The Incredible Shrinking Micky

Mike walked over to the kitchen table, newspaper in hand. He scowled at the items spread over the table and their owner. "Micky, what in the world are you workin’ on now?"

"Shh!" Micky said, carefully pouring one chemical into a beaker partially filled with another chemical.

Mike rolled his eyes and continued on to the psychiatrist’s couch and spread out the paper on the makeshift coffee table. "I don’t know why you waste your time on that stuff, Mick. Nothing ever comes out of your mixtures."

Micky stopped mid-pour to give Mike a glare. "You’ll be sorry someday, Michael, when I come up with some major scientific breakthrough and I only cut you in for fifteen percent!"

"I’ll be heartbroken," Mike deadpanned, rustling the newspaper for added effect.

"’Ey, what are you two arguing about this time?" Davy asked, coming in from the veranda.

"Micky is working on yet another ‘scientific breakthrough.’ Don’t bother him, though, he might turn you into a rabbit or somethin’," Mike replied.

"Hey!" Micky cried out. Mike and Davy looked over at him in time to see him brushing off the back of his hand and the upper part of one pant leg, mumbling, "It went right through..."

"What was that about?" Mike asked, standing. He and Davy moved over to the table.

"All of your yacking made me lose my concentration and I spilled some of this on my hand and my pants." Micky stood, his chair moving back and scraping along the floor, and headed for the sink.

"Are you okay?" Davy asked, a concerned look crossing his face.

Mike had a matching look on his face. "I didn’t mean any harm."

Micky dried his hands with a paper towel and threw it in the waste basket. He glanced at his hand, then waved it off. "No harm done." He took up his seat at the table again, but stared at the array of chemicals and sighed. "I wasn’t really getting anywhere with this, anyway. I’ll start again tomorrow." He began to pack up the chemicals and assorted tubes and beakers.

"Well, I’ve ‘ad enough excitement for one night. I’m going to bed. See you fellas in the morning," Davy said, headed for the room he shared with Peter, who had already turned in for the night.

Micky finished packing up the set and headed for the stairs, with Mike following. "Really, Mick, I didn’t mean anything--"

"It’s okay, Mike. I’m fine, really. It’s no big deal." Micky reached the landing and turned to face Mike as he got to the top of the stairs. "I should’ve been paying more attention to what I was doing."

"Alright," Mike conceded, "as long as you’re okay, I’ll drop it."

* * * * *

The next morning, Mike woke to the usual beam of sunlight in his face. He squinted against it, then noticed something odd: the room was quiet. He looked over and found the other bed empty. Micky usually slept in later than Mike did and his snoring often woke Mike up.

Mike sat up, still feeling the grogginess of sleep. He pulled himself up and made his way out of the room. He made his way down the stairs and stopped at the bottom, finally being greeted by the smell of coffee.

"Good morning, Michael," Peter greeted cheerfully from the table.

"Morning, Peter," Mike said, draping himself in one chair at the table.

Davy sat to Mike’s left, eating toast and glancing at the newspaper set in front of him. He noticed the look Mike gave him. "Oh, come on, Mike, you were looking at this paper yesterday. We’ve only had it for three weeks now. One more day couldn’t matter."

Peter smiled, then frowned at the look Mike gave the empty fourth chair.

"Where’s Micky?" Mike asked.

"Isn’t he still asleep?" Peter asked.

Mike shook his head. "He wasn’t in the room."

"Maybe ‘e went for a jog. ‘E’s been running alot lately," Davy suggested.

"This early...?" Mike asked. "You know he hates to get up before eleven." He paused. "I’ll be right back. Maybe he left something in the room that’ll tell us where he went to." Mike stood and went back upstairs.

In the meantime, Davy filled Peter in on Micky’s experimenting and the minor mess he made the night before.

Several moments passed before a startled yell descended from the second floor bedroom. Davy and Peter exchanged looks before charging up the tornado staircase. They entered the room and found Mike looking at something in his hand.

"Mike?" Peter began.

"I don’t believe this..." Mike said, sounding amazed about something.

Peter and Davy joined Mike, standing on either side of him and got a good look at what he had in his hand: a two-inch tall Micky clad only in a pair of boxer shorts.

"Don’t just stand there and gawk! Find me something to wear!" Micky cried out, trying to cover himself.

Mike set the miniature Micky on the bureau and set about helping Davy and Peter search for clothing. The three gathered, each with a small piece of cloth, which they set on the bureau.

Micky walked over to look at the cloth. He shook his head. "These won’t work!"

Peter arched his eyebrows, remembering something Davy had mentioned moments ago. "What about your pants from yesterday?"

Micky pointed at a large pile of clothes in the corner of the room. "They’re in there... somewhere."

Davy nodded. "Your idea, mate, you get to look."

"Why do I always get the tough jobs?" Peter asked, then went over to the pile.

Mike leaned down so his eye level was right at the top of the bureau. "Micky, what was in that concoction you were working on?"

Micky shrugged. "How should I know? I was just mixing stuff together." He paused, then sat Indian style, pulling one piece of cloth over his lap. "I hope this is only temporary."

"I’m sure it is, Micky," Davy said, optimistically.

Micky rested his chin in the palm of one hand. "I have to admit, though, these are the best results I’ve had from a mixture yet!"

* * * * *

Three of the Monkees sat around the kitchen table, while the fourth paced back and forth on the table top. Peter had found the shrunken pants, which Micky was thankful for, but he was still without a shirt.

"Micky, you’re gonna wear a rut into the table pacing like that," Davy chided with a small smile.

Micky frowned. "Easy for you to say. You aren’t the shortest anymore!"

"Guys, what are we gonna do? We have a drummer who’s currently only two inches tall, and if he isn’t back to normal by tonight, we may lose our gig," Mike said.

"I bet they wouldn’t believe us if we told them that, either," Peter said, resting his chin in both hands.

"That’s the thing. We can’t tell anyone about this. Who knows what those crazy scientists might think," Mike said.

Micky plopped himself down in the middle of the table. "Sorry, guys."

"It was an accident, Micky. You didn’t even know what you were creating," Davy said.

Suddenly, a knock came at the door. The guys exchanged looks.

Mike thought fast and removed his hat. "Stay under it, Mick." Micky nodded as Mike set the hat on the table, covering him. Mike got up and answered the door. An older woman stood there, holding a leash. He eyed the dog at the end of that leash. "Well, to what do we owe this pleasure, Mrs. Purdy?"

Mrs. Purdy smiled. "I was wondering if you boys wouldn’t mind watching my George." She reached down to pat the dog, while Davy did his best to not laugh at the dog’s name.

Peter heard a faint growl from underneath Mike’s hat. "Micky..." he whispered.

"Uhh..." Mike turned to Davy and Peter, made a face, and turned back to the woman, "sure, Mrs. Purdy, we can watch... George." He looked down at the dog again.

"Thank you so much, boys. I’ll be back for him in a few hours!" Mrs. Purdy handed the leash to Mike and turned away from the doorway.

Mike closed the door and glanced down at the golden retriever. "Wonderful."

Peter lifted Mike’s hat. Micky was sprawled flat on the table. "It’s hot in that thing!" he cried out.

George lifted his head and barked.

Micky lifted his head. "Why did she have to name her dog... George?"

Mike returned to the table with George in tow. "Come on, Mick, just because you don’t like the name doesn’t mean that others can’t have it." He sat back down.

They watched as George stood on his hind legs and rested his front paws on the table top. The dog looked straight at Micky and barked again.

Micky’s eyes widened, and he whined, "Mike!"

Mike tugged the leash back. "Down, boy!"

George returned to all fours, then tried to scamper around where Davy sat, to attempt his trick again.

Davy eased the dog down. "This isn’t gonna work, fellas. George won’t leave Micky alone."

"He probably thinks that Micky’s a mouse," Peter said, with a small smile.

Micky turned his best glare on Peter. "Don’t say it!"

But Peter continued to smile. "Micky mouse!" Davy chuckled.

Mike frowned. "Peter--"

George tugged his leash free from Mike’s hand and trotted over to the bandstand.

"Oh, great!" Davy said, moving to follow the dog. Peter followed. Mike glanced at Micky before finally following the others, leaving Micky alone on the table.

Micky’s eyebrows knitted together in worry. "Um, guys?!"

George scampered between Peter’s legs and back over to the table. He propped himself on the table again and attempted to jump up.

Micky grabbed onto Mike’s hat, which still sat on the table. "Good dog! Nice George! I really don’t hate that name that much!"

George barked again and jumped again. The other three Monkees returned as the table was knocked over, the wool hat tumbling to the floor with a terrified Micky still holding onto it.

Mike grabbed George’s leash and led the dog into Peter and Davy’s room. He let the dog go inside and shut the door. He returned to see Peter holding his hat and Micky sitting in Davy’s hand.

Micky groaned. "That ride was not worth the price of admission..."

"Are you okay? That was a nasty tumble," Peter asked, handing back Mike’s hat.

"I think so. The hat broke my fall," Micky said.

"That synches it. We’ve gotta figure out how to get you back to normal size and fast," Mike said. "Where’d you put that chemistry set?

"It’s in the closet," Micky replied.

Mike’s eyes went wide. "Not the closet..."

"You must be joking!" Davy said.

"Not the closet that eats everything in sight, never to be seen again!?" Peter said.

"You guys sure do love dramatics," Micky said, quirking an eyebrow. "It’s on the floor, just inside the closet door. You can’t miss it."

Mike frowned, but headed for the tornado staircase anyway. He returned moments later, chemistry set in hand. "It didn’t eat me, but I swear there was something in there tryin’ to lick me. Bleh!"

Peter set the table upright again, and Mike set up the chemistry set.

Davy let Micky move from sitting in his hand back to the table. "So who’s gonna do the experimenting?"

"I can handle that!" Micky said, waving an arm. He walked up to the rack of test tubes... and looked up. He gulped. "Or maybe not."

Each of the other three Monkees took turns creating concoctions. One managed to make Micky have a sneezing fit. Another did nothing, except fizz. The third tasted like Coca Cola, but sweeter.

Mike checked his watch and sighed. "We’ve got rehearsal in half an hour. We’ve got a drummer who’s still only two inches tall, and now we’ve got a dog that thinks he’s a mouse and wants to play with him. We’ll never get to this gig."

"Leave George in the bedroom and take me with you guys," Micky suggested.

The others exchanged looks. "It isn’t a bad idea, Mike," Davy admitted.

"Fine, but I don’t know how we’re going to do without Micky playing," Mike said, putting out his hand to pick up Micky.

* * * * *

Davy sat crouched behind the drum kit. "You sure you can ‘andle this, Micky?"

Micky nodded, standing next to the bass drum peddle. "No problem! You just handle the rest of the drum parts. And don’t step on me!"

Davy held up his hands. "I wouldn’t think of it, mate." He stood and nodded at Mike and Peter. "I’m all set." He picked up the drum sticks.

"Here goes," Mike said, with a sigh. He turned to the mike. "Hello, everyone. We’re The Monkees. First, let me apologize. Our drummer came down with a bug yesterday and couldn’t make it, so Davy," he motioned to the Englishman, who waved, "will be taking over until Micky gets better. On bass is Peter," Peter picked out a few bass chords and smiled, "and I’m Mike and I hope you enjoy the show." He paused, then counted it off and started with Look Out (Here Comes Tomorrow).

While the three remaining normal sized Monkees played, Micky practically flung himself onto the bass peddle when the song called for it. He had to admit, he was having a blast! For once, he was extremely thankful for his endless energy.

They continued the set with Sweet Young Thing, then came the moment of truth: Peter took on the vocals for (I’m Not Your) Steppin’ Stone. After the song ended, Davy glanced down at Micky and saw the two-inch tall drummer giving a thumbs-up. Davy glanced at Peter and nodded. Peter smiled brightly, and Mike saw it. They could do this!

* * * * *

The gig had ended just before midnight and the guys arrived back at the pad shortly after. Micky, as per request, was situated in the fold of Mike’s wool hat, already snoring. Despite his current small size, his snoring still sounded like a buzz saw.

"Shrinking didn’t do much to his vocal chords, that’s for sure!" Davy commented, plopping himself down at the kitchen table.

Mike removed the hat carefully, so as to not disturb Micky, and set it on the table. "It’s just the snoring, though. I don’t get it. He’s been practically yelling the rest of the time so we can hear him."

Peter pulled out a box of corn flakes. "I hope he doesn’t lose his voice from all the yelling he’s been doing."

Mike and Davy exchanged glances. Mike’s eyes widened. "Oh, great. By the time he can get back to his normal height, he’ll have laryngitis and still won’t be able to sing!"

"’E’ll be able to play the drums. That’s what matters to me at the moment," Davy said, rubbing his upper arms. "I don’t know why ‘e doesn’t ‘ave any upper arm muscles from all the drumming ‘e does. It’s a great workout, but me arms feel like they’ll fall off."

Micky stirred from his perch in Mike’s hat. "Awe, c’mon, guys, can’t I get some sleep?"

"Sorry, Mick, didn’t mean to wake you," Mike apologized.

"It’s okay," Micky said, waving it off.

Davy stood. "Sleep sounds really good right about now. I don’t know about you fellas, but I’m ‘eaded for bed." He went to the room and opened the door.

"Dave, wait--" Mike began, but was cut off when George came barreling out, heading straight for the kitchen table.

All Micky could manage was a "Yipe!" before George jumped up and onto the table. The dog stared him down, while the others remained frozen, afraid the slightest move would freak out George and cause harm to Micky.

"Now, George... heh," Micky began to back up slowly, while trying to talk the dog out of whatever the animal had in mind, "you remember me, George. I’m Micky!" George leaned his head forward and sniffed Micky. "Yeah, you got it!" George backed off for a moment before moving forward again. Very carefully, George managed to pick Micky up by the waist of his pants. "No! Bad dog! Put me down, George! GUYS!?"

The cry put the others into motion finally, but George was too quick for them and scampered out the back door onto the veranda.

"After that dog!" Mike yelled, and the three Monkees headed for the door as one, getting stuck in it, trying to pull themselves through. Meanwhile, George managed to put some distance between himself and the three full-sized humans.

"George, boy, you can’t do this! You gotta put me down! Besides, you’re giving me a wedgie!" Micky called out, still dangling from the dog’s mouth. He covered his eyes with both hands. "I can’t look!"

George continued his trot down the beach as Mike reached the bottom of the stairs first, followed shortly by Davy and Peter. Mike pointed off to the left and they began the chase again. "George, come back!" Mike called out.

"What is that dog doing?" Davy asked, rhetorically.

"I’d say about five miles per hour," Peter replied.

George finally came to a stop and began digging in the sand. Micky peeked and realized what was about to happen. "George, no! You can’t bury me! That isn’t nice!" The dog finished the hole and paused, before dropping Micky in the hole. The two-inch drummer put his hands up, waving them. "George, please don’t fill in the hole! It’s me, Micky! Don’t you recognize me." George gazed at him, cocking his head to one side. Micky could finally see atleast Mike coming up behind George, only about twenty feet away. "Good George. Nice George!"

Mike came up from behind and scooped up the dog. George barked, but didn’t make any attempt to get away from Mike. Davy followed next and knelt to get Micky out of the hole. Peter came up between Mike and Davy.

"We need to get George back to Mrs. Purdy, now!" Mike said. "Peter, you come with me to her house. Davy, get Micky back to the pad."

Davy saluted with his free hand and headed back to the pad, while Mike and Peter took the dog back. For most of the trip back, Micky sat with his knees to his chest in Davy’s hand. "You okay, Micky? You don’t look so good."

"I’d always wondered what it felt like to see your life pass before your eyes. I didn’t think it’d go by so fast..." Micky answered, resting his head on his arms.

"Hopefully, Mike and Peter can leave George back at Mrs. Purdy’s," Davy said. "And we’re almost back to the pad."

"Good," Micky said, then groaned. "I’m sick of being like this. I swear, I’ll never make any short jokes again."

Davy smirked. "You say that now..."

"I mean it, Dave!" Micky sighed, still resting his head. I just want to get some sleep."

* * * * *

The next morning came and Peter, being the only real early riser, left the room he shared with Davy. He stopped when he saw Mike already at the kitchen table.

"Morning, Michael," Peter greeted, headed for the cabinets.

"Hey, Peter."

Peter came to the table, cereal box in hand. "You’re up awfully early."

Mike frowned. "Too much excitement last night."

Peter nodded. "How about Micky?"

Mike gave a small smile. "You’re a miracle worker with cotton, you know that, Peter. He’s still sleeping, snoring away on the bed of cotton balls you made."

Peter smiled brightly, still working on his cereal. "I’m glad he likes it. I wasn’t sure if just the cotton for a mattress and pillow would be enough."

"You did just fine," Mike said, then turned a glance toward the bay windows. It was a couple hours past sunrise, but the sky was still dark. "Looks like it’s gonna rain today."

Peter followed his glance towards the windows and nodded. "Could be a storm, judging from the color of the sky."

As if on cue, a rumble of thunder came from outside, shortly followed by a flash of lightning.

Mike sighed. "I had to say something." He shook his head. "I’ve been down here about an hour now. Think I’ll check and see if Micky’s awake yet." He began to stand.

"Can I go check?" Peter asked.

"Sure, Pete, go ahead," Mike replied, sitting back down.

Peter headed up the tornado staircase and entered the room quietly. He turned to look at the tiny makeshift bed set up on the bureau next to the door. From this view, he could see Micky’s mop of curls and the cotton used for the pillow and mattress. He moved closer and smiled, then sighed. Micky was taking the shrinking thing pretty well, but Peter wondered how long the positive attitude would last. And Micky wasn’t exactly the best at showing his true feelings, either...

"Hey, Peter."

Peter shook his head from his reverie and saw Micky propping his head up in his palms. "Morning, Micky. How do you like the bed?"

Micky grinned. "When I’m back to normal size, I’m gonna buy dozens of bags of cotton balls and make a new bed out of them. It’s so comfortable!" he crowed.

Peter chuckled. "I guess you like it." He paused, his smile falling.

Micky noticed the now somber look on Peter’s face and matched it. "Peter, I know what you’re thinking." He sat up normally, dangling and kicking his legs over the side of the cotton bed. "Other than being carried off by George, it’s actually been kinda fun being this small."

"But, Micky, we don’t know how to get you back to your normal size. That’s what worries me," Peter said.

Micky stopped kicking his legs. "It worries me, too." He paused, making a face as his stomach growled. "My stomach has wonderful timing, doesn’t it?" He gave a smirk.

Peter tried to match it. "We can finish later. Davy ought to be up by now. Let’s get some breakfast." He placed his hand on the bureau and Micky climbed on.

"To the kitchen, Jeeves!"

"Jeeves?" Peter echoed, as Micky chuckled.

* * * * *

About two hours later, the guys met up again on the banstand, changed, and ready to make use of the dreary day.

Davy stood gazing out the windows as the rain beat down against them. He scrunched up his face. "It isn’t fit for man nor beast out there."

"I sure wouldn’t mind seeing ol’ George stuck out there, though," Micky piped up from his seat on Davy’s right shoulder.

Davy chuckled. "That dog ‘ad it in for you, mate."

"It isn’t like I ever did anything to him!"

"I wouldn’t say that, Mick. Remember that hair tonic you created once that left George nearly bald all over," Mike said.

Micky shrugged. "It was summer time. He should’ve been thankful."

Peter raised an eyebrow at Micky’s missing logic in his comment, but chose not to respond to it. "So, Davy, are you going to attempt trying the bass drum this time?"

"May as well. It could come in handy should Micky decide he wants to be the front man," Davy responded with a grin.

"What a groovy idea!" Micky called out.

Davy chuckled. "I knew he’d like that." He paused. "Okay, little man, I can’t be the drummer and keep you on my shoulder at the same time. Where do you want me to set you down?"

Micky thought a moment, then pointed at the chair. "On the back of the chair would be good." Davy did as asked and set him on the chair, then returned to the bandstand.

Mike counted off and they started with Last Train To Clarksville. While the guys played, Micky had a tough time sitting still. He stood and moved around carefully on the back of the chair. The careful dance moves made Peter chuckle and Mike shook his head, while Davy smirked.

They finished the song and were about to start a second when another rumble of thunder came from the storm outside, followed mere seconds later by a flash of lightning that made the lights flicker.

Micky covered his ears. "That was loud, man!"

Davy looked out the windows behind him. "It’s really picking up out there."

Mike followed his gaze and sighed. "I hope we don’t have to go out in this storm. Remember, we still have tonight’s gig."

"Let’s keep playing and drown it out," Peter suggested.

They were half way through the second verse of a Peter-sung Mary, Mary, when another rumble of thunder practically shook the beach house, followed closely by a streak of lightning that sent the house into total darkness.

"Hey, who turned on the dark?" Peter asked.

"I guess this is all we were missing," Mike commented.

"I can’t ‘ardly see anything. It’s so dark out there, there isn’t much light coming in the windows," Davy said.

"Um, guys, I think we have another problem," Micky began. "There’s a leak in the ceiling right over the chair and it’s getting steadier." He squinted up at the ceiling in time to see the water create a hole big enough to cause a minor waterfall, soaking the chair, and knocking him backwards onto the seat of the chair.

"What was that?" Peter asked.

Mike unstrapped his guitar and walked over to the chair, slipping slightly. "That’s more than a leak," he reported, then squinted at the back of the chair. "Micky?"

Davy stood up from behind the drum kit. "Mike...?"

"Micky, where’d ya go?" Mike asked, beginning to search. "You guys stay up there. If he isn’t on the chair anymore, he could be anywhere and in the dark we won’t see him." He knelt by the chair and looked underneath. He straightened, then squinted at the seat of the chair. "Hang on, guys..." Mike moved around to the front of the chair and, still squinting, felt along the edge of the seat cushion.

"That tickles..."

Mike almost didn’t hear the comment. "Mick?" He received a cough in response. He turned his hand over and felt Micky crawl onto it. "I got him, guys."

* * * * *

A half an hour later...

"Ah-choo!" Micky sniffed. He was completely wrapped in a face cloth, sitting on their makeshift coffee table. "I’m really starting to not like being this small."

"This is wonderful," Mike began. "We still have a gig as far as we know, there’s a leak in the living room ceiling, Micky’s gonna be sick from getting caught in the waterfall that caused the leak, it’s still raining like it’s a hurricane out there--"

"And Davy still doesn’t have the down-beat right," Micky interrupted.

"I’m working on it," Davy said, in defense, seated next to the table.

Peter returned to the psychiatrist’s couch, next to Mike, after leaving several lit candles around the room. "The phone line is out, too."

"We’ll have to skip the gig tonight. There’s no way to let them know we can’t make it and they can’t call to tell us if it’s canceled. Besides, we can’t take Micky out in this storm," Mike said.

"Mainly because I’m naked under this thing," Micky said. "Are my pants dry yet?"

"Not yet, mate," Davy replied. "Didn’t want to put too much ‘eat on them, and now with the power out, they’re air drying."

"So what do we do? We can’t really see what we’re doing to play, but we have to pass the time somehow," Peter said.

"And we can’t work with Micky’s chemistry set, either. I already could barely read the labels on some of those chemicals. In the dark, it’d be impossible," Mike said.

"Well," Micky began, "there’s always ‘Truth’."

"Micky, don’t you know that game is dangerous?" Davy argued.

"So what?" Micky retorted. He shifted the face cloth draped around him. "I was kinda wondering if you guys thought I deserved this."

Despite the dark, three sets of eyes exchanged glances, then all turned to Micky.

"Mick, what in the world makes you wonder that?" Mike asked, shifting off the couch and onto the floor next to the table.

Micky shrugged, sniffing. "I don’t know. I mean, I know I can be a pain sometimes, like with the chemistry set. And taking stuff apart... occasionally eating us out of house and home--"

"Micky, stop it," Peter interrupted. "You aren’t a pain, not in the least."

"Peter’s right," Davy began. "That’s just the way you are. You can’t help it."

"The only thing I know of about you that can be a pain is your chain saw snoring," Mike said, a small smirk crossing his lips.

Micky’s eyebrows arched. "I really do snore something bad, don’t I?"

"Man, I’ve had nights where, if I don’t fall asleep first, I’ve had to sleep on the couch here ‘cause if I stayed in there, I’d stare at the ceiling for the whole night," Mike replied.

Micky bowed his head. "So you guys don’t think there’s any real reason why this happened to me other than being careless?"

Mike tapped an index finger on the table directly in front of Micky, gaining the attention of the two inch drummer. "Micky, if I could swap places with you right now, I would. Listen, man, when you’re down, we all feel down. We feel terrible about not being able to help."

"I know you’re just putting on a front to make us feel better," Peter said, causing Micky’s head to whip around in his direction. "I’m sorry, Micky."

"Micky, don’t you always say not to worry when we lose a gig because there’ll be another right around the corner," Davy said, rhetorically.

Micky turned to him and nodded. "Yeah, I do say that..."

"Well, this is like that in a way. This is like losing a gig. Things will be normal sooner than you think," Davy finished.

Micky sighed. "I guess... I’m really just worried about what will happen if we can’t figure a way to reverse this or it doesn’t just wear off. I don’t know if I could handle being two inches tall for the rest of my life. I can’t do anything except play my bass drum and be carried around everywhere."

"We’re worried, too. About you. You’re strong, Mick, but this is a huge adjustment. We want to do everything we can to make it easier for you," Mike said.

"Thanks guys." Micky sniffed again, then ran a hand over his eyes.

Peter squinted at him. "That isn’t from the cold, is it?"

"Peter--" Mike began.

Micky waved it off, sniffing again. "It’s okay, Mike," he said, his voice cracking.

Silence settled in for a few moments, before Davy spoke up, "Maybe we should call it a day. Doesn’t look like the power will be on again soon and the storm isn’t letting up one bit."

"Sounds fine to me," Mike said, then flattened the back of one hand on the table. "Need a lift?"

Micky scrambled his way over, trying to not lose the face cloth, which on him was very over-sized. "Please!"

Mike stood. "Night, fellas." Before turning away, Micky waved to the others. Mike headed for the stairs, while Peter and Davy headed for their room.

Upstairs, Mike set Micky on the bureau, next to the makeshift cotton ball bed. Mike rested both hands on the top, then rested his chin on his hands. "We’re serious, Mick, we’ll do anything in our power to help you through this."

"Thanks, Mike," Micky said, then sighed. "I just hate not knowing if this’ll be permanent or not."

"I feel the same way," Mike said. He paused. "Hey, get some sleep, okay?"

Micky smiled, despite another sniff. "Yes, dad." He grinned cheekily and stuck out his tongue.

In response, Mike stuck out his tongue, causing Micky to collapse on his makeshift bed in a fit of laughter. "Now that’s what I want to hear." Mike smiled, then headed for his side of the room to get ready for bed.

* * * * *

A noise in the middle of the night woke Mike. He squinted at the window and saw it was still raining. He closed his eyes and assumed it was thunder.

Then there was a loud thump. Which was followed by an attempt at stifling a curse.

Mike sat bolt upright, blindly searching for the flashlight by his bed. He found it, turned it on, and aimed the beam at the bureau. The small bed was empty. Mike’s eyes widened. That’s when he noticed an arm draped on the edge of the bureau. He moved the beam over and shone it directly in Micky’s face.

Micky put up both hands to block it. "Hey, man, you’re blinding me," he said, his voice hoarse and very quiet.

"Micky, you’re back to normal!" Mike tried jumping out of his bed, but got tangled in the blankets. He finally reached Micky as the drummer tied the belt on his robe.

Micky crossed his arms over his chest. "Yeah, great. Who was it that said I’d probably lose my voice?" He quirked an eyebrow.

"Peter did. He didn’t know, man," Mike said, then paused. "What was that noise I heard?"

"I fell off the bureau," Micky said, bluntly. "I wasn’t awake until I hit the floor."

Mike clapped a hand on his shoulder. "I’m just glad to see you only one inch shorter than me again."

Micky smiled. "Go back to bed, Mike. We’ll share the good news with Davy and Peter in the morning."

Mike headed for his bed and all but fell onto it, falling asleep half way down to it, more than likely.

Micky felt around his side of the room for a pair of pajama pants, shed his robe, then went to his bed, laying down quietly on his back. He turned his head to look out the window and thought about the past few days. Finally, a smile crossed his lips as his eyes closed.

* * * * *

Despite the eventful night and his usual habit of sleeping in, Micky was the first one up and about the next morning. He puttered around the kitchen area, putting together breakfast.

The downstairs bedroom door opened and Davy staggered out, knuckiling sleep from his eyes. He wandered his way to the kitchen table.

"Mornin’, Dave," came Micky’s quiet greeting.

Davy’s head shot up and he looked at Micky with wide eyes. Micky grinned and watched Davy run into him with a big hug.

"I didn’t know you cared," Micky whispered, chuckling.

Davy backed off. "I’m just ‘appy to see you back to normal." He paused. "I guess Peter was right about your voice, though."

Micky nodded. "Too much yelling to be heard."

Finally, Davy noticed. "You’re making breakfast for us?"

"I wanted to repay you guys." Micky shrugged.

Mike trudged his way down the tornado staircase. "Coffee."

"On its way," Micky whispered, moving to fill a mug.

Davy blinked. "Mike--"

Mike held up a hand. "I know, Dave. It happened during the night."

Micky placed the mug in front of Mike. "I fell off the bureau and it woke him up."

"Micky..."

Three pairs of eyes turned to see Peter stopped in the doorway of the bedroom. The blond smiled and slammed into Micky with a hug bigger than Davy’s.

Micky laughed the best he could. "You guys and your hugs--" His voice broke off.

Peter pulled away, frowning. "You did lose your voice." Micky nodded. "I know something that will help." He turned to one of the cabinets and pulled a teabag from a box, dropped it into a mug, which he filled with hot water. He sat Micky down, who was now grinning, and placed the mug in front of him. Then Peter went back into the bedroom and returned with a notebook and a pen, which he also placed in front of Micky.

Mike sighed. "And you’ll be more careful with your experiments."

Micky met the Texan’s eyes and nodded, then wrote something in the notebook. "I think being mute is worse than being two inches tall." He grinned again.

Mike returned the grin. "I don’t know about that, Mick. Maybe I’ll be able to sleep better the next couple days."

Micky picked up the notebook and swatted Mike on top of the head with it, while Peter and Davy laughed.

~~~The End~~~