teasing, but the drummer noticed that Mike never stopped watching his impromptu striptease. "I better get out of these pants too.” Micky acted as if he were talking to himself, "Blood everywhere."

Once again, Mike watched, a small smile beginning to distort his mouth, although Micky didn't see it. Micky hopped around for a while, acting useless even at getting himself undressed, hoping Mike would take the hint - and he did. The Texan gave a frustrated sigh, just like he used to, and strode confidently over to Micky, his demeanor changing with every second. "Sit on the bed or we'll be here all night!” He ordered, the first time in a year, and Micky did as he was told, allowing Mike to peel off his especially tight pants.

Now there was just his underwear that separated him from the outside world and knew that he could no longer use silly excuses if he wanted Mike to remove them as well. He lay back, hands behind his head, and spread his legs just a little. "Mike.” He purred, eyeing his best friend's reactions. The bemused smile was more apparent now and was everything that was the old Mike.

"Micky," He shook his head in a patronizing manner, "You are such a little whore!"

And with that, he knelt down on the bed beside Micky and bent down until their lips touched. "The past few days, I've been dreaming of you.” Mike murmured, resting his head by Micky's ear. "I didn't know what it meant, but now I do."

He didn't say anymore, but let his body take over. A few seconds later, Micky was naked, and you could tell by his face that he loved every minute of it. Mike's longer, ebony hair stroked its way up and down Micky's chest as he kissed and licked the flesh that he had been denied for so long. And as he continued, so many memories began to flood back. He remembered sharing a bedroom with Micky, having a secret, but what was it? By the time he came to stroking Micky gently, he knew exactly what that secret was. He wanted Micky, he wanted him so much, and he had felt that way for so long. Everything had been erased while he was at that 'place', but now it was flowing back in great torrents. This all seemed so right, he had the control that had been denied, he had thoughts that he hadn't thought before.

Before he could think anymore, he was pulled up by his shirtfront until their lips met again and it was a passionate, overwhelming kiss. As the kiss continued, Mike felt the shirt ripped from his back and feverish fingers working on his pants. He almost felt dizzy with returning emotions, but that didn't stop him. When he was naked too, he lay down on top of Micky and slowly started a rhythm, rubbing their hardness together. Micky moaned in his ear and sent shivers through Mike's body. It was so melodic, so tantalizing; he wanted to hear more. Micky's eyes were squeezed shut at all the feelings that were zipping through him, raking his body. He clung to Mike's shoulders and that was it, the signal. Mike entered Micky slowly, not wanting to hurt him, and continued their rhythm. Sweat was sparkling on Micky's forehead and Mike leant over to kiss it as their motions grew faster. Micky's grip tightened and he moaned longer, the original pain easing away into a building crescendo of pleasure. Why had he denied himself this for so long? Mike was going so fast now, his passive character lost for eternity and his old self, grabbing hold of the reins, he wasn't going to lose Micky again. With a few last thrusts Micky came, shortly followed by Mike.

The two lay there, breathless for a few moments, Micky still clinging on for all he was worth. He had never felt anything like that before in his life. Now, for the moment of truth. He gazed longingly at Mike and received an urgent kiss as a reply.

"Thanks Mick.” Mike smiled, "I hadn't had a fuck in over a year!"

Yes, Mike was definitely back. Micky grinned for all he was worth and pulled Mike down for yet another kiss, sealing what they now had together. "Don't ever leave me again," He whispered in Mike's ear,
kissing it.


"See, told you it would work!” Vicky laughed, playfully punching Micky's arm.

"Yeah, you're a real wise old owl."

"Who you calling old?!” She punched him again

"Thanks.” He looked at her sincerely and she smiled, that warm, caring smile.

"Anytime, what are friends for?"

"I can't imagine life without him now. it all seems to have worked out,"

"Well I'm pleased for you, its about time you had something good happen for you. So he's completely recovered?"

"Well, apart from being more sex obsessed than Davy, yeah he has."

"Well be thankful he only wants it with you, which is more than can be said for shorty!"

He smiled and took her hand, kissing it gently. "Thanks again, I couldn't have done it without you."

"Now you're just getting soppy! Go on back to Mike before he gets the wrong idea, if he's as I remember him then he'll want to keep you on a short leash and I can't blame him."

Micky gave her a wink and left, heading back to the pad and those loving arms.


Mike was waiting for him and, as Micky had predicted, scooped his lover up into a warm embrace, covering his face in kisses. There was still a scar on the drummer's cheek, but Micky wore it proudly. It was a sign of his love for Mike, that he would do anything for him, a reminder for all to see that sometimes, just sometimes, love conquers all.