Bet I Can! - Chapter 4/5 (February Imagination Challenge Response)
Title: Bet I Can! - Chapter Four
Author: Jo cozyjo
Rating: PG
Timeframe: 1965
Pairing: John/Paul
Summary: Cyn bets John he can’t survive 24 hours while she takes the housekeeper and the other Beatle girls out for a day of shopping and then an overnight stay at a London hotel. Never one to back down from a challenge, John accepts, enlisting the aid of his fellow Beatle mates in caring for Jules and performing various cooking, cleaning and household duties.
A/N: In response to February's Imagination Challenge in the In Your Own Write Community.
Disclaimer: I only own them in my head.
Chapter Three
“Uh-oh….” Ringo, remarked, holding up the warm and freshly dried pink t-shirt to inspect. He turned to regard the presence just behind him.
“Grotty, that,” George sniffed, grabbing a hold of the fabric and peering closer. “Don’t think John’s gonna fancy that.”
“What isn’t John gonna fancy, then?” the gruff voice of their Beatle leader emanated nearer upon each advancing step. Naptime over, John had come to wake Julian before preparing their evening meal.
“Shit!” Ringo hissed; engaging in a flustered attempt to hide the glaring t-shirt. He quickly buried it underneath the other clothes in the basket he had filled from the dryer.
“Aye?” John suddenly welcomed, leaning against the door frame of the modest laundry room. His eyes cast a glance around the cozy area as if expecting to see something different.
“Aye, John,” Ringo greeted, a bit uneasily. “We were just getting the clothes from the dryer,” he offered, self-consciously holding up what looked to be one of John’s pair of jeans.
“Right,” John, arms crossed, responded indifferently. He studied the drummer a moment; the diminutive musician desperate to appear nonchalant and casual, until, without warning, John advanced towards the basket of freshly dried clothes. Suddenly digging his hand in, his face beheld a mask of mischief as he rummaged through the fabric-bursting contents as if looking for buried treasure. Ringo felt his heart thump loudly in his chest; hoping upon hope that John wouldn’t find any “offensive” items.
Finally, John pulled out what appeared to be a pink t-shirt.
It belonged to Cynthia.
Ringo felt a wave of relief as he realized the pink frilly fabric was not one of John’s laundry room “victims”. He felt George react in kind, beside him.
John, oblivious to their concerns, inspected the girlish fabric carefully before placing it back atop the pile of clothes.
“Just making sure you’re doing a good job of it,” he stated, half-teasingly, then winked before turning on his heel and starting to walk out of the room. He got as far as the door frame before turning to glance at the boys in unexpected seriousness. Ringo felt his heart thumping, again.
“Supper’ll be going soon’s I get the baby up. You might wanna head to the kitchen and see what Paul’s cookin’ up.”
“Okay…great…” Ringo lamely nodded, smiling through nervous teeth. John tapped the doorframe and nodded in kind, before disappearing out of view.
Ringo turned to his laundry-aid partner.
“Shit..that was close!”
*****
“Paulllllllllllllllllllllllllll!!!!” came the insistent bellow of one panicked Beatle.
The bassist sighed deeply as he turned over another steak.
“What’s he want now?”
George shook his head as if in response, his hand at the ready to grab the tongs housed in Paul’s hand.
Paul regarded him with utmost seriousness.
“I’m gonna go see what he wants. Make sure they don’t burn!” he ordered, pointing to the steaks.
George scowled in defense.
“I know how to cook steaks, you know!”
“Make sure you do!” Paul shot back over his shoulder as he made his way towards the staircase leading up to the bedrooms. He could only imagine what their temperamental leader was upset about now.
It wasn’t long before he would find out.
“Aye!” John greeted, holding his nose and stepping back from Julian’s basinet as Paul entered the bedroom.
Paul wrinkled his nose in acknowledgement, waving his hand.
“Pewww!” he gasped. “This what you’re on about, then?”
“What’d’ya think?” John challenged, looking to Paul, helplessly.
Paul raised his hands in a questioning gesture.
“I can’t, Paul,” John lamely offered without explanation.
“You can’t….?”
John lowered his eyes to awkwardly study the floor.
“…can’t?…” Paul repeated, before it hit him. He resisted the urge to chuckle at John’ plight; suddenly reminded of how the Beatle was notoriously aghast at changing a diaper.
“You’ll have to do it, Paul,” John stated, matter-of-factly, while Julian obliviously cooed in his crib. “Cyn’ll tell you. I get sick, and…”
“I know, John, I know…” Paul heavily sighed. Much as he sympathized, he was getting a little tired of feeling like the Beatle that initiated this whole mess was getting away with doing virtually nothing. Something had to give…
…..and soon.
“Let me,” Paul offered, as he made work of changing Julian’s diaper. John, forgetting himself, stood back to admire how easily and quickly Paul administered to his son’s personal needs. No sooner had the bassist finished then his older mate was quick to offer praise.
“Thank you, oh master of the soiled nappy!” John bowed in mock reverence.
“Oh, shut it!” Paul snapped, lifting Julian onto his feet to examine the satisfied boy. Julian giggled and cooed at his Uncle Paul in response.
“Alright, then,” John smiled, gesturing a salute as he attempted to leave the room.
“Wait!” Paul yelled, incredulous at John‘s lack of consideration. “Least you can do is take care of that,” the musician gestured at the soiled nappy.
John frowned.
“Um….”
“Got my hands full, John!” Paul reminded, a smile in his voice.
“Yeah…right,” John muttered, crossing the room to gather up the offensive object. He steadfastly held his nose, but it wasn’t enough. Just knowing he was carrying what he was carrying was enough to make him heave.
Unmercifully.
(Blech!) “…uh..Paul, I…”
“Just toss it, luv!” Paul suppressed a giggle. “Honestly, John…your own son and you can’t even change his nappy..tsk!…” he half-teasingly admonished as he made his way down the stairs with the boy.
“Yeah, but…..“ (blech!)
*****
Once downstairs, Paul smelled a whiff of burning meat.
“I knew it!” he hissed, quickly dispensing Julian into his play-seat before marching towards the kitchen. He silently cursed himself for letting anyone other than he handle the cooking chores.
“What’d ya do, Harri, burn ‘em?” Paul accused, his eyes fiery with anger.
George, his eyes equally heated, snidely glared at the upset Beatle.
“It’s just charred a bit on one side,” he declared. “Maybe if someone hadn’t kept the flame so high…”
“What??” Paul was aghast. “Listen…..!!”
“Now, now…what’re you sods on about?” John suddenly appeared with Julian, a look of boredom on his face.
“He burned them!” Paul pointed to the lead guitarist.
“Did not!”
“You did!” Paul insisted.
“I told you it was just…..”
“…slightly charred…” Ringo echoed in unison with his youngest bandmate.
John’s eyes alit with amusement at these verbal fisticuffs.
Paul turned to regard him expectantly, waiting as the older musician yawned in fatigue…
…or was it indifference?
“Let’s have us a look then,” John suddenly announced, mischievously.
Depositing Julian in his highchair, he walked over to inspect the meat; dragging out the time with long observant looks and punctuated, ‘uh-hums’ that made the others roll their eyes in seething impatience.
Paul cocked his head sideways in annoyance.
“Well, John?” he demanded.
John bit into the steak in question skewered on its pitch-forked tong.
“Just needs a bit of sauce,” he deadpanned, moving to grab some from the kitchen table.
Aggravated, Paul shook his head and sighed helplessly as he made haste of removing the rest of the steaks from the pan. John continued to stand, chew and observe as Ringo brought a freshly made salad and George a bottle of wine to the table. Looking at the presentation, Paul snapped his fingers as if in remembrance, then halted as he witnessed the nonchalant “activity” of his best mate.
“John,” Paul ordered, his irritation none-too-subtle. “Think you can stop chewing long enough to get the potatoes from the broiler?” he queried, pulling back a chair to settle in.
“Oh!…right…” John startled, setting his pitch-forked steak atop a plate and reaching down to open the broiler to retrieve the vegetables.
It was the least he could do.
“Ow!..oh!” John yelped. “Fuckers are hot!”
“Well, they’ve been in an oven, you know,” George reminded, dryly.
“So they have…” John agreed, just as dryly. He grabbed a nearby bowl and gingerly placed the steaming potatoes in it one by one, before shutting the broiler drawer and making his way, bowl in hands, to the kitchen table.
“Dinner is served,” John feigned an upper-crust English accent, clicking his heels like some snooty aristocratic Butler before placing the vegetables upon the table.
Paul continued to attend to his food, but didn’t miss a beat; his resentment at John‘s lack of contribution beginning to show.
“It’s a good thing you weren’t in charge of dinner or that’s all we’d be eating,” he dispassionately stated; the others nodding in agreement.
John took a look at their faces and frowned.
Chapter Five