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"Do You Wanna Dance?"
Title: Do You Wanna Dance?
Pairing: Micky/Davy and Torksmith if you squint
Warnings: Really, really angsty. Also, possibly not very good.
Summary: Micky needs to learn to dance quickly. Step forward one Davy Jones...
Disclaimer: I am not interested in lawsuits of any kind. Ergo this did not happen.
A/N:This is part two of a Micky/Davy short series with Torksmithy undertones. I love Torksmith so very much but Micky and Davy simply don't get enough love. This idea was thought up while having to sit in the splits for ages at a tech run of a dance show. And I am totally exhausted after said rehersal and this is unbetaed so all mistakes are mine. This takes place in showverse! and a few months after (shameless plugging alert) my other Micky/Davy 'Hello, Goodbye'. And I'm going to shut up now. Enjoy!
For once, the pad was very quiet. Micky was out (hence the silence) on a date with some chick he'd met in the library and since they couldn't practice minus a drummer, Mike had given the rest of the group the night off. He and Peter were sitting at the table sorting out a final set list for the busy run of gigs they had coming up in the next fortnight and Davy was sprawled out on the couch trying to stay awake. Having spent most of the day doing chores and errands, and some time on the beach, he was struggling to fight off sleep and the sound of the rain on the roof was so peaceful and soothing.
'Y'know, Davy, you'd be better off just goin' to bed. Would save us having to carry you in when you fall asleep,' Mike drawled, finally looking up from the set list.
'Ha ha,' Davy retorted, sitting up and stretching his neck out. 'I was actually going to wait up for Micky.' He was speaking the truth. For some reason, he had felt very uneasy about this date, and was unable, or perhaps unwilling, to admit why. 'Where did he even meet this girl?'
'The library,' Peter said. He saw Mike's Raised Eyebrow and Quizzical Expression, used only when he was rather skeptical about what he had just been told. The skepticism was understandable. Micky liked reading well enough but he was never in one place long enough to lick a stamp, much less read a book. In addition, his penchant for madcap schemes was not really conducive to the peaceful atmosphere of a library. Particularly the Beechwood Library, which had banned him twice, for reasons the others weren't really sure of.
'It's true!' the bassist protested. 'He said she works there.'
Taking Peter at his word, Mike was about to say something else when the back door flew open and a dripping wet Micky Dolenz walked in.
'How was your date, Mick?' Davy asked, almost a little too quickly.
Micky ignored him as he kicked his shoes off, before standing up on the couch and, rather like a Shakespearean actor, declaimed 'Gentlemen, I am now facing the greatest crisis I have ever faced.' This having been said, he jumped over the back and stalked up the stairs to the room he and Mike shared.
Mike, Peter and Davy looked at each other.
'What do you think's wrong?' Peter worried, looking up at the closed bedroom door. 'Maybe I should go up and talk to him.'
Mike and Davy both had their own very different reasons for saying no.
'Forget it, shotgun,' Mike said. 'I need you down here; we still need to decide the last few songs.'
'Anyway, if it's girl trouble, I think I'm better qualified to answer that,' Davy smirked slightly. 'But thanks, anyway, Peter.'
'That's OK, Davy,' Peter smiled, sitting back down at the kitchen table, head full of musical thoughts and completely oblivious to Mike staring at him in the longing way he always did when Peter smiled.
Turning his back on the other two, Davy clambered up the stairs and knocked on the door. Without waiting for an invite, he went into the room.
Going into the upstairs room always made him smile. The room downstairs he and Peter shared was reasonably tidy, since they were both reasonably tidy people. But this one ....if you had to look 'polar opposites' up in the dictionary, there would be a picture of this room. Mike's half was always meticulously neat. Micky's half always looked like a tornado had run through it.
Micky himself was just emerging from under the bed, no doubt in pursuit of his pyjamas.
'Hi, Davy,' he greeted, struggling out from underneath the bed.
'You all right, Mick? What's the big crisis?'
Most of his usual energy gone, Micky sat down morosely on his bed, and Davy sat across from him on Mike's. 'Well, you know this Leila that I was out with?'
Davy internally sighed. There it was again, that sinking feeling in his chest, but he brushed it aside and nodded.
'Well, she asked me to come to this dance with her day after tomorrow.'
'That's it? What's the big crisis there?'
Micky rolled his eyes. 'In case you've forgotten, Mr Fred Astaire, I can't dance! At least not without stepping on someone's foot.'
The words were out of Davy's mouth before his mind had a chance to fully process them. 'I can teach you, if, if you want?' he said quickly. As soon as he had said it, his mind went into overdrive, whirring with pros and cons.
The other man looked up at him, hair madly frizzing from the rain and a grin spreading across his face. 'You would?'
There was a major con to this: if Micky could dance, and dance well, there was a strong chance that this Leila chick would go head over heels for him. Davy knew from experience that girls loved a man who could dance with them.
But there was also a major pro: extended time in extremely close proximity to Micky. And as far as he was concerned, the pro far, far outweighed the con.
'Sure, man. But it will have to wait for tomorrow, I'm falling asleep standing up here!' he yawned.
'Yeah, I'm pretty tired too. Thanks Davy!' Micky replied, struggling out of his shirt. Davy hastily turned on his heel and fled downstairs lest the sight of Micky's bare chest caused him to do something he would later regret.
The next day, Mike and Peter had taken the Monkeemobile out who knows where and Micky was woken up rather earlier than he was accustomed to/wished when Davy burst into the room and reminded him that, given his complete and utter lack of dancing ability, it was better to steal a march on the day.
'I dunno why you're so enthusiastic, Dave,' Micky yawned, finally struggling up out of bed. 'It's just dancing and you might have your work a bit cut out with me.'
Davy didn't reply at first. 'I like dancing. Anyway, get downstairs!'
Twenty minutes later, Davy set the LP up to a waltz. He knew the club where Micky was planning on taking this Leila. He had often performed at it before the others had found him in Santa Monica - or to be more precise, when Micky had jumped on him while he was performing and nearly knocked him off the end of the pier - and knew that it mixed traditional dances with the latest pop hits.
'Right, Micky, come here.' The drummer did as he was told. 'OK, give me your left hand.' As Micky extended his hand, Davy took it in his own and under his instructions, Micky slid an arm around his waist, drawing them closer together.
Forcing himself to remain wholly professional, Davy thought back to when his mother had first taught him to waltz as a small boy. Her instructions echoed around in his brain as he remembered gallivanting madly around their small front room, his sisters cheering them on, and his mother's laughter as he stumbled on the hem of her skirt..
'It's not hard, Micky. You just go like this. One, two, three - and move around with it.'
As he had spoken, they were moving around the living room, circling the couch and the table and the bandstand, Mr Schneider watching them from his usual chair, following the path of sunlight streaming in through the windows.
'Wow, Davy. You're way better than that lady from the dance school,' Micky smiled as they passed under the staircase. And Davy was. In fact, Micky was really enjoying dancing with him, when he usually wasn't that big a fan of learning the traditional steps as opposed to improvising his own.
The record moved to the next track, a much faster one, and keeping in with the spirit, Micky started whirling his smaller partner around. Davy stumbled slightly as the speed picked up but kept on his feet. For a few moments, it was as though the whole world consisted of the living room, the record, Micky's mad hair and madder grin and his own laughter as they spun around, in a world where nobody else could touch them.
All too soon it came to a stop. With a start, Micky lost his balance. He hit the floor and Davy fell on top of him. Totally breathless, he couldn't do anything but lie with his head on Micky's stomach as they were flat out on the floor.
Micky ran his hand through Davy's hair, in a way that brought goosebumps to his spine. 'That was great, Davy, babe! Spent time with my best friend and learned to dance! Successful morning!'
'A successful morning? Why? What did you blow up?'
The Texan drawl from the region of front door brought Micky and Davy back to earth. Mike and Peter were standing over them, Mike with a sack of laundry and Peter with two grocery sacks. Mike wore an expression of half disbelief and half amusement. But Peter's face, though calm, was quite unreadable as he stared at the two on the floor. From the point of view of two people coming in the door, Davy had to admit it looked a bit dodgy: after all, they were lying on the floor, completely tangled up together, flushed and out of breath. Nope, it really didn't look good.
'Dave was teaching me to dance,' Micky explained as they struggled upright. 'For this thing with Leila tomorrow.'
Davy felt his insides do that familiar plummet at the sound of Leila's name and hastily walked over to the record player to turn it off, in case the others noticed his instantaneous depression.
Mike and Micky were playfully arguing again about whether Davy had actually succeeded in teaching Micky to dance and Peter still wore that strange, unreadable expression.
When he considered the waiting game of today and tomorrow for the date to be over, Davy decided it was going to be a torturous couple of days.
He was right. The rest of the day passed with all the speed of a snail in a pool of treacle and the next day was no better. Micky had appeared to forget he was on a date that night, until Mike reminded him when he was running the risk of being late. Micky had hastily sprinted up the stairs, changed his shirt and slid down the banister, mistiming his landing completely and crashing into Peter, who was knocked to the ground. Davy had been watching the scene, and announced he was going out for a walk as Micky departed, slamming the door as he did so.
'What the hell's gotten into Davy?' Mike muttered, extending a hand to help Peter up from the floor.
'I don't know, Mike' Peter replied, still deep in thought. Secretly though, he had an idea but wasn't going to risk saying anything.
When Davy returned around an hour later, both the musicians were convinced something was not right. There was an air of melancholia surrounding his and he looked pretty downcast, giving minimal answers to their questions. And so the evening passed in this silent state until Micky's return, when the house resounded with the slam of the front door as Micky arrived home, chattering a mile a minute. Davy's sense of gloom had deepened with the drummer's arrival back home and he couldn't wait now until he could just slink off to bed unnoticed. But even in his dreams, he had no respite from the thoughts that tormented him constantly.
'Dave!' He looked up at the sound of his name, only to be knocked flat on his back by an enthusiastic Micky bestowing a grateful hug upon him. 'Thanks a million, babe! You were right, she loved it. I really owe you one!'
Something inside Davy snapped, knowing that there was only one thing he wanted from Micky: to be loved. He stood up, and forced himself to utter a thanks and remain cheerful. There was clearly something off.
'Davy, you sure you're OK? You've been off all day' Mike was looking at him with a very concerned expression.
'M'fine, Mike. Just going to bed,' he replied, walking across the living room, going into the bedroom and shutting the door very quietly.
Once inside, he collapsed on his bed, face buried in his hands. He had never wanted anything so badly in his whole life as to love and be loved by Micky. But from the way things were going, that was never going to happen. Ever.
He couldn't remember ever feeling such a sense of loss. Of course he had, when his mother died, but that was different. The only instance he could remember was that time a few months ago when his grandfather had tried to bring him home. And he had let him stay because he had 'such loyal friends'. In a way, this was rather familiar to his mother's death, the feeling of wanting to cry but not being able to and just feeling totally numb.
Davy's mental ramblings were cut off by the scent of incense and baby shampoo and the feeling of a pair of arms drawing him from behind into a deep, comforting hug.
'Don't bother telling me you're OK, Davy. What's wrong?' Peter whispered softly, voice carrying in the darkness of the room.
Davy didn't immediately answer at first. 'Why do Mike and Micky think I walked off?'
Peter smiled, but his eyes were sad. 'Micky doesn't have a clue and Michael thought maybe you dug Leila as well. Micky thought he was wrong and then it all turned into another argument about their messy room.' Davy chuckled. 'But Mick's right, isn't he? It's not Leila you like.'
Peter knew. Davy could just tell, just sense that Peter knew, that that was exactly why he had looked so puzzled when he had found them lying on the floor. He felt the room grow hotter and more airless. This was just great. Now his secret was out in the open. He wriggled out of Peter's arms and turned round to look at the blonde man. But there was no sign of anger or disgust on his face, merely compassion, understanding and slight curiosity. His fear dissapated slightly. After all, this was Peter, always understanding, never judging and always ready to help.
'How on earth did you work it out?' Davy whispered, deeply ashamed for some reason.
'I don't know, I think it was just a feeling I had,' Peter mused, after taking a minute to think. 'And then it was sort of piecing things together and looking for back up. But I wasn't going to say anything,' he added.
Of course, Davy thought. Peter, when confronted with a problem, tended to go down the route of leaps of intuition, as opposed to rational thought and progression. It was a slightly unorthodox method of thinking, and was probably the reason why Peter was thought of as the dummy of the group, but it worked. And far from being a dummy, the blonde bassist had to be one of the most sensitive, intuitive people Davy had ever encountered.
Exhausted by his lack of sleep and the buildup of emotion, Davy yawned widely. Immediately, Peter let him go and he slumped over onto the pillow, still fully dressed. He felt Peter run a hand across his forehead, moving his hair out of his eyes and then crossing the room to leave. Just as he opened the door, a thought occurred to Davy.
Now that his crush on Micky was out in the open, Davy had no idea where to go from here. Having a problem bottled up was one thing; having it out in the open opened up a whole new raft of problems and possibilities.
'What am I going to do? About Micky?'
Peter couldn't stand the slight crack in Davy's voice; since the Brit had arrived at the Pad some months before, he had become the little brother Peter had never had, and he hated to see him upset.
'I don't know, Davy. But something will sort itself out. I promise.'