Naked Persimmon ~ Crash Into You

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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.

"Crash Into You"

Title: Crash Into You
Author: Daytona Demon
Rating: Hard R, maybe NC-17, although written more tastefully than most of my stuff.
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Mike/Peter
Summary: Peter has a minor car accident. When he admits the reason, the resulting drama causes Mike to examine how he really feels about Peter.
Warnings: Explicit sexual language and situations, but a little less porn-style and a little more romance-novel style.
Disclaimer: This story is about the characters, not the guys who played them, no implication is meant about the men who played the characters, I don't own the characters, and I get no profit from this (except a case of the jollies). So there.

The phone rang, and Micky, Davy, and Mike rushed to answer it.

“I’ve got it!” Mike shouted. “It’s the manager over at Club Soda, wanting us to play this weekend!"

“No, I’ve got it!” Davy yelled. “If it’s a chick, it’s for me!”

“My call!” Micky said, beating the other two to the phone. “Bet I just got that temp job working at the department store.”

Micky picked up the phone. “Hello?” Silence. “Hello?”

At last, a stammering voice came over the line. “M-Micky? It’s…it’s Peter…is Mike there?”

Micky turned around to mouth “it’s Peter” to the other two. “Hey, Peter! What’s going on? Got us some groceries?”

Again, Peter stammered, sounding upset. “No. Please, Micky, just put Mike on the line.”

“Sure, Peter,” Micky said, shrugging and handing the phone to Mike.

“What’s up, shotgun?” Mike asked.

“Mike…I had an accident…I wasn’t paying attention and I ran the red light…” Peter sounded as if he were about to cry.

Mike’s eyes widened in fear. “Peter. You OK? Talk to me, buddy. Where are you?”

“Fourteenth and Main, couple blocks past the market, I’m OK, the lady I hit is OK, and…Mike, I killed the Monkeemobile, I’m so sorry,” Peter said, his voice shaky.

“Stay right there,” Mike said. “Don’t go anywhere. I’m coming to get you. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Mike hung up the phone. “Peter’s been in an accident. The car’s wrecked but he says he’s OK. I’m going to get him. I’ll find a taxi. You two stay here in case he gets upset and tries to come home before I get there. I don’t want him coming home to an empty house.”

“Shit,” Micky said. “I’m glad Peter’s OK, but…shit.”

“Shit later,” Mike said. “Now, be here for Peter, if he beats me home. Gotta go.” He sprinted out the door.

At the intersection, the Monkeemobile sat partially into the cross street, its front end buried into the right rear passenger side of a brown sedan. The woman who had been driving the sedan stood near the wreckage, talking to police. Peter stood a few feet away, having already spoken to the police officers and received a ticket. He stared miserably at the scene before him, trying not to cry.

A taxi pulled up and Mike jumped out of the back, leaning into the passenger-side window to pay the driver. As the driver pulled away, Mike scanned the crowd of onlookers. He and Peter spotted each other at the same time, the last of Peter’s composure disappearing as he ran toward his friend.

“Miiiiiike…” Peter wailed, beginning to cry. “I’m so stupid…damn it!”

Mike grabbed him and hugged him, relieved that Peter wasn't hurt. “Hey, now, no reason to cry, you’re fine, the lady’s fine, the cars can be fixed.” He patted Peter on the back. “Come on. Stop crying. We’ll get it all taken care of.”

“You don’t hate me?” Peter asked, swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“No,” Mike said, laughing. “No, Peter. I don’t hate you because you had an accident. You didn’t do it on purpose, man. Things happen. I’m just glad you’re all right. I got scared and I didn’t know what I might find when I got here. I’m just glad you picked an accident spot so close to a pay phone.”

“I guess that’s the one thing I did right,” Peter said.

Mike stepped away from Peter and looked around at the crowd. “So who is she?” he asked.

“Who’s who?” Peter asked in return, confused.

“The girl you were looking at when you blew the red light. I know that’s what happened,” Mike said, winking at Peter. “It’s that redhead over there, isn’t it?” he continued, pointing to an attractive auburn-haired woman in a green dress.

“No!” Peter protested. “It wasn’t her! It wasn’t any girl! It wasn’t - I wasn’t –“

“Come on, Peter,” Mike said, clapping one hand onto Peter’s shoulder. “You can tell me. We all do it, man. You just didn’t get your eyes back on the road quick enough. Was it the blonde over there?” he asked, pointing to a girl standing in a shop doorway watching the accident scene.

“NO!” Peter yelled. “It wasn’t a girl! There was no girl!”

Mike sighed and shrugged his shoulders, deciding not to press Peter. He looked at the crowd that had gathered on the opposite side of the street, startled by the sight of a tall, dark-haired man in a blue dress shirt, tie, and blue-and-white checked pants. The man turned briefly, offering a better view of his face, and Mike sighed in relief.

“That was spooky,” Mike said. “When he was turned more to the side like that… it was like seeing myself in the mirror. They say everyone has a twin somewhere out there in the world. I think he’s mine. I dress better, though.”

“He looks just like you from the back,” Peter said, staring at the man. “I saw him when he was walking down the sidewalk, and I couldn’t believe he wasn’t you. He even walks just like you do.”

“Well, of course it wasn’t me you saw. You knew I was back home,” Mike said.

“Yeah…” Peter said, his voice trailing off. “But he looked just like you. I couldn’t quit looking at him…” He stopped, realizing he’d said too much, and his face flushed.

Mike’s mouth opened in surprise. “Him? That’s why you ran the red light? ‘Cause you were looking at that guy you thought was me?”

Peter nodded, refusing to look at Mike.

“But he’s just some guy, and you knew I was back at the house, and…what’s so interesting about him, that you’d run a red light looking at him?” Mike asked.

“He looks like you,” Peter said, crossing his arms and staring off into space.

Mike suddenly realized what had happened. No, there wasn’t any girl; but indeed, Peter had been very distracted by someone, and for similar reasons.

"So let me make sure I understand," Mike said. "You were watching this guy the way you'd watch a chick, and you were watching him because he looks like me. Or because you thought it was me. Or because you were thinking about me. Something like that."

"Yeah," Peter muttered, turning away from Mike.

A police officer walked over to talk to Peter. "Son, that car isn't drivable. Where do you want it towed to?"

"Fred's Body Shop, up on 18th Street," Mike said. Fred was a good friend of the band and always let Mike work on the Monkeemobile there. What Mike couldn't fix, Fred probably could, and for an amount of money even the band could afford.

"Fred's," the officer said, scribbling the name onto a notepad. Looking at Peter again, he asked, "You have a ride home?"

"Yes, sir," Mike answered. "We'll take a taxi."

The officer looked at Mike and then at Peter. "Since your friend here insists on answering for you, maybe next time you should have him drive you, too," he said to Peter.

Peter's expression hardened in anger and embarrassment as the officer walked back to the accident scene. Mike mouthed "fuck you" to the officer's back, offering a quick jab of his middle finger for emphasis.

"Come on, Peter," Mike said, glaring one last time at the officer. "There's a taxi across the street. Let's go home." The two men crossed the street toward the taxi, neither looking at nor speaking to the other. Mike spoke briefly to the taxi driver and then opened the door for Peter and himself to climb into the back.

Uncomfortable silence clouded the air between Mike and Peter in the taxi. Mike cleared his throat and looked over at Peter. "Um...when we get back, I'm gonna have Davy and Micky run out and get us pizza and Cokes for dinner or something, get them out of the house. 'Cause you and me, we gotta talk about this."

"There's nothing to talk about," Peter said, his voice monotone and his gaze fixed on the road ahead.

Mike rolled his eyes and sighed. It was going to be a long ride home.

After what felt like hours, the taxi pulled up to the house. Mike and Peter left the taxi, Mike paying the driver as Peter went into the house. Mike came through the door to see Micky and Davy embracing Peter.

"We're so glad you're all right, man!" Davy said. "It sucks about the Monkeemobile, but Mike can fix that, I bet," Micky added. "We're just glad you weren't hurt."

"Thanks, guys," Peter said with no enthusiasm, sitting down on the couch and staring at nothing. Micky and Davy turned to Mike, their expressions a mix of concern and confusion.

"Peter's just not in a great mood about all this and I think I need to talk to him. Why don't you run out and grab us some pizzas and Cokes. Give us at least an hour." Mike fished his wallet from his back pocket, handed money to Micky and Davy, and opened the front door.

"Might be closer to two hours if the pizza place is busy," Micky said.

"That's fine," Mike said. "Just don't come back without pizza and some sodas. Oh, hell, you're gonna need a taxi. Here, take this," he said, handing the last of his money to Micky and Davy.

"Thanks, Dad!" Micky joked, waving dollar bills in the air. He and Davy left in search of dinner. Mike shut the door and sat on the couch, turning to look at Peter.

"I guess this means I'm out of the band, huh?" Peter asked, his voice still monotone.

"Out of the band? Why would you be out of the band?" Mike asked.

"Because I'm a faggot," Peter said. "You and Micky and Davy won’t want anything to do with me."

Mike's jaw dropped. He'd never heard Peter talk like that before, never seen him so angry and sullen. "Peter, don’t say that. Don’t call yourself names. Nobody’s gonna throw you out of the band. I do think we need to figure out what we're gonna do about...the way you feel about me. Because we can't have you blowin' through red lights if you see some guy who kinda looks like me. Bass players and Monkeemobiles ain't cheap, ya know," he said, forcing a laugh.

Peter smiled slightly, still staring straight ahead. "Your accent gets a lot heavier when you get upset," he said.

"Oh," Mike responded quietly, going angry and sullen himself. He had grown weary of hearing others make fun of his accent, and he hated the times that his Texas drawl got in the way when he was trying his hardest to make a point.

Peter turned to look at him. "I wasn't making fun of you, Michael. I like your accent. If I wanted to hear somebody that sounded like me all the time, I'd talk to myself more."

Mike laughed and shook his head. "Peter, you can be so profound and you don't even know it." Peter didn't respond, his expression no longer sullen or angry, just sad.

Mike looked at him, struggling for words that would cheer up his friend or just get him to talk. He punched Peter playfully on the arm. "Come on, Peter. Don't...don't bottle this up. Don't keep it inside you and make it all even weirder than it is. Please, just...say something. Start somewhere. We gotta sort this out. Tell me what's on your mind."

Peter looked at Mike, his mouth moving, trying to form words. Mike saw something flash in Peter's eyes, a split second like coals catching fire, and suddenly Peter sprang at him. Before he could even register the movement, Mike was caught in a forceful kiss. He barely managed to struggle before Peter pulled away from him.

"That's what's on my mind," Peter said, pushing the words out as if they caused him physical pain. "Every time I see you, every time I'm around you, that's what's on my mind." He buried his face in his hands. "I'm sorry, Mike. I'm sorry."

Mike felt despondent as he watched Peter hunch over, trembling and hiding his face. He put his hand on Peter's shoulder, hoping to comfort him. "Nothing to be sorry about. We all feel what we feel. This doesn't mean we can't still be friends," Mike said.

Peter looked up at Mike, his eyes wet with tears. "I can't just be friends with you, Mike. I can't. Not when I see you every day, all day, and you're all I can think about. Not when I know nothing's ever going to change. I can't do it. I can't be around you." He hunched over again.

Mike watched him, struggling to keep his own emotions under control as sobs wracked Peter's body. Mike thought about Peter, about their friendship, about the deep caring Peter obviously had for him.

He thought about his own feelings for Peter - always looking out for him, wanting to shield Peter from anything that would harm him, wanting him to be happy and content and flash that wide, angelic smile. That smile...Mike thought about how it made him feel when Peter smiled at him that way. Like I could walk on air the rest of the day, he realized. Mike thought about how frightened he’d been when Peter had said he’d been in an accident, and what a relief it was to get to the scene to see for himself that Peter was uninjured.

Until now, Mike had never understood how he felt, why Peter's happiness and well-being was so important to him in a way that was different from the way he looked out for Micky and Davy and his other friends. Now, he understood. What he felt for Peter went beyond friendship.

"Well, damned if I don't feel it too," Mike said out loud. "It's always been there. I just didn't know it for what it was. Couldn't understand it." Peter looked up in time to see Mike reach out for him. Peter felt Mike's arms around him and he rested his head on Mike's shoulder.

Mike stroked Peter's hair and instinctively he kissed Peter on top of his head - a small, slight kiss that was over almost before Mike realized what he'd done. His heart thumped and his head swam as he kissed Peter a second and third time.

Peter pulled away slightly and looked up at Mike, pleasantly surprised. Mike flushed red, and Peter put his hand on Mike's cheek, feeling the warm skin beneath his fingers. Peter moved his hand slowly down Mike's face and neck, resting his fingertips on the first button of Mike's shirt.

"Are you OK with this?" Peter asked.

Mike nodded, swallowing hard. His mind was a maze of confusion and he was more nervous than he'd ever been with any girl. He tried to breathe deeply, slow the rapid thumping of his heart, stop the trembling of his hands.

Peter leaned in for a kiss, hesitating for a moment to see whether Mike would pull away. When he didn’t, Peter made his move, unbuttoning Mike’s shirt as they kissed. Mike shivered at the light touch of Peter’s hands on his chest. He wondered if he should stop Peter, if he should stop himself, and he placed his hands on Peter’s arms, pausing for a moment, unsure what to do next.

Peter kissed his way down Mike’s neck and onto his chest, stopping to lick and tease one nipple gently. Mike made his decision. He reclined on the couch, pulling Peter down on top of him. “Mike…” Peter said, a look of pleased surprise crossing his face.

Mike kissed him, gently at first while tracing the outline of Peter’s lips with his tongue, then more forcefully. He shifted under Peter, pressing his groin into Peter’s so each could feel the other’s arousal. His fingers dug into Peter’s back, making Peter moan with pleasure and a little pain.

Peter lifted himself off Mike, unfastening Mike’s pants and sliding them down toward his knees. Mike froze, wondering if he could continue and whether he was ready to go further. Peter eased himself down onto Mike, stroking his hair, trying to reassure him.

“Mike, we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. Just tell me. You always tell me to talk to you,” Peter whispered to him. “So talk to me. Is this OK? Do you want this?”

Once again, Peter’s touch convinced Mike. “I want this. I want you,” Mike said, relaxing. “I don’t know how to do this...with a guy. But we’ll figure it out, won’t we?” He reached for Peter’s pants, deftly unbuttoning and unzipping them with one hand as he unbuttoned Peter’s shirt with his other hand.

“You’re good at that,” Peter said, smiling as he removed his shirt and pants. He and Mike held each other close, enjoying the feeling of hot and hard flesh with no clothing in the way.

Peter reached down to grasp Mike, stroking him in a way that make Mike gasp and writhe beneath him. “Oh, sweet Jesus, Peter, that’s so good,” Mike moaned. “Keep going…keep going…” Peter kept going, trailing kisses, licks, and nibbles all over Mike’s neck and chest. Mike suddenly arched his back, nearly knocking Peter off him. Peter steadied himself, feeling warm wetness all over his hand as Mike bucked again and again, moaning and slamming a fist into the couch.

Mike pushed Peter’s hand away from him, the sensations finally becoming too much. He breathed heavily, watching as Peter leaned over him and caressed his face. “Mike, you’re so beautiful,” Peter said. “It was amazing to watch you. You don’t do anything halfway.”

Mike flushed red again, embarrassed once more. “Um…well…you put your hands in the right place, and I can’t exactly stop at halfway, you know?” he said. Peter smiled and kissed his forehead.

“Stay where you are,” Peter said. “You don’t have to do anything. Just stay right there.”

Peter pressed himself into Mike’s groin, moving slowly at first, then faster, small sounds escaping from his throat. Mike moved a hand downward and encircled Peter, wanting to pleasure him as he himself had just been pleasured.

Peter stopped to position himself into Mike’s hand, and he began moving again, thrusting into Mike’s grasp. He met Mike’s gaze, two sets of dark eyes smoldering and sparking. Peter leaned his body onto Mike’s with such force that Mike knew he'd be bruised, but he bore the pain and urged Peter onward.

Peter came with an intensity that startled them both. He shouted and swore, pushing Mike into the couch and leaving Mike’s hand hot, sticky, and dripping. Exhausted, Peter dropped onto Mike, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

“You all right there?” Mike asked, wrapping both arms around Peter.

“Never better,” Peter responded, his voice muffled as his face was buried into Mike’s chest. “How about you? Was this OK?”

Mike nodded. “Oh, yeah. More than OK. I’m, uh…” He trailed off, unsure how to complete his thought.

Peter looked up at him. “You’re what, Mike?”

“I’m…um, hoping this isn’t just a one-time thing,” Mike said.

Peter grinned at Mike. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

“You do,” Mike said. “You do. However, we better clean up before Micky and Davy get back.”

Peter sighed. “I guess so. You want the shower first?”

Mike looked at Peter with a sly smile. “I thought maybe we could shower at the same time. You know, it saves hot water ‘n’ all.”

Peter smiled back. “That’s a great idea. I guess that’s why you’re the bandleader, huh? You think of everything. But if I didn’t know better, I might think you were trying to take advantage of me.”

Mike stood up, extending a hand to Peter. “I am. But you figured that out.”

Peter stood up, took Mike’s hand, and pulled him toward the bathroom. “I did. But don’t let that stop you.”

They walked to the bathroom, cleanliness the last thing on their minds as they made the most of their remaining time together before their bandmates returned.

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