"Hey, guys!" Micky called as he slid down the rail of the spiral staircase, "What's for breakfast? I'm starved!"
Peter looked up from the television to meet the drummer's eyes. "Good morning, Micky. I'm doing swell, thanks for asking."
"Sorry, Pete." micky apologized sheepishly, "I'm just so hungry I could eat a-- Mike!"
"Sorry mate," Davy called from the next room, "I'm afraid I draw the line at cannibalism."
"No, no! Not eat mike! I forgot to wake him up!"
"He's a big boy, isn't he? He can wake himself up!"
Micky groaned. "He had an interview today and asked me to wake him early so he could get ready!" Speaking of the green-hatted devil, a sleepy, bedraggled Mike came trudging downstairs. "Look, Mike, I'm sorry I forgot to wake you up, I--"
He stopped for a minute and looked over his bandmate, housemate, and friend. "You feelin' alright, mate?" Davy asked before Micky had the chance. "You look a bit under the weather."
Mike responded with a small grunt, then a quick rub of his nose. "I'm fine, I'm fine. 'Just didn't get much sleep is all."
"Didn't get much sleep?" Micky questioned, "But I thought you were up for 26 hours before last night! Weren't you tired?"
"Incredibly." The Texan sighed.
"Why not go back up and sleep, then?" Peter asked, giving his friend a bit of a smile. "You look beat, man "
Mike was going to respond, when a tickle began to build up inside his nose. He rubbed it in hopes of getting it to go away, but unfortunately, it did very little, and that tickle was slowly manifesting itself in the form of a sneeze.
"I have to get r-heh-ready... For the interview." The last part was said in a rush, as he knew there was no stopping the inevitable. He turned his head to the side and sneezed a decently sized, "Heh-SHOO!"
There was a chorus of blessings from the boys, and he thanked them, blushing just slightly. He never liked being blessed very much, ever since he was young.
"You're not well, Mike," Davy said, "Why not call in and tell them you'll do it another time? I'm sure they'd understand."
"Yeah," Micky added, "Everybody gets sick once in a while."
"Not me," Mike sniffed stubbornly, trudging off to the bathroom to ready himself.
Sure, that's what he always said. But the boys knew better. He may not've gotten sick often, but when he did it was always a trip.
"There's gotta be something we can do to get him not to go." Davy thought out loud.
"What do we do?" Peter asked nobody in particular.
"I don't know!" Micky said, "Mike's always the one with the good ideas!" A rather harsh sneeze from the next room reminded them that they needed to think fast.
"What we need to do is give him a reason not to go." Davy noted, looking up.
"Yeah! Right!" Micky agreed, then suddenly stopped. "Heh... HiihHsSHOO!" He looked up sheepishly, sniffling. "Sorry, it's dusty down here."
"That's it!" Peter jumped up, "We'll tell him Micky's sick!"
"Is everything set up yet?" Micky asked from under piles and piles of sweaters and blankets, "I'm sweating like crazy under here!"
"That's the point!" Peter said, throwing yet another heavy comforter ontop of the fuzzy headed drummer.
"How is drowning in sweat gonna convince Mike I've got a cold?"
"Well, your sneezing is gonna do that!" Peter grinned his childlike grin.
"But I don't have to sneeze!" Micky pouted, "How are we gonna make me sneeze without Mike seeing?"
The smile disappeared from the blonde's face. "oh yeah, I hadn't thought of that."
At that moment, Davy walked in with a shaker of pepper. "I have!"
"Pepper?" Micky asked, "How will that work?"
"You remember when that lady pretended to be a fortune teller to get me set up with her daughter? And how she said Peter would come down with a 24 hour virus?" Micky nodded. "well, we'll just do what she did!"
"Oh, I see!" Peter said, "You just shake some on Micky's sweater and boom! Sneeze city!"
"That's the plan!" Davy smiled, proud of himself. "Now come on, we'd better get to it before Mike comes up!"
The boys began taking tissues, crumpling them up, and putting them around Micky. The drummer shed a few layers of blankets, wiping the sweat off his brow. Just before Davy readied himself to sprinkle the pepper, he looked down at his friend. "Remember to talk like you're sick!"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, you know, scratchy voice, stuffy nose, that sort of thing." Immediately, Micky's posture shrunk and he sunk down in the covers.
"I du'do," He sniffed, "Do I sou'd alright?"
"You sound awful! Doesn't he sound awful, Peter?" Davy grinned.
"Well yeah, but doesn't he always?"
"Hey!" Micky pouted, "I resent that!" He then looked back at Davy, "What time is it? Mike has to leave soon!"
Davy turned his hand around to look at his wristwatch, not remembering about the shaker of pepper he held in his same hand. He stared at his watch, looking carefully to tell the time. He tapped at the glass, "I think I need a new battery for this, it's not--"
He looked down at Micky, and his eyes widened at the amount of Pepper he'd accidentally shaken out. "Oh, no."
Micky wasn't upset, though. Or rather, he didn't have time to be. The pepper was taking quick effect, and his nostrils were already flaring. "Huh-h-hh..." His brown eyes began to water from the irritation in his nose. "HEH-ISHOO!" He sneezed, strong and openly. "HIIISHHHOO!" The sneezes were big, and rough. He plucked tissue after tissue, sneezing into them. "guyhhh g-huh-guys! I cah-hah-AHHHSHOO! Can't stop! ih... HM'PCH!" He'd managed to nearly stop a few of them, but they were coming on too strong.
At the sound of the sneezes, a pair of feet quickly came up the stairs.
"What's goin' on up here?" Mike Nesmith asked, pushing back his woot hat.
"He can't stop sneezing!" Davy said, genuinely in awe. He'd expected his plan to work, but not THAT well! "I think he's come down with something."
Micky turned to his side to muffle yet another sneeze, which carried a little more power than he'd expected, sending the drummer to the floor. "Ow--hAahCHOO!" He sneezed again after.
The Texan quickly helped his friend off the floor, sniffling himself. "Man, you're gonna collapse a lung if you don't stop that!" When Micky sneezed against him in response, Mike's brows furrowed. "Don't do that." He turned to find a thermometer which he could've swore he left on the nightstand.
The second he turned, Davy and Peter helped Micky out of the peppery sweater.
"I coulda swore I--" He looked Micky over, sniffling pitifully. "Well, at least you stopped. How do you feel, shotgun?"
Micky rubbed his irritated nose, not even having to play up the stuffiness in his voice, "Dot good." Mike nodded, then turned to the side and coughed.
"Hey Mike," Peter spoke up, "Maybe you should stay here and keep an eye on him!"
"Man, you know I can't do that, I have an interview. Besides, you two are here!"
"But, uh... We won't be!" Davy thought quickly, "I've got a date! And uh, you see, Peter has a..."
"A dentist appointment!"
Mike pondered it for a minute, then shook his head. "I have to go. And it's not like he's in pain or anything--" Peter elbowed Micky in the ribs, and he moaned in pain. the Texan sighed, "I guess I'll call and tell 'em I can't do it today."
While the three tricksters were busy celebrating internally, something was happening to Mike. His hand rose up, hesitating somewhere between his nose, and his side, where it was resting. His eyes fell closed, and he drew a shuddering breath in. "Huhuh..." Nostrils flared, and lips parted, waiting for the sneeze that just wouldn't seem to come.
After a few moments of suspension, the lingering sneeze was so thick in the air that even the other boys felt Mike's frustration when it disappeared without a trace. He sniffled and tried to discreetly rub his nose.
Micky kicked at Davy, who got the hint. "We'd better be going now, Peter."
"Going where?" Peter asked naively.
"Come on." Davy grabbed Peter's arm and took him out the door. Micky let out a weak fake cough, then sat up. "Hey Mike, you think you could make me some tea?"
"I'll do ya one better." he said, "My mama used to make this ol' remedy for us when we got sick."
"Did it work?"
"Like a charm!" Mike smiled a bit, if only to give his friend some comfort. The recipe worked, but lord, did it ever taste awful. "If you don't mind the taste--eh..." Mike's breath snagged as the sneeze came with with a horrible vengeance. "H-HeptSHOO!" The powerful release was turned to the side, directed away from Micky. He quickly stood up and turned toward the door.
"What is it, Shotgun?"
Mike stood in the kitchen, leaning over a pot of boiling... Well, there was no other way to describe it, goop. He had just added in the last ingredient when a tickle crawled it's way into his nose. He rubbed at it, trying to fight back the impending nasal explosion, but then he looked around, sniffling.
Micky was upstairs, and with Peter and Davy gone, he could let out his sneezes without anyone being around to hear them. The fuzzy tickly sensation crept further back in Mike's nose, causing his nostrils to flare dangerously. This time, when his breath began to hitch, he didn't try to stop the inevitable.
He let loose with two rather harsh sneezes, "HEHshhHOo! Heh... huhh'tSSHhhOO!" then rubbed his reddened nose before giving it the good blow that it needed. He wanted to go crawl in bed for himself, and nearly did, too, before remembering his mother's remedy, and his sick friend. He sneezed one more time, this one more desperate and quite tickly, leaving a slight irritation.
After another blow of his nose, Mike took the goop and poured it into a glass. He walked it upstair and into the bedroom, holdin arms length away, because of the smell. Not that he could smell anything, anyways. "Here, Shotgun." Mike sniffled and gave his nose another rub, another sneeze threatening to escape. "You be careful with that stuff. It'll knock ya right out."
Micky looked at the goop and drew back. "Are you trying to /kill/ me?!"
The Texan rolled his eyes at his friend's childish behavior. "c'mon man, just drink it down real quick, and nothin'll kill ya."
The drummer looked between the goop and his cold-ridden bandmate, a metaphorical lightbuld appearing over his head. "I wan't you to test it, first."
"You crazy? That stuff kills!-- Er, uh... You're the sick one. It won't do any good on me."
Micky mustered up all his years of adorable training to give Mike the biggest, most pathetic pair of puppy eyes he'd ever seen. The towering Texan couldn't stand the awesome power of Micky's eyes, and surrendered, taking a small sip of the goop.
"Oh, come on!" Micky pleaded, "One great big one!"
"There's only 'one great big one' in here!" Micky whimpered, and Mike gave in, taking a big gulp. "there, see? I dih... hhhng..." Mike suddenly fell forward, falling onto the bed, directly ontop of Micky.
"Nothing better than a plan that works out!" Micky said triumphantly to body in particular. He tried to push Mike off of him, but the darned boy was clinging tightly to the fuzzy headed drummer. "Er... Davy? Peter? Help?"
"Man, is he still out?" Davy asked, leaning over the sleeping form of Mike Nesmith.
"looks like it." Peter said.
"How long's it been now?"
"Uh, let's see...Three, four" peter counted it out on his fingers, "... Two days."
"Man," Micky said, laughing a little bit, "I'm glad he doesn't get sick often."
"Why? It's not like he's a complainer or anythin' like that." Davy noted.
"No," Micky said, "But he sure is stub....buh... Hhheht'CHOO!"
"Come on man, knock that off." Peter looked at Micky with his usual naivety.
"Yeah Mick, we got 'im down, you can stop faking sick now."
"Guys, I-I'm not... nohh.. HAHT'CHOO!" He sniffled.
A shared look between Peter and Davy said the only think that could be said about another sick Monkee; "Oh, no."