December 14th: Whose Idea Was This?! (The Monkees)

[but_can_i_be_trusted]

Title: 'Whose Idea Was This?!'
Fandom: The Monkees
Characters: Mike Nesmith, Peter Tork, Micky Dolenz, Davy Jones, original characters
Rating: G
Notes: Crossposted to ficlet_zone

"Whose idea was this, anyway," Mike called above the din. His bandmates were scrambling all over the place, followed--or, in some cases, chased--by harried photographers and assistants.

Peter glumly raised a hand. "It was my idea, Michael," he volunteered, his own voice almost drowned out. "I thought that a Christmas photo shoot would be a good way to let our families and friends keep track of us. And it might help advertise, so we could get some more gigs. I didn't know it'd devolve into...this," he concluded, hands despairingly sweeping out to encompass the results.

Some yards away, a hairdresser was staring at Micky, face screwed into a look of disgust. "We're going to have to do something about those out-of-control curls," she advised him.

"What's that supposed to mean," Micky demanded, petulant resentment lacing his voice as he narrowed his eyes at her.

"They've got to go!" Her gaze went to her worktable, where a pair of scissors gleamed menacingly.

"Oh, no, you don't!" Micky clutched his scalp firmly, moving away from the hairdresser. "If I cut my hair, I'll lose all my strength!"

Elsewhere--namely, in the wardrobe area--Davy was having his own difficulties.

"I'm telling you, this sweater's too bloody big," he insisted. Lifting his arms, he tried to point to each sleeve--but both of his hands had been engulfed in the knitwork.

"It's not too big, you pipsqueak," the wardrobe man snapped. "You're too short!"

"I beg your pardon?! Want to say that to me again, mate?"

"Don't run with scissors," Micky screamed, zipping past, the hairdresser hot on his heels.

Wielding said scissors, the hairdresser ignored his warning. "Bring those curls back here right this minute, young man! You're not fit to be photographed like that!"

Staring around him in confused frustration, the photographer raised his voice, desperate to be heard. "Will somebody please get these maniacs under control?!"

"How," an equally flurried assistant demanded.

"I don't care how you go about it! Just do something! Tie them down and paint smiles on their faces, for all I care! There are only four of them, for crying out loud!"

Nervously, Peter approached the photographer, wincing as the assistant fled in sudden terror. "Sir, please excuse us. But I don't think you're being very fair."

"Fair," the photographer barked, looking somewhat gratified at Peter's startled hop. "Listen here, buddy. This is my studio, and you people are making a shambles of it!"

"We don't mean to--"

A hand clapped onto Peter's shoulder. Peter jumped again, then let out a relieved breath when he realized that the hand belonged to Mike.

"Just a second," Mike muttered, pulling him away. "I just had a thought. Can we even afford a photo shoot? We got rent to pay, not to mention utilities, groceries, and Christmas presents, if we can manage 'em."

"I never thought of that," Peter whispered. "Now that you mention it, I think the rates were more than we could spend."

"How's that, again," the photographer butted in, nudging between the two of them. "Did I hear that you can't afford my very reasonable rates?"

"I'm afraid not," Mike started to explain. "It's like this--"

"It's like this. Get out of my studio, and take your lunatic friends with you!"

At the sound of that command, Davy ripped off the sweater that he'd been practically swimming in, dusting lint off of his shirt as he stomped away. "Go find somebody who isn't too short for this thing," he grumbled, throwing the sweater at the wardrobe man, who dropped it in his own perplexity.

Micky came to a dead stop. Not expecting the sudden halt, the hairdresser plowed into him, losing her balance and hitting the floor. The scissors danced across the tiles, away from her eager hands.

He smirked at her, not bothering to help her up. "Better luck next time, Delilah," he smirked, jogging over to join his friends.

"Sorry to bother you folks," Mike announced once the quartet had gathered. He led them toward the door.

"Just a second," the photographer abruptly cut in. "Stand right there for a minute, all together like that. Perfect!" Lifting his camera, he took a quick shot. He grinned in triumph. "I'm going to frame this one, and always keep it by me. As a reminder to my staff to never let any of you in here again!"

Mike shrugged. "That's fine. Say, did you buy that roll of film yourself?" He nodded to the camera.

"Yes, I did."

"Your loss, then. We got a free picture outta you. Might not get to keep it, ourselves, but you had to waste money on the shot."

Waving carelessly, his friends laughing at how nonplussed the photographer became at that statement, Mike led the way out.