Lucky Boys (10/?)
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: This one's a bit short, but there's a little surprise at the end. Also, the next chapter is written and should be up soon. I think you'll like it. Anyway, enjoy this one.
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, eighth, and ninth are not yet linked because technology hates me, but you can find them back at my journal.
There was, Ringo thought, something magical about food. This had not been the best of days; in fact, it was looking like the biggest disaster any of them had ever encountered. By all rights, they ought to be panicking, arguing, sobbing, or doing something else appropriately hysterical. And yet here they were, lounging about in the grass, stomachs full of a warm, solid Russian dinner, quietly watching the sun set. And Ringo felt…safe. Warm. Happy.
They all sat up a little straighter when the back door swung open to reveal what appeared to be a walking stack of blankets. They looked on in amazement as the stack tottered towards them, listing slightly from side to side before finally collapsing at their feet. The folded blankets tumbled to the ground, revealing the little girl of about four or five who had been carrying them. She was tiny, thin-limbed, and pale and delicate as a porcelain doll. Dark curls spilling down around her serious little face, she regarded the four Beatles with curious gray eyes.
“Thank you,” Paul said finally, smiling at her even as his eyes flickered to her mother (Anastasia, wasn’t it?) watching closely from the doorway.
The little girl didn’t move; her little hands came together in front of her, the fingers clasping tightly as she moved her huge, dark eyes carefully from face to face.
“Sophia,” her mother called from the house, but the girl didn’t respond. Her gaze had finally settled on Ringo, at whom she was staring, her eyes wide and round as quarters.
“Sophia!” Anastasia called again. When little Sophia continued to ignore her, she threw her hands up in defeat, turned on her heel, and strode back into the house.
“I think she likes you, Rings,” George chuckled quietly, nudging Ringo’s shoulder and snapping him out of his staring contest with the child. “Got ‘er eyes on you like someone glued ‘em there.”
“She’s fascinated,” John agreed with a grin. “Maybe she’s never seen anyone with such a big nose before.”
“Aw, shut up,” Ringo huffed, giving John a quick smack on the arm. He turned back to Sophia, hunched down a bit to get to her eye level, and gave her a little smile.
“Hello,” he said gently, a bit uncertain of how to handle this silent little girl. It didn’t even make sense to talk to her in English, but what the hell. He didn’t speak any damn Russian; what else was he supposed to do?
“My name’s Ritchie,” he told her, putting a hand flat against his chest. “What’s yours?”
If possible, her eyes got even huger, and her mouth dropped open a bit.
“Are you Sophia?” Ringo asked softly, raising his eyebrows and pointing at her.
The solemn gaze suddenly dropped to her feet, pudgy little hands covering her sudden smile. Cheeks flushing red, she nodded once, the tiniest of giggles slipping out from between her fingers.
“That’s…that’s a very nice name,” Ringo said helplessly, totally baffled by this tiny creature’s bizarre behavior.
Then, all at once, she turned and fled, high-pitched giggles exploding out of her mouth as she skipped across the yard and danced up the back steps. Now completely perplexed, Ringo looked on in astonishment as she pulled open the back door and turned back to give him one last shy glance before she slipped inside.
Ringo stared at the back door for a long, long time, while behind him his ever-helpful mates exploded into laughter.
“I don’t…I don’t understand…” Ringo mumbled.
“She’s sweet on you, lah,” Paul chuckled, clapping a hand onto Ringo’s slumped shoulder.
“Ritchie, you heartbreaker,” George teased him, shaking his head in mock disapproval. “You just can’t stop reelin’ in those ladies.”
“It’s the nose, I think,” Paul decided, inspecting Ringo closely. “Drives the birds wild, I reckon.”
“You lot lay off,” Ringo grumbled, folding his arms crossly. “S’not me or me nose’s fault some little girl’s taken a fancy to me.”
“I think it’s just a fad,” John chimed in with a shrill, posh, gossipy old lady voice. “Everyone’s in love with Ringo these days.” He shot George a look that was so obvious that he might as well have pointed at him. George steadfastly pretended to ignore him. Ringo knew he’d seen, though; the tips of his ears were bright red.
“No, our Ringo’s quite the looker,” Paul grinned, not noticing or not caring. “Wouldn’t you agree, Geo?”
Christ, are they really ganging up on him like this? Ringo thought grumpily as George shrugged, his eyebrows furrowing and his ears turning even redder. Bastards. They don’t understand anything about me and George.
“I s’pose, yeah,” George grunted, looking away and plucking up a blade of grass. An uncomfortable silence fell. Ringo watched George scowl down at his hands as he tore the grass into tiny pieces.
Then again, he amended mentally, Maybe I don’t understand so much about me and George, either.
“Anyroad.” John cleared his throat loudly. “I thought you were supposed to be Wolfgang, Rings. Don’t go givin’ away your true identity now.”
“Wolfgang,” Ringo snorted. “Right.”
“What?” Paul demanded. “It’s a perfectly decent name! A fine German name! What’re you complainin’ about?”
“Yeah,” George chimed in suddenly, looking up from his systematic destruction of the lawn. “’Ee named me after Hitler! You’ve got nothing to moan about.”
“I did not!” Paul cried indignantly, but John and Ringo were already laughing.
“No, no, it’s perfectly simple,” John began pompously, raising one finger professorially. “His thought process is, for the most part, really quite clear. You,” he pointed to Ringo, “Are Mozart. I, if I’m not mistaken, am Bach. And our dearest Georgie,” he slung an arm around George’s hunched shoulders, “Is Hitler. Heinrich, though, is still a mystery to me.”
“Dunno,” Paul shrugged. “It was the first name that came to me. I had to struggle for the others.”
“Obviously,” George grumbled, but his anger was all theatrics now; they could all see the hint of a smile fighting to break through his grumpy mask.
“I’ve gotta say,” Ringo agreed, “The connection between Hitler and George isn’t terribly apparent.”
“Neither is the one between Ringo and Mozart!” John quipped triumphantly. Ringo stuck his tongue out at him, and he pulled a face right back. In a moment they were embroiled in a disgusting-face-making competition which went on for a good minute or two before Paul decided to spoil the party.
“Lads, I’m tired,” he announced, yawning widely and stretching his arms to the now-dark sky. “Let’s get a good kip in, yeah? We need plenty of energy for tomorrow.”
John and Ringo paused mid-face and turned to stare at Paul, who took one look at their ridiculous expressions and erupted into laughter. They looked back at each other and started to laugh, too.
We must be insane, Ringo thought absently as he threw back his head and roared with merriment. We could die tomorrow. We could die tonight. And we’re sitting here acting like children. Maybe fear makes you go a bit funny in the head. Well, maybe more than a bit funny. Probably more like totally mad. Stark staring, raving, old-lady-with-fifteen-cats mad.
“Okay, okay, shhh,” Paul gasped finally. “Shut up or we’ll wake the Russians. Let’s get these blankets laid out while we can still see.”
And now, my little surprise: a quick illustration I did of the scene with Ringo and Sophia.
"My name's Ritchie. What's yours?"
Anyway, hope you like it. It was juat a quick drawing, and my digital coloring still leaves a lot to be desired, but eh. Twas fun. (And Sophia ended up looking a lot like me as a child, funnily enough.)