Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mike was trying in vain to enjoy eating his lunch with Davy, but there were two things interrupting him. The first was Mr. Schneider’s unblinking pair of eyes. Mr. Schneider sat dumbly across from Mike, dressed in the bright orange of Peter’s nightshirt—a jarring and inadequate replacement. The second thing that was interrupting Mike was Micky.

Sprawled out on the lounge chair, wrapped in blankets, Micky resembled an ailing damsel wasting away from a rough bout of tuberculosis. Or something to that effect. He rubbed at his nose and sniffled thickly.

“Don’t do that,” Mike warned from the kitchen table without looking up from his newspaper. “Your ears will close up.”

“I’ll do what I want, thanks,” Micky moaned. “I’m on my deathbed.”

“You’re not on your deathbed. You have a cold,” Mike said.

Micky responded with a cough. He looked at Mike, pouting, his eyes fever-bright and watery.

“We have more important things to worry about than your imminent death. Like, what are we doing eating lunch with Mr. Schneider?”

“Oh, Peter wasn’t here, and Micky was being miserable, and I got lonely,” said Davy.

“I like being miserable.” Micky pressed his face into his pillow which muffling the sound of his continued coughing.

Mike and Davy both ignored Micky. “Peter’s not—you mean he’s not back from the museum yet?”

Micky unpeeled his face from the pillow. “Maybe he’s in trouble.”

“Huh,” Davy said. “How much trouble can you get in in a museum?”

Mike put down the newspaper, giving up on reading once and for all. Of course Peter had not left the museum. He’d gone to the Museum Fantastique, where he’d recently started work teaching painting classes for some much-needed extra cash—or, more accurately, he’d been banished there on his day off—after Micky, already achy and addled from practicing drums through a cough medicine haze, had banged his head on a fake door, painted and placed by Peter, prompting Mike to forbid Peter from bringing work projects home. “He’s in trouble,” Mike repeated.

Davy nodded. “He’s in trouble.” He set down the cup of tea he was sipping from. “I really ought to pay Villette a visit—I mean, I ought to see what sort of trouble Peter’s in.”

Villette was the girl of the week. Mike hadn’t yet had the pleasure, but Davy, who’d also picked up work at the Museum Fantastique—as a docent—had reported that she was the strikingly beautiful assistant curator who’d been training him. In fact, there had already been a suspicious amount of days in the two weeks since Davy had been hired on which he stayed late.

“Say ‘hi’ to Villette,” Mike said, glancing at Micky, who’d shmushed his face back into his pillow. He moaned softly, likely a plea for attention, but one that Mike would not indulge.

“Maybe after I figure out what’s holding up Peter,” Davy said. But as he rushed out the door, he blushed.

Peter was, indeed, in trouble. He’d been spending extra time perfecting his painting skills with the help of two of the guards at the museum, Claude and Duccio, who also promised that they had expertise in painting instruction. It wasn’t the extra time commitment, however, that was the trouble. The trouble was that he was still no good at painting.

Peter frowned the copy of Frans Hals’ Laughing Cavalier that he’d been working on. “I just don’t feel it.”

Peter had been in the storage room-turned makeshift studio, painting all morning and through a good portion of the afternoon. He, Claude, and Duccio were surrounded by rejects from the museum’s main collections—old tables, smashed pianos, muddied canvas. Now, late in the afternoon, he was, at most, two brush strokes away from completing the painting. Claude nudged Duccio. “I can make him feel it,” he said through gritted teeth.

Duccio rolled his eyes. “Leonardo da Vinci couldn’t be rushed, you know.”

Peter chose to disregard both statements (his name was Peter Tork, not Leonardo da Vinci. What did da Vinci have to do with this anyway?). “Maybe if you told me something about the painting,” he suggested to Duccio.

Duccio rolled his eyes, seemingly trying to remember details about the painting’s subject. “Well, this guy, he’s a classy guy. He’s a guy who would have a lot of class, have a lot of money. The guy is a good dresser, you see.” He gestured to his own guard outfit, inviting Peter to imagine that Duccio himself had style, though unfortunately Duccio looked like a sickly bulldog whose eyes went in two different directions. “With the ruffles, with the style, this guy got a lot of style. With a big hat, he gets all the girls, you understand?”

Peter nodded enthusiastically although he did not quite understand. But money was money and paint was paint. Practice makes perfect, so Peter kept painting. “There, it’s finished,” he announced almost an hour later.

“It’s finished?” Claude repeated in disbelief. “Now, Duccio, now!”

Now? Now what? Now Peter was going to get paid for his overtime work? He wasn’t sure where the glee was coming from.

Just then, the basement phone rang.

“Good afternoon, Villette.” Duccio sighed as he picked up the phone.

Villette. That was Davy’s girl. Peter had seen her around, but hadn’t yet gotten a chance to speak to her himself. She was always striding around the museum in clicking heels, wearing a black pencil skirt with matching blazer. More often than not, Davy was at her heels, though she hardly ever looked back at him.

“Afternoon Duccio.” Even through the phone, Peter could hear Villette’s voice dripping with an eerie sweetness. It was stilted. And unnatural.  What did Davy see in her? “Didn’t you hear the warning bell from down there? Have you shut down the systems for the night? You should be up here now,” her voice dropped to a low buzz, but Peter could still make out the last part of the sentence: “with the copy, of course.”

“We’ll be right up,” Duccio confirmed.

“Now?” Claude asked again.

And again, Peter wondered why Claude was so excited to give him his payment.

But Duccio ignored him. “Business before pleasure. Peter, sit down.” He gestured to a chair in which Peter graciously sat. “Peter, what’s the most important thing for an artist?”

“Paint.” Practicing and putting in the effort a close second. Easy.

“He’s got a point,” Claude said and Peter nodded in agreement. He was beginning to like Claude, who looked marginally less like a bulldog and more just like an exhausted museum guard, more and more.

Duccio glared at Peter. “Shut up!” He waved his hand at an item on a table behind Peter which Claude picked it up. “The most important thing for an artist is to suffer.”

Suddenly Peter was yanked backwards by the shoulders. Claude pinned him back with one hand and tossed a coil of rope to Duccio with the other. Duccio looped it around Peter’s wrists, tying his hands loosely together. Duccio fiddled with what looked to be a large, flashy circuit breaker box over by the phone. With the press of a few buttons, the box made a satisfied clicking sound. “Security systems shut down,” Duccio confirmed. “I’ll go help Villette enact the next steps of the plan. You stay down here and make sure our artist suffers sufficiently for his art.”

Security shut down? It wasn’t long before the museum was to close. Shouldn’t security be powering up?

Claude nodded as Duccio left the makeshift studio to go meet Villette. “Keep suffering,” he said, patting Peter’s cheek.

Peter knitted his eyebrows into a disapproving look up at Claude. “You’re not getting away with this. My friends will be here any minute,” he said, sure that Davy was on his way. Maybe Mike too. Possibly even Micky unless his cold had taken a turn for the worse. If that was the case, maybe Mike would have to look after him. And Davy could have easily gotten distracted by Villette. In fact, Peter was not sure that any of the Monkees were on their way at all. And as Peter’s face fell and his eyes grew wide with the realization, Claude’s smile grew.

“Oh Duccio. Maybe next time we should find an artist that’s not so slow, hmm?” Miss Villette Noire’s lips were pursed into a smile but her dark eyebrows were serious. “We can’t get this plan in motion if you spend all you time in the basement, can we?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but instead held out her hands for the painting. “May I see the copy?”

Duccio passed it to her. She admired it, combing it carefully for flaws. She clicked her tongue in approval. “Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.” She looked over her shoulder to make sure no one was coming. “Only a few minutes until close. The daytime guards will be heading home soon. Your artist may be slow, but his work is flawless. Admittedly, the timing worked out perfectly. We need to hang this up. Now.” Villette again looked behind her to make no one was around. “Come.” She beckoned Duccio to follow her to the Dutch Golden Age exhibit.

As Villette and Duccio walked through the museum, the only sound was the click of Villette’s heels. Not even the hum of electricity, a telltale sign that the museum’s security system—a network of invisible beams surrounding the paintings, a triumph of security—was in the air. The viewers had all headed home for the evening. It was just Duccio. Just Peter in the basement, tied up. Just Villette, who was, of course, not simply assistant curator Villette Noire, but notorious international art thief Black Widow. And the Black Widow seemed uncharacteristically paranoid.

“Is there something wrong?” Duccio asked as the pair approached Frans Hals’ original painting.

“There’s just one part of the plan that isn’t perfect,” the Black Widow said. “Davy.”

“Davy? Who’s Davy?”

“The new docent I hired. The small British one that’s always following me around. Big eyes, kind of looks like a chipmunk.”

Duccio nodded. “Davy. Right. He’s in on the plan? I thought he annoyed you.” The Black Widow raised an eyebrow at Duccio and he continued, “Nothing against you. Or him. He just—annoys me, I mean.”

The Black Widow rolled her eyes. “Yes, he annoys me too. No, he’s not in on the plan. At least not as far as he’s aware.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s the thief.”

“No he’s not. We are.”

“Shush!” hissed the Black Widow. She looked over her shoulder again. “Just get the painting on the wall. I’ll explain.”

Holding his breath just in case, Duccio lifted the Laughing Cavalier from the gallery wall. He waited for a beat. And then another. Of course, nothing happened. Under the Black Widow’s shifting gaze, he began adjusting Peter’s copy in its place.

“Raise the left corner a little bit,” the Black Widow instructed. “That’s too much. Raise the right one a bit. Yeah, that’s better. Yeah, that’s the one,” she said, though she was barely looking at the painting. “Take the original down to the basement and turn the security system back on. I’ll wait for Davy.”

“You asked him to meet us here?” The Black Widow was the Black Widow. To get an annoying lovestruck struggling British musician involved in an international art heist was unlike her. But Villette always had a plan.

“I didn’t ask him to come here, but I know that he will. He’s friends with Percival.”

“Percival? You mean the artist? Peter?”

“Peter. As soon as Davy realizes Peter is missing, he’ll be here looking for him. I’ll convince him that it’s his job to stop the theft, which of course we’ve already completed, and you and Claude will catch him red-handed, when he meddles with the painting. He’ll do anything I say. He’s in love with me! We’ll frame him—and your artist—for thievery and forgery.”

“Well, you know best,” Duccio said. It was an odd plan, but the Black Widow always had a plan. Always.

“That’s right,” said the Black Widow. “This’ll work. It’ll have to.”

The Black Widow, looking down the hall, grabbed Duccio by the shoulders and directed him, with the painting, back towards the basement studio. As soon as Duccio disappeared from Villette’s sight, she head an accented voice approaching the Dutch exhibit and calling her name. Villette changed her expression from one of sly seriousness into one of wide-eyed nervousness—from the Black Widow into a timid curator—as Davy approached.

“Villette!” he said. “Have you seen Peter? He’d said he was spending extra time perfecting his painting, but now the museum’s closed and he still hasn’t arrived back at the pad.”  

“Davy! Just who I wanted to see,” Villette said, keeping her meek damsel persona intact. She threw herself at Davy, attempting a hug (wasn’t that what most people did when they wanted comfort?), but he was a bit shorter than she’d expected, so the two collided awkwardly with an oof from Davy. “Sorry,” Villette said as they separated. “It’s just. I heard—I received an anonymous tip.” She tugged Davy’s sleeve, not letting him get too far from her. “Someone—” she looked behind her and then back to Davy—“is going to steal the Laughing Cavalier.”

It was even better than Villette expected; Davy did not question anything. “Go find the guards. Alert the police. I’ll stand guard in the Dutch exhibit. You’ve worked so hard on this museum. I can’t let anything ruin your work.”

Villette nodded and rushed off. Not to alert the police, of course, but to make sure Claude and Duccio were ready to catch red-handed the new hire who’d just used a spare key to sneak into the museum after hours on the pretense of finding his friend who, also, was not meant to be in the museum.

Davy figured that with him standing in front of the Laughing Cavalier and the museum’s security system, no thief would dare attempt to steal the painting. Villette may have been fearful, but Davy was not. His height was deceptive; he could take almost anyone in a fight.

With Villette gone and Davy standing alone in the closed museum, the gallery halls were eerily silent. All was dark aside from lowlight spotlights shining on each of the paintings. Davy wondered again where Peter was and hoped that he, too, had not gotten caught up in the robbery. There was a non-zero chance he had, Davy worried. He remembered the time he’d purchased those maracas and the time Micky was pressured into posing as Babyface. And there was also that time Peter had nearly been burdened with a lifetime of dance lessons and when Mike was scammed out of that money so his song could be produced. The Monkees most definitely had a knack for involving themselves in issues better left alone.

Davy turned to admire the Laughing Cavalier, ears still pricked for any creak or footstep that might indicate a thief.

That’s when Davy noticed it, the loping signature in the corner. Not Frans Hals’, but Peter Tork’s. He looked from the description on the wall adjacent to the painting (This guy, he’s a classy guy. He’s a guy who would have a lot of class, have a lot of money. The guy is a good dresser. With the ruffles, with the style, this guy’s got a lot of style. With a big hat, he gets all the girls.) back to the signature.

His worst fears of Peter getting involved in the robbery—more than definitely an accident—were confirmed. Without thinking, Davy brushed his thumb over the signature. As soon as he did so, the sound of clanging bells and blaring alarms filled the museum, and a cage of heavy metal bars descended over Davy. His mouth opened, frozen in an expression of shock and fear.

In the basement, Villette had joined Peter, Claude, and Duccio. Only, she wasn’t Villette anymore. She’s let her slicked-back hair loose and now greasy-looking curls and waves framed her face. A freedom seemed to come with lifting her curator persona, and her eyes seemed darker. Peter thought that she looked more like herself as the Villette he’d seen briefly before seemed stilted and strange. This new Villette was . . . villainous. Venomous. 

As the sound of the blaring alarms carried throughout the museum and into the basement, Villette began to laugh. “See,” she said, “even easier than I’d hoped. Arrest Davy, bring him down here, and we’ll have the police deal with these two while we go on our merry way.” The Black Widow nodded at Peter, who, with his hands tied, really couldn’t do much of anything at all but look up at the ceiling and hope that Mike (with or without Micky) was on his way.

Davy had already realized his mistake, and realized that he was in real trouble when Claude and Duccio showed up in the Dutch exhibit hall.

The two guards looked familiar to Davy, though he didn’t know anything about them other than that they also worked at the museum.

“Think you could meddle with one of the paintings, huh?” the more bulldog-looking of the two guards said.

“No, no, no. I didn’t meddle with it. I was trying to stop a theft. Only the theft already happened before I could stop it. Someone’s switched the painting out with a copy!”

The other guard, the taller of the two, snorted. “And if that was true, don’t you think the thief would be in the same position that you are now?”

“It’s the truth,” Davy said. “Just look at the signatures.”

“Sure, kid,” the bulldog guard said, as the taller guard stepped to the side. He pulled back a red curtain that was hanging by the archway entrance to the next room to reveal a lever. As he pulled it down the cage above Davy began to rise. The bulldog guard handcuffed him. The taller guard grabbed the painting.

The guards’ grips were tight around Davy’s arms and they roughly guided him back into the basement. Through the Dutch exhibit, down a hallway, down a flight of stairs, down another hallway, zigzagging through the museum’s old junk, and then, finally in the basement, Davy was greeted by a tied-up Peter and, surprisingly enough, Villette.

Shock flooded his body. He went limp.  One of the guards forced him into a chair, but Davy nearly collapsed into it anyway as the other tied him up with rope.

“Villette?” He was surprised by how high and whiney his voice sounded.

“Hi Davy.” Villette’s voice was sly and silky. She capped the tube of lipstick she’d been using to paint her lips and deep red and smiled at him. “Thanks for your help. I knew I could trust you, just as you trusted me.”

“You set me up. You tied up my friend.”

Villette waved a hand, dismissing what Davy said. “Claude and Duccio tied up Paul.”

“Peter.”

“Right. And you set yourself up.”

“I trusted you.” Davy’s face fell and, to his embarrassment, his lip began to tremble.

“That’s your own fault. Let me introduce myself. The Black Widow, notorious international art thief.”

“You won’t get away with this.” Even as the words left his mouth, they sounded false and cliched.

“Have before and will again.” Villette shrugged. “Let’s see what the police say in the morning. It’s your word against ours. Let’s see, who would you believe? A curator and two guards or a painting instructor and a lowly docent? Have a good night, boys.” Villette winked in Davy’s direction. “Make sure they stay put,” she said to Claude. “Call me immediately if anything happens.” She beckoned to Duccio, lifted the painting, and guard and international art thief walked up the stairs and out of the basement. Peter and Davy gaped in shock as she clicked away, unsure what else to do.

Back in the pad, Mike found himself in a similar situation to the one he’d been in just earlier that day. He tried to enjoy his meal, but was thwarted by Micky. Unfortunately, death had not yet claimed him, and while Mr. Schneider still sat dutifully at the table with Mike, not even Davy was there to distract Mike from Micky’s overly long, overly dramatic, and overly loud dying process.

Where was Davy? “Have you seen Davy?” Mike asked.

Micky poked a bedraggled head out from his cocoon of blankets on the lounge chair. “No.” He sniffed, which did little to alleviate the congestion in his voice. “Not since earlier today. I guess he’s still at the museum. Maybe he’s in love.”

“How many girls can there be in a museum?” Mike paused, fork halfway to his mouth, imagining the Mona Lisa, the Girl With the Pearl Earring, an art student spending an afternoon sketching. And Villette. “He’s in love.”

Micky muttered, “Head hurts,” then sneezed into the blankets.

Mike frowned. “Gesundheit.” He stood and walked to Micky to brush back his curls and lay a hand on his forehead. Micky looked up at him, nose running. He sniffled. Yet again.

“Don’t do that,” Mike said, a little more gently than before. “You’ll make your headache worse.”

“Told you I was dying.”

“Not dying. A bit warm though. Y’know, leave Peter and Davy to me. You ought to get some rest.”

“No.” Micky threw the blankets off and made to stand up. “Peter’s in trouble. And Davy’s in love.”

Which meant, of course, that both Peter and Davy were in trouble.

Chapter Text

Lucky for Mike and Micky, Peter had left a key to museum’s backdoor in the pad, presumably because Peter himself had arrived at the Museum Fantastique hours ago when it was open to the public.

Mike twisted the key into the lock of the museum’s backdoor and ushered Micky into the chilly halls of the statue exhibit. They meandered down one of  the halls, searching for Peter and Davy, their footsteps echoing. Maybe it was Micky’s slight headache distorting his vision, or the dim red light of the museum, but as they wandered, the museum’s junk seemed to become thicker and stranger. Cases of Scandinavian amulets. A towering tiki of dark wood with fist-sized jewels embedded into it like buttons. A half-finished mechanical owl, oozing nuts and bolts. An old hull of a boat painted as the Loch Ness Monster grinning down at them from the ceiling. And then the statues. They stared at Micky with great, googly eyes, saucer-like and bulging. Unblinking. Micky sniffled and moved closer to Mike.

“Pete—” He called out but cut himself off with a cough as Mike jabbed an elbow square into his ribs.

“Shush,” Mike said. “We’re not supposed to be in here.”

“Neither are Peter and Davy, at least not after close. And yet they must be.”

“Well getting ourselves arrested won’t help us find them. So keep it down. I’ll check the exhibition room. Why don’t you check the studios?’

Micky coughed in affirmation. Mike glared at him.

Mike stepped to the side, and Micky shifted in the same direction, causing them to bump shoulders.

“’Scuse me,” they muttered at the same time.

They stepped side to side, back and forth, trying to dodge each other, their footsteps stomping louder and louder on the marble floor in a bumbling tap dance until finally Mike placed his hands on Micky’s shoulders, whirled him around, and pointed down the hall to the art studios.

Micky coughed again. Then sniffled thickly.

“Shush!” hissed Mike, yet again. “Let’s meet by the backdoor once we’ve found them. Man, it’s creepy in here.”

“Yeah, sure is,” Micky agreed.

He wandered towards the studios. If Peter was anywhere, it would be in one of them. He often booked one after a shift to practice painting, and it wouldn’t surprise Micky if that’s where he also was now that he’s been forbidden to take work home. Knowing Peter, it was likely he’d simply lost track of time, but Davy, on the other hand, could’ve been in a completely different kind of trouble (and with Villette too! Bleh!) and Micky really didn’t want to consider that.

Micky knocked on the first studio door down the side hall. It swung open at his touch. Micky stumbled forward into the room as he sneezed into his sleeve in surprise.

The artist who was in the studio, and who was decidedly not Peter or Davy, whirled around to face him.

“Could you be any louder?” the artist asked.

“Well, yes, I guess I could,” said Micky.

The artist scoffed. Apparently, that was not the right answer.

“I did want to, uh—"

The artist cut him off again with a dramatic eye roll. “You want what? To be an artist? Huh. You could never be an artist; you have no beard.”

Huh? The whole thing was confusing to Micky. Alone in the studio, long after the museum’s close, the artist had been hard at work smearing paint onto four canvases—one for each hand, and one for each foot. The pattern was muddy and haphazard in Micky’s opinion, but, of course, he wasn’t an artist. He didn’t have an interest in painting. He didn’t even have a beard. Peter and Davy were momentarily forgotten.

“Do you ever use brushes?” Micky asked.

“Brushes? A waste! A true artist must feel the painting in the canvas, in his soul."

That didn’t make sense. Or Micky’s fever was higher than he’d thought. He glanced down at the artist’s bare feet. He imagined that the artist never left the room, almost as if he was one of the museum’s permanent exhibits rather than a living, breathing human being. Micky rubbed at his nose, which was running. He’d come in here for a reason. “Have you seen a, uh, a guy? He’s blond, he has brown eyes, and he’s kinda weird looking.”

“Weird looking?” The artist grabbed Micky’s shirt at the collar. “Who are you to call somebody weird looking, hm? You come in here and insult me?”

Micky’s mouth dropped open and he sniffed. Again. Insult? Were he and the artist participating in the same conversation?

“Is it because I’m a high school dropout? Get out of here! Museum’s closed!”

Micky gaped, too stunned even to turn to leave.

The artist snapped his fingers. “Wait a minute. That’ll be fifteen hundred dollars.”

Micky coughed, in shock, and then a little harder since the cough hurt his throat. “Wh-wh-what for?” he choked.

“For my painting on your shirt. Someday, it’ll be worth a fortune.”

“Fifteen hundred dollars?!” Micky squawked, but his voice broke into another cough. He looked down at the painting. It was a similar muddy pattern to the one on the canvases. The greenish-brown color of pond scum. He picked at the shirt. “You know, actually, you can keep it.”  

“I don’t work for free,” the artist said. His furious nostrils flared. “I expended perfectly good paint on that.”

Micky backed away slowly, raising his hands. “Okay. Maybe there’s a bank open somewhere.” He tried to sneak a glance behind him, hoping Mike had materialized, but before he could even turn his head, the artist rushed forward and grabbed his upper arm tightly.

“You will not even think of leaving the premises with such a fine work of art on your back. To the guards with you. We have dues to settle.”

“Okay,” Micky squeaked again, and he let himself but dragged down the hall, down a flight of stairs, and into the bowels of the Museum Fantastique. The basement walls were bare brick,  and the lighting less red and more dim and flickery, which made Micky’s head hurt even more.

Micky stumbled on the last step, nearly bumping into the artist before catching himself. His nose was running again. He sniffled. Then his mouth dropped open.

Across the room, both bound, were Peter and Davy. They sat together at a folding table as if waiting to be served a meal.

“Hi, Micky,” Peter said in a tone that was a little too upbeat given the situation. Davy, on the other hand, looked sullen and pouty, which likely meant that he hadn’t gotten into trouble with Villette.

Micky groaned. “You too?”

A guard looked up from another chair nearby. He sat with his feet propped on an overturned paint bucket and a newspaper in hand. He raised an eyebrow at Micky. “Huh. The Black Widow didn’t mention you being part of the plan.”

Who? Micky used his free hand to rub his cheek, hoping to wake himself from what had to be a fever dream.

“Told you someone would come looking,” Davy said, though he did look a little disappointed that it was Micky who’d showed up.

“Claude, meet my roommate, Micky,” Peter said.

The artist, who was still clutching Micky’s arm, thrust him forward towards the guard. Claude. “He owes me fifteen hundred dollars in damages.”

Claude snorted and looked Micky up and down. “What’d he do??”

“See the fine piece of art on his shirt?” the artist asked. “He won’t pay for it.”

Claude stuck his nose back into his newspaper. “Put him with the others. And tie him good.”

Before Micky could protest further, the artist whipped a coil of rope that hung from a peg on the wall and shoved Micky down into an empty chair besides Peter. The rope dug into Micky’s skin as the artist tied him.

Micky winced. “This feels illegal.”

“Tell it to the shirt,” Claude muttered.

The artist tugged the rope taut with a final tug, then stepped back to admire the trio of tied-up Monkees.

“That’ll do, Vincent,” Claude said to the artist still without looking up from his newspaper. “We’ll see what the Black Widow will want to do with them in the morning.”

The artist sniffed haughtily, turned on his heel, and marched up the basement steps without another word to any of them.

Micky squirmed against the ropes that bound him and coughed again. He frowned at Claude as menacingly as he could despite his concern about the Black Widow the guard kept mentioning. The last thing Micky needed in that moment was a bite from a poisonous spider. “Wait ’til Mike gets here.”

Claude raised a brow. “Mike?”

“You’ll know him when you see him,” Davy said. “He’s the tall one with the temper. Sometimes a hat too.”

Claude rolled his eyes. “Well, until Mike gets here, enjoy your stay.”

They’d been tied up for ten minutes. Or twelve. Or maybe not quite that many. Time was hard to track in the dingy basement, especially with the stuffy air and the dust making Micky’s already clogged sinuses feel even heavier.

Peter sighed and looked around the basement. “How about a game of Creebage. Maybe if one of us gets a creebage before you do, you untie us.”

“Nice try, kid.” Claude said. “That’s not gonna work on me. Knock yourselves out though.” He pulled a deck of cards from his pocket and tossed them to Peter, who clumsily caught them.

Micky side-eyed Peter and Davy who, of course, were also bound, but with their hands in front, giving them just enough wiggle room to be able to catch the deck, shuffle the cards, and deal them face down on the folding table the three of them were seated at.

Micky shifted position under the ropes binding him. The artist had hardly allowed room for his diaphragm to expand. Stupid artist with his one-sided vendetta. Stupid shirt with its ugly, pricey painting that Micky neither wanted nor could afford. Stupid, stupid stuffed up nose.

“Do you have any threes?” Davy asked.

“No,” said Peter. “Goldfish.”

“It’s ‘Go Fish.’” Davy raised an eyebrow but drew a card anyway.

“Micky, play Goldfish with us,” Peter suggested.

“Go Fish,” Micky corrected. “And, no, thanks.” He coughed. Then sniffled thickly. Again. “Ugh.” His voice was softened.

“Will you shut up?” Claude snapped.

“Sorry. I gotta blow my nose.”

“No shit,” Claude grumbled, sticking his nose back into the newspaper.

“Do you have any tissues?” Peter asked.

“No!”

“You’re supposed to say ‘Goldfish.’” Peter frowned at Claude, but he also drew a card.

“Peter, do you have any sevens?” Davy asked, taking advantage of Peter’s wasted turn.

“Goldfish,” Peter said, grinning.

Claude crumpled the paper in his fist and stood so fast his chair screeched across the concrete floor. “That’s it. I cannot hear one more goldfish, creebage, or another wet sniffle.” Claude stormed over to the storage shelves along one of the basement’s walls. He rummaged until he came up with three paint-splattered bandanas.

The Monkees all gaped at him.

Micky chose, or rather, Micky’s nose and lungs chose, that moment to spray a violent sneeze across the table.

“Bless you, Micky,” Peter said at the same time Davy said, “Yuck.”

“Sorry,” Micky muttered, embarrassed. He’d felt that in his ribs and sneezing had hardly done anything to clear the congestion. Davy was right. Yuck.

“All right,” Claude said, exasperated. “You will shut up whether you like it or not.”

“He won’t be able to breathe through his nose,” Davy warned as Claude stepped toward Micky with an orange bandana in hand.

“Fine by me,” said Claude. “Maybe he’ll finally stop his sniffling.”

“Hey,” Peter said. “He might be sniffly and germy, but that’s not his fault. Take it easy on him.”

But Claude either didn’t hear or didn’t care. He shoved the bandana into Micky’s mouth and tied it tight.

Micky’s eyes went wide as Claude bound Peter and Davy tighter to their respective chairs, ensuring that their arms, too, had less room for movement. Claude shoved bandanas into Peter and Davy’s mouths as well. Micky was already panicking—wriggling behind the ropes and making a wet, muffled sound.

His distress was interrupted by a crash from upstairs. “Not a peep,” Claude warned, jabbing a finger at each of them.

Micky responded with a strained, sucking noise as Claude pointed at him. Claude’s finger sagged in the air a bit. “Feel better, kid,” he said and then disappeared up the basement stairs. The Monkees heard the door slam behind him.

The silence that followed was broken by Micky’s deteriorating breathing. He writhed, trying to suck air through his nose, but it was clearly no use.

Micky, Davy tried to say,  Micky, you’ve got to stay calm, but because of the gag, his advice also only came out as muffled panicking, which, of course, just made Micky panic worse. His breaths only became more rapid and rattly. Tear and snot streamed down his face as his lungs fought for air.

Mike turned the corner only to find himself back among the statues where he’d entered the museum. There’d been no one in the exhibition room, no one in Dutch Golden Age exhibit or the impressionist exhibit or the dada exhibit or anywhere else. He’d searched the entire museum and the silence was heavy again. No footsteps. No Peter, no Davy. Strangely enough, not even the sound of Micky’s coughing.

When had he last heard Micky?

With Micky gone, that made—Mike counted on his fingers—one, two, three Monkees in trouble. Mike scowled. The only place left to check was the basement. “Oh, nobody but a fool would paint in the basement,” he said aloud.

And then he realized. They’re in the basement.

In trouble and in the basement of all places. Mike could imagine the trouble Davy and Villette were in, though the thought disgusted him, but he couldn’t imagine what was keeping Micky and Peter. Poor Micky. He should be in bed. And poor Peter too. Working so damn hard to be the best painting instructor he could be.

Mike had failed to come across a single guard though it had been well over half an hour since he’d broken in. That did not spell good news for Micky or Peter, and probably not for Davy either. Before going to the basement to look for them, Mike would have to lure any guards away so as to avoid whatever fate had befallen his friends. He considered his options.

In the exhibition room, there had been a piano sitting abandoned with a single, sparkling, golden mallet standing by. It’d reminded Mike of a “piano performance” he’d been to months ago with Peter. The performance had turned out to have been the act of destroying the piano rather than playing the piano, and Peter had cried the whole time at the idea of such a beautiful instrument being destroyed so violently. Certainly, another performance like that would be enough to call any guards up from the basement.

Mike knew what he must do. As he wandered back down the halls to the exhibition room, he prayed that Peter would forgive him.

The exhibition room was lined with grand couches and the floor layered with oriental rugs. The grand piano, dark and wooden with intricate designs carved into its legs, was in the middle of the room. The mallet lay waiting for Mike beside it in a velvet-lined case.

“Peter, I’m so sorry,” Mike muttered to himself. He winced as he picked up the mallet, and grimaced and turned his head as he brought it down onto the piano’s keys. A discordant clang sounded throughout the museum.

All was quiet again for just a beat, and then, somewhere down the hall, he heard a shout.

That was Mike’s cue. He slid from the room, quick as he could, winding through the halls back towards the basement. He hid behind a statue as a guard rushed past, shouting “Hey asshole!” The coast was clear.

He moved silently down the narrow stairwell, the light getting dimmer and the walls getting barer as he went. He rounded the last corner and froze, swallowing hard.

There they were, seated at a folding table, tied and gagged. Peter looked at Mike like a deer in headlights, waiting for him to do something. Davy looked angry, but the expression in his eyes turned panicked whenever he darted his gaze over to Micky.

And Micky. Micky’s head lolled slightly to one side. His eyes were glassy and his face red. He made a horrible rasping sound through the gag.

“Oh. Oh, Micky.” Mike rushed towards Micky and untied the bandana at the back of his head. As soon as the gag dropped to the floor, Micky bucked and arched against the rope that held him, choking. Mike untied the ropes too, and Micky collapsed to his hands and knees. He gagged as he tried simultaneously to cough and suck air into his lungs.

Mike quickly untied Peter, so Peter in turn could help Davy before kneeling beside Micky. He placed one hand comfortingly on Micky’s shoulder and rubbed Micky’s back with the other the other as he waited for the fit to pass. When Micky’s breathing eased a bit, Mike helped him back into a sitting position and handed him the bandana to wipe the sweat, snot, and tears from his face. Micky curled into Mike’s chest and shakily blew his nose.

“Man, you’re burning up,” Mike murmured, resting his chin on Micky’s head. Micky hiccuped against him, still fighting for a full breath.

“Don’t I know it,” he said through gasps.

“Micky,” Peter said. “You didn’t have to come along. We can handle ourselves just fine.”

“But you’re in trouble,” Micky said, “and Davy’s in love.” (“Not so much anymore,” Davy said under his breath.)

“Right,” said Mike. “And you’re sick.”

Chapter Text

The ride home was quiet. Micky had fallen asleep on Peter’s shoulder in the back of the Monkee Mobile as Mike drove them home. He had to be shaken awake once they got back to the pad. They’d failed to stop the art heist, gotten in trouble in the process, Davy’s crush didn’t like him back, and Micky still wasn’t feeling well.

“Let’s sleep on it,” Mike suggested. “We’ll have better ideas about what to do once we’ve gotten some shut eye.”

Micky was already taking his advice, and was curled back into his quilt cocoon, snoring. Apparently, he could not even fathom mustering the energy to make it into the upstairs bedroom.

“Guess we better hope the cops don’t come knocking at the door,” Davy grumbled, though he was right behind Mike up the stairs.

The cops did not come calling, and the Monkees were able to sleep soundly enough to regroup in the morning, at least somewhat refreshed. Mike certainly took his own advice to heart and, announced the next morning over cereal and coffee, “What we need to do is call the police so that they can switch the paintings.”

Peter nodded, ready for the whole mess to be over with.

Davy disagreed. “The guards have too much evidence against us,” he argued. “They saw me fiddling with the painting. Peter painted the fake. Villette’s right. The police are just gonna think we’re guilty.”

Micky was still somewhere on the lounge chair. Mike could hear his congested breathing, though he couldn’t see him for all the blankets. Used tissues had scattered themselves across the floor over the night, as if sprouting there. Rest was hopefully doing him good. Micky hadn’t even stirred during the breakfast commotion.

“You’re right.” Mike sipped at him coffee, staring at the mass of blankets that heaved with Micky’s breath. “Davy, what do you know about Villette’s house? Have you been there?”

“Once when I took the Monkee Mobile to work she let me drive her home after.” He pouted. “Didn’t even let me in to make her tea though.”

“Okay, so here’s what we’ll do,” said Mike. “We go to her house, find the original painting, and switch them ourselves. We’ll need equipment.”

Of course, Mike had moved the equipment box into the open before breakfast for inspiration and for easy access. It sat open, next to the table, and overflowed with all kinds of equipment—ropes, pocket knives, Monkee Men costumes, and other plot-relevant items.

Peter began riffling through it and setting useful equipment on the breakfast table. “Flashlight. Blow torch. Super duper X-ray glasses and four cheese on rye sandwiches.” Luckily the sandwiches were fresh—Mike had packed four lunches while he was waiting for the coffee to brew.

“Okay, men, Mission: Ridiculous,” he announced with a flourish.

At that moment, Micky snorted awake. The pile of blankets trembled, and then Micky’s head emerged. He coughed from his chest, rubbed the crusted sleep from his eyes, and then repeated, “Mission: Ridiculous!” hoarsely but enthusiastically.

Everyone stared at him as he coughed again from the effort. “Micky, are you sure you don’t want to stay in bed?” asked Peter.

“Please. I feel better, really, I’m all about ridiculousness. They call me Mickdiculous Dolenz.”

“Oh really? Who?” Peter asked.

Micky couldn’t answer that, evidently. Mike laid a hand on his forehead. “I don’t know, Mick. You’re still warm.”

“Please?” Micky asked. Even the one-word question tickled his throat and he coughed again into a fist. Despite it, he still seemed to bristle with pent-up energy, as if being kidnaped and held in the museum’s basement had not been quite enough activity for him.

“Fine,” Mike said. “But you’re abandoning mission if you’re feeling bad.”

The Monkees—or, now, the team of experts—prepped for a break in into Villette’s house. They’d gathered from the four corners of the earth (or, more accurately, the pad, as they moved around trying to find where they’d scattered the black outfits appropriate for a break in between the downstairs closet and the two bedrooms). Peter loaded the car, Davy pouted—likely because Villette had turned out to be evil—and Mike pressed a glass of orange juice into Micky’s hands. Micky rolled his eyes, but drank it.

A task force of deadliness, efficiency, teamwork, and germs.

“What’s Villette’s schedule?” Mike asked Davy. “Is she likely to be at work?”

Davy sighed. “Yeah. She should be.”

“When’s she usually head home?”

“Closing.”

“Okay, men.” Mike took on his authoritative voice again. “Let’s move while we still have time.”

Davy sat in the passenger seat, giving Mike directions to Villette’s house. (“Turn left here. No, your other left. Yep, that’s the one. Real hard to miss it; it looks like a cursed bakery.”)

Peter and Micky were in the back, Peter scribbling code names into a notepad, his tongue poked between his lips in concentration—Manchester Marauder, Connecticut Counterspy, Towering Texan, Los Angeles Leopard—and Micky had gone quiet again. He slouched against the windowpane. Every so often he muffled a sniffle into his sleeve.

Mike frowned. Micky’s silence was probably not a great sign; it could only mean that he was feeling worse than he’d admit.

But whatever Mike could have said about Micky’s glazed expression and the sheen of sweat on his face was lost as he pulled the car into the long gravel driveway. At the end of it stood an intimidating wrought iron gate, its twists and curls and arrows dark and foreboding. And, just through the gate was Villette’s strange, lopsided cottage.

Now, all the Monkees went quiet.

Villette’s cottage was built of yellowing stone. Davy’s offhanded remark about a cursed bakery had been spot-on. The cottage’s roof was old and gray, speckled with moss and missing tiles. The door was wooden with a heavy silver knocker shaped like a dragon. Or perhaps an angry goat. The house as a whole seemed like something that belonged to a haunted, medieval place, not something on the outskirts of Los Angeles. Appropriate place for a art curator to live. Especially an evil art curator.

Mike parked as quietly as he could. The tired crunched softly, slowly over the gravel.

To Mike’s disappointment, as soon as they got out of the car, none of the Monkees were quiet.
            “I think this must be it,” Peter said as he began unloading supplies from the trunk, tossing sacs and x-ray glasses and sandwiches about, willy-nilly.

Mike sighed. So much for stealth.

The sac he flung towards Davy hit him in the back and Davy stumbled forwards.

“Oof,” he said. “Gee, thanks, Peter; I really needed that.”

Peter didn’t turn from the trunk where he continued sorting the supplies. “That’s okay, Davy, any time.”

Davy rolled his eyes dramatically though Peter still didn’t turn to see. He shouldered the sac, and, as he moved towards Villette’s creepy gate, tripped over a loose rock and stumbled awkwardly forward again. “Agh!”

Davy’s sharp yelp surprised Peter, who looked up at him, and also stumbled backward. Peter’s elbow collided with a pot of zinnias that had been perched precariously on a stone wall lining Villette’s driveway. The clay shattered with a crunch. Matte shards and pink petals spewed across the stones of the driveway.

Everyone froze.

Somewhere by house, there was a muffled thud.

“Was that us?” Peter whispered.

“No,” Mike hissed. “Nobody move. Nobody talk. Nobody breathe.”

Micky coughed, muffled as he could manage, into his fist, which was still not very quiet.

Mike closed his eyes. Counted to three. Reopened them. “Okay. New plan. We sneak quieter than we’ve ever snuck in our lives.”

Peter asked, “Into the house or back to the car?”

Davy responded, “We still need the painting, don’t we?”

Micky did not move or talk or breathe, and his face was beginning to turn red from the effort.

Mike, also without saying anything, beckoned them up the path behind him, following along the stone wall, to the gate.

And that’s when they heard the voices. They were far enough away to be distorted, but there was the unmistakable murmur of a conversation. Two voices, maybe three. One sharp and clipped. Villette. The other was deeper. One of the guards, perhaps. Perhaps even both.

“She’s here,” Mike said. He stopped short, which, of course caused Micky to stumble into him and Davy to stumble into Micky and Peter to stumble into Davy.

The picture of elite stealth.

A soft “oof” escaped from Mike. He gritted his teeth and bitterly recalled the code names Peter had been pitching in the car. Manchester Marauder. Connecticut Counterspy.  The modest but towering Texan who needs no introduction. His stoic-like ability to endure pain (and annoyance) show why he’s a leader among men. The Los Angeles Leopard, known in Peoria as the Panther Man, and hampered by the worst head cold known to mankind.

“Funny,” Micky said. “I didn’t see another car in the driveway.”

“Oh, she doesn’t have one,” said Davy. “That’s why I drove her home that one time.”

Mike scowled. Of course Davy had neglected to mentioned that important piece of information.

Just then, Micky cupped both hands over his nose and sneezed into them. As he did so, he stumbled into Davy, who jumped and emitted  a high-pitched yelp in surprise.

Mike shushed the both of them.

“Bless you, Micky,” Peter said cheerfully.

“Peter…” Mike groaned, dragging both hands down his face.

Micky’s hands were still clamped over his mouth and nose, his eyes squeezed shut. He sneezed again, even harsher, shoulders shaking.

“Bless you.” Davy rubbed Micky’s shoulder gently.

“Shush!” Mike hissed. “Micky, please.”

“You want us not to bless him?” Peter asked, baffled.

“What? No. I need you to shut up.”

Something clattered. Then came muffled footsteps and the voices again.

“You said you locked the gate.”

“I did lock the gate. That doesn’t mean someone can’t walk around the gate!”

“Well, go deal with it, then!”

Mike stiffened. “We’ve been made,” he whispered.

And then the gate’s hinges creaked a long, heavy whine. Claude had stepped outside and he scanned the hill, looking for the Monkees.

Mike dived behind the wall into the bushes, yanking Micky, who was the closest, with him. Micky resigned himself to being dragged along by Mike and bashed his knees into the wall. He bit back a groan as he stumbled after him. Davy and Peter followed suit, just a little less awkwardly.

Claude took another step down the front path. “I heard you,” he said in a sing-song voice, as if speaking to naughty toddlers. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Next to Mike, Micky had let his jaw fall slack as he rubbed at his reddening nose. And then he sneezed a final time, messily, into the back of his hand.

“Bless you, Micky. Now, please, shut up,” Mike snapped.

Claude’s head snapped straight toward them.

Micky, the only weak link in the chain. So much for Mission Ridiculous.

The Monkees poked their heads up over the wall one by one. First Peter, then Davy, then Mike, then Micky.

They all spoke at the same time: Peter said, “Oh. Excuse us” as Mike muttered, “Hello. How are you doing?” and Davy claimed, “It’s not what you think” and Micky, embodying the Los Angeles Leopard, asked “Mreow?”

Instead of telling them to scram or threatening to call the police or tie them up again, Claude surprised them all. “Bless you, kid. What are you doing out and about?”

“We were just, um, taking him home,” Mike said. He stood, helping Micky to his feet in the process, one hand on his shoulder and the other at his elbow.

Micky’s eyes didn’t meet Claude’s, but he muttered in earnest, “Didn’ wanna be left out.” He rubbed at his nose.

“Left out? Left out of what?”

“Well, we, uh,” Mike attempted to explain.

“You’re here for the painting. The original. You’re trying to switch them back.”

“No,” Davy lied. He glanced at Peter, who’d been nodding along to Claude’s accusation, but quickly switched to shaking his head.

“I’m not gonna stop you if that is what you’re doing.” Claude shrugged. “The Black Widow’s turned on me.”

“You are me both,” Davy muttered.

“For years, I’ve been her right hand man, but ever since Duccio’s entered the picture, the two of them are trying to write me out of the deal. If I can’t get the cut I deserve, I want no part of this life. Being a guard at the museum pays well enough as it is without the risk of getting caught for participating in illegal activity.”

“So you’ll help us?” Mike asked cautiously.

“Yes. Come on. I’ll show you to the back. I’ll tell the Black Widow and Duccio that no one was out here after all and then let you boys in when the timing is right. That house is full of art. Millions of dollars of it. I’ll need your help to find the Laughing Cavalier.”

Claude led the Monkees through the undergrowth, bushes, and dead leaves that muddled the yard behind the wall. They passed under a rusted trellis covered in ivy, and came to a back porch riddled with busted frames and torn canvases. Claude nodded at the back door to the house. “I’ll let you in through here,” he said. “Wait here and don’t make a sound.” His eyes narrowed at Micky, who nodded, but coughed lightly as he did so.

Peter dug into one of their supply sacks and handed Micky a crumpled tissue.

Claude gave them one last look, then slipped away around to the front of the house.

The Monkees crouched against the house. Micky pressed his tissue underneath his nose and focused on keeping his breathing even as they listened to the conversation that came from within.

“I thought it was next week when we were going to move the Cavalier.” The voice was grumbly—Duccio.

“Change of plans. The buyer’s coming early. He wants proof it’s the original.” Villette. Her voice was sharp and clipped.

“And where do you want me to put these?” Claude asked. “There’s no room left in the cellar.”

“Just shove them in with the Van Goghs.”

Van Goghs? Peter mouthed. His eyes widened as he made eye contact with Davy.

“She never mentioned that to me,” he hissed back.

“Shh!” Mike pressed a finger to his lips.

“Don’t forget whose contact got you those paintings,” Duccio said. “If we get caught now, it’s your trail they’ll follow.”

“If I get caught, it’s because you two decided to move everything early, and I’m the one doing all the heavy lifting,” Claude snapped.

“Hey now. I’m the brains of this outfit, and you’re the muscle. You’re getting paid for it, aren’t you?”

There was the sound of something being set down heavily. “Barely.”

Micky choked on a cough, which turned into a soft wheeze.

The others glared at him.

He squeezed his eyes shut. He’d crumpled his tissue into his fist, but he pressed his knuckles to his lip.

Inside, the Monkees could hear Villette snap, “If anything goes wrong tonight, I’m holding both of you accountable” before the voices faded and were replaced by the sound of footsteps approaching the door.

The handle jiggled, and the door cracked open. Claude. Thank goodness.

“Coast is clear. They’ve gone to put the Monets in with the Van Goghs.” Claude nodded at the Monkees as they filed in through the door and found themselves in a sort of dingy pantry. The room smelled musty—like leather jackets and old paper.

Claude led them past crates labeled “Fragile” and “Property of M. Fantastique” and around chunky, gilded picture frames. Peter gaped at the boxes and paintings and statues surrounding them in awe. Davy’s eyes flicked around to all four corners of the room, and to the next doorway. His mouth was set in a nervous grimace. Mike, on the other hand, just watched  Micky, who was staggering in front of him, rubbing at his nose with his sleeve.

“Hang in there,” Mike whispered, placing a steadying hand on his back.

“I’m okay,” Micky wheezed. “I just—” He cut himself off with a sudden wet sneeze.

Mike didn’t even bother to shush him this time, just rubbed his back and hummed.

“Sorry,” Micky muttered again, thick and softened.

Claude paused near the doorway. The raised voices from the next room had faded, replaced by paper rustling and the thump and clod of wood against wood.

For now, they hadn’t been heard.

“She’s cataloguing everything before the buyer arrives. I’m near certain that the Cavalier is somewhere in here, but it could be in the sitting room, or in one of the hallways. Or even in the back gallery.”

“Her private collection’s got to be bigger than the Museum Fantastique’s,” Peter said, still turning slowly around the room, wide-eyed.

“Yeah,” said Mike, “only it’s not her private collection. It is the Museum Fantastique’s. She stole it all.”

Even just the small room that they were in was crowded with paintings, some hung on the walls, others were stacked five-high on top of the crates. Two farmers watched them from the wall with sad, vacant eyes, distorted behind a layer of dusty bubble wrap.

Peter traced his finger along the edge of a Pollock, his eyes following the looping, winding squiggles. “I don’t see the Cavalier,” he said. “But this one is just fascinating. You know, the drip technique—”

“We’re not here to critique her crime den,” Davy interrupted.

“I’m not critiquing. I’m appreciating.”

“Hey, this looks like Vincent’s work,” Micky said. He gestured to an extra thick canvas with a huge, muddy splotch of paint smudged across it.

“Van Gogh?” Peter asked. “I don’t think so, Micky.”

“No. The artist from the museum. The one who painted my shirt.” He shuddered—maybe a chill or the memory of the confrontation.

“That’s new,” Claude said. “I haven’t seen that one before last night.” Claude looked the painting up and down. “Hmm. The painting is slightly peeled back.” he tugged at the loose corner and Vincent’s thin, sludgy canvas fell from the frame.

Beneath it was another canvas. The Laughing Cavalier. He smiled at them with class and style.

“There he is,” Mike breathed.

Both Davy and Mike took a step toward the painting, but then suddenly the lights cut out.

 “Hey! Who turned out the lights?” asked Peter.

“I’ll find the switch!” Davy called.

There was the sound of marble falling to the floor and a yelp.

“That thing had to be almost a thousand years old,” said Mike.

“Oh, well, thank goodness it wasn’t new,” said Peter.

The sound of fast-approaching footsteps echoed from the hallway as Davy clicked on the lights. A now-armless marble statue of a woman lay in the middle of the floor like a corpse. “There. Better?” Davy asked.

The Black Widow stood in the hallway behind him. Her expression was one of rage, steam practically whistling from her ears. Duccio stood behind her, also glaring.

“You imbeciles. What are you doing?”

“We’re just admiring your collection,” Mike said. “Very impressive. Especially the part that’s not yours.”

Duccio took a step out from behind the Black Widow, his sleeves rolled up and his jaw clenched. “Claude!” he barked. “What the hell are you doing with these long-haired weirdos?”

But Claude had already slipped away, out the back door he’d used to let the Monkees in.

“Claude?!” the Black Widow shrieked. “That coward—”

“It’s over, Villette,” said Peter, stepping forward bravely. “We’re here for the Cavalier. To bring it back and make things right. And, you know, Davy and I really don’t appreciate you using us.”

Davy did not meet the Black Widow’s eyes, but he nodded.

“That’s it!” the Black Widow shrieked.

She grabbed the nearest painting—a flowery one of a little girl in a blue dress—and hurled it toward Peter. It missed him by inches. The frame cracked as it hit the floor.

Peter screamed.

“Are you out of your mind?” Davy shouted.

“You’re ruining everything!” she shrieked. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve worked for this? You think you can just walk into my home and—” She cut herself off with another cry of rage and grabbed a small but heavy statue of a woman’s ballooning form from a nearby table. She heaved it like it was a football, and Davy ducked just in time.

“Villette!” Duccio shouted. “Stop! You’re destroying my fortune. Your fortune.”

She was not listening. She flung a painting of saggy clocks toward Mike (who dodged), then tore a painting of sunflowers, then a painting of bargoers down both their middles, screaming something incoherent about “ungrateful collectors” and “doe-eyed idiots.”

Mike moved toward Micky, who was leaning against the wall, dazed and sweaty, watching the slurry of artwork sail by him. Mike put a hand on his shoulder and they slid down the wall together. “How’re you doing?”

Micky tried to answer, but broke into another coughing fit. “Abandon mission,” he choked. “I wanna go home.”

“Trust me: me too.”

“Was this our plan?” Micky asked, flopping his head onto Mike’s shoulder.

What a silly question. Mike opened his mouth to answer, then realized that he didn’t know himself.

Duccio finally grabbed the Black Widow’s arms from behind, pinning her in place. “That’s enough!”

“You traitor!” she howled.

“You’ve lost it.” He struggled to hold her as she kicked and snarled. “Claude was right. You’re burning the whole operation down around yourself.”

Suddenly, the sound of sirens overwhelmed the sound of the Black Widow’s tantrum.

She quieted. The whole room quieted. Except Micky, who coughed.

Mike stood, brushing dust and flecks of paint and Micky’s warm cheek from his shirt. “Sounds like Claude got help.”

He had indeed. At that moment, the back door burst open and Claude, followed by a trio of cops with guns drawn, burst into the room.

Duccio immediately let go of the Black Widow and backed away from her as if she was venomous with both hands raised. “I was restraining her,” he said. “You saw that, right? She’s the one you want!”

The Black Widow whirled around to face him. “Coward,” she snarled. “You’re a spineless fraud.”

“Miss, you can save yelling at your accomplice for when we get to the station.” One of the officers snapped handcuffs around the Black Widow’s wrists. “You’re under arrest for federal art fraud and possession and trafficking of stolen artwork.”

“Like you even know the half of it,” The Black Widow bit.

“You called this in?” another one the cops raised his eyebrows in Claude’s direction.

Claude nodded. “Yes. I have information that will be useful in court. I’m willing to testify.” He glanced toward the Monkees, all of whom looked wide-eyed and dazed. “And these boys can vouch for me.”

“You’re not taking a deal,” the Black Widow snapped. “You? You owe me everything.”

Claude’s face hardened. “I owe you nothing. You tossed me aside the second Duccio showed up.”

Mike stepped forward, rubbing his temples. “So that’s it? You two are going away, and Claude’s getting a plea deal?”

One of the officers nodded. “If Claude cooperates and testifies against them, we can knock some of his charges down. But we’ve got enough on Duccio and Villette to keep them in locked up for years. Decades, maybe. Villette Noire has been on our radar for years, but has always managed to evade capture.”

The Black Widow laughed bitterly. “This isn’t over. I have friends. You can’t begin to understand the network I built.”

“The network that a group of struggling musicians broke down in less than 24 hours?” Davy asked. “Interesting business plan.”

As the police led The Black Widow and Duccio toward the squad car, Claude lingered for a moment with the Monkees.

 “I didn’t think you’d pull it off,” he said. “But you did.”

“Thank you for your help,” Peter said. “You still helped steal from a lot of people. And tied me and Davy up. And nearly killed Micky. Art isn’t meant to make a profit or collect dust in a cellar. It’s meant to be seen and admired and talked about.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that, Micky.” (“S’okay. I slept it off,” Micky slurred.) “That’s why I’m testifying. And after that, I’m done. I want out of the art world. Maybe I’ll be a kidnapper, but one for hire. Like kidnapping with consent. A friendly neighborhood kidnapper.”

The Monkees nodded as if that made sense.

Claude waved at them before walking out the door without another word.

“All right,” Mike said as Micky started another coughing fit. He placed both hands on his shoulders and steered him towards the car. “Let’s head home.”

Chapter Text

Mike strummed his Gretsch and hummed Papa Gene’s Blues, trying to tune out Micky’s incessant coughing.

Upon returning home, Micky had immediately curled back up on the lounge chair, once again shivering under several quilts. Miserable. The way he liked it. Once his coughing died down he sniffled, which really wasn’t any less annoying. “Peter, I am awful glad that you gave up painting,” he said.

“I got a new hobby now.” Peter set a cup of tea on the end table where Micky could reach it.

“What’s that?” Micky took a sip of the tea.

“I’m making tea.”

At that moment, Micky coughed, dribbling tea down his chin.

Mike tossed a dishtowel to him. “It’s not that bad, Micky.”

From the kitchen, Davy, too, began to cough and sputter. He clamped a hand over his mouth and forced himself to swallow as he set his teacup down. “No, it really is that bad,” he choked out.

Micky was still coughing uncontrollably into the dishtowel, which had become a makeshift handkerchief.

“Really, Micky?” Peter frowned at his friend, looking at him with his watery brown doe eyes as Micky’s coughing turned raspy and rattly.

Davy silently handed Peter a cup of the concoction and Mike sat down next to Micky. “Hey now,” he said gently, putting an arm around Micky’s shoulder and easing him into a sitting position.

Meanwhile, Peter had also sipped the tea, which resulted in an immediate spit-take. “Sorry, Micky,” he said, wiping his mouth.

“S’okay,” Micky wheezed. He curled into Mike’s chest as he caught his breath.  

Mike continued to rub Micky’s back, holding him in a comforting embrace. Micky’s cheek and forehead were hot against his shoulder. Mike held Micky for a long time, until Micky’s breathing eased.

“You awake, Mick?” Mike finally asked.

Micky didn’t answer, just breathed deeply and slowly, albeit somewhat noisily.

Mike smiled, satisfied that Micky was comfortable, at least for now. Micky didn’t stir as Mike shifted him from his shoulder and back onto the pillows on the chair. He adjusted the quilts, pulling them up to his chin. He poured the rest of the tea down the sink, stretched, and sat down quietly in one of the chairs across from where Micky rested.

They all needed their sleep after an adventure like that, of course, but Mike would be there for Micky until he felt better. And even after.