Disclaimer: this imagine is NOT MINE. Credit to the original author, Woolhat's Traveling Mood from Donatella's Head

Rating: NC-17

Warning: Rape

***

"I Really Dread the Morning Light"

By Woolhat's Traveling Mood

    Mike plucked at the strings of his guitar with a non-existent enthusiasm. He didn't feel any emotion for his work and occasionally glanced down at the mindless words he had written on the paper in front of him. He wanted to release so many demons, let them all flow through his body, through the guitar and float harmlessly into the air, but he couldn't. He was a perfectionist and if those demons didn't flow in the correct key, with the correct tempo, there was hell to pay.

Beside him was a book by the Latin poet Catullus, which had been recommended to him by a friend. Mike found he had a lot in common with the poet, namely their ambition to present work that was faultless in every way. Mike shook his head and flicked through a couple of the pages. Then it dawned on him, the one thing Catullus had that he didn't - a muse.

Catullus had his mistress, the luscious Lesbia, and Mike had his own form - Micky. Mike slammed the book shut and rested his guitar on the floor before climbing to his feet in search of the inspiration he desired. If there was any creature in this world that could provide him with all the love and enthusiasm he needed, it would be Micky. The drummer was Mike's ultimate aspiration - perfection. There was no fault to be found in him (except his unmentionable love for Star Trek and how he always seemed to use references to the program in various metaphors).

Mike ambled lazily around the empty living room, Peter and Davy were off at some club somewhere, and searched for his best friend and companion. Didn't take long to find him, it was impossible for Micky to ever be silent. At that moment in time he was humming the chorus to 'Last Train to Clarksville' over and over, while busily polishing the hi-hat on his drum kit.

Mike smiled, mostly to himself and perched beside the preoccupied drummer.

"Hey Mike," Micky gave his warm, almost innocent smile and was met with a kiss.

"Will you be my muse?" Mike looked deep into his lover's eyes.

"What?"

"Will you be my muse, the embodiment of inspiration? You will be the sight that will send melodies flowing from my fingertips..."

"Something tells me you've been reading too much of that poetry."

"And what if I had, we must try and be romantic sometime in our lives."

"I agree,"

"Then why not start now?" And with that, Micky was swept up in strong arms and melted in a deep and yearning kiss.

The evening was warm and Micky was contented just to lie in Mike's arms. The Texan was asleep, but even then, his face held a smile. Micky smiled back and snuggled closer. There was nothing between them, literally. They were skin to skin and Micky loved every moment of it. His fingertips trailed Mike's burning chest, tickling the occasional patch of black hair he found. Everything seemed so right, so natural. He felt like he was living in a fairytale, the warm summer night, the music , the poetry, and his strong Texan prince. He curled up closer still so he could feel the warm breath from Mike's lungs pour over him and immerse him in such a warm feeling that it sent shivers up is spine.

It was in this tranquil moment, amongst an overwhelming feeling of love, that Micky suddenly felt the twang of unease. He sensed something was wrong immediately and listened carefully. There was a creak of the floorboards downstairs, then another. On any other occasion Micky would have decided that it was either Davy or Peter and would have gone to sleep again, but his gut instinct told him differently.

He knew deep down that he should wake Mike, but he couldn't bring himself to do it, telling himself that he was just being paranoid. Slowly, he unhooked himself from his safety cocoon within those arms and crept towards the bedroom door.Peering into the darkness below, Micky saw nothing and drew breath in order to give a sigh of relief, but he felt he needed to go down the stairs, just to make sure. He thanked himself mentally for remembering to put on some pajama bottoms, just in case there was someone there, and he tiptoed down the stairs and into what seemed like an abyss.

Mike yawned and pried his eyes open. The sudden coldness had woken him and he looked at the bedside clock. Half past one in the morning. He had felt Micky get up and leave his bed just moments before and smiled at remembering how perfect his lover was. He suspected he had probably gone to answer his stomach's pleas for food, as he sometimes did in the middle of the night, much to Mike's bemusement and occasional irritation. There was silence for a moment. Mike's ears seemed deafened by the silence, but not for long.Nothing could have prepared him for what he heard and he knew he would never forget that sound.The sound itself told everything, there was no need for a large number of words.

"MIKE!"

Mike leapt up in his bed at the blood-curdling scream and leapt to the door, grabbing his pajamas as he went. He stumbled into them as he came crashing down the stairs. Darkness, complete darkness. His breathing was heavy, but he could hear other breathing too. Teary breathing, angered breathing, threatening breathing.

Before he could make up his mind on what to do, he felt pain surge through his arms as someone from behind grabbed his wrists and forced them behind his back. He struggled but to no avail, they overpowered him and he realized there was more than one of them. He felt himself thrown into a chair, his arms still painfully behind his back. Then there was the feeling of burning as rope was tied to the point of pain, around his arms, keeping him in that chair for as long as they wanted.

Mike tried adjusting his eyes, trying to focus on something he could see. Just as he began to pick things out there was an almighty blast of light. Someone had turned the light on and his eyes stumbled under its power. He blinked for several seconds and was confronted by the face of fear itself.

There were five of them, all wearing balaclavas, all waving some form of blunt instrument, except one. He was obviously the leader, by the way he had the others attention and the fact that he was the most powerful - he had a gun. Mike squinted in fear and nausea as he watched the weapon press against his lover's rights temple.

"Gag him." Came a blunt order and a piece of rag was immediately forced into Mike's mouth, making him feel sick.

Mike never took his eyes off Micky's face. The drummer's eyes were flooded with tears and he wrung his hands nervously as he stood; his life in someone else's hands.

"Right," The gunman asked for complete co-operation, just by using this word, "Where's your money?"

Micky looked sideways at him and then regained eye contact with Mike. Mike nodded; he would never risk Micky's life for money, even if it was all they had.

"In the soup can under the icebox." Micky mumbled. One of the gunman's droogs rushed over and pried out the can, retrieving $80.

"Ok, where's the rest of it?" The gunman barked.

"That's all we have." Micky pleaded, failing miserably at hiding his tears.

The man backhanded him and turned his attentions to Mike. The rag was removed and Mike gave his best glare.

"Where's the rest?" The gunman growled, squeezing the trigger slowly.

"We haven't got anymore," Mike spoke slowly and calmly, "We're not millionaires,"

Mike received a slap too and he was hushed into silence by his throbbing jaw. Micky looked with sympathy upon him and forgot his senses. To him, Mike was all that mattered and he broke free from his invisible prison and collapsed at Mike's side. The gunman turned a pillar-box red as his gang dragged Micky away, kicking and screaming.

"Bastards!" Was all Mike could yell, over and over again. This time Micky was hit so hard that he was thrown to the floor, blood pumping from his lower lip. "You touch him again and I'll smash your skull!" Mike hadn't realized that it was him yelling. It came so natural and he scolded himself for it when he concluded that he and Micky would only suffer because of it.

The gunman was now irate and Mike wished he could hide from that waving gun. There was a sinister silence that fell on the group as the gunman pondered their new situation. Slowly a small smile crossed his lips, and it grew. It grew into a snigger and then an explosive laugh. His followers began to laugh with him, even though they had no idea why he was laughing. "Don't you get it?" The ringleader yelled to the others, "They're a pair of gays!"

Silence. The gunman's laughter subsided as he pointed to Mike with a gloved finger.

"Acting so concerned, think I'll hurt your little boyfriend?" He smiled smugly and grabbed a fistful of Micky's curls. Micky's tears streamed down his face as he tried to break free, but couldn't. Mike's head was bowed, as if in shame, but in reality, he was hiding his tears. "I bet if you go up there," The gunman continued, pointing to their bedroom, "You'll find only one bed has been slept in - they're obviously queers!"

Mike felt anger grow up through his spine, pound in his ears, make his breath ragged. What he would have given then to ram that pistol right up that man's ass. Mike heard a whimper escape Micky's throat as his hair was pulled mercilessly.

"Are you gonna tell me where the rest of your money is?" Another question aimed at Mike.

"We haven't got anymore!" He told the floor, not daring to show his tears.

The gunman was growing tired of this game, and decided to end it all. "If only you had co-operated!" He snarled, ceasing Micky by the shoulders and sending him sprawling across the kitchen table.

Micky squirmed but there was no time to escape. Mike felt the now familiar rag forced into his mouth and he choked, but he never took his eyes off of his lover. "A little lesson." Were the last words the gunman said before tearing off the meager clothes Micky had left. Micky screamed, but his head was cracked against the table, sending stars into his vision and choking him with his tongue. He had no energy left to fight.

He could feel every touch of that gloved hand as his assailant touched him everywhere, violating every area, just for the fun of it. Micky heard the rustling of his clothing and knew what was going to happen. He was pinned down by more than one man now, and escape was impossible. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remember to breathe as the pain came. He had made love with Mike so many times before, but this was agony. The table edge forced itself into his stomach with every thrust as his assailant plunged deeper and deeper. Micky screamed again, this time through shear pain rather than fright.

There was no soft caress, no rhythm. Just pounding, the bare roughness and grinding, making him wish he could die then and there. Tears stained his face at the thought that all he could was lie there and take it. He felt so dirty and sick, especially knowing that Mike was there watching.

The Texan's anger reached new heights, but so did his guilt. He watched as agony was etched out on Micky's beautiful features, and the grunts from his rapist made Mike want to vomit. Mike felt that it was his entire fault, that it might as well be him literally causing Micky all this pain.

Micky could feel a gloved hand reach under and stroke him and his body was in turmoil. Pain and a small hint of pleasure spilled over him and pushed him to the edge. There was nowhere left to go, nowhere to escape to, and with that in his thoughts, he came, painfully and guiltily. The gunman came shortly after, thrusting as deep as possible just because he liked to hear his victim groan in pain.

Mike lunged his eyes to the floor, trying not to encourage the gunman further, who knows what he would do next. Once the rapist had withdrawn, Micky crumbled to the floor, slowly curling up and hugging his stomach. The gunman looked around at astonished faces. He could not see that they were astonished because their faces were covered up, but he could tell, you could cut the atmosphere with a knife. He smartened himself up and grabbed the $80 that was lying helplessly on the couch.

"Time to go," His voice held a tone of false cheeriness as he gathered up his cronies and headed for the door, stopping briefly to give Mike one final slap. Then they were gone.

The pad was once again filled with a deafening silence, save for the occasional sob that could be heard from beneath the table, where Micky had seemingly curled up to die.

Mike shook his head, trying to loosen the gag, but couldn't. His arms felt red raw and he longed to hold Micky and tell him that everything would be ok. A few minutes past and the bedraggled drummer finally gained enough energy to stand, walk over to his lover, and untie him. Just as the last knot was untied Micky collapsed, falling into Mike's waiting arms. Mike wrapped his arms instinctively around his lover, pulling him close so he could kiss his ear and whisper over and over, "It's alright, everything's alright."

Micky's tears started up again and he cried into Mike's shoulder. The two huddled on the floor for over half an hour, just quietly sobbing together without exchanging any words. Finally Mike raised Micky's head so that their eyes met and he let out a long and painful sigh.

"We need to get you to the hospital." He began but was abruptly cut off by Micky's sudden attempts to escape.

"NO! NO!" Micky screamed like a small child, shaking his head wildly.

"You could be seriously hurt, internally..."

"NO! They'll touch me and ask questions! No!"

Mike relented and was silent, the last thing he wanted to do was upset Micky anymore. Slowly he rose to his feet and dragged a wary Micky into a tight embrace. "Ok...shhhh." He whispered, caressing Micky's cheek soothingly.

Micky quieted down and Mike felt him relax in his arms. He sighed mentally as he thought of the struggles that they were about to face. They would have to explain to the other two, they couldn't lie to them. They couldn't possibly go to the police, not with Micky how he was. And to think, just four hours ago, they were peacefully together, with no cares and no pain. Mike closed his eyes and kissed Micky's curls. He was already beginning to dread the morning light and the agony it would bring with it. 

{part 2}

 "You know, you're pushing your luck..."

"We really will pay up as soon as we can..."

"This is the last time Nesmith!" And with that, Mr. Babbit slammed his front door in Mike's face. 

Normally the Texan wouldn't have bothered to go to his landlord's house and beg, but he would have done anything to detach himself from the house of hell. That old place could never hold anything for him anymore, to put it simply; he hated the sight of it. He hated the silence that built up inside of it; he hated the old windows and doors that allowed in Lucifer's playmates in the first place. Right then, for the first time in his life, he wished he could go back home. Yes he would be scorned and laughed at, the great wanderer returns, but at least he would be able to put all that pain away, hide it up like he knew he had to. He climbed the stairs at the back of the house, hoping he could just sneak in without being seen. That was just wishful thinking.

  Davy growled at Mike as soon as he saw the Texan come through the door. "And where 'ave you been?" His voice was shrill and irritating.

"Out to see Mr. Babbit, to tell him the rent will have to wait..."

"If you hadn't have lost it on that stupid bet!" Davy was in full force this morning.

"Please Dave...just cool it, please?"

"Why?! You have to face up to your responsibilities!"

Mike closed his eyes wearily and wished that he could just throw Davy out of the nearest window. He had to tell himself that he was protecting Micky's interests, that he was lying for all the right reasons, but he wasn't sure how much longer he could cope.

"Did you hear me?"

Mike opened his mouth to scream and swear, but couldn't. If only Davy knew the truth. Mike nodded and strode towards the stairs, intent on making it to his room before another attack.

Just as his fingers gripped the doorknob, he felt a hand on his shoulder. It squeezed the bone it found there, and Mike turned his dull eyes to find a quiet, slightly saddened, dimpled smile.

"You ok?" Peter asked,

" 'eah." Mike's voice caught in his throat with the threat of tears, "Yeah, I'm fine." He gave a tiny, almost invisible smile and tried once again to enter his room, but the hand didn't let go.

"I know you feel guilty about it Michael, you didn't mean to lose the money I'm sure. I know Micky's a bit upset about it, but I'm sure we'll manage."

"Thanks Pete," Mike murmured, forcibly loosening his shoulder and hurrying into the room so that Peter couldn't see his tears.

Mike launched his back against the door and slid down it, crumbling in a heap at the bottom. He tried wiping his eyes with the back of his hands, but found there were just too many tears. Instead he just covered his mouth and closed his eyes, wishing that for just a moment, he didn't have to be Mr. Dependable any more.He brought his knees up to his chest and cried into them, not caring anymore. He chest heaved as the tears came harder and they almost seemed painful. He didn't care what images he was shattering. Michael Nesmith didn't cry, but Mike Nesmith did. He was allowed to cry because his lover's soul was crushed, and he was the one who was getting the blame. He reasoned in his head for what seemed like hours. For once he didn't feel guilty for crying. It wasn't my fault, it wasn't my fault.

It was in this twilight zone where Mike could see himself, that he felt a strange warmth beside him. He raised his head slowly and warily, and found a nest of curls by his elbow. A tired arm draped around his waist and as he stopped his sobbing, he was sure he heard its echo. But it wasn't the sound of his tears, these belonged to Micky. The arm tightened around him and slowly the curls moved until two flooded almond eyes gazed upon him as if he was the new Messiah, as if he alone could make things better again. Those eyes were childlike, living in some false hope that one day they'd open, and everything would be as it was. Things could never be as they were. Mike knew it and Micky knew it. Mike wiped away the dregs of his tears and pulled Micky up beside him. The two sat there for a while, just blocking out all the pain in some brief bliss of just being together. Mike sighed as he kissed Micky's forehead. The battle was only just beginning.

Peter sat, almost catatonic and glared down at the bowl of soup he had before him. Normally they would have had something substantial, it was Saturday night and they usually had a decent meal on Saturdays, but he remembered that they were practically living on fresh air.

He glanced at the bowl opposite him and grew confused. "Mick?" He cooed, staring wistfully at the subdued drummer, who was perched nervously on the couch. "Aren't you gonna eat your soup?" Peter's eyes were hopeful.

Micky growled something under his breath and Peter strained to hear.

"What was that Micky?!"

"I SAID YOU CAN FORGET YOUR FUCKING SOUP! YOU'RE FUCKING NEVER GONNA GET ME TO EAT AT THAT TABLE! NEVER!"

Peter stopped, dropped his spoon and his mouth unhinged. He had never heard Micky scream at him like that before. He watched as his best friend rose to his feet frantically and stormed towards him. He couldn't get out of the way fast enough as the table was sent flying across the kitchen area, soup drenching everything.

Peter crawled out from beneath the stairs where he had darted and found a heap of what was formally his friend. Micky cowered on the floor, tears pouring down his face, hands shaking. Micky's eyes were wide and he shuddered again and again. It hurt, it hurt so bad. The grinding, again and again and again and again. Leave me alone! For Christ's sake leave me alone. Where's Mike? I need someone here, please let them go away, go away, leave me to die, go please go. They can't make me do anything, it hurts so bad.Peter felt his natural high level of pity well up and he stumbled over to Micky, slowly wrapping an arm around his shoulder. If he had known what that gesture would do, he would never have done it.

~~~

Mike dragged himself wearily to the front door and opened it quietly. It was already ten o'clock and he was exhausted. He hated the fact that he had left Micky for nearly a whole day, but deep down he told himself that he had done it all for a valuable reason. He looked down at the object in his hand and shuddered slightly, although he would never admit it to himself. Slowly he put it in his inside jacket pocket and gave it a gentle pat. "We're safe now," he whispered.

He felt his heart pump and he realized that he was terrified again. The fear would leap on him every time he went to open a door, he was so frightened of what he might find. Lately, all he had felt, was the need to release. He needed someone to just ramble on to, someone who cared or wouldn't judge him. He couldn't keep breaking down in front of Micky, which just upset the both of them. He wished that they all knew the truth, but he still couldn't bring himself to tell them about what he let happen to their best friend, in their living room. The fact that he just sat and watched. The pad was silent and he tried to stop his hand from shaking. There was something very wrong. He staggered inside and immediately fell over Davy. The room was pitch black.

" 'bout bleedin' time!" The Englishman swore, standing up and giving Mike his best stare.

"Wha...what's wrong?" Mike cursed himself for seeming so vague and dazed.

"You! I want some explainin'!"

"What?"

"What have you done to Micky? He's gone bleedin' mental!"

"Where is he?"

"In your room, now are you gonna tell me what's going on."

"Nothing." Mike lied as he reached for the light switch, why was it so dark in here? He felt Davy try to stop him but it was too late. The room lit up and Mike's heart stopped beating. "What the hell happened," He murmured, not believing what he saw. There was no fragment of furniture left that looked salvageable. All fabrics were torn, all chairs, tables and cupboards were hacked and broken. Thousands upon thousands of pieces of china lay across the entire living room. He gazed on, with tears in his eyes at the band's drum kit, the drums ripped beyond repair and his pride and joy, his beautiful twelve string guitar, mangled and crushed. Peter's keyboard was out on the veranda, where it had obviously been used as a missile to smash the large bay windows. And there was blood. It seemed like the whole room was decorated with the sickening sight of blood.

"I told you, he went fucking mental," Davy whispered, trying to regain Mike's attention.

"Where is he?" Mike mumbled uncertainly,

"In your room, haven't you been listening?" But before Davy could finish his sentence, Mike was upstairs at the door.

The bedroom was dark and seemed so cold. Mike crept in, his fear subsided, surely he had seen the worst? He glanced around the room and saw a body on his bed - Micky. Before he made it to his lover's side he felt a tug at his arm.

"Careful." Peter whispered, his voice muffled.

"Pete?" Mike glared into the darkness. Slowly he reached for the lamp and watched Peter scurry from the light in shame.

"I didn't mean to upset him Michael...please don't be angry with me," Peter was so terrified of the usual Texan temper, but it didn't come. He flinched as he saw a hand outstretch towards him, but let it touch him. The fingers trailed from his black eye, along his swollen jaw and bleeding lips. Mike wiped away a few tears with his sleeve as he regarded Peter's battered form.

"I'm so sorry Pete," Mike whispered and Peter knew Mike was crying, just by the tone of his voice.

Mike turned to the bed and swallowed hard, stepping closer. Glassy eyes gazed up at him, red, and swollen. Mike reached down to stroke away a curl and sighed.

"Why did you do it Mick?"

Micky looked straight at him and allowed a tear to fall. "He...he touched me...I didn't want him to touch me, you won't let him touch me, please Mike?!" As he spoke, his voice grew faster and higher in pitch.

"I won't, Shhh, I promise." He drew up one of Micky's hands and found his arms were heavily bandaged. He looked back at Peter and the blond nodded, realizing Mike's worst fears.

"You didn't...try to?" But Micky crumbled before Mike could finish his sentence.

"I didn't want to hurt you anymore, I didn't want to see you cry again.." Micky's sobs were so devastating that Mike couldn't help but cry with him. What could they do? What could he do?

This time, Davy stepped forward and gave Mike a look that spoke volumes. "Tell us," he demanded.

Mike opened his mouth, looked down at Micky, and knew that lying was the worse thing he could have possibly done. If only he had told the others, maybe this wouldn't have got so far. His head spun. And through all this, he was the one who was still the guilty party. He looked at Micky for permission, but there was nothing. The drummer no longer acknowledged anything that wasn't soothing vibes from Mike. Anything else he blotted out, if it was painful then he didn't want to know. Mike took a deep breath; there was no hiding anymore. "I.I should have told you two days ago, the next morning...I was just looking after Micky."

"Tell us now," Peter placed that faithful hand on Mike's shuddering shoulder.

"It was Thursday night. You were out. I never lost that money on a bet, I just said it so that I had time to think. I wasn't ready to tell you." His grip tightened on Micky's hand and he closed his eyes.

"Guys, Thursday night, five men broke in here, stole our money and...and raped...Micky."

He hung his head. He could feel their eyes burning into him and he felt the guilt of a rapist. It may as well have been him who had done it. In lying, he had merely helped Micky's attackers.

Peter said nothing. His hand dropped from Mike's shoulder and he wandered, empty headed from the room, into the devastation below that symbolized Micky's shattered heart and soul.

Davy's glare fell rapidly and when he regarded the crying wreck of his guitarist friend, he realized just how spiteful he had been, how much pain he had added, and he left, guilt looming over him like a great cloud.Micky looked at him again. Eyes wide, expectant. Mike merely shook his head and leant forward, brushing his lips against Micky's. "He touched me." Micky murmured again as soon as they had parted.

"Ok," Mike whispered, shuffling Micky over and crawling into bed beside his lover.

The Texan drew a weary sigh and pulled Micky into his arms. He felt the drummer shiver, and a bloodied hand reached up and clasped at his upper arm, holding on tight for the safety Micky needed.

"It's all over now, we're safe." Mike whispered over and over.

Silence dwelled upon the couple for what seemed like an eternity. There was no need to speak. The truth was out and hopefully, now, it would end. Finally Micky looked deep into Mike's eyes, breaking the endless gaze he had held for so long and whispered, "You left me...where did you go?"

Mike looked at him and he squeezed Micky closer. "I went and bought our safety...I didn't mean to take so long." And with that, he delved into his jacket pocket. Slowly he pulled out a little cloth bag, dark emerald in color and opened it.

Micky's eyes widened in astonishment, but not fear. That object was only frightening when it was held by someone other than his lover. When it was in those familiar hands, it seemed as harmless as a butterfly. Mike inspected the gun, showed Micky how to use it and then placed back in the bag, and back in his pocket.

"No one will ever hurt you again." Mike promised.

Micky wriggled closer and hugged Mike's broad chest with an unadulterated love. He closed his eyes and let out a deep breath, clasping Mike's nearest dormant hand. He felt a familiar tingle as Mike's finger traveled gently up and down his spine. Micky rolled onto his back and pulled Mike with him, until the Texan was gazing down at him with chocolate eyes, before moving in with an eager kiss. Soon they were skin-to-skin, just as before and, just like before, everything was gentle. Mike was gentle and slow, his hands caressing as he went and Micky moaned with the pleasure that had lain damaged in the dust with the past. He wrapped his arms around Mike's shoulders as they went, never breaking eye contact, and he was blissful in that moment of ecstasy when he came, gentle, painless and loving. When they had finished, Mike dressed his lover again, before dressing himself and settled down to hold Micky just as before.

It was only the sound of rummaging from downstairs, the sound of glass being swept up that Mike remembered that reality would soon come toppling back on them, and there was no where to escape. They had no money, they couldn't work because they had no instruments, they would be forever living in fear of every corner, and that was one thing he knew he wouldn't be able to cope with. With one last glance at Micky's bloodied wrists, Mike came to a conclusion.

"I didn't mean to upset him." Peter chanted again and again.

"And all this time I was having a go at Mike, I've been such a bastard." Davy spoke almost silently as he began to sweep up some of the debris and brush them mindlessly into a bag.

They continued like this for what seemed like hours, until they finally realized that it was all over. It was quick and they were both unable to comprehend at first, what it all meant. Both stood, almost as a mark of respect, they couldn't do anything else, as they heard the sound of two final gunshots.