Lucky Boys (9/?)
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: New chapter! Woohoo! Despite techinical difficulties and LJ generally being a giant dick, it's finally up. Oh, and while my German is a bit better than my Russian, it's still pretty minimal, so this chapter was written with a lot of help from my dear friend Google translate. Feel free to point out any egregious errors you spot.
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! Seventh and eighth are not yet linked because technology hates me, but you can find them back at my journal.
“Guten tag, mein freund!” John chirped, beaming at the astonished bearded face that was peering out at him through the crack between door and frame. “Sprechen sie Deutsch?”
Standing behind George (not cowering, he wasn’t quite cowering), Ringo squeezed his eyes shut and hoped very, very fervently that this Russian did not, in fact, speak German. If he did, they were all doomed; John sounded like he was reading the words out of a poorly-printed phrasebook, and he was the best of the four. Ringo had absolutely no ear for languages and mangled the few words he knew until they were barely recognizable; Paul had the accent down okay but couldn’t remember a word; and George…George was just far too English to master any other language.
“Deutsch,” John repeated, a hint of nervousness coloring his voice as the dark Russian eyes stared at him blankly. “Deutschland? Deutsch? Deutschland, Deutschland, uber alles!” He broke suddenly into the national anthem in a brassy, false baritone.
At last, the confused eyes lit up in recognition, and they all held their breaths in anticipation. After a pause, the Russian’s deep, rumbling voice spoke the eagerly awaited words: “Nyet, nyet.”
Letting out the breath he hadn’t realized that he was holding, Ringo opened his eyes to see the man shaking his heavy, hairy head and frowning. And then, Ringo decided that heaven must really be smiling on them today, because the next word the Russian uttered brought a surge of joy into their hearts.
“English?”
“Oh,” John said thoughtfully, glancing over his shoulder and frowning at the other three. They quickly caught on; they mustn’t be seen to be too relieved that he spoke English.
“Engalish, Engalish,” John muttered (and Christ, that didn’t even sound German), turning and grouping them all into a huddle. “Engalish?” He raised his eyebrows at Paul, who paled but nodded hesitantly. There was that old McCartney pride again; he’d do anything if it meant showing off for John. He barely resisted when the other three shoved him out in front.
“Uh, ja, hello,” Paul said distractedly, attempting to flash the Russian a weak smile. “Ve are…very sorry to bother you, but…ve are very lost.”
And really, Ringo thought as the Russian frowned over his own words, Paul was the perfect choice. Sure, he couldn’t speak a word of the language, but he had a brilliant knack for accents, so even though he’d fumbled his way through everyday German, he’d been able to mercilessly impersonate their Hamburg friends’ imperfect English.
“Where…is…you from?” the Russian inquired finally, his words halting and hesitant as his brain worked through the unfamiliar grammar.
“Uh…Berlin,” Paul said quickly, glancing over his shoulder at John for confirmation. When John nodded, Paul turned back and went on, “Ja, ja, Berlin.”
“Berlin…is a lonk way…away,” the Russian pointed out with a frown.
“Ja, ve vere here visiting relatives,” Paul explained calmly. “Mama’s funeral.”
John looked down at his feet and crossed himself, and Ringo and George quickly followed suit, expressions of appropriate sadness on their faces.
“Oh. I am…sorry,” the Russian said hesitantly, as though uncertain of what all this had to do with him.
“But, ve vere on our vay back to Berlin vhen our car broke down,” Paul sighed. “Ve haff been valking for a very long time.”
“But you…you cannot walk…back to Berlin,” the Russian said in astonishment.
“Nien, nien, ve only need to get to Moscow,” Paul chuckled. “Ve haff…how do you say? Relatives there who can help us.”
“Oh. Moscow is not a lonk way away,” the Russian shrugged. “Moscow is only…forty miles north. I zink.”
“Oh, danke, danke.” Paul may have bowed a little; Ringo was too busy running figures in his head to watch closely. Forty miles? In a car that was nothing, but on foot…well, if the average person walks, say, five miles per hour, then that’s eight hours of walking. But they couldn’t walk for eight hours straight…
“But, you see, ve vere vondering if ve could rest here for the night,” Paul went on, a little nervous now. Ringo’s heart plummeted into his stomach as the Russian shook his head no.
“I haff no…room? Nyet, no room in ze house,” the man said apologetically. Paul’s face fell, but the Russian added, “But…zere is outside, in ze back. We can giff you blankets…and some food.”
“Oh, danke, danke, danke,” Paul gasped, a smile illuminating his face like a ray of sunshine. “Ve are forever in your debt, mein herr.”
“Do not think of it,” the Russian smiled, pulling his door all the way open and exposing himself as a large, barrel-chested man with a lot of dark, curly hair and skin darkened by years spent working in fields. Little pale rays spread outwards from the corners of his dark brown eyes, which crinkled cheerfully when he smiled. “I am Vladimir.”
“Oh! Yes, ah…” Paul smiled in a surprised sort of way, clearly scrambling to make up appropriately Germanic names. “Yes, I am Heinrich, and this…this is Johann,” he waved a hand at John, “This is…uh, Adolf,” he pointed to George, “And this…this is…this is Wolfgang.” He clapped a hand onto Ringo’s shoulder and they both forced smiles up at the enormous Vladimir.
“Welcome, welcome,” Vladimir beamed, stepping back and ushering them inside his house. They filed through the door with mixed mumblings of “Danke, danke,” and “Danke sehr, herr.”
As they followed the enormous Russian down a long, narrow hallway that ran the length of the house, Ringo marveled at how well this was working. In fact, he was astonished that it was working at all; some dark, pessimistic little corner of his brain had been convinced that they would immediately be found out and imprisoned, shot, and god knew what else. And yet, here they were, stepping out of the shadowy hallway into the stifling heat of a bright, crowded kitchen that appeared to be stuffed to the rafters with children.
While Vladimir spoke to his family in rapid Russian, the four Beatles stood and tried not to gawp at the crush of humanity that had been jammed into this room. Because Ringo counted one…two…three…four…five…oh, there was another one under the table…and was that a baby in those blankets there? Seven kids, then, plus the pale, round face of a woman (presumably their mother) poking out from the back of the crowd.
“You see…why I haff no room in ze house,” Vladimir smiled apologetically at his guests.
“Of course, of course,” Paul said hastily, smiling back. “Ve do not vant to be a nuisance. Ve vill happily camp in the back.”
“Good, good,” Vladimir nodded, stepping around a little girl sitting in the middle of the floor and opening the back door. “Anastasia makes dinner now; we will eat soon.” Turning back and taking a look at his overcrowded kitchen, he seemed to think twice. “Zen again, maybe you rather to eat outside…”
“Ve vant to disturb you as little as possible,” Paul told him. “Ve vill happily eat outside.”
“Da, it is warm enough,” Vladimir shrugged. “But it gets cold at night. We will bring you out some blankets.”
“Danke, danke,” Paul said for what seemed like the fifteenth time. “Now, please, let us get out of your vay.” Waving on his silent companions, he led the way out the back door.
The backyard was spacious compared to the house (though perhaps it only seemed that way because it was not stuffed to bursting with children). There was a good sized patch of grass extending out from the back door, and up against the house stood little beds of flowers. A worn-down, dusty path led from the door across the grass and into the field that spread out to the back and left of the house. On the right, creeping right up to the edges of both field and grass, was the forest, which cast cool blue shadows across the little green yard.
Turning to look at the ramshackle home of their host, Ringo took in the flaking white paint on the boards, the dark vines spreading their tendrils up the side of the house, and the little spout dripping the occasional drop of water into a spreading pool of mud beside the back door. It wasn’t much, but there was water, food, and a place to lay their heads for the night. And, he realized, there was complete shelter from the road, so that no one passing by could see them. He wasn’t sure why, but he suspected that in this unfamiliar, unfriendly country, that was pretty important.
“Was ist passiert?” John inquired, catching Paul’s eye and then jerking his head subtly at the Russian watching them curiously from the back door. Paul looked at him blankly, but Ringo caught on in a second. Thank god for John’s quick thinking; he was asking Paul what was going on. It made sense: the other three “didn’t speak English,” so naturally they wouldn’t understand Paul and Vladimir’s agreement. Lennon, that sneaky bastard, was good at this.
“Ja, was ist…happening?” Ringo chimed in, tossing in a word of English in a desperate attempt to make Paul understand. Fortunately, before they had to flat-out demand he tell them what the hell was going on, Paul figured it out.
“Oh! Ah…” He stared at them with wide, panicky eyes. He barely knew three words of German; how was he supposed to put together a long, explanatory speech? But John just looked at him, eyebrows raised challengingly. John had faked it; now it was Paul’s turn.
“Um…oh, komm doch, komm zu mir,” Paul began, eyes lighting up in relief. “Du nimmst mir den verstand. Komm doch, komm zu mir, komm gib mir deine hand!”
As Paul plunged happily onwards, Ringo nodded and pretended to look engaged, internally fighting the urge to drop his face into his hands in embarrassment. Now he really, really, really hoped that the Russian didn’t speak a word of German, or they’d surely be found out. Because Paul was reciting the lyrics to the German version of I Want To Hold Your Hand.
“In deinen armen bin ich glucklich und froh! Das war noch nie bei einer anderen einmal so,” Paul was babbling, trying to make the words sound as natural and conversational as possible. When Ringo thought about it, despite the balls-shriveling terror of this bald-faced lie, the whole situation was quite funny. Here they were, supposedly listening to Paul explain his deal with the Russian, when in reality he was telling them that they were pretty and he wanted to hold their hands. At the thought, Ringo had to bite his lip to stifle his laughter.
At the faint, unintentional snort he emitted, George glanced sideways and caught Ringo’s eye. And in a moment, George was smiling too, and then he, too, was biting his lip to contain his amusement. John looked from his two bandmates, who were slowly turning red from the suppression of their laughter, to Paul, who was still blurting out the only words his struggling mind could seem to remember. Any moment he would have to move on to She Loves You, and then things would just be getting a little ridiculous. So John stepped in.
“Ja, Heinrich, ja,” he said quickly, a faint smile playing around the edges of his thin lips. “Das reicht. Das gut. Danke.”
“Ja?” Paul repeated, eyes wide and wild in terror. “Oh.” He seemed to calm down a bit, sagging slightly as he let out a long breath and muttered, “Ja. Gut. Ja.”
“Danke sehr!” John called out to Vladimir, who was still standing silently in the doorway. Ringo and George echoed him cheerfully, and the big Russian nodded and smiled in a baffled sort of way before stepping back into his kitchen and shutting the door behind him.
“Gut,” Paul repeated weakly, lowering himself shakily into the grass. “Good. My god.” He dropped his head into his hands, and Ringo could hear the whoosh of air moving between his fingers. He wasn’t entirely sure if Paul was just taking deep breaths or hyperventilating.
“I can’t do this,” Paul mumbled into his palms, shoulders hunched protectively around his neck like a turtle’s shell. “I can’t. I…I sound ridiculous. I sound like a joke. We’ll be shot for sure.”
“No, Paul,” Ringo burst out, squatting down beside him and shaking his head so vehemently that his hair flopped from one side to another. “You’re doing great.”
“Brilliant,” George agreed, dropping down on Paul’s other side. “You’re doin’ really well, lah.”
“’Ee’s totally believin’ you,” Ringo reassured him, encouraged by the dark eyes peeking hopefully out from between Paul’s fingers. “Really. You’re foolin’ ‘im completely.”
“Ta, lads,” Paul said softly, managing to flash his bandmates a weak grin. But then he turned to John, and Ringo knew that no matter what he and George said, John would always be the final measure of Paul’s self-worth. Now that Ringo thought about it, things had always sort of been that way, and he supposed he was used to it.
John was silent for a moment while his eyes locked with Paul’s, the two of them sitting facing each other, cross-legged in the grass. This, too, was normal for them, this intense sort of eye contact like there wasn’t a person in the world aside from them. After what felt like forever, John broke eye contact, dropping his gaze into his lap and smiling faintly to himself.
“Yeah,” he said quietly, picking a blade of grass and twisting it in his fingers. “You’re doing good. Really good.” He looked back up, and that smile was much bigger and much warmer now. “Keep it up, lah.”
“Good.” Paul smiled down into his own lap, playing with the hem of his shirt like…well, it was almost like he was embarrassed. And this, this wasn’t normal at all. The two of them were loud, manic, bawdy as sailors and argumentative as an old married couple. Sure, there weren’t a whole lot of displays of deep emotion, but they liked things that way. And yet here they were, looking at their knees and blushing like schoolgirls. Ringo was dumbfounded.
Paul took a deep breath and looked up again, like he was working himself up to saying something. “Thank you, John,” he blurted out finally.
John blinked at him in surprise, and then they both started smiling. Nervous, hesitant sorts of smiles, they were, but they soon spread into real, natural John-Paul grins. And then George and Ringo started smiling because, hell, John and Paul were smiling; they might as well too.
“Lads,” John grinned, reaching out his arms and clapping one hand onto Ringo’s shoulder and the other onto George’s, “We’re gonna be okay.”
“Are we, John?” Paul asked teasingly, leaning in and putting his hands on Ringo and George’s other shoulders. They all leaned close into the tight, reassuring huddle that was so comfortable for them all.
“Well, what do you think?” John inquired of his bandmates, his brothers.
“I think we’ll be alright,” George ventured, nodding his head slowly.
“Yeah,” Ringo agreed, reassured by their smiles and the warm weight of their hands on his shoulders.
“Yeah, Ritch?” John repeated, raising his eyebrows.
“Yeah,” Ringo nodded, grinning madly. He looked from John’s amused smirk to Paul’s shaky half-smile to George’s snaggle-toothed grin and felt sure. “Yeah.”