Lucky Boys (2/?)
Title: Lucky Boys
Author: skelly_lector
Pairing: (Eventual) George/Ringo and John/Paul
Time Period: 1964, American Tour
Rating: PG-13, for now.
Warnings: Just a few naughty words in this chapter.
Summary: What do you get when you combine four hungover lads, one airplane, and one very big misunderstanding?
A/N: Huzzah! Second chapter. It's quite a bit longer than this first; hope that's okay. I haven't written this quickly in a very long time. But I had a lot of fun with this chapter. The lads are a delight to write. (As I said in the first chapter, this is my first Beatles fic, so be patient with me!)
First chapter is here!
Moments later, the doors opened onto the lobby, and the three of them spilled out into the spacious, light-filled room. As they began to make their way across the polished marble floor, the stairwell door burst open, revealing a red-faced, panting Paul.
“Well done, lah,” John chirped, giving him a congratulatory slap on the back. “You were nearly quicker than the elevator!”
“We’ve got to hurry up!” Paul gasped, shaking John off him and trying to herd the group towards the front doors. Yawning, Ringo quietly wished that someone would put a gag on the agitated bassist. The quickest pace he could manage right now was somewhere between a lazy amble and sleepwalking.
“Give it a rest, would you?” George snapped sleepily, slapping away Paul’s pushing hands. “What’s the big rush, anyway?”
“It’s nine fifty five!” Paul exclaimed, as if that made everything crystal clear. The other three Beatles froze in their tracks and trained bleary, incredulous gazes on him.
“Nine forty five?” John repeated, his face darkening. “McCartney, didn’t I tell you to never, ever wake me up before eleven?”
“I don’t think he quite got the message, John,” George remarked, raising a hand to his mouth to cover a yawn of gargantuan proportions.
“No, I don’t think he did, George,” John agreed, rolling up his grubby sleeve and advancing on Paul in a theatrically menacing manner. “Maybe he’ll remember it better if I knock it into his fat head a few times.”
“You’re a riot, Lennon,” Paul said dryly, rolling his eyes even as he took a step or two backwards. “But, look,” he added rapidly, the panic returning to his eyes, “Brian told me very explicitly that we couldn’t be late today. We’ve got to make the plane to Detroit right on time, he said.”
“Paul,” Ringo began in as patient a tone as his weary vocal cords could muster, “Maybe this would all make a bit more sense if you told us what time the plane is leaving.”
“Ten,” Paul blurted out. The word dropped from his lips with an almost audible thud that seemed to stop all motion in the lobby, in the hotel, in the country. Ringo could have sworn that the planet stopped turning, that his heart momentarily stopped beating. He felt his breath hitch in his throat as he gawped at the bassist.
And then, suddenly, it all came rushing back, all the sound and movement and time, precious seconds of which were ticking away as they stood here like idiots. Like he had just stepped off an escalator, Ringo felt his stomach jolt and his head spin a rotation or two.
“Ten,” George said finally, as if he were hoping that he’d heard wrong. “Ten…AM?”
“Yes, ten AM!” Paul snapped, renewing his efforts to shoo them all towards the door. “So let’s go!”
“You’re sure?” John asked slowly, resisting Paul’s increasingly frantic efforts.
“Yes, John, I’m sure!” Paul damn near shrieked, an edge of hysteria creeping into his voice. “Now will you please get a move on?”
“Christ, son, why didn’t you tell me?” John demanded, stumbling, as if in shock, towards the spinning glass doors at the front of the lobby.
“What d’you think I’ve been doing for the past twenty fucking minutes?” Paul wailed, frustration and rage turning his face a shade more reminiscent of a strawberry than of a human being.
“Alright,” George broke in, one finger raised in a sure sign that he was about to impart some Georgely wisdom. “Let us not question the means, but rather the end. We’re up, out, and awake, and we have to be at the airport in…” he paused to check his wristwatch, “…four minutes. So let’s just go.”
“Shit, what are we standing around for?” John exclaimed, turning on his heel and sprinting towards the doors.
“That’s what I was asking,” Paul muttered under his breath as the other three followed the guitarist.
“Lads, lads,” Ringo gasped as they ground to a screeching halt in front of the hotel, “Shouldn’t we wait for Brian?”
“He’s probably already at the airport,” John said dismissively before turning to the doorman. “Hey, man, could you grab us a cab?”
“He’s going to be so angry!” Paul lamented, running his hands down his face as the bemused doorman flagged down the nearest lorry. “He made me promise not to be late! After that fiasco in Atlantic City, he said, we can’t afford to be so late to another gig! Oooh, God, we’re dead meat!”
“Yes, God save our souls from the all-consuming wrath of the Brian!” John shrilled mockingly. “Don’t pout at me, now, Macca. Just get in the cab already.”
The four of them piled through the open door, landing in the back seat in a confused tangle of knees, legs, and elbows.
“The airport, please-OOMPH!” Paul broke off as George attempted to sit up and knocked the back of his head into his jaw. Fortunately, the cabbie got the idea, and the car sped off.
“Sorry, Paul,” George said meekly as the four straightened themselves out.
“Don’t worry about it,” Paul said absently, rubbing at his jaw. “It’s nothing compared to what Brian will do to me...”
“Alright, lay off, will you?” John snapped. “We get it, we’ve all been very naughty boys and we deserve a bloody good spanking. What else is new?”
“Now, I think you’re trivializing things a bit, John,” Paul said loudly, folding his arms across his chest defensively. “What if, I don’t know, the plane leaves without us?”
“Without us?” John scoffed. “How, exactly, do you figure that one? Brian’s just going to show up in Detroit and tell hundreds of fans, “Oh, sorry, girls, the Beatles aren’t here because they missed the plane?” “I’ll be your entertainment for tonight?” They can’t fucking leave without us.”
“Typical Lennon arrogance,” Paul sniffed, turning up his pointed nose. “He’d be teaching you a bloody good lesson, that’s for sure.”
As the two of them continued to bicker, Ringo sighed quietly and shrank into his customary position in the corner of the cab. Somewhere, some tiny part of his brain was nagging him, insisting that there was something very wrong with this situation. A fact out of place; a puzzle piece missing. But, quite frankly, even attempting to think about it made his skull ache. He was far too hung over to process, to think, to move, to be. He let his head drop forward, his chin bumping against his chest as his eyes fluttered shut.
To his left, he heard George heave a sigh and lean back into the seat. George’s lolling head leaned against Ringo’s, which leaned back until they were supporting each other. They remained that way for the rest of the ride.
It was a quarter past ten by the time they arrived at the airport, and it took them another ten minutes to muddle their way through security.
“Fucking Americans,” John raged as they pushed their way out onto the airstrip. “Damn airports don’t make any fucking sense.”
“’Scuse me, mister,” George called out to a nearby official-looking man. “We’re looking for our plane.”
Looking up from his clipboard, the official let out a sigh of relief. “Oh, there you are,” he exclaimed. “You’re very late, you know.”
“Yes, sir, we overslept a bit, sir,” Ringo explained quickly.
“Our plane hasn’t left, has it?” Paul inquired anxiously.
“Heavens, no,” the man chuckled. “It’s right over there.” With a wave of his clipboard, he indicated the only plane on the runway, a small, rather battered-looking aircraft. “I’d get a move on, though,” he advised as they scrambled off towards it. “They’ve been waiting for quite a while.”
“Thanks, mister!” Ringo called over his shoulder as the four galloped across the baking runway. Despite the burning in his lungs and the stitch in his side, he didn’t even pause when he reached the craft. With George, John, and Paul close behind him, he leapt up the boarding stairs and through the door.
“There you are!”
Stopping dead on the threshold, Ringo turned to see a rather exasperated pilot standing in the doorway to the cockpit, glaring at him with arms folded.
“Sorry we’re so late-” Ringo began, but broke off as George collided with him from behind and sent him flying across the cabin. The two of them collapsed in a heap on the floor as Paul shoved John through the door.
“We overslept,” Paul finished, gasping for breath.
“As long as you’re here now,” the pilot shrugged, turning and settling into his seat. “Let’s get going.”
“You heard the man!” John snapped. “Stop muckin’ about on the floor, you two. We’ve got to get going.”
“What about Brian and the others?” Ringo asked, letting George pull him to his feet.
“Others?” The pilot frowned, reaching down and peering down at his clipboard. “My flight roster says I’ve only got four.”
“Ooh, our very own plane?” John grinned, tossing himself down into the nearest seat and propping his feet up on the arm rest. “How very gear.”
“Yes, very…gear,” the pilot agreed slowly, giving him a very strange look. “Now, you boys get yourselves buckled in. We’ve got a long flight ahead of us.”
“Lads? Laaa-aaads?” Brian’s voice floated into the hotel room like music from a turned-down radio. After a few moments without a reply, the doorknob rattled and turned, and the door swung open. The manager strode into the silent, sunlit room, searching for his wayward young charges.
“Wake up, boys!” he called out, pausing to take in the deplorable state of the room. “Now, I know you had a wild time last night,” he went on, wrinkling his nose slightly at the mess around him, “But it’s time to go. You remember what I told you in Atlanta, now don’t you?
“Now, stop hiding from me, lads,” he said chidingly, peering round the room. “I expect you’re quite hung over. Don’t think I couldn’t smell that smoke from my room. But you’ve got to get up. Our plane leaves in a little less than an hour.”
More silence met his words, and he frowned and increased the pace of his search. “Boys, this really isn’t funny,” he said nervously, yanking open the closet door and ducking down to check under the bed. “I’m going to be really upset with you if you’re ignoring me.” Straightening up, he cast one last glance around the room before turning to the final door.
“They must be in the bathroom,” he muttered to himself, picking his way across the clothes littering the floor. “They probably locked themselves in there to drink. Silly teenagers, the lot of them. Like I don’t know what they get up to at these parties of theirs.”
Shaking his head, he grasped the doorknob and twisted it open, crying, “Alright, boys, naptime’s over!”
The door swung open, revealing a bathroom filled with empty bottles and ashtrays. It was, however, decidedly lacking in Beatles.
“L-lads?” Brian stammered, turned and staring helplessly around him. Aside from him, the hotel room was completely empty.
“Goddamn it,” he muttered, dashing for the door.
Downstairs, a rather unfortunate doorman found himself being shaken at the lapels by a frightened, enraged manager.
“Dammit, man, look alive!” Brian ordered. “Now I want to you listen to me very, very carefully. Have you seen four young English gentlemen leave this hotel?”
“You’ll, uh, you’ll have to be more specific than that, sir,” the doorman stuttered, thoroughly frightened by the slightly mad look in Brian’s eyes.
“They would have been wearing suits,” Brian clarified icily. “And were probably exceedingly hung over and stupid. Two of more of them were likely bickering quite loudly.”
“Oh, them.” The doorman’s rather dull face lit up in recognition. “You mean the Beatles? They left in a cab about fifteen minutes ago.”
“What? A cab?” Brian repeated, flummoxed. “Where the hell were they going?”
“I think one of ‘em said something about the airport,” the doorman ventured, now trying to be exceedingly helpful in hope of a tip.
“The airport?” Brian repeated, an expression of slow horror creeping onto his face.
“Yeah,” the doorman supplied helpfully. “Miami International. Y’know?”
“Oh, god no,” Brian groaned, releasing the doorman and tearing off into the street, waving his arms about like a madman. “TAXI!”
“Hello, Mr. Epstein,” a smiling stewardess greeted him at the gate, her red-fingernailed hand clutching a clipboard. “My goodness, you’re here early. Your flight doesn’t leave until eleven.”
“Four boys,” Brian said bluntly. “I’m looking for four young men. English. Wearing suits. Shouting a lot.”
The stewardess widened her blue-powdered eyes. “You mean the Beatles?”
“Yes,” Brian sighed, closing his eyes and giving the bridge of his nose a good, hard pinch. “Yes, I mean the Beatles. Have you seen them?”
“Oh, yes,” she nodded. “They came tearing through here in the biggest hurry.”
“Oh, thank heavens,” Brian smiled, regaining a bit of his usual press-friendly managerial charm. “Do you know where I could find them?”
“Well, I don’t think you’ll have much of a chance of an autograph now, Mr. Epstein,” the stewardess chuckled. “Their plane took off ten minutes ago.”
“What?” he spluttered, all the blood draining from his face. “What plane? They’re on my plane, you understand? My plane, which doesn’t leave until eleven! What fucking plane did they get on?”
“Mr. Epstein!” the stewardess gasped, putting a shocked hand to her mouth. “There’s no need for that kind of language.”
“Oh, yes there is,” Brian snarled, pushing past her. “Believe, me, sweetie, you’d be swearing too if you’d just lost the biggest band on the planet.”
With the stammering stewardess trailing behind him, he barreled his way out onto the runway, which was distinctly bare of planes. Out of some last-ditch hope, he turned his eyes up to the sky. It was bright, clear, perfectly blue, and completely empty.
“God damn it, boys,” he wailed, dropping his head into his hands. “What have you done?”
On the very same runway, just a few yards from the despairing manager, a group of young men found themselves in a similar pickle.
“Where is our plane?” one of them demanded, planting his hands on his hips and glaring down at a small, official-looking man with a clipboard.
“What plane, exactly, are you gentlemen looking for?” the official asked calmly.
“It is a small charter plane,” another one of the men told him in heavily accented English. “Scheduled to leave at ten past ten.”
“It’s ten thirty now,” the official told them, perplexed.
“Yes, we know, we’re late,” the third man spat. “Where is our plane?”
“It left,” the official shrugged.
“What?” they all yelped.
“This is not possible!” the fourth young man cried. “That was our plane! How could it have left without us?”
“Four young men boarded it just before it took off,” the official said slowly, a faint edge of uncertainty creeping into his voice. There was a silence.
“This is impossible,” the first man said quietly.
“Oh, I assure you, it did happen,” the official said.
“We were the only ones scheduled to be on that plane,” the young man said icily. “It was our fucking plane! We chartered it! It was ours!” He snatched a slip of paper out of his pocket and waved it under the nose of the official, who turned white as a sheet.
“G-gentlemen, please stay calm,” he stammered, flipping rapidly through the sheets of paper on his clipboard. “I-I don’t understand how this could have happened…”
“We are leaving on an extremely important business trip!” one of the young men raged. “And now you have let some…some random strangers steal our plane?”
“I’m sure it’s all just a big misunderstanding,” the poor little man whimpered, staring blankly down at his clipboard.
“Yes, tell that to your superiors when you are being fired,” the first young man snarled as the other three began to stalk away. “Much good may it do you.”
“B-but…I don’t…” the official spluttered, suddenly alone on the runway. “I don’t understand! If those four were supposed to be on that plane…” Slowly, he turned around and stared up at the empty skies, horror in his eyes. “…then who were they?”