(Just Like) Starting Over - PART ONE
Okay, so this is my first Beatles fic. :D Hope you enjoy it, and if you don't, then tell me what needs work. :) And I personally get annoyed with non-one-shots, so I'm sorry, readers.
Disclaimer: The Beatles, their songs, etc. are not mine (thanks for reminding me bout that, now imma go cry in a corner). This story is NOT real (though that'd be cool if it was), in fact it's even got FIC in it's genre's title to make sure you know that.
Rating: PG-13ish for some language that is not recommended for usage around yo mama
Warnings: Minor G/ R vaguely pointed out (literally). Mostly a J/P friendship fic though.
Summary: Takes place in 1966 (for the first few parts). Paul is avoiding John cuz he doesn't want to take LSD, blah blah, just read it. : ) I can't really give too much more away cuz this part is just the intro.
Part One: In the Beginning, I’d Misunderstood - Early/ Mid 1966
It’d been about three to five weeks since they’d been in the same room together alone. Not that he’d been hoping this would happen anytime soon.
In fact, it was quite the contrary. Paul had drawn on every measure he thought humanly possible to make sure this kind of situation, the one he was in now, would not arise….
“He wants me to take that damn thing, ADD or whatever you call it,” Paul had told Ringo a few weeks ago.
He knew Ringo hated it when he was angry-well, Ringo hated it when anyone was angry-and Paul was now finally clever enough to use this to his advantage.
With his perfectly-arched eyebrows furrowed and a frustrated frown, Paul’s “cute” face now looked slightly older. Or a bit less like a baby’s, anyway.
Ringo glanced up from the intense staring session he was having with his drumstick, also frowning, though still managing to look cute. “Aww, he just wants to have some fun, Paulie. LSD won’t hurt ya, I’ve taken it and it’s-”
“Yeah, but that’s not the point, is it?” Ringo gazed down at his drumstick patiently, waiting for Paul to calm the fuck down and barely listening to his rambling. “Just because he owns half of all my songs… He wants to temper with me mind… Sabotage, I tell ye…”
Finally, Paul’s rant seemed to be nearing the end. “I’m just bloody sick of it. I mean, just because he can manipulate you two so easily doesn’t mean he needs to recruit me for his damn experiments.”
Paul sighed, finally calming the fuck down. “Look, you know I didn’t mean to put you down.”
Ringo waited until Paul added, “Or George either,” then blinked affirmatively because he’d been watching Star Trek lately and liked that word. It made him sound smart.
“Look, I know you can’t tell him what to say. No one can. All I’m asking is for you to stand by me…”
“You mean, literally?”
“Yes.” They met eyes, and Ringo silently nodded his agreement.
*
And indeed, Paul and Ringo’s agreement had worked for the past month or so, which led to Paul being even more whimsical than usual.
And when Paul was happy, Ringo was happy. And when Ringo was happy, well, Ringo was always happy. But it helped George became slightly less emo. And John was just John.
But now weeks had flown past. The ice was slowly melting, the sun was coming out for the first time in what felt like years, and the Spring Fever of 1966 was already beginning to hit everyone.
Or at least half the band members, anyway.
*
George had been watching Ringo staring at him out of the corner of his eye for the last 90 minutes or so of “Got to Get You Into My Life.” It was a good enough song, but after doing four thousand takes, the idea of doing ANYTHING other than this seemed to be a great one.
Finally, after another two thousand takes, Paul got it into his head that it might be a good idea to take a break from the torture.
George could’ve danced. But didn’t unfortunately. Looks like I don’t have to kill him after all… Too bad, might’ve cured our boredom.
*
Paul decided that their 5th take of “Got To Get You Into My Life” had been good enough and called for a short break. Stretching, he walked his bass over its stand and turned his back on the rest of the band.
George turned to face Ringo as he took off his guitar, meeting his blue eyes no longer than a second before licking his lips and casually announcing he was going to the canteen for tea. Ringo’s eyes followed him unsubtly out of the room.
“Well,” Ringo said, finally getting up once the other Beatle was out of sight, “I need to… help George....” He pointed vaguely at the door George had exited, and Paul could’ve sworn he heard him say, “…get off,” as he practically ran to it.
Paul turned around, horrified. Fuck, Ringo! his mind screamed, which might’ve made a pretty funny “That’s what George said” joke if Paul hadn’t been so uneasy.
He bent down over his bass again, pretending to be busy, his eyes wide with fear, which wasn’t really saying much, since his eyes were already huge anyways.
Oddly enough, Paul began to realize that John was nervous too. He could sense it from across the room. But why…?
His mind threw out every swear word he knew and went blank at the same time as he heard John’s slow footsteps approaching.
Shit, he breathed.
And Paul had thought he’d done everything humanly possible to make sure this kind of situation, the one he was in now, would not arise…