Lucky Boys (7/?)
Title: Lucky Boys
Author: skelly_lector
Pairing: George/Ringo and John/Paul
Time Frame: 1964, American Tour
Rating: PG-13, for now.
Warnings: Violence, swearing, and general mayhem.
Summary: What do you get when you combine four hungover lads, one airplane, and one very big misunderstanding?
A/N: I seem to be on a one chapter a week schedule, it's kind of weird. This one's a little short, but there's more coming, I promise.
Disclaimer: I totally know this is true because I was totally there to watch it nearly three decades before I was conceived. Totally.
First chapter is here! Second is here! Third is here! Fourth is here! Fifth is here! Sixth is here!
The sun was sinking towards its fiery end below the horizon by the time they reached any sign of civilization. It wasn’t a terribly impressive sign when it came to that; it was just a road, unpaved, with dusty weeds sprouting out of the middle of it. But it was something. It was a direction and a sign of hope. And more than that, it was a relief; they were now less likely to be devoured by bears.
After a moment’s deliberation, the four turned and struck up a brisk pace down the side of the road. None of them had a clue where they were going, but it was nice to have at least some reassurance that they weren’t running in circles.
They walked in silence for some time, all apparently lost in their own thoughts. For his part, Ringo found his mind mercifully blank. He wasn’t particularly eager to repeat that unpleasant experience back in the woods. He’d only ever read about panic attacks in books, but something told him he’d just had his first one. He hoped it would be his last.
Maybe there was something wrong with him, he thought idly, because he wasn’t capable of processing everything. Not all of this, not the plane ride and John and Paul fighting and being in Russia and that whole weird business with George. He just couldn’t handle it all, couldn’t keep it all inside his head at once without feeling dizzy and ill.
Why couldn’t he be more like George? The youngest Beatle was striding along with his head down and his brow furrowed, those dark eyebrows pulled close against his dark eyes. Ringo knew he must be processing it all, working through everything and mulling it over and making sense of it all. And, yes, Ringo made fun of him for brooding, but sometimes he thought it would be nice to be able to keep it all inside like that, to bottle it all up without ever panicking and blurting it all out like a stupid child.
“Paul,” John said suddenly, looking up from the gritty track he’d been watching for the past half hour.
“Hmm?” Paul grunted, casting a suspicious glance at John.
“’Ow’s your German?” John inquired, firmly not looking at the bassist’s battered baby face.
Paul blinked, stopping short for a moment before jogging ahead to catch up with the group again. “Dunno,” he said eventually, frowning curiously at the back of John’s head. “Alright, I suppose. I remember a bit.” And that was Paul for you; John could slap him, scream at him, and hate him all he wanted, but Paul would still be there with his puppy-dog eyes, trying to please him. Sure, Paul pretended he didn’t care, that he’d grown out of his adolescent adoration of the older man, but Ringo knew it was still there somewhere.
“Good,” John nodded thoughtfully, pushing his hair out of his eyes and squinting down the road.
“What’re you thinking?” Paul asked curiously, falling into step alongside John.
“I’ve got a bit of an idea to get us out of here,” John said quietly, glancing at the woods on either side of the road like someone might be listening. “Dunno if it’ll work, but it’s worth a shot.”
“Tell me,” Paul breathed, and John leaned in to whisper his plan into Paul’s waiting ear.
Ringo glanced sideways at George, who met his eyes and raised his eyebrows slightly. Smiling quietly to himself, Ringo fell in beside George, just a few paces behind John and Paul. And this was comfortable; this felt right. John and Paul looked right with their heads bent together and their mouths moving at lightning speed, hashing out the details of a plan that would hopefully save them all. Ringo wasn’t worried; he had confidence in them. He was only ever really scared when the others didn’t know what to do. But now that John and Paul had a plan, they would be alright. Everything was going to be alright.
Except, of course, for this whole confusing situation with George. He was pretty sure that John and Paul didn’t have a plan for that. What was all that…that stuff on the plane? And, now that he thought about it, that stuff back in the woods. George was protecting him, sticking up from him, he knew that. But there had just been something…something about his tone of voice, this vehemence and…and rage that you never, ever heard from George. It was a protectiveness, almost a possessiveness, that felt entirely foreign.
“Look what you’ve done…Keep away from him…Leave him alone…Look how you’re frightening him…Ritch…Ritchie, say something…Ritch…”
“Ritch?”
“Huh? What?” Ringo looked up to find that the others had stopped, leaving him to continue walking and outstrip them by a good two yards.
“Come back here, Ritchie,” Paul ordered with a faint smile.
“Coming,” Ringo called, jogging over to them. “Sorry, wasn’t paying attention.”
“Apparently not,” John chuckled.
“So,” Ringo said after a short pause, “Why’ve we stopped, then?”
“We’re telling you the plan,” Paul announced proudly.
“The plan?” George repeated, raising his eyebrows.
“Yes, the plan,” John affirmed, rubbing his hands together in a manner that was both businesslike and a little mad. “We’ve got it all figured out.”
“Well, most of it,” Paul amended. “You see…”
“We’re going to try and make it to Moscow,” John interrupted.
“Moscow?” Ringo raised his eyebrows.
“Moscow,” Paul nodded. “We’re pretty sure there’s a British embassy there that can help us get home.”
“You’re…pretty sure?” George repeated, unconvinced. “That doesn’t inspire a whole lot of confidence, lads.”
“Do you have a better idea?” John asked sweetly. When George didn’t reply, he went on. “I didn’t think so. So, we’re going to make our way to Moscow posing as Germans.”
“But our German’s shite, John,” Ringo pointed out with a frown. “You said yourself that we sounded like idiot British tourists whenever we opened our mouths in Hamburg.”
“I said no such thing,” John huffed, not even bothering to hide the tiny smile that said he knew it was true. “Besides, what do Russians know about German? We can bluff.”
“We’ve been visiting relatives, see,” Paul added. “For a funeral-” he indicated their trademark black suits, “-But we got lost on our way home and our car broke down. So we’re trying to get to Moscow where we have relatives who can help us out.”
“In the meantime,” John stepped in with his usual perfect timing, “We need food and shelter, which we are going to ask for…there.” Ringo and George followed his pointing finger to the shabby little farmhouse a little ways down the road.
There was a pause, during which John and Paul looked triumphant and Ringo and George stared at them. It was really creepy how they talked like they were one person sometimes.
“D’you think they’ll ‘elp us?” George asked finally, turning to look dubiously back at the farmhouse.
“No idea,” John shrugged, stepping past him and starting up a brisk pace towards the farm. “But they’re commies, aren’t they? Sharin’ shit’s what they’re all about.”
The other three exchanged glances and, for the first time in what felt like days, burst out laughing. They followed John with smiles on their faces.
Short chapter is short, I know. :/ I'm writing more, promise! Comment and stuff and tell me how to make it better and generally make me happy!