A/N: My apologies to fans of Des Moines, no offense intended. I had to pick somewhere!

Bob had a brilliant idea. The idea was? Base some "real cam" episodes in different cities; let the viewers see their faves running around a city Hard-Days-Night style. The "on tour" episode was so popular, he figured one with a little less structure, centering on a city that maybe had been voted on by fans, would bring in even more viewers. Ratings were already at the top of the heap, product tie-ins were a license to print money, and everyone was begging for more.

In order to keep things under some control, the production staff chose ten cities, and the votes were narrowed to five finalists. New York, St. Louis, Philadelphia, Cleveland, and Des Moines, Iowa.

Bonnie's eyes snapped up from her notebook at the final option. "Did I hear you right? Des Moines? I know without asking you got a reason, but I'm gonna ask anyway just to hear it."

"Local fan club president, she got the kids to lobby hard. We figure we could do a little impromptu meet and greet with the guys, just a little press and a couple of reps from 16…"

"Uh, sounds kinda like Bye Bye Birdie, Bob," Chip observed.

Everyone laughed, and Bob glared at them. "Ha. Ha. Nobody'll be getting drafted, and nobody'll be getting kissed on camera."

"And after dark, all bets are off…" Bonnie mumbled, and the others laughed again. But Bob was Bob, and Bob was in charge.

So off they went, Bob and Bert and Bonnie and a couple of tech guys, and Kirshner. They took off for over a week of sit-downs with the film boards and city representatives of the finalist cities, to see what facilities they might get deals on, where the best tech and logistical support was, where the workable locations were.

The night before they returned to L.A., everyone met in Bob's suite at Des Moines Hilton (who knew there was such a place, Chip had cracked) to discuss their conclusions. Because, of course, serious planning would have to begin the minute they touched down in L.A.

All the cities had possibilities; all had key tourist-y landmarks for the guys to cavort in and around. Except for Des Moines.

"There is just no fucking place to cavort in Des Moines," Bonnie announced flatly. She had been running point on scouting locations, with the tech guys in tow to see how practical things like filming and sound might be. "The town's so low budget, maybe we can just get a few more crew in and build 'em one."

Kirshner would have concurred, but the fan club angle had visions of a new song premiere, a la Last Train to Clarksville, spinning on the turntable in his head. He said as much, and waited for a response.

Bonnie couldn't bring herself to call Kirshner Don, as he'd invited everyone to do, and didn't respect him enough to call him Mr. Kirshner, so she simply avoided using a name when he was around. "That smug bastard" worked fine when he wasn't. For now, she just spoke her exhausted mind.

"Love it! Call Boyce and Hart… they can call it The Last Bus Outta Des Moines. We can set the guys up to lip synch among the winos at the bus station, and serenade the last Greyhound out."

Kirshner didn't rise to the bait. If there was one thing he was good at, it was keeping his cool. His firm belief in his own genius made that easy for him. "Bonnie, I think you're forgetting what our respective jobs are here."

If eye rolling could make a sound, the whole city would have gone deaf. Even Bob was poised to try to head off the "I'm the hit maker, and you just have to follow my lead" speech. Not that he didn't share the attitude most of the time, but right now it wasn't worth the bitch-fest that was sure to follow. Too late. Bonnie was just burnt out enough to do it for him.

"Not at all. The Monkees' job is to ride this wave as long as it lasts. Bob's job is to style the beach," she indicated her boss with a gracious wave of her hand, then turned a jaundiced eye on Kirshner.

"And your job... is to build the surfboard."

Kirshner's color rose just half a shade, then he regained his maddeningly smooth demeanor. "Remind me, just what is your job, again?"

"Everything else," Bob declared, as much to break the tension as end the meeting. "It's two a.m. and we have a noon flight tomorrow. Everybody get some sleep and write down whatever comes to you."

Bob was a great one for keeping notes, which was something that he and Bonnie really saw eye-to-eye on. The concept of the accidental great idea. Of course, sometimes he misidentified which was what.

Bonnie was last one out, as usual, because Bob always had a last word (or more) for her.

"Look babe, I know it's because you're fried, but I really count on you not to mouth off on Don."

"Sorry, Bob, moment of weakness." She yawned. "Look, there's been a gorilla in the corner for the past hour, and I can't believe nobody mentioned it."

He was genuinely curious. "Gorilla? What gorilla?"

"That even in Des Moines, the guys are gonna be mobbed six ways from Sunday. No matter what pretty notes we write down and what contracts we sign with the city, it'll be like choreographing a riot."

"Riot? C'mon, we can handle security."

Bonnie hooted with laughter. "Yeah, like the Running Of The Psychos in the Cleveland plaza, huh? All it took was one little elevator button, and it turned into The Last Train To Freaksville. They're lucky they got away with all their parts intact."

Bob ran his hands over his face. "Shit. Shit. So what is your brilliant alternative?"

"Ain't got one. Styling the beach is your job." She waved a goofy bye-bye and left him to stew.

The next days' flights were delayed by storms, by engine troubles, by every stinking thing that could delay them. They finally touched down in L.A. at midnight, too thoroughly exhausted to do anything but take their leave of one another.

"C'mon, my limo can run you home," Bob offered Bonnie. She thanked him, and said she'd grab a cab. "Okay, here's a fifty, that should cover it."

She stared at the bill he'd shoved into her hand. He was a major pain in the ass, was Bob, then would turn around and be a goddamn prince when you needed it most. "Thanks, Bob. I don't care who says you're a fascist asshole, you're okay by me."

"Hah. And take the day tomorrow, I'll call the guys and tell 'em. You did good, Bonnie. Even if you did hand Kirshner his head. You did it with style. Not like some people."

After he was safely out the luggage claim door and into his limo, Bonnie dragged her suitcase to the nearest cab.

"Nine-oh-three-two Crescent Drive, in the hills."

The driver looked at her suspiciously. She knew she had to look like last week's lunch, so she waved Bob's fifty.

"I got it covered, man, just drive, okay?"

More suspicion from the cabbie when they pulled into the driveway. "You sure this is it, lady? That musician Monkee guy lives here. Doesn't look like he's home, either."

"Trust me, it's okay. I know where he keeps the spare key." She handed him the fifty and before he could complain about breaking it she said, "Just keep it."

She found the key hanging from the nail high up on the doorjamb, and managed to let herself in without making any noise. An upstairs light was on and she heard the shower running. She left her bag at the foot of the stairs, did a quick wash-up/teeth brush in the kitchen, then pulled her nightshirt out of her bag and crept upstairs. She was changed, burrowed under the covers, and out like a light almost before her head hit the pillow. That changed moments later, as she felt a lean, warm body pressed against her back, long arms wrapping around and turning her.

"Well hello, mama... gone for five minutes and just look what turns up," Mike murmured against her neck as he wound his arms around her. "And only seven hours late."

"Shuttup," she whined. "Bad flights, long meetings, wanna sleep."

"Now if you just wanted to sleep you woulda gone home," he told her, and she mumbled something and shook her head. "Well at least gimme some sugar, Morris, I am positively hy-po-GLY-CE-mic." He drew out every syllable in a persuasive drawl. After she gave up a number of long kisses, he licked his lips. "Mmm, airplane toothpaste…" She made a grumpy sound and tried to turn away, but he pulled her closer into his arms and whispered, "Okay, now just settle down, lemme lay some Papa Nez TLC on you, you'll be good as new, poor baby workin' your sweet ass off to help make me a rich man..."

She went boneless in his arms and gave herself up to the kisses he planted all over her face and neck. He was laying it on thick and silly, like he sometimes did when he was in a mood. She could fairly feel the mischievous edge of a smile in his kisses.

"Oh… I promise you, Nesmith, by this time tomorrow you are gonna wish I didn't."