The Race-Chapter 2/10
Title: The Race-Chapter 2/10
Author:
cozyjo
Rating: PG-13
Timeframe: 1965
Pairing: John/Paul
Summary: Off set hi-jinx during the making of “Help!” proves disastrous.
A/N: Inspired by the actual "Help!" race at the time.
Disclaimer: I only own them in my head.
Chapter One
“You said, Paullllll…”
“I know, John.”
“You said we’d have plenty of time…”
“I know, but…”
“..grab ourselves an extra hour…”
“..yes, but, Lester wouldn’t….”
“..make merry mischief and all that rubbish…”
“I didn’t think he’d say no, John!”
“Do something we could tell the Grandkids about…”
“I said that?”
“What’re we supposed to do now, Paullll?” John spat, his acidic tone echoing off the interior of the bungalow walls. Bored and depressed, he took a long, bitter drag on his cigarette before angrily exhaling the fumes into Paul’s face; an impulsive reaction he would later regret. The young man coughed, vigorously waving his hand in disgust as he regarded John with annoyance. His friend could be right mean when he was irritated.
“We still have time, you know,” Paul emphasized, eyeing John hopefully as his exasperation gave way to empathy. He hated seeing his best friend unhappy, never mind that he tended to make those around him unhappy, as well.
John realized this, too, often hating himself for it. But once bathed in his discontent, he became a prisoner to his emotions, and nothing or no one could halt the ensuing floodgates of rabid displeasure that seeped through his every pore. Though Paul tried and often succeeded, sometimes John just had to behave like the petulant child that he was. Luckily, the musician went back to his good moods nearly as quickly as he fell out of them.
Usually.
“Look around, Paul,” John abruptly urged, gesturing heatedly at his bored bandmates. “We’ve been waitin’ here in this shit stinkhole for Mal to bring us some fun, and the daft bugger still hasn’t returned, and it’s been….” John stopped, looking about in confusion before addressing the youngest of the group.
“What’s it been, Geo?” John asked impatiently, waiting as George checked his watch.
“ s’been about thirty minutes, I suppose,” George clarified, tapping his watch as though the mechanism were broken.
“Ha!” John yelped, as though possessing a sought-after gift. “See?” John taunted, taking a purposeful step towards Paul. “A whole bleedin’ hour!”
“What!?”
“Bloody fucker,” John obliviously muttered, suddenly looking forlorn and miserable. “Probably out there having a better time of it than we are,” he dejectedly stated, turning away from Paul; his head down as he absently studied the floor.
Paul sighed internally, pained by John’s depressive mood, but helpless to soothe the disgruntled musician. God help them all if Malcolm didn’t return.
And soon.
******
“And where the bloody Hell have you been, ya overgrown, near-sighted twit!” John snarled when Mal finally returned nearly 45 minutes after his departure.
Malcolm started at the heat in John’s words, but kept his composure. He well knew to expect such a reaction.
“Just getting the cars, John,” the assistant answered carefully, none to eager to be on the receiving end of John’s wrath. “Come, then,” he encouraged, gesturing towards the door. “They’re all waiting for you.”
For the first time since the “setback“, Paul noticed a flash of excitement in John’s eyes and hoped that even though they now had little more than an hour to engage in their folly, it would be enough to satisfy his temperamental best mate.
“Yeah, come, John! Let’s have a look-see,” Paul smiled eagerly, clasping John warmly on the shoulder and gently pressing him towards the door. “It’s gonna be great! You‘ll see!”
John dropped his head, then, a subtle flash of shy embarrassment at the way he’d been acting warring with his newfound excitement. Paul saw the conflict and remorse in his face, discreetly giving him a squeeze as they made their way out of the bungalow doors to embark on a journey that would bring them face to face with their symbols of shameless entertainment. Malcolm, ever resourceful, had managed to secure a rather secluded stretch of beach not too far from where they were staying, ensuring that the boys retained the utmost of privacy. Informed that their sought-after treasures of reckless fun were awaiting them there, The Beatles, along with Mal and fellow friend and road manager, Neil Aspinal, packed themselves into a vehicle, and made their way to their desired location; their excitement growing exponentially. In what seemed like hours, but were really minutes, the boys and their handlers arrived, coming face to face with their desired objects of affection.
One look, and they each could see it had been well worth the wait.
******
“I’m taking the red one!” George announced upon viewing and inspecting the four attractively decadent sports cars.
John raised an admonishing eyebrow in protest.
“Tut, Hari! Ladies first! Paul!!” he called, summoning their doe-eyed bassist who was busy discussing one model with Ringo. He looked up in acknowledgment before approaching their handsome leader.
“Which one?”
Paul sighed as he glanced at the four eye-catching sports cars before them; each a different color. It wasn‘t difficult to decide; the musician already knew what he wanted, but in the name of fairness, he felt it only right that everyone had an equal chance.
“Mmm..I don’t know. How about we toss for ‘em?” he offered, innocently.
John, eyes twinkling with unbridled mischief, sidled up to the handsome singer.
“Thought you’d never ask…..McCartney,” John crooned, whispering the surname seductively into his ear.
“What?!” Paul started, alarmed, before giggling and playfully slapping John’s shoulder in admonishment. “Toss a coin!” he clarified, though he knew he needn’t have.
“Oh..” John’s face fell in mock disappointment, before his features morphed into a blanket of fondness. He remained momentarily riveted, starting into the soulful eyes of his cherished friend before Ringo’s voice disturbed his solitary bliss.
“I don’t care which one,” he beamed, his eyes aglow with youthful delight. “I think they’re all great!”
“Oh, well, you would!” George teased.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ringo challenged, feigning hurt.
“Have you seen the way he drives?” George clarified, causing everyone to erupt with laughter.
“..speaking of …” Paul absently interrupted. “You’ve only just received your license, haven’t you, John?” he stated casually before pointedly looking at the rhythm guitarist who had passed his driver’s test just days earlier. “Maybe it’s too soon for you to mix it up with the rest of us,” Paul finished, solemnly.
John nearly chuckled before catching Paul’s serious face.
“Cor! You’re joke-….“ he began, an incredulous look enveloping his features.
Paul blinked once, the determined finality of his countenance mentally berating the perplexed singer. Confused, John emitted a slight giggle of embarrassment as Paul remained steadfastly resolute. Seeing no evidence of jest in Paul’s immovable visage, John huffed in disgust like a tantrum-seeking child.
“Aww, sod!” the singer spat in dejected realization, still somewhat uncertain as to Paul’s unwavering stare. “’s’no big deal, Paul!! I’ve driven plenty of times before!”
“Could get serious,” Paul continued, gravely. “Broken bones, death...the whole bit,” he turned to inconspicuously wink at George and Ringo.
“Awww..,” John groused, dispensing an impulsive kick to an unfortunate tire before settling himself against one of the vehicles, arms crossed in indignation.
“It’s the fucking beach, Paul!”
“I know, John,” Paul readily agreed before igniting into a fit of giggles.
John, momentarily puzzled by Paul’s reaction, suddenly broke into a knowing grin.
“I’ve been had!” he cried, slapping a hand to his forehead.
“That you have!” Paul teased, as John swiftly advanced to playfully feign cuffing Paul about the head.
They paused momentarily then, each drinking in the unspoken words of the other. Only Paul could get away with “besting” John without the singer’s reacting in anger, for he knew Paul would never seek to make a fool of him on purpose.
“Let’s get on with it, then,” John encouraged, his voice tender; his eyes unyielding in their lustful glare. For a minute Paul was transfixed, uncertain as to what exactly John meant; caught in the heat of the musician’s intoxicating gaze. John’s mouth slowly morphed into a loving snile; his hand gently brushing the brown fringe of the singer’s bangs.
“We ready?” George called out from behind his chosen vehicle, a cream colored specimen incased in generous bits of chrome.
“But what about our choices!” Paul snapped from his reverie, casting a quick glance at the red car Ringo was eyeing.
John soothingly placed a hand against the nape of Paul’s neck.
“Doesn’t matter, son,” he winked, gently kneading the soft flesh beneath his calloused fingers. “They’re just cars, luv. Shiny bits of pretty metal,” he purred, warmly eyeing his young friend. “We‘ll have us a time no matter the color.”
Paul blinked in confusion. John could be so complex and unpredictable.
God, how he loved him.
“Yeah..suppose,” Paul agreed, shyly ducking his head as John gently squeezed his shoulder.
“Come on,” John enthusiastically urged, a brilliant smile adorning his face. “Let’s go have us a race!”
******
Neil, who along with Mal, had been dually assigned to watch over the boys, (assuring that they didn’t get into too much trouble), kept a respectable distance as the familiar voice of The Beatles’ leader rang out among the excited chatter and anxious grins peppering the faces of his fellow musicians.
“Alright, you pansy poofs” John good-naturedly urged from behind the wheel of his car. “Let’s see what you’ve got!”
Hitting the gas and jerking his eager coupe forward, John let out an infectious cackle as he feverishly attempted to propel his vehicle miles ahead of the others in a determined show of finesse and speed. Ringo, taking an encouraging cue from John, boldly struggled to keep pace with his deliriously indomitable friend, their vehicles neck-in-neck as they sped along the sandy shore of the nearly deserted Bahama beach. George, pulling slightly out front, his dark head bobbing in gleeful laughter, chanced a quick glance at John in triumph, causing the musician to increase his speed exponentially before being distracted by the unmistakable presence of Paul closing in on his right. John felt his heart race with searing determination and anxiety. It was only a game, he reasoned, something to pass the time away..yet he wouldn’t be bested. Not by Paul. Not by any of his mates.
Riding on the adrenaline of the moment and an overwhelming desire for victory, John blindly floored the gas in a desperate attempt to succeed George, oblivious to how close in proximity he was to their drummer. He felt the rumble of Paul’s car bearing down on his psyche; felt the trickle of hot sweat cascade towards his dampened collar as he shook the building perspiration from the fringes of his bangs. Despite his efforts, and much to his dismay, John found himself falling behind, struggling to keep up with Ringo as he witnessed Paul move out slightly ahead of him, clearly determined to catch up with George. John’s heart thudded in his chest at the thought of being the last one to complete the race, further pushing his car to its very limit, as much as it could stand. Unfortunately, his over-zealous efforts proved haphazard as his car dangerously skimmed the side of Ringo’s vehicle, causing it to ping back in a fit of angry retaliation. John, anxiously fighting to control the raging auto, panicked as he spun clockwise, just narrowly avoiding hitting the rear of Paul’s car before finding himself hurling with steadfast assurance towards a palm tree. Impulsively, John slammed on the brakes in an effort to halt the reckless missile his vehicle had become, but the velocity of his coupe was no match for the distance to the tree; its tall, outwardly innocent structure looming larger by the second and casting a sense of foreboding into the crevices of John’s brain. Bracing for impact, John instinctively squeezed his eyes shut and prayed.
The world went black.
Chapter Three
Author:
cozyjo
Rating: PG-13
Timeframe: 1965
Pairing: John/Paul
Summary: Off set hi-jinx during the making of “Help!” proves disastrous.
A/N: Inspired by the actual "Help!" race at the time.
Disclaimer: I only own them in my head.
Chapter One
“You said, Paullllll…”
“I know, John.”
“You said we’d have plenty of time…”
“I know, but…”
“..grab ourselves an extra hour…”
“..yes, but, Lester wouldn’t….”
“..make merry mischief and all that rubbish…”
“I didn’t think he’d say no, John!”
“Do something we could tell the Grandkids about…”
“I said that?”
“What’re we supposed to do now, Paullll?” John spat, his acidic tone echoing off the interior of the bungalow walls. Bored and depressed, he took a long, bitter drag on his cigarette before angrily exhaling the fumes into Paul’s face; an impulsive reaction he would later regret. The young man coughed, vigorously waving his hand in disgust as he regarded John with annoyance. His friend could be right mean when he was irritated.
“We still have time, you know,” Paul emphasized, eyeing John hopefully as his exasperation gave way to empathy. He hated seeing his best friend unhappy, never mind that he tended to make those around him unhappy, as well.
John realized this, too, often hating himself for it. But once bathed in his discontent, he became a prisoner to his emotions, and nothing or no one could halt the ensuing floodgates of rabid displeasure that seeped through his every pore. Though Paul tried and often succeeded, sometimes John just had to behave like the petulant child that he was. Luckily, the musician went back to his good moods nearly as quickly as he fell out of them.
Usually.
“Look around, Paul,” John abruptly urged, gesturing heatedly at his bored bandmates. “We’ve been waitin’ here in this shit stinkhole for Mal to bring us some fun, and the daft bugger still hasn’t returned, and it’s been….” John stopped, looking about in confusion before addressing the youngest of the group.
“What’s it been, Geo?” John asked impatiently, waiting as George checked his watch.
“ s’been about thirty minutes, I suppose,” George clarified, tapping his watch as though the mechanism were broken.
“Ha!” John yelped, as though possessing a sought-after gift. “See?” John taunted, taking a purposeful step towards Paul. “A whole bleedin’ hour!”
“What!?”
“Bloody fucker,” John obliviously muttered, suddenly looking forlorn and miserable. “Probably out there having a better time of it than we are,” he dejectedly stated, turning away from Paul; his head down as he absently studied the floor.
Paul sighed internally, pained by John’s depressive mood, but helpless to soothe the disgruntled musician. God help them all if Malcolm didn’t return.
And soon.
******
“And where the bloody Hell have you been, ya overgrown, near-sighted twit!” John snarled when Mal finally returned nearly 45 minutes after his departure.
Malcolm started at the heat in John’s words, but kept his composure. He well knew to expect such a reaction.
“Just getting the cars, John,” the assistant answered carefully, none to eager to be on the receiving end of John’s wrath. “Come, then,” he encouraged, gesturing towards the door. “They’re all waiting for you.”
For the first time since the “setback“, Paul noticed a flash of excitement in John’s eyes and hoped that even though they now had little more than an hour to engage in their folly, it would be enough to satisfy his temperamental best mate.
“Yeah, come, John! Let’s have a look-see,” Paul smiled eagerly, clasping John warmly on the shoulder and gently pressing him towards the door. “It’s gonna be great! You‘ll see!”
John dropped his head, then, a subtle flash of shy embarrassment at the way he’d been acting warring with his newfound excitement. Paul saw the conflict and remorse in his face, discreetly giving him a squeeze as they made their way out of the bungalow doors to embark on a journey that would bring them face to face with their symbols of shameless entertainment. Malcolm, ever resourceful, had managed to secure a rather secluded stretch of beach not too far from where they were staying, ensuring that the boys retained the utmost of privacy. Informed that their sought-after treasures of reckless fun were awaiting them there, The Beatles, along with Mal and fellow friend and road manager, Neil Aspinal, packed themselves into a vehicle, and made their way to their desired location; their excitement growing exponentially. In what seemed like hours, but were really minutes, the boys and their handlers arrived, coming face to face with their desired objects of affection.
One look, and they each could see it had been well worth the wait.
******
“I’m taking the red one!” George announced upon viewing and inspecting the four attractively decadent sports cars.
John raised an admonishing eyebrow in protest.
“Tut, Hari! Ladies first! Paul!!” he called, summoning their doe-eyed bassist who was busy discussing one model with Ringo. He looked up in acknowledgment before approaching their handsome leader.
“Which one?”
Paul sighed as he glanced at the four eye-catching sports cars before them; each a different color. It wasn‘t difficult to decide; the musician already knew what he wanted, but in the name of fairness, he felt it only right that everyone had an equal chance.
“Mmm..I don’t know. How about we toss for ‘em?” he offered, innocently.
John, eyes twinkling with unbridled mischief, sidled up to the handsome singer.
“Thought you’d never ask…..McCartney,” John crooned, whispering the surname seductively into his ear.
“What?!” Paul started, alarmed, before giggling and playfully slapping John’s shoulder in admonishment. “Toss a coin!” he clarified, though he knew he needn’t have.
“Oh..” John’s face fell in mock disappointment, before his features morphed into a blanket of fondness. He remained momentarily riveted, starting into the soulful eyes of his cherished friend before Ringo’s voice disturbed his solitary bliss.
“I don’t care which one,” he beamed, his eyes aglow with youthful delight. “I think they’re all great!”
“Oh, well, you would!” George teased.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ringo challenged, feigning hurt.
“Have you seen the way he drives?” George clarified, causing everyone to erupt with laughter.
“..speaking of …” Paul absently interrupted. “You’ve only just received your license, haven’t you, John?” he stated casually before pointedly looking at the rhythm guitarist who had passed his driver’s test just days earlier. “Maybe it’s too soon for you to mix it up with the rest of us,” Paul finished, solemnly.
John nearly chuckled before catching Paul’s serious face.
“Cor! You’re joke-….“ he began, an incredulous look enveloping his features.
Paul blinked once, the determined finality of his countenance mentally berating the perplexed singer. Confused, John emitted a slight giggle of embarrassment as Paul remained steadfastly resolute. Seeing no evidence of jest in Paul’s immovable visage, John huffed in disgust like a tantrum-seeking child.
“Aww, sod!” the singer spat in dejected realization, still somewhat uncertain as to Paul’s unwavering stare. “’s’no big deal, Paul!! I’ve driven plenty of times before!”
“Could get serious,” Paul continued, gravely. “Broken bones, death...the whole bit,” he turned to inconspicuously wink at George and Ringo.
“Awww..,” John groused, dispensing an impulsive kick to an unfortunate tire before settling himself against one of the vehicles, arms crossed in indignation.
“It’s the fucking beach, Paul!”
“I know, John,” Paul readily agreed before igniting into a fit of giggles.
John, momentarily puzzled by Paul’s reaction, suddenly broke into a knowing grin.
“I’ve been had!” he cried, slapping a hand to his forehead.
“That you have!” Paul teased, as John swiftly advanced to playfully feign cuffing Paul about the head.
They paused momentarily then, each drinking in the unspoken words of the other. Only Paul could get away with “besting” John without the singer’s reacting in anger, for he knew Paul would never seek to make a fool of him on purpose.
“Let’s get on with it, then,” John encouraged, his voice tender; his eyes unyielding in their lustful glare. For a minute Paul was transfixed, uncertain as to what exactly John meant; caught in the heat of the musician’s intoxicating gaze. John’s mouth slowly morphed into a loving snile; his hand gently brushing the brown fringe of the singer’s bangs.
“We ready?” George called out from behind his chosen vehicle, a cream colored specimen incased in generous bits of chrome.
“But what about our choices!” Paul snapped from his reverie, casting a quick glance at the red car Ringo was eyeing.
John soothingly placed a hand against the nape of Paul’s neck.
“Doesn’t matter, son,” he winked, gently kneading the soft flesh beneath his calloused fingers. “They’re just cars, luv. Shiny bits of pretty metal,” he purred, warmly eyeing his young friend. “We‘ll have us a time no matter the color.”
Paul blinked in confusion. John could be so complex and unpredictable.
God, how he loved him.
“Yeah..suppose,” Paul agreed, shyly ducking his head as John gently squeezed his shoulder.
“Come on,” John enthusiastically urged, a brilliant smile adorning his face. “Let’s go have us a race!”
******
Neil, who along with Mal, had been dually assigned to watch over the boys, (assuring that they didn’t get into too much trouble), kept a respectable distance as the familiar voice of The Beatles’ leader rang out among the excited chatter and anxious grins peppering the faces of his fellow musicians.
“Alright, you pansy poofs” John good-naturedly urged from behind the wheel of his car. “Let’s see what you’ve got!”
Hitting the gas and jerking his eager coupe forward, John let out an infectious cackle as he feverishly attempted to propel his vehicle miles ahead of the others in a determined show of finesse and speed. Ringo, taking an encouraging cue from John, boldly struggled to keep pace with his deliriously indomitable friend, their vehicles neck-in-neck as they sped along the sandy shore of the nearly deserted Bahama beach. George, pulling slightly out front, his dark head bobbing in gleeful laughter, chanced a quick glance at John in triumph, causing the musician to increase his speed exponentially before being distracted by the unmistakable presence of Paul closing in on his right. John felt his heart race with searing determination and anxiety. It was only a game, he reasoned, something to pass the time away..yet he wouldn’t be bested. Not by Paul. Not by any of his mates.
Riding on the adrenaline of the moment and an overwhelming desire for victory, John blindly floored the gas in a desperate attempt to succeed George, oblivious to how close in proximity he was to their drummer. He felt the rumble of Paul’s car bearing down on his psyche; felt the trickle of hot sweat cascade towards his dampened collar as he shook the building perspiration from the fringes of his bangs. Despite his efforts, and much to his dismay, John found himself falling behind, struggling to keep up with Ringo as he witnessed Paul move out slightly ahead of him, clearly determined to catch up with George. John’s heart thudded in his chest at the thought of being the last one to complete the race, further pushing his car to its very limit, as much as it could stand. Unfortunately, his over-zealous efforts proved haphazard as his car dangerously skimmed the side of Ringo’s vehicle, causing it to ping back in a fit of angry retaliation. John, anxiously fighting to control the raging auto, panicked as he spun clockwise, just narrowly avoiding hitting the rear of Paul’s car before finding himself hurling with steadfast assurance towards a palm tree. Impulsively, John slammed on the brakes in an effort to halt the reckless missile his vehicle had become, but the velocity of his coupe was no match for the distance to the tree; its tall, outwardly innocent structure looming larger by the second and casting a sense of foreboding into the crevices of John’s brain. Bracing for impact, John instinctively squeezed his eyes shut and prayed.
The world went black.
Chapter Three